Sunday, 17 January 2010

Why you never see a unicorn on skis.

Bowed horn for my long absence! But my author went away one snowy morning with a heavy suitcase and a shovel in the back of her car and did not come back. She left her cat Tara…

who started making horrible mewing noises and scratching at the doors. Naturally I was worried about my author (not to mention poor Tara) so I galloped after her just as fast as I could, over hill and through dale and across water – or rather ice.

I finally caught up with her near a place called Geneva where some big metal birds with wings were circling in a blizzard. My author had travelled inside one of these birds across the Wide Water. I could see her face looking out of the glass holes in its belly but I couldn’t do anything to help her until the bird landed and spit out all the humans it had swallowed earlier. My author then took her heavy suitcase up into the High White Mountains, where I needed all the magic in my golden hooves to gallop through the snowdrifts after her without being seen. I thought she would quickly get cold and come home. But she put on a quilted suit and fixed a pair of long planks to her boots. She sat on a dangling chair until she was almost up in the enchanted mists with me. Then she unexpectedly JUMPED OFF THE CHAIR and slithered all the way to the bottom again as fast as a unicorn can gallop! Crazy. It was all I could do to keep up with her, so I didn’t get any pictures. You'll have to make do with the chair after she jumped off...

I think she glimpsed me out of the corner of her eye a few times, leaping between the pines with my mane and tail sparkling in the sunshine. But it’s too cold for me in the High White Mountains, so I hurried back here as soon as I could to feed poor Tara. My author didn’t even miss me. She told her friends she’d seen a chamois - what an insult! Anyone can tell the difference between a unicorn and a chamois...


Why didn’t I stay with my author, I hear you ask? Well, someone’s got to write this blog. Besides, I’ve got four feet and the sliding thing looks plenty difficult enough with two. We muses have our own ways of dealing with snow and ice – it’s called keeping our golden hooves warm at a blazing fire of new ideas. Which is why you’ll never see a unicorn on skis, because we are far too busy thinking up new books while our authors play in the snow.


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