Friday’s Forest Fable

Mr Bramble and the Very Impressive Morning

Mr Bramble was having a terrible morning.

It began at seven minutes past six when he stepped out of bed…

straight into his water bowl.

“Wonderful.”

He changed his socks.

Then he went downstairs and burnt his toast.

He scraped off the black bits.

Burnt it again.

And while attempting to rescue the second slice, he knocked an entire jar of blackberry jam onto the kitchen floor.

It landed upside down.

Without its lid.

Mr Bramble stared at it.

The jam stared back.

At least, he felt that it did.

“Don’t,” he warned it.

By half past seven, Mr Bramble was late.

He hurried towards the little village post office with his satchel bouncing against his side.

Halfway there, it began to rain.

Not proper rain.

That would have been manageable.

This was the irritating sort.

Tiny droplets that somehow managed to get behind your ears.

Mr Bramble pulled his hat lower.

As he rounded the corner, he nearly walked straight into Bartholomew Snailsworth.

Bartholomew was sitting outside his cottage enjoying tea from a china cup.

He wore a beautifully pressed waistcoat.

His bow tie was straight.

His shoes were polished.

There wasn’t a single crumb on him.

“Good morning, Bramble,” he said.

Mr Bramble looked down at himself.

One sock was slightly darker than the other.

There was blackberry jam on his sleeve.

And he had somehow acquired a leaf on his head.

“Morning.”

“Lovely day.”

Mr Bramble looked at the rain.

“Is it?”

“Oh yes. Excellent weather for thinking.”

Mr Bramble continued towards the post office.

Typical Bartholomew.

Always calm.

Always elegant.

Always completely sorted.

The Clockmaker Rabbit was already outside his shop.

Naturally.

His windows gleamed.

His clocks were ticking perfectly.

His little chalkboard read:

OPEN — 8:00 SHARP

It was 7:58.

Mr Bramble sighed.

Of course.

The Clockmaker Rabbit was never late.

He probably woke up five minutes before his alarm simply to prove a point.

“Morning, Bramble!”

“Morning.”

“Busy day?”

“Very.”

“Me too!”

The Rabbit smiled cheerfully and disappeared inside.

Mr Bramble hurried on.

Another person who had everything under control.

Then he passed the Crow Sisters.

All three were perched neatly on the fence outside Mr Tea Toad’s.

They were whispering.

Mr Bramble couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they looked extremely organised.

One held a tiny notebook.

Another appeared to have a list.

The third was nodding seriously.

Mr Bramble slowed.

Even the Crow Sisters had a plan.

The Crow Sisters.

Yesterday they’d spent forty minutes arguing about whether a mushroom counted as furniture if a beetle sat on it.

Mr Bramble felt worse.

By the time he reached the post office, he was eleven minutes late.

There were parcels everywhere.

One sack had split.

A letter addressed to the Moss Witch had somehow become stuck beneath the doormat.

And there was a note from the Key Keeper asking whether he could collect three outgoing parcels before lunch.

Mr Bramble sat behind the counter.

He looked at the mess.

Then through the window.

Outside, Down Whimsy Way seemed to be carrying on perfectly without him.

Everyone else was managing.

Everyone else knew what they were doing.

Everyone else had apparently been given instructions for life that Mr Bramble had somehow missed.

He sighed.

“I really need to get myself together.”

At precisely nine fifteen, the bell above the post office door rang.

Bartholomew entered.

Except…

something was different.

His beautiful waistcoat was covered in tea.

His bow tie was crooked.

And his top hat had a dent in it.

Mr Bramble blinked.

“What happened to you?”

Bartholomew removed his hat.

“A squirrel.”

Mr Bramble waited.

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not.”

Bartholomew placed a parcel on the counter.

“And the tea?”

“I knocked it over when the squirrel landed on my head.”

Mr Bramble tried very hard not to laugh.

He failed.

Bartholomew looked offended for approximately two seconds.

Then he laughed too.

Five minutes later, the Clockmaker Rabbit burst through the door.

“Have you seen a small brass key?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The Rabbit checked beneath the welcome mat.

Then behind the parcel scales.

Then inside Mr Bramble’s empty tea mug.

“What does it open?”

“My shop.”

Mr Bramble stared.

“But you were standing outside it earlier.”

“I know.”

“And then you went inside.”

“Yes.”

“And now you’re outside.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

The Clockmaker Rabbit looked embarrassed.

“The back door locks automatically.”

Mr Bramble slowly began to smile.

“Don’t.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

Then came the Crow Sisters.

All three.

The notebook was gone.

The list was gone.

And one sister had a twig stuck in her tail feathers.

“We need a stamp.”

“Of course.”

“No, not a postage stamp.”

“A rubber stamp.”

“In the shape of an acorn.”

Mr Bramble stared at them.

“Why?”

The sisters looked at one another.

“We’ve started a club.”

“What club?”

There was a long silence.

“We haven’t decided yet.”

“What was the list for?”

“Possible club names.”

“And the notebook?”

“Things a club might need.”

Mr Bramble leaned against the counter.

“So you don’t actually know what you’re doing?”

All three looked horrified.

“Of course we do.”

“What are you doing?”

Another silence.

“Starting a club.”

“What kind?”

“We just told you. We haven’t decided.”

By ten o’clock, something peculiar had happened.

Mr Bramble’s terrible morning…

didn’t feel quite so terrible anymore.

Bartholomew had been attacked by a squirrel.

The Clockmaker Rabbit had locked himself out of his own shop.

The Crow Sisters had organised an entire club without knowing what it was for.

And when the Key Keeper arrived to collect a roll of stamps, she was wearing two different earrings.

Mr Bramble pointed.

She touched them.

“Oh.”

“Was that deliberate?”

She looked at him.

“Yes.”

Mr Bramble raised an eyebrow.

“No,” she admitted.

They both laughed.

Later that afternoon, Mr Bramble finally sat down with a cup of tea.

The post sacks were sorted.

The Moss Witch’s letter had been rescued from beneath the doormat.

The Key Keeper’s parcels had been collected.

And the blackberry jam stain on his sleeve had faded from catastrophic to merely noticeable.

Through the window he watched the village.

Bartholomew passed wearing his dented hat.

The Clockmaker Rabbit hurried by carrying three enormous bunches of keys.

The Crow Sisters were holding their first official club meeting.

According to the sign, it was now called:

THE VERY IMPORTANT SOCIETY FOR UNDECIDED MATTERS

Mr Bramble smiled.

Down Whimsy Way looked exactly as it had that morning.

Cosy cottages.

Busy little shops.

People going about their days.

From a distance…

everyone looked as though they knew exactly what they were doing.

But now Mr Bramble knew better.

It’s remarkably easy to look at someone else’s life and imagine they have it all worked out.

We see the tidy kitchen.

Not the cupboard they shoved everything into before taking the photograph.

We see the achievement.

Not the twelve attempts that came before it.

We see someone smiling.

We don’t see the morning they had before they walked through the door.

We compare our entire messy, complicated, behind-the-scenes lives…

with the tiny pieces of other people’s lives that happen to be visible.

And somehow we always seem to come up short.

But perhaps everyone has jam on their sleeve somewhere.

A forgotten key.

A mismatched earring.

A plan that isn’t really a plan yet.

Perhaps most of us are simply figuring things out as we go.

Some people are just wearing a very impressive waistcoat while they do it.

So the next time it feels as though everyone else has life beautifully organised while you’re muddling your way through…

remember Mr Bramble’s morning.

You are seeing your own life from the inside.

You are seeing everyone else’s from the outside.

Those are two very different views.

And you don’t need to have everything together to be doing perfectly well.

Sometimes you’re allowed to burn the toast.

Wear the wrong earrings.

Be eleven minutes late.

And begin again from wherever you happen to be standing.

Preferably after cleaning up the jam.

Until next Friday’s Forest Fable…

May you be gentle with the messy parts of your own story, remember that nobody has every page perfectly written, and never mistake someone else’s polished cover for the whole book.

If you’d like a little surprise to enjoy in the middle of an ordinary, imperfect day, our mystery scoops are waiting Down Whimsy Way. Choose your scoop and make room for a parcel of carefully gathered treasures. Impressive waistcoats are entirely optional.

Select Your Scoop

With warm wishes,

Becky
The Key Keeper
Down Whimsy Way