The Prince was at his wits’ end. It was six weeks since his birthday bash and he still hadn’t found the divine creature, the little cracker, he’d danced the night away with. It had been a masked ball (the latest craze) and he’d waited impatiently for midnight so he could get a really good look. But as the clock struck once, twice, thrice, his partner upped and fled, mumbling something about not wanting to miss the last bus. All that was left as a reminder of that magical evening was a small shoe that had somehow slipped off the dainty foot.
The very next day, after his hangover had subsided, the prince leapt onto his Harley Davidson and, the shoe stowed safely in his man bag, roared off in search of his lost love. He scoured his principality from Llandudno to Llanelli, from Montgomery to Machynlleth, calling at every house and farm and converted barn he came across. But nowhere did he find the foot that fitted the shoe.
He was about to call it a day when his father, the King, texted to ask if he had been to that place of cold and rain and glistening wet slate, that place that all those who value their health avoid in winter (and spring, and summer, and autumn)– Blaenau Ffestiniog. The Prince gritted his teeth, zipped his leathers right up to his chin and turned his wheels north-west. He didn’t have any luck there, either – until…
“Haf ystryd Goronwy Morgan’s ty bach?” an old crone, one of the town’s senior citizens, quavered which, roughly translated, means, Have you tried Goronwy Morgan’s toilet (sorry, his little cottage)?
The Prince revved the engine and sped up the hill to Goronwy Morgan’s. Two of the most facially challenged women he had ever seen ran out to greet him.
“Oh, Prince, we heard you were coming, do let us try on the shoe!”
The Prince was quite sure that if one of these young ladies had been his dancing partner, he would have remembered but, ever the gentleman, he bent down in front of the first sister and tried to shove her foot into the shoe.
“No, it’s no good, it’s far too small. Next, please.”
But he could tell just by looking at the foot stuck out in front of his nose that it was at least a size ten.
“Does anyone else live here?” This was his final chance before he called a halt to the whole futile procedure.
“No-one of any consequence,” the sisters chorused.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Prince caught a slight movement. He beckoned to the slender figure peeping round the kitchen door.
“Won’t you try on the shoe?”
The slipper fitted perfectly.
“Damn!” said one FC sister.
“Blast!” said the other.
“Wow!” said the Prince. And he got down on one knee and proffered his spare helmet before taking Buttons by the hand and leading him into a gloriously happy future.
The very next day, after his hangover had subsided, the prince leapt onto his Harley Davidson and, the shoe stowed safely in his man bag, roared off in search of his lost love. He scoured his principality from Llandudno to Llanelli, from Montgomery to Machynlleth, calling at every house and farm and converted barn he came across. But nowhere did he find the foot that fitted the shoe.
He was about to call it a day when his father, the King, texted to ask if he had been to that place of cold and rain and glistening wet slate, that place that all those who value their health avoid in winter (and spring, and summer, and autumn)– Blaenau Ffestiniog. The Prince gritted his teeth, zipped his leathers right up to his chin and turned his wheels north-west. He didn’t have any luck there, either – until…
“Haf ystryd Goronwy Morgan’s ty bach?” an old crone, one of the town’s senior citizens, quavered which, roughly translated, means, Have you tried Goronwy Morgan’s toilet (sorry, his little cottage)?
The Prince revved the engine and sped up the hill to Goronwy Morgan’s. Two of the most facially challenged women he had ever seen ran out to greet him.
“Oh, Prince, we heard you were coming, do let us try on the shoe!”
The Prince was quite sure that if one of these young ladies had been his dancing partner, he would have remembered but, ever the gentleman, he bent down in front of the first sister and tried to shove her foot into the shoe.
“No, it’s no good, it’s far too small. Next, please.”
But he could tell just by looking at the foot stuck out in front of his nose that it was at least a size ten.
“Does anyone else live here?” This was his final chance before he called a halt to the whole futile procedure.
“No-one of any consequence,” the sisters chorused.
Out of the corner of his eye, the Prince caught a slight movement. He beckoned to the slender figure peeping round the kitchen door.
“Won’t you try on the shoe?”
The slipper fitted perfectly.
“Damn!” said one FC sister.
“Blast!” said the other.
“Wow!” said the Prince. And he got down on one knee and proffered his spare helmet before taking Buttons by the hand and leading him into a gloriously happy future.