Dance of the Sugar Plump Fluffy:

[faint sound of the music that accompanies the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy ] As the suns sinks into the deep gray cloud in the west, and the twilight deepens to dusk and then dark, as the color fades and the shadows lengthen and the air cools, the mist rolls up the harbour in a damp, cloying cloak. The small flying things of the night emerge from their daytime hiding places to flit amongst the newly made gloom, and if you watch carefully and quietly and don't make a sound, you might see, if you're lucky, and have been a very good child, a special and strange occurrence. If you keep your eyes pealed and make not a sound, a wondrous sight will unfold before your eyes, because as one day fades, and takes it's rest, there, in the grass, is performed for your delight, the Dance of the Sugar Plump Fluffy.

The principal Dancer, as you will soon see, is the famous prima donna, the beauteous Princess Ivory. With her fur draped in an elegant gray cloak, rippling sleekly as it is caressed by the breeze, soft as newfallen snow, she comes on to centre stage and begins to dance. First a stillness, as she sits in the middle of the lawn . . then, a slight raise of the head as something small and flitting catches her eye . . . the crouch . . the ever so delicate wriggle of her bountiful backside and . . the POUNCE. The dance is played out before our eyes . . the Rubenesque diva misses, then sits calmly, grooming herself . . of course, she meant to miss - it's just all part of the dance.

Up in the lounge, the lady Mere gazes out the window in horror and disgust at the sight of her portly, Pickwickian puss disporting herself like a kitten in the middle of the lawn for all the world to see. The lady Mere thinks she'll die of embarrassment as her little old lady look-alike in a shabby fur coat gambols and frolics. It's bad enough that she's hunting moths and midges instead of birds and mice . . but she's *missing* them, and not catching a thing!

Finally, much to the Lady Mere's relief, the final curtain of darkness falls and the performance comes to an end . . only to be repeated the next time a gentle breeze blows and the mist rolls softly in over the hills to take the world in a gentle gray embrace.

Copyright © Maryrose Lockerbie
March 11, 2000