Five Things For Which Nigel Wensleydale Is Thankful

Nigel Wensleydale is Kill Pretty’s resident Victorian waif, or maybe it’s Edwardian, we’re not sure. Either way, his life is one of excess and frivolity, he summers in the country and spends winters… also in the country? We don’t really do background checks here.

Dear Reader I fear it is once again that time. When the Turkey King is chosen and his head is lopped off so the Wensleydale extended family can sup from his succulent juices. However simple to dine from the flesh of the family’s turkey and ham and even yams is not as easy as one might think, for Father insists that his progeny be thankful for at least five things each year. Woe to he who refuses to think up things to be thankful for, for he will spend time in the Thanksgiving stocks as cousin Roderick did two years past. In preparation for this year’s feast I’ve written down what I estimate to be the perfect things to be thankful for, supposing that father doesn’t find a flaw in my givings of thanks and slap my cheeks with his spanking stick.

Father’s Glove

When father doles out his punishments he does so with a velvet padded glove, It’s more of a mitt really. When he chooses to forgo the spanking stick and use his palm he always brings out the mitt for his youngest child, and for this my hiney thanks him.

The Bent Leg Of The Staring Man

I do not like the Staring Man who stands beneath my window each night and whistles to himself as he watches for me to pass by. However, I am thankful for his crooked left leg which keeps him from climbing the tress outside my room reaching in to pet my downy hair.

Daffodil the Sweetest Goose

Oh how I love to ride my pet goose, Daffodil, around the countryside. Her squawks and honks give me such a burst of pleasure each time we pass over the hill and toss marmalade down at the village below.

Mumsie’s Hook

When Mumsie lost her hand in that nasty boating accident two fortnights ago I was aghast at the thought that she would never be able to tuck me in again. But now that she has her hook firmly installed I couldn’t be happier. I’m so lucky to feel the cold metal of her hook as it caresses my face each night before I drift off to slumber land.

The Locks on the Cellar Door

I have never been into the cellar, but I hear the banging and shrieking that comes from that underground hovel each night. Sometimes the sounds are that of a distant wail, other nights it’s as if there are hundreds of glass gargling maniacs shifting and banging beneath our home. I fear that one day the sounds will break out from beneath the cellar and into our home, but until that night I am thankful for the locks and chains which father has placed on the door.