Roadmender, rock, that’s just the way it is. Roadmender breaks rock, fills hole. Road mender breaks rock, fills hole. The road mender breaks rocks. I’ll just break this big one into small pieces with this handy hammer that comes with the job. Did you think I’d have to supply my own? Bang, bang, bang, crack (hammer on rock sound). It’s my job. I’ll have a break its hot, these orange steal cap work boots are beautiful, if a trifle cumbersome.
I see rocks, not everywhere, just there. Dropped in a pile by the road, delivered by a tipping cart with two wheels and long sticks to the donkey. Stick the tail on the donkey, pin on the legs and the great ears. Cover your eyes and turn around, hands, invisible hands on shoulders, round once, round twice, round three times now, aim at the donkey on the wall. Two days later, they brought them up by helicopter.
What is that regular shape nestled in the rough stone face? I’m so bored I could eat a horse. I’m so tired I could climb on a horse, I’m so hot I could ride away. Get a hat, move north, What and leave my family. Stand under a waterfall with your mouth open. Ah, that’s better, splash, splash.
What, a spoon inside a rickety rock? How did it get there? Did it once belong to a dinosaur for scooping out Jurassic delicacies? Did it wander into a puddle of amber and retain its spoony DNA forever, so that they could reconstruct its cousins in the future and reclaim the earth and all its realms? Was the spoon transported into the rock by a faulty transporter from Star Wreck, or maybe a functioning transporter with dodgy operator? Was it buried, hidden away, when the Vikings attacked and stripped all the silver embellishments from the massive family copy of Now We Are Six? Was it thrown from the window of a chateau during a wild party and fell into a bubbling pool of pitch, which would eventually result in a nasty cough? Maybe it was magicked there by wand wave to mess with your head?
What, a spoon inside the rockety rock, will you look at that, a spoon in a stone. Too much sun, too little hat? Anyway, I’ll clean it in the wash disher till it sparkles. Note to self, buy rinse assistant. Full spoon, full moon, full spool, full moos, I’ll take it, I’ll take that, I’ll take it home in my backsack. Will you look at this partner, look at this children, stop it, no you can’t. It’s a spoon.
It must be a spoon with very special powers, She said, head on one side. A spoon to conjure a feast and season the soup, measure the right amount, flat or heaped, runcible or serving, sprinkling of applause. Maybe it’s a medicine spoon to save us all with unpalatable truths. Did you know that spoon DNA is ninety per cent the same as a cucumber, true.
Maybe its gilded, maybe its bold, smooth at the back, hollow at the front, handle tapering to nothing. Maybe its silver, could it be curved, with writing polished indistinct under the fingers? Should it be placed in a saucer or other complaint. Add a little salt, tip the bowl and deliver me the best part of the soup and bread, there must be bread. Stir my, stir again, add some more, you can’t eat bread with a spoon. Why not? It’s too laborious.
This spoon is obviously a miracle, though it’s meaning is hidden. Shall we worship it, it must be a powerful sign, a relic, a symbol, a portent or augury.
It’s none of the above, said the Guardian, it’s just a coincidence, don’t get worked up.
The Guardians of the Cave 