It was as I suspected all happening at the bottom of my garden. There in front of me was the paraphernalia I feared I would see. The fairies were at it again. Their pagan minds hard at work in concocting their next ritual, which was due any day now as the moon was approaching its full cycle.
Their paraphernalia was the most shambolic collection of things you could imagine. In the centre of the garden, the bit at least they inhabited they had assembled an assortment of the strangest objects. I noticed my mother’s decanter lying to one side and my immediate thought was at last I now know where the thing disappeared to. Around the edge of their space was a ring of cotton wool obviously pilfered from my neighbour’s who had remarked only recently about the disappearance of several bags of cotton wool they had recently purchased.
I had learnt from experience that is was best to stay away from the circle, as it was fraught with danger to venture too closely into it.
So standing back and observing was the best I could do.
I watched intently as one fairy, obviously an artisan of the highest quality, drew henna lines of decoration upon the hands and legs of the assembled fairies who chattered away to themselves, though from my observations it was little more than scribble. From time to time squabbles would break out amongst the queue when one fairy might forget his manners and try and jump ahead in the line, only to be diffused by Eyves the head fairy whose good graces had allowed me some years back to watch but never interfere in their rituals.
Their full moon custom was a synthesis of all that was meaningful to them. A combination of emotion and dare I say it fairy tale. I knew that they would celebrate all night and that in the morning they would be gone for another year leaving behind the now familiar fetid aroma of their having partied in my yard.