Little Fluffy Cloud

by Alison J. Littlewood

 

And I wonder how the hell I’m going to explain this one, because if it weren’t for the fact that I’m stuck in Paris, right in the middle without my passport or purse or car or anything, the problem is I’m still naked, naked in the middle of Paris. For Chrissake.

Which is probably what he wanted, turning my nose up at him like that, like he hasn’t been around since the end of days, the beginning of time. The first, and the last. Apart from God, of course. But the fallen one, why bother with the fallen one? He’s just like us, surely. Causes a bit more trouble, obviously. Like me being stuck here in bloody Paris without a stitch. Jesus. There, blasphemy. He’d like that, too, wouldn’t he.

Maybe I’m supposed to ask him for help, then he’d turn up with that deceptive little tinny voice, just like this morning, and I’d ask him, for something, anything, and who knows what he’d want in return?

There’s someone here, anyway, I think he thinks I’ve been attacked in the street, raped maybe. He’s a seller, he sells those funny little hats with mini umbrellas on top, don’t suppose many of the tourists are going for those on a day like this. He’s offering me a little umbrella, a tiny red and yellow and blue thing, Jesus, a mini umbrella to cover my modesty. Maybe he’ll give me another, two or three maybe, we women have so many bits we’re supposed to cover, aren’t we? OK for a bloke. They’d only need one umbrella.

I take it, and put it up as wide as I can. It’s still only about 15 inches across. Jesus. There, I’ve done it again, so slay me. Jesus. Now he’s taking off his coat, looks like he thinks I’m an effing nutter. Can’t blame him. “Bonjour” I say, in a really crap accent. He looks surprised that I’m English, don’t catch the English doing things like this do you, flashing in the middle of Paris. He looks angry. Like he’s about to take his umbrella back. He looks at me, then he shrugs, takes off his coat and gives it to me. “Thanks,” I say. How the hell am I supposed to get back to England? I need to wish again, I suppose, need to wish hard enough to fly, but my mind is off now, disturbed. Can’t fly when you’re disturbed. All wished out. Needs a certain stupidity, flying, cos when you’re with it you know it’s impossible.

This is the punishment, I suppose. The price of all that flying. They say you’re supposed to come back down with a bump. Just a good job my cloud dropped me on solid earth, instead of disappearing with a ‘plop!’ just when I was flying right over the Eiffel Tower. Could have fallen, right on the spike. Now, that would have hurt.

I look at the umbrella man. He looks at me.

I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one.

© Alison J. Littlewood. All rights reserved.