Tag Archives: Cinderella

Someone To Watch Over Me

Sidey’s Weekend Theme is “the secret watcher”…


The Princess was stunning.

She was amazingly beautiful, wore a flowing dress that, when she moved, was not so much figure-hugging as figure-caressing, and she had a twinkle in her eye that suggested she’d rather be chased than chaste.

From across the ballroom the Prince stared open-mouthed in admiration. He started to move toward her and, walking invisibly beside him, his Fairy Godfather smiled.

Then the giant doors opened and in walked an even more beautiful girl in an even more amazing dress. She clinked as she walked, as if her sparkling necklace was bouncing against her startling chest, or as if she had a six-pack of beer hidden under her skirt. The cause of the sound, though, was neither of these things.

She was wearing glass slippers.

The Prince, as if in a trance, crossed the room to her and took her by the hand. The orchestra, who could take a hint, began to play Wonderful Tonight.

“Ah, bollocks,“ said the Princess audibly.

I know how you feel, thought the Fairy Godfather. Suddenly Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother appeared beside him.

“That wasn’t fair,” said the Fairy Godfather. “I had him set up with the Princess.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Cinderella’s Godmother. “You know you’re not allowed to.”

This was true. The Godfathers were not allowed to interfere, mainly since they insisted in speaking in Italian accents no matter where they were from, and because their stock solution to every problem was to take out a contract on any opposition. Oh, and because the Godmothers were women, so what they said went.

The Fairy Godfathers were secret watchers and nothing else. They had no control over the fate of their charges, hapless Princes with no brains.

“Look at him,” said the Fairy Godfather disgustedly. “The Princess has wealth, beauty, breeding and a kingdom, or at least a princessdom. You’ve stuck him with a girl with no money, ridiculous taste in shoes and two frighteningly ugly sisters, which makes you wonder what she’ll look like in five years time, once she has unlimited access to the pizza larder.”

“I don’t care,” said the Fairy Godmother. “As long as she’s home by twelve my girl will be happy, and I can move onwards and upwards.” She disappeared to fill out her application form for the position of Guardian Angel, the next invisible rung on their invisible career ladder.

The Fairy Godfather watched as the evening progressed, as did the relationship. Cinderella and the Prince sat staring into each others eyes, while at the other end of the top table the Princess was getting both determinedly drunk and off with one of Cinderella’s footmen, unaware that he was actually a toad.

Then the clock struck eleven. Cinderella suddenly leapt from her chair and ran from the ballroom. The Prince followed her outside and watched as she raced towards her coach. One glass slipper came off, bounced down a couple of steps, and shattered.

The Prince watched open-mouthed as she vanished forever from his life. Then the Princess, nudged on by her own Fairy Godmother, came and put a consoling arm around him. She whispered in his ear (“rebound sex?”), he shrugged, took her hand and the two turned and went back into the castle.

Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother appeared beside the Godfather.

“What happened?” she gasped. “It’s only eleven o’clock.”

“Someone,” said the Fairy Godfather, “said she would get a lifetime supply of L’Oreal beauty products, the chance to audition for the X-Factor, and a dinner for two with the One Direction band member of her choice, as long as she left an hour early.”

“Someone?” said the Fairy Godmother.

The Fairy Godfather smiled. “I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse,” he said.


The glass slipper fit. Perfectly. She stood and walked about the room in perfect comfort, or at least as much comfort as it is possible to walk in while wearing one high-heeled glass slipper and one mule with a picture of Bart Simpson saying “Eat My Shorts” on it. She turned in joy to the prince.

“It fits!” she said. The Prince was speechless, stunned into silence by her unruly hair, her unibrow and her impressive collection of warts.

The slipper had fit one of the Ugly Sisters.

A brighter Prince would, of course, have seen this coming, or at least something like it. Our feet tend to fall within a range of uniform sizes, otherwise we would all have to get our shoes individually made. The idea that in a whole kingdom there was one person with uniquely-sized feet, and that this happened to be the one person who had left her shoe behind is ludicrous.

(The awkward and therefore never-mentioned fact in all of this, of course, is that the shoe did fall off Cinderella’s foot. This raises the question of how well the shoes fit her in the first place).

Having made his way through the kingdom, however, with no luck, he had fetched up at Cinderella’s house, the very last one. Here he met Cinderella’s two sisters, who surely must have been like Cinderella at least in size, though not apparently in looks. Few families of only three girls have shoe-sizes that vary from dainty to circus clown. The odds were that one of her sisters would have the same size feet as her, and since she had decided to go last for the sake of maximum dramatic impact she had set herself up for disappointment.

The Prince, of course, had been labouring under a huge misunderstanding. He hadn’t realized that the expression “size matters” usually has nothing to do with feet.

Going For The Ball

Sidey’s Weekend Theme is “sunset”.


Where just half-an-hour earlier it had been a huge ball, the sun was now just a tiny sliver of yellow, and as he watched it slipped beneath the horizon, leaving nothing but a darkening sky lined with yellow-white streaks.

It was sunset.

Flurry sighed and shrugged his temporarily massive shoulders. “Nearly over now,” he thought. “Just a couple of hours to midnight.”

He and five other horses were yoked up to a huge silver coach, parked outside a palace where a great ball was taking place. Yet just four hours ago he had been a tiny mouse, frantically scurrying in fear from the sadistic house-cat Sebastian, while a young girl sat weeping, as she usually did, on a stool in the corner of the kitchen. Then a Fairy Godmother (Flurry Mouse had never seen one before, but everyone instinctively knows what a Fairy Godmother looks like) appeared in a puff of smoke (everyone knows that too) and announced that Cinderella, for such was the girl’s name, would indeed go to the ball.

She turned a pumpkin into a coach, made Cinderella’s dress more substantial yet somehow more revealing and, having found six mice and two toads in a kitchen that Cinderella supposedly spent all day sweeping clean, magicked them into two coachmen and six white horses.

Oh, the sensation! Oh, the joyous feeling of awesome power and strength as his legs grew longer, his flanks grew lankier and his haunches grew raunchier. Cinderella stepped into the coach in her glass slippers (proof, if proof were needed, that there is no shoe so daft and uncomfortable that some woman will not wear it) and Flurry (or Thunderbolt, as he suddenly felt the urge to call himself) led the rest of the team forward.

Covering Sebastian in a pile of steaming poo as he went by was possibly the most satisfying thing he had ever done in his life.

Urged on by the coachmen (for the ball was now well in progress, Cinderella’s sisters had left to go to it hours ago) they proceeded at a gallop towards the palace. Intoxicated by sheer speed Flurry attempted to jump a fence, trailing behind him five horses to whom he had omitted to mention this plan and a large coach. He cleared the fence by a foot but gravity had varying degrees of effect upon the rest of the party, and as a whole the manoeuvre could not be called a success. Still, they were all in one piece, which was more than could be said for the fence.

They skidded to a halt in a spray of gravel outside the palace, Cinderella clinked her way up the steps sounding like a milk-float, and they settled down to wait.

The sun set, as we have seen, time passed and midnight grew nearer and nearer. Flurry had been given drink from a bucket and a nose-bag disappointingly full of hay. If horses eat dried grass, he thought, no wonder they crap like that. When he had finished eating he had instinctively tried to clean his whiskers with his paw and instead had smacked himself in the face with his hoof.

Now he was starting to worry. There were nine minutes to go to midnight, he had heard the Fairy Godmother say that the spell would end at midnight, and there was still no sign of Cinderella. And their house was eight minutes drive away.

Then suddenly there she was, racing lop-sidedly towards them, one glass slipper bouncing noisily down the steps beside her like a Scottie-dog yapping along beside its owner. Behind her ran what was obviously the Prince yelling “come back!” in a plaintive voice. God, what a wimp, thought Flurry, she’s running in a long dress and one shoe, she’s so full of champagne that you can hear her fart from here as she runs, yet he still can’t catch her, his family must be really inbred to produce a specimen like him.

Cinderella leapt into the coach. “Go, go, go,” yelled one of the coachmen, but Flurry had already flared his nostrils, reared his front legs and was off.

About half way home the yelling coachman produced a whip and slapped Flurry on the flank with it. Flurry calmly dug his heels into the mud, watched the coachman fly over his head into a hedge, then carried on, faster than before.

They so nearly made it. They were right outside their house when a nearby clock tower bell struck. Flurry watched the world grow larger as he grew smaller, while from behind him came the most horrendous squelching sound he had ever heard.

No other version of this tale that you might have read describes what it was like for Cinderella as she suddenly found herself sitting inside a rapidly shrinking pumpkin. She trudged into the house with her hair lank with pumpkin juice, her face covered in pumpkin seeds and her old familiar dress looking as if she had barfed Sunny Delight all over it.

Flurry followed her indoors, trotted around a corner, and found himself face-to-face with Sebastian.

Sebastian was not in a good mood. As a cat he had only one means of cleaning himself, and an evening spent licking horseshit off his fur had left a sour taste in his mouth, in more ways than one. Now he was looking at something smaller than himself, something on whom he could take out all his boiling rage. A slow smile came over his face.

Flurry stood to his full height on his back legs and whinnied.

It came out as a squeak, of course, but Sebastian looked into his eyes as he did it and a feeling of unexpected fear penetrated deep into his soul. He turned and fled.

Flurry grinned to himself as he trotted along. He one-handedly ripped a huge piece of cheese from a mousetrap as he passed it, and heard it snap loudly behind him as he headed back to his mouse hole for a late-night snack and then a long, long sleep, during which he dreamt of his tail swishing behind him, the wind blowing through his mane, and the splash of his hooves as he galloped through beach-side surf.