Into Granny's Subconscious

Inside Granny Were's subconscious...

Twasn’t brillig – it didn’t dare. And the slithy toves weren’t gyring or gimbling. Not if they knew what was good for them. As for the borogoves and the mome raths, they were sitting under the Tumtum tree, sipping cups of Earl Grey and having a quiet game of rummy. And the Jabberwock? Well he was perched on a rock in the sun giving his claws a particularly focused and fastidious manicure. Broken strains of Moon River drifted through the wood as he whistled toothily to himself.
In the background Alph the sacred river was running away faster than any river had the right to do and was flinging itself over the cliff - quite happy to smash itself on the rocks of very sunny sea far below. As for Kubla Khan, he’d clearly got word and had buggered off long ago.
Somewhere on the path leading to the stately pleasure dome, the Jean Genie was practicing yoga. Nothing at all outrageous, you understand, and definitely no screaming or bawling. On the steps of the dome Ziggy Stardust had all the spiders from Mars on a leash and was humming a lullaby to them while they practiced their knitting.
This, I have to tell you, in case you’re wondering, is what it’s like in Granny Were’s subconscious. Even her nightmares are so frightened of her that they behave well. There isn’t a hint of a whinny and definitely no bucking or wild, untamed rearing. Who’d have thought it, right? You’d have expected a werechicken to have violent dreams. But oh no.

You’re wondering, I can tell, what on earth I’m doing in Granny’s subconscious in the first place. To be honest, I’m not really sure.
See, the thing is, as you’ve probably noticed, I’ve not heard from the Hens in a while. I might even be pushed so far as to admit that I was getting a little worried - and missing them.
And then Granny turned up.

Note to self: remember to keep mind fully sealed when thinking about the Hens – it’s not like they really need the encouragement.

She’d nicked a spacepod from High Command and come whizzing through the singularity in time and space and landed, with an almighty splash in the swimming pool - of course - leaving the neighbour’s washing (and dog) well-soaked.
“Darling girl!” she squawked, flinging yellow tipped wings around me. “How are you! So delighted to hear you’ve been missing us.”
“I wasn’t really -” I started to say and thought better of it. “Where’s Atyllah?”
“Oh,” said Granny waving a claw, “she’s off in the Pleiadean system gathering meteors. We use them, you know, in our heat reactor – to keep the Novapulse temperature nice and temperate – none of this climate nonsense for us.”
It was some time later, while sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on mopani worm crisps that Granny suggested I might like to get to know her a little better. It was, she assured me, a genuine gesture of interspecies and intergalactic goodwill.
Right now, as I dust Jubjub bird pooh off my shoulders and find myself reading a bedtime story, called the Velvet Goldmine to the bandersnatch, I’m really not so sure about all that interspecies goodwill.
For one thing. I have utterly no idea how I’m going to get out of Granny’s head.
(Mind you, I’ll say this: it makes a change from having her and Atyllah in my head...)