The Mule And The Bracelet

About six years ago I found my girly a very old bracelet. This is its story.

"Where did I come from?" said the bracelet.

The little sign in the shop next to the bracelet said something like Adriatic 3000 BC. Not a lot of information but enough for some research to take place. I rang some people. I visited some libraries. I did some work on the net.

Didn't get too far at all until I received a strange little phone call.

"May I speak to a Mr Peters?"

"Yep, speaking."

"Could I meet you on the Parliament steps in an hour and a half?"

"What about?"

"The bracelet."

Click!

I meet the guy. never know how to meet strangers on these occasions. You walk around with the silliest look on your face, holding stuff in a peculiar way to get the right person's attention. Teh job was cut. A gentleman of Indian extraction, wearing cowboy gear, yes the whole lot, Stetson, boots, shirt, string tie, ushers me to the main bar of the Windsor.

Pretty plush in there, isn't it?

He tells the story.

"Back before Jesus was a boy, there was a boy named Helmut, whose best friend was Alan, his trusty old mule. Alan loved music. Every time the friends would walk past the bloke at the fair playing the lute, Alan would let out this big grin and shake his head from side to side. Helmut would blush at his mate's enthusiasm. Alan was a mate but they were not that close.

For the rest of the day, Alan would be all dreamy. Helmut couldn't make any sense of Alan. They had to go home as it was quite frustrating.

One afternoon Helmut's parents bought over a present. A grand piano!!! They dropped it in. It fit well in the sunroom. "Here's your present. Take lessons! See ya!"

Helmut was thrilled for about twenty seven minutes. He would play all these bum notes and then complain, "They got me a dud one!"

Alan walks in. "No, Helmut. You got it all wrong. it's just that you are a crap piano player. Move over, I'll show you."

"But Alan, you have no fingers. You are a Mule. Mules can only play chopsticks!"

"You have a point. Wait. I'll look for some gloves. Where do you keep them?

"You should know by now. Under the bloody stove!"

Alan finds the gloves and slaps 'em on. "Move over 'Mut."

Alan squeezes into the chair, looks around. "Did you get sheet music with this thing? Helmut passes over Liszt's unfinished symphony and Alan starts playing it. As he gets to the tricky third section, his grin loses control. His teeth begin to rattle rattle rattle. Head shakes.

His teeth are dancing!

Alan is in heaven and his teeth are dancing to the stars.

Twinkle twinkle little teeth,
Gums a dance floor underneath,
Twinkle twinkle little teeth,
Dance and fall out just like Keeth. (Richards that is. You know when he greets Mick and the boys in the I'm just waining on a friend film clip. It's a stagger and you don't know whether he'll stay up but for Keeth it's so very natural.)

"And that's the story."

"But what has that to do with the bracelet?" I asked the Indian cowboy.

"Nothing mate. I just thought you liked stuff like that."

"Oh yeah, you're right. I do. Hey, bats!"

The Indian cowboy looks for the bats behind the bar.

I scamper.