This week’s #writephoto prompt is…

When the first cases of Covid reached the borders of fairyland, the Lord Chamberlain took his esquire to one side and told him to get his Pert little posterior – he was still more bloke than woke in his dealings with the Castle employees – in gear and tell the vulnerable to self isolate until a further edict. The esquire, whose name is pretty irrelevant as he only appears in this paragraph but went by the diminutive of Ned even though he was far from diminutive and had been called Pert since birth, had no idea who should be considered vulnerable so hied himself hence to the Wise Woman.

The Wise Woman opined every Thursday. Unfortunately, as Ned is trapped in paragraph one we won’t ever know what he was told or what he did next. However, we are going to make an assumption. Two in fact. The first is pregnant women were part of the Double Double-U’s opinion and word reached Sonia Rapunzel who was nearly fit to pop.

In the time of Covid the excessively gravid Sonia was working as a tress-maker, in one of many fairyland cottage enterprises that had been introduced to provide sustainable organic work for the otherwise riotous masses. In this case working as a grow your own wig maker. Sonia, like all Rapunzels had especially fecund follicles and could tease out an assortment of hair pieces by a Wednesday lunch time, coloured through a combination of a strict diet and the application of noxious chemicals. Like generations of Rapunzel women she was genetically drawn to the more hirsute males in the magical realms, and her current Squeeze, Primate Mullet sported such a glowing pelt, rumours of otter blood in his family tree couldn’t be discounted.

On the third day of fairyland lockdown, Primate found himself wandering around the nearby gardens, owned by a Wicked Sorceress. He had a dilemma. Sonia had given birth to a girl who had already shown herself adept in the hair growing stakes and who he adored, but that plus came with a couple of minuses. She screamed. And she cried. Endlessly. But when the babe sniffed the fresh air, she settled.

Primate needed help. The Wicked Sorceress, for all the crappy PR and trolling was always helpful. Knowing of the new dad’s dilemma she proposed a solution. ‘Use my tower. Lots of views and fresh air and Sonia will be complying with the edict.’

Primate wasn’t daft. ‘Rent?’

‘I get the babe’s hair when it’s the height of the tower.’

‘Fair enough.’

Sonia and the babe moved in, Primate provided all necessary bubble services and everything was peachy.

Eighteen months later, the Lord Chamberlain summoned the esquire. He didn’t appear causing consternation. ‘Where’s the boy?’ Demanded the High Official.

‘Er, stuck in paragraph one.’

‘Again? I need to spread the word.’

‘Again?’

‘Yes, again. Get him written here pronto.’

In the scratch of a pen the scribe, aware of the likely punishments for grammatical kidnap, dipped his quill and..

‘Ned, at last. I have an edict.’

‘Again?’

‘Don’t you start. It’s time to ease lockdown. Spread the word.’

‘Any particular word?’

We never will know as Ned was turned into a small and it must be said pert coffee table. But whatever it was, the word made its way to the five corners of the kingdom resulting in much unconfined joy and general hoopla.

When the Wicked Sorceress heard the word she had a moment. If Sonia and the babe went outside others would see the sea of baby curls and word would get back to the King. He would demand first dibs. She hurried to the tower and shouted up at the window. ‘Hi, Rapunzel, how are we doing with the rent? Time we measured it.’

Sonia loved her baby’s hair but she was one of those credulous characters that people fairyland, walking into woods, consorting with woodcutters and having partners called Primate. ‘I was just popping out. Can we do this later?’

The Wicked Sorceress proffered a smile. ‘Now would be good.’

Sonia sighed and unspindled her baby’s hair, pooling it out of the window.

The Wicked Sorceress watched it fall, tumbling towards the ground. Her financial security depended on…

‘Are you the scribe?’

Two matching policemen stood in front of the desk.

‘Yes.’

‘And did you trap an esquire in paragraph one, despite it being plain by paragraph two that he would be needed again?’

‘Er, I suppose, but it was only for dramatic effect.’

‘You think that’s an acceptable excuse?’

‘Well, the thing is…’

One of the policemen had drifted to the window. ‘Would you look at that?’

‘What?’ His colleague joined him.

‘That baby’s hair has stopped falling.’

‘Seriously? Well, I’ll be blowed.’ The policeman turned to the scribe. ‘Did you stop gravity? Geesh you are in so much do-dos. Put the pen down and come with us. If you’re lucky you’ll be a comfy chair by tea time.’

‘And if I’m unlucky?’

‘The last chap became a novelty urinal.’

….