Writing: How I came to have a Troll chained up in my back yard (oddly, doesn’t involve goats)

(For my Muttley Bear)

Really, it’s all Phyllis’s fault.

Or rather, perhaps, her quite naive view of men. Which has always struck me as rather peculiar, what with her originally being a man and all but who am I to question the tricksome and winding ways of the heart?

Anyway, long story short, she fell head over heels for this weedy little accountant who used to frequent her club.

It wasn’t till they were walking halfway over the flyover, on the way to his house, that he confessed that the only reason he had come on to her was that the flyover was the only was to reach his house.

And a troll lived under the flyover.

The weedy accountant had been to cheap to buy a car, so every time he walked across the bridge the troll had leapt out and threatened to eat him unless the accountant did his tax returns. The accountant had been spending the last month trapped until dawn going through a millennia of old receipts and things scribbled on the backs of envelopes.

In desperation he had asked around to find out who was the strongest man was and had been directed to the Foo Foo Kitty Club where Phyllis worked.

You can probably guess that, after having been told that the man you were passionately in love with only saw you as hired muscle, Phyllis was not in the best of moods.

So when the troll came clambering up over the sides of the bridge, yelling ‘Who’s that trip trapping over my bridge?’ Phyllis, heartbrokenly, knocked him about quite a bit with the crowbar she kept in her handbag. Then, while sobbing loudly, she dragged his unconscious form back to the club with her.

When the troll regained consciousness, he found himself within the hallowed pink walls of the Foo Foo Kitty Club, his fur neatly washed and trimmed, his claws painted a pastel pink and at the end of a long pink leash.

Phyllis was holding the other end.

For a while, trolls became the new Chihuahuas – there was such a craze for them that there was a temporary mass exodus of trolls from the area until it was deemed safe to walk in the woods again without coming across a huntress, dressed in tweed, holding a butterfly net and a crowbar.

After six months Phyllis called me into the club to ask me to have a look at her troll.

“I’m a writer.” I told her over the phone. “What do I know about creatures?”

“You’re a fantasy writer honey.” She said airily, “he’s a fantastical creature – I’m sure it’ll work out.”

When I got to the club, the troll was hiding in the closet. He looked about six times smaller than I had last seen him and his voice had become so quiet that I couldn’t even hear him. All in all, he looked completely miserable.

Everyone has their weak spots. I, for one, am only allowed to drive past the animal rescue place once a month.

“He’s coming home with me Phyllis.” I said firmly.

He’s now chained up in my back yard, doing quite happily amongst the fresh air and rather over grown weeds (I’m not a gardener). The chain wasn’t my idea but his. I think he sees it as some sort of security blanket – proof that Phyllis can’t suddenly turn up and snatch him back.

So yes, that’s how I came to have a troll chained up in my back yard.

And no, it didn’t involve goats in the slightest.