Mrs Hair and Victoria's mother stood on the pavement outside the Pembury Hair Salon formalizing the details for the great date set for their two daughters to meet. They shared a giggle observing the tail end of an obese pigeon half way down a discarded crisp packet trying to vacuum up the last crumbs. It was one of Pascal's ancestors. When he was quite done, Mrs Hair picked up the packet and disposed of it in the nearest dustbin, she couldn't abide littering. The day of the great date dawned, the tea table was meticulously laid out and Victoria arrived with her mother. The introductions were a bit awkward, for Ann-Judy was quite shy, but Vicky was a vamp, precocious, fully into her saucy teen dolls and make up and made a bee line for Ann-Judy's bedroom. She wore her mod Mary Quant mini dress with matching patterned tights and an oversized tote bag packed solidly with her garish collection of make up and dolls and promptly beleaguered Ann-Judy and her bedroom forthwith. The mass produced Barbies lay about soulless and silent, but the four very voluptuous and glamorously attired German pre Bild Lillis stilettoed methodically about the room scrutinizing everything and asking each other puzzling questions in German about Ann-Judy’s bits and bobs strewn about. Whether it pertained to the actual items or their disorganized disarray was hard to say. You see, almost as a silent passive aggression, Ann-Judy was a little bit untidy and her dishevelment was strictly relegated to her bedroom as Mrs Hair would not a allow a hair out of place anywhere else in the house. So the somewhat snooty German dolls nosed unabashedly about until the utter worst happened. Frangelica, the baddest, most brazen and brash, most undulating of pre Bild Lillis ever made, adorned in her hirsute suit of lilac ostrich feather and her vixen wiles cornered Anjello in the dimly lit confines under the bed. With outrageously flirty Teutonic buxomness, it didn't take long for her to reduce Anjello to a wobbly, woozy, love struck wreck whom she carted off to Vicky’s fashionable bag seconds before Vicky hastily packed up to leave. And that was the last anyone ever saw of Anjello...
Ann-Judy actually never even realized or noticed what thespian tragedy had transpired that day. She'd been blown away by Victoria and her sophistications and her attention had now entirely shifted to real life boys so her toys and dolls were heartlessly forgotten about. Ann-Judy's budgerigars were scandalized and understandably Jellatine was mortified. Her heart was completely congealed and she was reduced to saturnine seclusion for several years in the gloomy depths of Ann-Judy's closets. She didn’t blink an eyelid when Ann-Judy’s mom locked the bedroom door after she'd vanished. It made no difference to her lugubrious life. Even little Jilly Bean’s cuddles and hugs couldn’t squeeze together the bits of her mother’s mangled spirits. It was only when the dough baby had made a gaping hole in the dull and dusted-over window, nearly two decades later, that she even remembered there was another world out there. It took a chill breeze with ice fog fingers to punch through the hole and slap her smartly in the face and rudely awaken her from the sad somnolent daze she had lingered in like a Sleeping Beauty nap except not a century, only a fifth of it. The frigid cold slap was in fact very real, because it was a fallen baby star-jelly from beyond the stratosphere. The collision had killed it. Jellatine beheld its little lifeless corpse and it dawned on her. She was alive. And was not life to be lived? After a suffocating twenty year torture this invigoration sparked a reconnection with her once cheerful and charismatic self so that by the time the rescue party from Royal Doll Town arrived, she felt a re-emerging of her old mellow jello self and was whole heartedly ready for a new chapter in her life. She was psyched to rev things up and it would cost nothing but small change.
The Cybiography of Queen Marcheline CLICK HERE:
AND HE SAID:
"Truly I tell you,
You're NEVER too old to be young at heart
P l a g i a r i s m is
a plague D O N ' T
S P R E A D I T ! ! !
R e s p e c t