Once upon a time when pigs could fly and beards could talk, there was an old man and an old woman who lived in a cottage at the end of the lane.
All of their children had grown up. They’d become so tall their heads bumped against the ceiling and they’d all left home.
One of them had gone to America. One had gone to Australia. One had gone to Antarctica. And the other seven had gone to live in the alley with Aunty Sally.
One day the old woman said to her husband,
‘I do miss the sound of them stomping around the place and shouting and cursing every time their heads smashed the light bulbs. I’d like to have another child. I want to take it to the park and watch it play on the swings until it falls off and grazes it’s kneezes and I’ll rush over and I’ll hug it and kiss it and make everything as right as rain again.’
Her husband was not very pleased with that and replied,
‘Well don’t look at me. I’m too old for that sort of thing. I don’t want anything to do with it. I’ve got enough on my plate, what with painting the pond and cutting the grass with a pair of scissors.’
‘Don’t worry your bonce about that’, laughed the wife. ‘I’ll make a child just for me. A child that won’t grow up and leave home like the others.’
She went to the cupboard and brought out all the ingredients. She mixed them together in a bowl, kneaded the dough and then rolled it out on the kitchen table. She took a wooden knife and cut out a head, arms, tummy and legs. She poked a belly button with her little finger.
The old woman sang a song with no words while she gave him two currants for eyes. She whistled a silent tune and gave him a wild strawberry nose. She hummed like a bumble bee and made him a smiley mouth of cherry jam.
She dressed him in a jacket of marzipan with three chocolate buttons. She covered his legs with butter cream icing. She wondered about buying him some trainers but decided they were too expensive.
She looked down at her little creation and said to it,
‘My, you’re a crafty work of art. I’m very proud of you. You’re a beauty that’s for sure. But listen to me, you little fellow. I don’t want you turning out like the others, running off and leaving me. I want us to stay together forever and ever.’
It wasn’t worth wasting fuel heating up the big oven for such a little thing, so she scooped him up with a spatula and put him in the microwave. Thirty seconds later the pinger pinged and she opened up the glass door and out span a little biscuit boy.
WheeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
He span off the four walls, bounced off the ceiling and landed on the floor. He shook his head, he rubbed his arms and felt to see if his legs were broken.
‘Cripes and crumbs!’ said the little fellow.
‘Hello’, said the old lady, ‘look at you. My own little Gingerbread Boy.’
Well, he didn’t like the sound of that at all. He stood up, puffed out his chest and said in a shrill voice that shattered the windows, ‘I’m a man. I’m not a boy.’ And with that he dashed through the cat flap and darted down the lane singing,
‘Run, run as fast as you can,
You can’t catch me,
I’m the Gingerbread Man.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the old woman, ‘too many additives in the flour or too much zing in the ginger?’
She hobbled out of the cottage as fast as she could to catch him but tripped over the tortoise and fell into the pond.
By and by, the Gingerbread Man came to a field. George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Bradley Wiggins were bare to the waist, muscles rippling and dripping with perspiration, cutting golden wheat with bronze sickles sparkling in the sunlight.
(This is Mrs Winterbottom’s fantasy, not mine.)
They looked up to see the biscuit boy passing by and invited him to come over and have a word or two. But the Gingerbread Man wasn’t having any of that.
‘I don’t like the look of you three,’ he said in a shrill voice that made the birds fly to the moon, ‘I know what you want to do. You want to chop me in three with those big curved knives. Well, I’ve run away from the old woman and now I’ll run away from you.’
And with that he ran along the way singing,
‘Run, run as fast as you can,
You can’t catch me,
I’m the Gingerbread Man.’
By and by, the Gingerbread Man came to a tree where there was a woman with ten fingers and two thumbs standing on a branch picking potatoes. As he paused for breath she invited him to climb up and sing her a song while she had her elevenses.
But the biscuit boy shook his head and said in a shrill voice that made the potatoes fall from the tree and bury their heads in the ground,
‘I know what you want to do. You want to dunk me in your mug of milky coffee and gobble me up. Well, I’m not having that. I’ve run away from the old woman, I’ve run away from those three muscly men Mrs Winterbottom fancies, and now I’ll run away from you. And that’s just what he did, singing,
‘Run, run as fast as you can,
You can’t catch me,
I’m the Gingerbread Man.’
By and by, the Gingerbread Man came to a tree full of people with open books and blank pages holding pens and looking pensive. Can you guess what sort of tree it was? Yes, you’ve got it. It was a Poet Tree. And the poets called to him and asked him if they could paint a picture of him with words.
But the biscuit boy shook his head and said in such a shrill voice that the books burst into flames,
‘No you can’t paint of picture of me with words. There aren’t enough letters in the alphabet to do me justice. There aren’t the right words in the dictionary to describe the complexity of my personality. The only writer who could get half way close is William Shakespeare and he’s dead.’
Well, that made the poets really angry and they jumped down from the tree and tried to crush him to crumbs but the little fellow screeched in a voice that made the sun cover its ears,
‘I’ve run away from the old woman, I’ve run away from three muscly men, I’ve run away from that woman with two extra fingers and now I’ll run away from you.’
And with that he shot off singing,
‘Run, run as fast as you can,
You can’t catch me,
I’m the Gingerbread Man.’
By and by, the Gingerbread Man came to a lake. And to the right there was a hippopotamus rolling in some mud. And to the left there was a crocodile pretending to be a log. But straight in front of him there was an old red fox. And the fox called out,
‘Quick, little Gingerbread Man. Climb on to my back. Everyone’s after you, but I can take you to safety. I’ll give you a ride to the other side.’
The Gingerbread Man looked behind and saw all the people running towards him. He turned one way and saw the hippo licking its lips. He turned the other way and saw the crocodile pretending to be a log gnashing its jaws.
He turned to the fox and looked straight into his red and black zigzag eyes and asked,
‘Can I trust you? Can I really trust you?’
‘There’s no time for questions,’ snapped the fox, ‘get on board quick.’
He swished his tail and the Gingerbread Man was whisked onto the fox’s furry back as the crocodile and the hippo lumbered towards them. The fox jumped into the lake and they were almost a quarter of the way across when the two belligerent beasts slunk into the water. Half way across, the fox panted,
‘You’re weighing me down. Climb on to my head and hold on tight.’
Three quarters of the way across the fox warned,
‘I’m running out of strength. I don’t think I’ll make it to the other side.’
The Gingerbread Man looked behind and saw the wickedest smile on the crocodile and the hippo’s cave of a mouth surging towards them as fast as a tidal wave. The fox’s head was sinking lower into the water and the biscuit boy’s little feet were getting soggy.
The fox gasped,
‘Hurry, little fella. They’re closing in on us. Climb on to my nose. It’s your only hope.’
And so he climbed up on to the fox’s nose.
(At this point Mrs Winterbottom almost fainted.)
A split second before the croc and the hippo snapped their jaws shut, the fox tossed the Gingerbread Man into the air and the little biscuit boy was caught by a friendly gust of wind and blown like a leaf to the other side of the lake.
And as he drifted down below he saw many merry mermaids riding bicycles, three horned unicorns galloping around a castle and lots and lots of pretty princesses dressed in black playing in the skate park.
And there he stayed and there he played and there he lived happily ever after. But please don’t ask me what happened to the old red fox. I think we all know what happened to him so there’s no need to spell it out.
Now, if you liked this tale
Or if you liked it not.
It’s time to end this story
With a big full STOP.
©Clive PiG
Illustration by Andrew Kingham