Matlock The Hare

A Rather Lid-Splashy Time in Winchett Dale (Part the Finaleth..)

THE GRIFFLES SO FAR.... With the lid cracksploding above, and the irate, peffa-russiculoffed waters of Thinking Lake rising all around, it seemes there's only one majickal-hare who can vroosh Winchett Dale to safety, to avoid the glopped-up flood predicted by the Gulyptolin...

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Sometimes, dear long-suffering reader of these griffles, sometimes I must confess to getting the odd vroosher - well, just how can I griffle this and still retain an oidy bit of majickal respect...? - sometimes, on peffa, peffa occasional sun-turns, that perhaps only occur once in every snutch of moon-turns, things can go...an oidy bit glubbstooled...

So it was on this occasion, just as I held my hawthorn wand high above my long heare's ears and pointed it straight at the cracksploding lid above, I had the peffa-unfortunate temerity to quite forget just what the correct griffles were for vrooshing the storm away. Of course, not being the sort ot majickal-hare to give up at this point, I did what I normally do in these sorts of occasions and griffled out something I hoped would suffice in what were, frankly, peffa-glopped circumstances for any creature, let alone my drenched self...

By the Will of Oramus, I command the splashy to pid-pad away,

and please, perhaps to come back another sun-turn'd day...!

All I can griffle in my defence to any apprentice majickal-hares who might be reading these griffles is not to try this vroosh - ever - as frankly, it isn't very good or fuzzcheck, and merely leaves the lid laughing and chickling at you, before immediately sending down really peffa-heavy sploinks of splashy more vilishly than ever before...

Within a snutch of moments, and in what appeared to be less than a blinksnap, I was waist-deep in swirling water, trying my best to pid-pad away as vilishly as possible, and wishing I had some of my great-grandpahpa's legendary athleticism, of which, sadly, I haven't been peffa-well blessed...

My Great-Grandpahpa - an oidy bit more vilish than yours truly...

But what of the flooding dale? I hear you griffle. Tell me about the poor nifferduggling creatures about to be engulged by the ganticus splashy - not the Matlock family tree. Well, indeed, so I shall...

Realising I had somewhat gobflopped at stopping the storm, there was peffa-little I could do, except try and get back to the village and warn the others of what was about to happen, hoping against all hope that somehow the cracksploding garrumblooming lid had awoken them and bought them to their clottabussed senses. Noticing some fallen bark nearby, I grabbed my staff and began paddling as vilishly as possible through the rising waters inWand Wood, rescuing any twizzled creatures I saw along the way...

When finally, I arrived in the village, it was to see the place entirely flooded, with twizzly and russiculoffed creatures climbing onto their roofs, and hanging out of windows, pointing at the raging waters, griffling, chickling and being quite excrimbly about the whole thing. Some of them were already getting ready to go for a swim, having decided that the peffa-dangerous flood was quite the most saztaculous thing to have happened for many moon-turns...

No matter how much I called to them to try and warn them, I couldn't be heard, and besides, they are generally so clottabussed, that even if they had caught my griffles, then they'd have most likely ignored them anyway, for in Winchett Dale, if ever there's a chance to be glopped-up instead of sensible - glopped-up wins out most times... And to be honest, we'd rather have it that way any sun-turn; and perhaps you would, too?

So, with peffa-little else to do (and feeling that really, for all it's twizzliness, the flood was actually quite saztaculous and something peffa-special to behold, really) I was helped up onto a roof to sit and watch just how shindinculous and powerful nature can be, hoping and trusting to Oramus above with all my hare's heart that the waters would begin to recede come the morn'up...

And if some of you are wondering why it was that I couldn't vroosh Winchett Dale all fuzzcheck again, then I have to griffle that it was most probably becuase I didn't have to in the first place. Some things simply happen becuase they're meant to, and here in the dale, we believe that coping with them and appeciating them for what they are, brings us together. It most likely makes us peffa-clottabussed by your shindinculous standards, good reader of these griffles, but `tis simply our way, and one that should you ever pid-pad into Winchett Dale to share a griffle or a guzzwort or two, you'd all too soon see for yourself.

As for the waters, well, they did go down, and life slowly returned to normal. The creatures helped each other to clean up, and griffled great tales of the night the floods came, and just how saztaculous it all was. Some griffled of what they had done, others of how far they had swum, or how they had held back the waters with a single paw, then rescued grillions of creatures from its twizzly perils... But all who heard these tall-tales knew them simply to be spuddles which would likely become even more ganticus with each re-telling.

Proftulous returned from Twinkling Lid Heights, lump-thumping after the tweazles who soon settled back into Wand Wood, trying their briftest to avoid being made into pies for the peffa-clottabussed dworp.

And my memories of that shindinculous night, as we all sat on rooftops and watched in saztaculous amazement? Well, some griffle that I was spotted swimming amongst it all, crumlush in the waters, enjoying every oidy moment, knowing deep in my Sisteraculous that Oramus' majick would be far better than a mere majickal-hare's in sorting everything out and getting us all fuzzcheck again...