So, here we go. 10 minutes of sheer, unadulterated nonsense.
October 20th, 3.43 – 3.53pm
Darren was a salamander. Of sorts.
With a xenophobic streak as long as his tail, Darren was insular. He spoke to his own kind, and only his own kind. He was like that.
Darren’s pond (and it was ‘his’ pond, as far as he was concerned) was average, in pond terms. Nothing special. It was fringed by grasses, the odd lily, and rushes at one end that whispered sweet nothings in the springtime, and were resolutely silent for the rest of the time. And while this might sound special, in pond terms it wasn’t.
Darren didn’t mind the ducks. Even the fish were tolerable. What he had the biggest problem with were the amphibians. Just who did they think they were? The frogs, arrogant with their hopping and their interminable croaking, their look-at-me dramas and congregations. Evangelists, they were, all of them. Darren was having none of it.
Worse than the frogs, though, by far, were the newts. Nightmarish. Thinking they were so special. ‘I’m GREAT-crested,’ they would say, emphasising the ‘great’ like it was something to be proud of. Didn’t they know Darren’s kind were legendary? Didn’t they know that he could regenerate in fire?
Not that he’d actually tried it, of course. That would be…well, a little foolish. It was enough just to know. He could do it if he wanted.
But what could the newts do? Nothing. Swish their tails, and do that mini-crocodile thing they did, toothlessly. Thinking they were all that.
It was time. Darren had plans, big plans. Plans for the pond, and those plans were resolutely newt-free. It was time to put them into action. Swimming back across the pond, he thought of how to share the news. He’d tell Emily first. She’d be impressed.
Emily wasn’t impressed. Emily was taking a week’s sabbatical at the far end of the pond. With Claude.
Claude was a newt.