Alex Steine
Once upon a time, well, quite a while ago, almost one hundred and thirty years to be precise, a little one was born. Sadly, he was born south of the great river, a stretch of water that divided that huge city. His name was Wooly, though he wasn't at all woolly. In fact he was quite bright and clear-headed; behind his back some of his peers said he should go far, and many of them wished he would! Some said giants lived on the other side of that wide strip of moving water, others believed the river became a silvery serpent the moment that the sun set. So they held it in reverential awe, for no reason other than their own ignorance. This fear held them back, afraid to venture, or strike out on their own. Wooly had no such reservations.
He was born in ordinary surroundings, without advantage, but with a strong belief in what was right and wrong (his ethical code would follow in due course), with a burning desire to compete. His principles laid a foundation for all that would follow. His intentions were plainly obvious to everyone. This set him apart, troubling him at first, but later he would view this separateness as a badge of honour which he always wore with humility, but his pride shone on the inside. Typically, he was opposed by those without his foresight, yet he persevered, making waves, and insisting on treading his own path. This made him strong; he would need to call upon this strength in the dark days ahead, and there would be many - the world and its discourses would see to that. The dislike had begun, and would evolve into a form of jealous loathing, enveloping him. Yet always he would be equal to it.
He paid no heed to others who lived nearby, those by the Mill, behind the Wall, who kept hitting each other, the strange, lonely one, in the Valley, who could not even sing, even the one who suffered from an affliction, the one who believed he lived in a glass Palace, yet constantly threw stones; he just felt sorry for this one. Further afield still, were others he kept apart from. The cheesy one, proud to live in a Cottage, this one like the one in the glasshouse and the one who lived by the mill, were always apparently heard quoting some kind of Shakespeare, 'Where is the rub?' This he knew was because they never had anything silver of worth to polish. And there was also the one without shame, the Pensioner, who grubbed around in a Shed.
He'd heard of others, though their paths had never crossed. He wasn't sure they even existed. As there was no evidence, he reasoned that perhaps they were folklore, since he couldn't believe anyone of his sort would live in a Griffin's park, as he was sure a Griffin wasn't real, anyway. As for the one who lived in the road of a Vicarage, that surely couldn't be for real, as he also knew church people didn't like the less fortunate littering up the places where they lived, unless they were horizontal, and six feet under the ground. The only other one he'd heard of was just an acronym, who desperately wanted to be a Ranger, because it sounded quite important, but wasn't. There was even a myth of one who had metamorphosed. This sounded incredible to Wooly, but there was this belief that one had wombled for as long as he could and then became another. Others said this one had been drawn up in the night, and transported across the river, by a powerful force, but was still known as Don. All this was conjecture, but that was about to change.
One day, a black-pudding traveller had spoken to him, insisting that he knew what was in the north of the city, on the other side of the fast-flowing river. He had been there and hadn't liked what he'd seen. This traveller came from far, far, away, in a place that was called, 'Oop North', which was a long way away, where the people did things differently, and got paid for it. Wooly only concerned himself with the big city where he lived, and what life was like across the slow, meandering serpentine. He pressed the chubby traveller for his story. So he began. He told a tale of a privileged chappy, even went as far as suggesting he went by the name of West, the porky boy. He said West had fine attire, and a wonderful home in which to parade his finery in. If this was true, Wooly felt no jealousy. He knew that his home, although humble, was only a starting point; why, he knew you never gave a backward glance to the launch-pad, as your rocket sped to the stars.
He quizzed the traveller some more. Were there others across the river? He needed to know. The traveller laughed, saying there was an odd one, a little nondescript chappy, who seemed to suffer from delusions of grandeur, claiming an Oriental heritage, yet everyone was aware that was untrue, but just left him to his own devices, knowing he would never amount to much. Wooly was excited and intrigued. He finally plucked up courage to ask if there was any possibility that a giant lived on the other side of the river, in the north of the city. The traveller stroked his chins, lit his pipe, settled back, and began polishing his clogs (this it appeared was a favourite pastime in that distant land, that was 'Oop North'; polishing clogs was normally reserved for a fun Saturday night, there), as he told of what he had heard.
He told Wooly that there were rumours of a giant, one who ate chickens. That the giant lived alone, with no one near. He had a morose air, seemingly, and resided in a dwelling in a Lane. The stories he'd heard had told of unwholesome singing of rotting corpses in a grave, and much aimless marching. Wooly was full of wondrous curiosity, and this kept Spurring him on, to go to see for himself. So one day he made the decision to go across that watery divide, and did. He was perplexed that no one seemed to want him to go, yet these same people didn't seem to want him to stay. Anyway his mind was made up, and eventually he forded the river.
He found a place to settle, near a college. He built a good solid home. He built it High to Bury any reservations, or feelings of disquiet. Still his curiosity tugged at him; he couldn't ignore these inclinations. Where the giant lived had to be nearby, but where? He realised civilisation, as he judged it, didn't go much further than his new home, so he reasoned that if the giant existed, it was out in the wilderness. He didn't need to wonder for long though, as one day the giant paid him a visit. He saw him on the horizon. Wooly thought he didn't look too gigantic, but he was a long way off yet. Still, as he approached, singing all the while, he seemed to grow smaller, and smaller in Wooly's eyes. Up close he looked like a Tiny Tott. Wooly tried to be hospitable, but this colourless, Lilywhite individual didn't crave friendship. He ranted at Wooly, and told him to go away. When he realised Wooly wasn't taking any notice, he sat down and began gnawing on a spud he'd had in his pocket, after a while he left, and in a doleful voice was heard muttering quietly to himself, of more marching.
Well, Wooly, became as successful as he imagined he might. He found a wonderful architect named Herbie, a Chap, who was known as the Man. Herbie gave a unique present to Wooly. The most innocuous, but amazingly symbolic gift, that of white sleeves. In keeping with the consideration that Wooly had of himself, that he was different to the herd, the white sleeves gave him, in his opinion, the appearance of royalty. He looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. He was surely unlike all of the rest, and knew he would need to constantly strive to prove that he was. Slowly but surely, his home became grander and more illustrious, with marble halls, and oak panels everywhere. Flags fluttered from the roof, and Wooly, in keeping with his stature, placed many cannons around his home. It was to become a fortress. Radio came first to Wooly's, then television also came to Wooly's first. Many achievements followed and his fame spread. With the acclaim showered upon him, Wooly experienced such jealousy from others, but none was of his own making. Yet also, many came to visit. Wooly befriended everyone who wanted to be his friend, and offered them a part of his home as if it was theirs, and do you know what? Most regarded it as their home too. Wherever those people travelled in this wide world, thereafter, they believed a part of them remained at Wooly's; it duly became their spiritual home.
Wooly's neighbour, never left his home. He remained there in the Lane, always in the shadows, sulking, which was a shame. The one thing about Tiny's singing were the words he sang, always a puzzle to Wooly. Who was Gloria? What was a Looya? And then why would you want to lay one? He just accepted that the world turned in ever more mysterious circles.
Wooly's fame is renowned. Many have a desire just to visit, to be there, to see if it really is like being in a very big family. Wooly has long since built an even bigger, grander home near to his original home. People do come, and visit both of his homes, the old and the new. The new accommodation is fantastic; it gleams like no other, but the old home holds an ever-increasing charm for everyone, the young and the old. From time to time you hear the cannons roar. It is a delightful sound, announcing to all that Wooly is still here, where he rightfully belongs. Now children near and far are sat on their parents knees, and told fairy tales of the giant who lives across the river, in the north of the city, the big, powerful, but kindly giant; and boys and girls - we know the giant exists now, don't we? And his name is Wooly!
