penguin's tale

A little piece - there are typos and misspellings in it - please help me find them. And, please enjoy.

Penguin was not a real penguin, but he liked to think he was. He did exist, without question, in the physical sense; as an object of solid mass occupying space, such as the middle of the sofa or the end of the bed. His life, however, had been the creation of the combined imaginations of two individuals. The pair, henceforth referred to as The Keepers of the Penguin, were prone to carrying him around under their arm or taking him on spontaneous train journeys, as they were, put politely, eccentric. It would be fair to say that these individuals would not have had a terribly informed grasp of popular philosophy, perhaps almost as dubious as their grasp on reality. “We think that he thinks, therefore we think that he is” would become the first article of the constitution of the Penguin Keepers. All further articles must be presumed to be ad hoc and circumstantial. As you begin to understand how Penguin thinks, you shall understand this too.

Penguin was a young king penguin of considerable size for his brand, but a more compact, more manageable version of the living, breathing species he was modelled upon. He was a refugee of Montagu Island, one in a group of far-flung, isolated isles known as the South Sandwich Islands. Upon this island exists a volcano, the very efficacious and explosive Mount Belinda. Following a furious and devastating eruption in 2001, many penguin lives were lost and concerns were raised overseas for the lives and futures of the many young penguins hatched into this environment. Headed by a toy factory in South Korea, an evacuation program began. The young penguins were transported, tagged and barcoded by the factory, then distributed worldwide to toy shops that agreed to act as adoption agencies to the recent refugees. So it became, that for a small adoption fee of fifteen euro, Penguin was adopted from Smyth’s Toys on Jervis Street, and embarked on his new, domestic adventures in Dublin.

Having been gradually acclimatised during his lengthy trip from Antarctica to Europe, Penguin was quick to settle into his new abode. Due to his physical composition his requirements for sleep were minimal and his desire for entertainment high. On any given morning, Penguin could usually be found plonked, comfortably slumped, in the centre of the sofa. Some mornings he was sedate and quietly cheerful, placated by pre-dawn reruns of Desperate Housewives. Oftentimes he would be discovered standing by the coffee table, industrious and perky, rejuvenated by an animated comedy or engaging action movie.
Rarely and regrettably, he would appear at the kitchen table, silent and still, with wide unblinking eyes, placing a copy of The Deer Hunter, or perhaps Schlinder’s List before him. “Bad movie! Very very bad movie!”, his expression would meekly intimate. Only once, thank
goodness, he was apprehended having shut himself into a cupboard with a stack of Tesco Seafood Sticks and a jar of salad cream, while Dante’s Peak played over and over from the living room.

The news could be similarly confusing and distressing for Penguin. Despite not being a real penguin, but more of a deluxe replica of a penguin, he was, after all, still just a penguin. He made a resolve to review his reading skills in early 2010, when an atrocious panic culminated in a mad dash to escape the voracious volcano, whose enthusiastic eruptions spat and spewed great plumes of ash all over every news broadcast for weeks. Abandoning his scant luggage and diving into the sea in desperation, Penguin was halfways to Wales before he remembered the cardinal rule: “I before C, except when in I-R-E-L-A-N-D!” Feeling foolish he swam back to shore, arriving home sodden and stinking in the porch, and brazenly announced that he had taken up swimming as part of a new exercise regime. He bought himself a swimming hat, which he would take with him to Sandycove and fill with seashells. He persevered in his daily excursions until such time
came that he felt reassured that his muddlement and blunder had been forgotten and his charade could be abandoned. The Keepers of the Penguin may not have cared much for convention, but they were most adept at employing tact. An oversight on Penguin’s
part, on returning home from his “swim”, was to do so bone dry. This minor miracle was a feat that normally required three days in the hot press, or two on the radiator. But no one liked to call him a liar, at least not to his face, because he was, after all, just a penguin.

Despite having travelled several of the seven seas during his lengthy
relocation, Penguin’s horizons had still been limited to the view within his cargo carte, mainly that of the bright white belly of the penguin into whose soft pile his beak had been mashed, as his crate-mates pushed and kneaded with flimsy wings as the fought for space in the crammed darkness. With the fire and ice of Montagu Island now long behind him, Penguin was not homesick, not for all the magma fields and leopard seals in the world. Back there he had simply been a penguin. First an egg, then a chick, sometimes prey, but mostly just a
penguin. Penguins without passports, penguins without employment. Artistic penguins without palettes or paints, fashionista penguins without clothing or accessories. Penguins without purpose, without possibilities. Now the doors of opportunity had been thrown wide open like the hinges of his cargo crate, and opportunities tumbled out like pristine new penguins. Overfaced by the sheer magnitude and scope of choice and consideration now thrust upon him, Penguin became overwrought.

The Keepers of the Penguins had jobs. Jobs to keep games in the Playstation and a bed in the bedroom. During Penguin’s contemplative stint they mistook his sudden inanimation as an imaginative dry spell, and concluded that it was they that had worked too hard. Unable to articulate his bewilderment to his separate-species-sidekicks, Penguin
sought to seek empathy in his kinsfolk. His previous attempt to form an association for refugee penguins in the greater Dublin area had descended into shambles, finding himself inexplicably ridiculed for coining a moniker for his South Sandwich Island Association, an issue he then tried to address with his fellow S.S.I.A. compatriots who he frequently encountered loitering and vandalising outside the twenty-four-hour Tesco in Ballybrack. Some bins were overturned and the supermarket was fresh out of seafood. In order to avoid arrest for inciting a riot, Penguin found himself bribing a bus driver with a ten euro note, to usher the bouncing and bounding birds onto the top deck and deposit them somewhere else, anywhere else, a long way from Ballybrack. No, not all penguins desired to be decent or decorous members of their new society.

But Penguin was proud. Unlike the Ballybrack brigade that had regressed into scavenging and squalor like domestic pests. In daydreams of his heady chickhood, a ten-thousand-strong assembly at the foot of Mount Belinda honked and flapped their way through raucous renditions of God Save The Queen, against the backdrop of nature’s
greatest firework display. The Penguin Keepers had hinted to him that he may have fabricated this phantasm by watching too much Six Nations rugby, but Penguin did not concern himself with trivialities such as reality, or his Keepers’ hypocrasy. The South Sandwich Islands are a territory over which Britain claimed sovereignty, to the chagrin of
Argentina, who still say it’s theirs. Britain gave the islands a flag, so Argentina gave them a naval base. Argentina say it was on their side of the ocean, but Britain maintains they saw it first. Penguin wasn’t sure either side really cared. But Britain was a lot closer to
him, and Ryanair didn’t fly to Argentina. So an an expidition and quest for enlightenment, with as much convenience and comfort as any real explorer should allow themselves, Penguin embarked for England.

The morning of his departure dawned, and Penguin presented himself at airport security, armed with his boarding pass, backpack and chaperone-cum-packmule. At check-in, enquires as to whether he, or his hand luggage, may violate strict airline policies had been met with an amused smirk. “It’s no problem”, the stweard had replied. “We let
children carry their teddybears on all the time!” This playful quip had miffed his Keeper, who then stuffed him through the security scanner and forced him to travel in the overhead bin. Still tickled by his Keeper’s embarrassment, Penguin busied himself while airborne by devising an ingenious plan to further humiliate them. Crawling along inside the locker until he was some rows away, too far for the Keeper to reach, somewhere that he could surprise somebody else, somebody strange, poppinng out with his impertinent face when the bins were reopened. Oh it was fun! It was frolicsome! His Keeper meekly pointing at the penguin, crimson and chasened. So far, enlightenment was losing its allure, mischief was more more enchanting. Eager to put the rascal penguin away for the day, the Keeper rushed through tunnels and trains, through the labyrinthine tubes of the London Underground. Dizzy and disorientated, Penguin sat sheepishly silent, until a small girl offered him a biscuit. At that, the Keeper’s hardened visage began to crack. By the time they disembarked they were cheerful, by the exiting escalator they were exuberant. So excited and jovial they had become that they lost the run of themselves.

Penguin! Here we are in London!
London! London! London! What shall we see first, Keeper?
There is so much, small Penguin. We shall see the tower! We will see
the Thames!
May we see the Queen? But Keeper? Are you sure 28 Days Later wasn’t a
documentary? Just checking.

So hysterical they had become that the Keeper lost grip of the handrail as well as reality, and Penguin went tumbling down, step by flying step, wings flailing, straight into the arms of an alarmed Londoner. Startled and shaking, the Penguin Keeper received him from
his rescuer. Shocked into sensibility they continued with caution. The escalator accident had displaced his stuffing and his security. Health and safety begins at home, and he assumed they had forgotten to pack and for their trip.

Still rattled by their misfortune, Penguin and his Keeper assessed their injuries. A good upside-down shake sorted his stuffing, but would not so much soothe the Keeper’s nerves. An antidote for all ails is often alcohol, especially when holidaying in London with a rather large penguin. Anonymity only partially absolves one of embarrassment. Eccentricity covers much of what anonymity does not, and the pair paraded proudly to Pically Circus. A proper pub platter, partnered by a pint, and the Penguin Keeper was restored. Npw relaxed and amenable, the Keeper agreed to help him on his interrupted quest.

For Penguin, the very mecca to which he was drawn was the exalted Buckingham Palace. Unfortunately the Queen did not appear to be home, so the still oracleless penguin was disappointed. London was anticlimatic. Everything looked the same there as it did on the TV, with the added indignity of being stared at and laughed at. Disillusioned and dejected, Penguin lost his lustre and became limp and lifeless. The Keeper was tired as the pair repaired to Paddington Station. This trip was spent.

Perking up while feeling quite cosmopolitan in the station cafe, Penguin pretended the latte was his, while his Keeper tried hard to pretend the chocolate cake was also for him. Relieved to be returning home, they remenisced and became sentimental. The clock was nice, they agreed. The Abbey was pretty, they concurred. Yes, London was quite
alright. Before their accord could settle, their rose tinted glasses were abruptly whipped off, as London delivered its final assault on the jaded penguin. In mural form, ten feet tall on the opposing wall, Penguin came face to face with his nemesis.

That odious bear! Snug and smug in his duffle coat and wellingtons. Penguin hated that bear! He became enraged. It was so unfair! Worldwide recognition, television contracts, book deals, merchandise, and for what? For getting lost in a train station? How much talent did that take? How talented do you become just for being an idiot? His impending tantrum was gathering momentum. His Keeper sighed and moved the cake aside, this was not new. Penguin really hated that bear.

It’s not fair! I’m a soft toy! I come from far away! I could have
been Paddington Penguin!

Penguin sulked, but the Keeper was relieved that he had not attempted to get himself lost in the station. A glum penguin was better than no penguin at all.

On reflection, enlightenment had come to Penguin, not from London as he had expected, but from the city’s hazards and hostility. He was no longer sure a penguin needed to possess such things, any more than a bear needed his own brand of bedclothes. Determined and decided, Penguin placed himself in the washing machine, washing away the grime of the strange city, and with it, symbolically, his last ties to his homeland. Removing his barcoded label in a final act of love and loyalty, Penguin resolved to stay with his Keepers and be just an Irish penguin. A film-watching, train-taking, tantrum-throwing,
tea-making penguin, so maybe not just a penguin after all.