Wol, while out on one of his evening wing-stretches, was somewhat startled to see Pooh apparently afflicted with St Vitus’ Dance, reeling around the meadow adjacent to the Wood, singing sea shanties. He also seemed to be waving a large and unwieldy banner which read ‘CO2 is Bad for U. Greta Can See It, Why Carnt You?’ daubed in straggly letters entirely devoid of proper punctuation, not to mention spelling.
“Oh dear”, thought Wol, “He’s having one of his bandwagon moments again.”
Circling down until he could perch on a convenient fence, he tried to catch Pooh’s attention.
“Ahem. Pooh, old chap, care to enlighten one about the nautical turn you appear to be having at the moment?”
“Ahoy there, shipmate!” shouted Pooh, executing a little jig and a woeful attempt at a hornpipe, “I’ve signed up to be a galley slave on Greta’s next excursion. She has found that skittery fibreglass racing yachts are devoid of any carbon credibility, not to mention working toilets, so her next flogging of the oggin will involve a Roman trireme, powered by Pooh”.
“I’m not sure the alliteration will draw the public’s attention from the apparent unfortunate scatological connotation there, my friend”.
“You’ve been hanging around with Mr Rees Mogg again, haven’t you?” asked Pooh, “I can always tell.”
“Have you any idea how big a trireme is?” asked Wol, “How many other rowers have signed up?”
“Just me, so far”, said Pooh. “Emma Thompson really, really wanted to, but found herself unaccountably otherwise engaged for all available dates. I had first choice of seats so I’m on the lower deck, just under the drums. It’ll be like Glasto, all over again. Arrrrrrr”
“It’s worse than I thought”, said Wol to himself, “He’s trying to talk like a pirate too. I shall appeal to his baser instincts in an attempt to head off this latest lunacy at the pass.”
“What are you planning to take for rations?” asked Wol.
“Honey”, said Pooh.
“Ah, I don’t wish to pour cold water on this entirely laudable venture of yours,” said Wol, “But you do realise that Greta is not in favour of people (or bears) eating honey, don’t you? She said it’s a form of infanticide, robbing baby bees of their natural sustenance and a vile affront to Mother Earth. I’m almost sure she mentioned keel-hauling and plank-walking for any honey smugglers. And don’t forget that you get seasick just walking across damp grass.”
“Oh,” said Pooh, subsiding next to Wol’s perch, “So she’s not the Messiah then?”
“Nope,” said Wol, “Just a very nautical decoy”.
© Madam Revenant 2019
The Goodnight Vienna Audio file