The Great Gimblefurzle Search

 

So a few weeks ago I decided I didn't have enough livestock and I wanted a . . . gimblefurzle.  Gimblefurzles are the dead easy end of the class . . . um . . . critteriornati, very popular, as you may know, among people with neither money nor sense, who may suddenly take it into their heads that (for example) a full complement of hellhounds, more houseplants than windowsills and 4,012 rose-bushes in a garden the size of a picnic table* IS NOT ENOUGH things that need fussing and feeding.  They may have taken on this implausible theory on account of Recent Traumas.  Possibly the idea of a gimblefurzle first arose while a recent trauma was unfolding** and an almost-subliminal part of the attraction of a gimblefurzle*** was the idea of naming it† after some aspect of the trauma, something to prove that the trauma has been assimilated and moved on from.†† 

            So, because I haven't got enough to do, I started researching gimblefurzles in those moments between paragraphs when I'm trying to divert my thoughts from the prospect of jobs washing windows and spray-painting fenders in factory assembly lines.  It turns out that my friend Cwyllog has been keeping various critteriornati, including gimblefurzles, most of her life:  her parents were also critteriornati enthusiasts and she grew up cleaning their cages and grating their carrots (and chasing mealworms down the back of the refrigerator when the lid didn't get put on properly ewwwwww).   So I having mentioned my potential new assault on insanity and more critters, she laughed a lot because she is rude, and then she was all over me with useful info†††.  Drat.  I wouldn't have minded if she'd commited herself to convincing me that they're tricky and whimsical and need lots of specialised kit.  No!  she said.  Easy!  Spectacularly easy!  You should totally get one!  Gimblefurzles are also gruesomely photogenic, and there are (conservatively) 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 photos of gimblefurzles out there waiting for you to press that google button, poised and ready to destroy self-control and rouse the Must. Have. reaction in the susceptible.

            My case was becoming severe.  And then it turned out that gimblefurzles are not quite as readily come by as their reputation as small, cheap, cute and dead easy to keep and keep healthy might have led you to expect.  There are half a dozen pet shops that sell some critters as well as food, toys and cages that look like plastic castles within my I-have-ME-and-I-don't-drive-any-more-than-I-can-help-it-even-to-ring-bells range and while there were rumours at two of them the only gimblefurzles I managed to see were mythological abstracts that looked more like small extrusions of plastic castle wall than gimblefurzles.‡

            But then Cwyllog, who thinks I'm fun to watch, applied her (superior) google-fu to the problem and discovered a critteriornati specialist store in Fantootlington, which is not impossibly far from here.‡‡ 

            I believe it was at this developmental stage that Fiona and I were having a parallel conversation about her coming down just for a face to face schmooze since I haven't got enough of a fresh accumulation of doodles‡‡‡ to be worth her professional time.  With a breathtaking lack of subtlety I emailed her:  how would you like to come down, drive to Fantootlington, and investigate the critteriornati store with me? 

           What? she said.  

            Fortunately Fiona is also easily amused.  She agreed. 

            And today was the day.  I told you I was going to have an adventure today.  Yes.  This was it.§  The Ornamental Creature Centre was not quite what either of us was expecting:  it's a long narrow twisty crowded series of rooms with stacks of cages with little things wittering about in them.  But the critters themselves looked clean and cheerful so I was willing to overlook the fact that the place was giving me claustrophobia and the walls had clearly not been redecorated since Queen Victoria's reign.  I had however checked both on their web site and by email that they did have gimblefurzles in stock and . . . yes!  There they were!  Awwwwwwww!

            So I went up to the counter and said I wanted a gimblefurzle.  Great, they said.  Now, will you be wanting the 1,000,000 cubic metre plastic castle or we have a special this week on the 2,000,000,000 cubic metre casino with the working slot machines and roulette wheels that really spin to keep your gimblefurzle amused?  Only £3748.  A bargain.  And it has underfloor heating so you won't have to buy a separate heater.

            Heater?  I said.  1,000,000 cubic metres?  I have a two-gallon crate§§ that a friend who's had gimblefurzles all her life says is plenty for one gimblefurzle.

            No no no no no no no, said the clerk.  Totally inadequate.  And as well as the heater you will need an air filter because gimblefurzles' beauty is based on their having been increasingly overbred—the clerk opened her eyes very wide at this point and may have said something uncalled-for about the currency of my friend's information—and are now fragile little things unsuitable for life in this world.  As well as the air filter you will need agarwood oil for the cistern, a partridge in a pear tree which you can buy at our sister shop just down the street, and an assortment of silken pillows, which you must change daily and handwash in our special Gimblefurzle Delicate Soap—the last rinse must be in distilled water—and you aren't expecting to feed it on grated carrot and mealworms, are you?  That is so last century.  No, Cooking for Your Gimblefurzle is volume seven of the Complete Guide to Gimblefurzle Care, which you may care to glance over, if you buy the casino we will let you have it for £490, and we include a small tin of truffles at no extra charge. . . .

            I didn't bring a gimblefurzle home.

            I am very unhappy.§§§

            And Cwyllog is breathing fire and smoke and may be on the next flight over here.#   Possibly with a gimblefurzle in her pocket. . . .    

* * *

* Ah, but Third House has empty ground. 

** Not to say erupting, exploding, or going BANGBANGTHUDWHAMBANG 

*** Or possibly two.  They're small. 

† Or them. 

†† Us writers like symbolism.  So, no, not Evil Ratbag and Thick As A Brick.  Possibly Yaaaay and Wahoooo. 

††† And as I write this she has unearthed and cleaned out her old gimblefurzle cage and is browsing thoughtfully through her local yellow pages.  The great drawback to Cwyllog on this occasion for me is that she lives 4000 miles away.  Rats. 

‡ I don't CARE if they're cute if I need a magnifying glass to SEE one! I said to Cwyllog.  She said, they grow. 

‡‡ I've rung handbells there. 

‡‡‡ Yet 

§ The part that worked is that Fiona left her frelling satnav^ in her glovebox and I navigated by, you know, paper maps.  Not even Google.  The sort of thing you buy in a bookshop.  And we got there.  And we got home again. 

^ The day we took it along to find the art supplies store it kept trying to make us turn into fields and down roads that had been fenced off and other manifestations of technological hilarity. 

§§ from a previous life 

§§§ The one thing that has gone right today is that Fiona came back with me and knitted in a soothing manner while I plunged despairingly back into SHADOWS . . . which went bizarrely well.  It might be transfigured gimblefurzle deficit, but I prefer to think that Fiona is Good Luck.  Or maybe it's the knitting. 

# Which would almost make this whole anti-comedy of fallacy and delusion worthwhile.