Three Blind Mice in a Sticky Situation: An Unnecessarily Pretentious Fable

Once upon a time there were three blind mice in a somewhat sticky situation.

Some cruel joker had picked them all up, and put them down on top of this strange round island; they couldn’t tell the length of the drop, but it was certainly steep and they didn’t dare to take the risk. Far better to stay where they were. Except that there was no food on the island: they’d looked – well, walked and sniffed as best they could – but there was not so much as a crumb on the whole thing, just perfectly smooth, merciless ground in all directions, all the way to the fatal edge. The agonising thing though – the true torture of the situation – was the thick, intoxicating scent of cheese. The air was dense with it. Their little mousy eyes watered with the richness of it. They couldn’t tell where their sense of smell ended and the sensation of longing began. It was like their tiny, fragile bodies were on a rack – one end anchored mercilessly to their imprisonment, the other pulled out endlessly, stretching them towards their hungry desire.

So they decided that whatever it took, they would find some food. They would be satisfied somehow. They climbed onto each other’s backs so that they could reach up high; and staggering, moved their furry tower to and fro on the island, hoping to bump into something above them. They looked rather ridiculous, and found nothing. Martin, the youngest of the three, walked gingerly to the very edge of the island. He turned. He told the others that he was seriously thinking about taking his chances over the edge. Oswald began to cry. And Oswald crying made Bartholomew cry too. After a while, Martin couldn’t help but join in. And so they sat there, three blind mice, gently sobbing, each tear that ran down their furry faces making them feel a tiny bit more painfully the emptiness inside. They sat there for what felt like several days. And all the time an anger was bubbling up inside Bartholomew – a desperation. It had to be better than this. Things had to be better. It couldn’t be, it surely couldn’t be, that there was all this hunger, all this desire, and simply nothing to satisfy it. The joke would be too cruel. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. And into the days-old silence he let out a startling roar of rage, smashing his little paw with all his furied strength into the ground beneath him.

And it went right through.

Underneath the smooth surface, the ground was soft, almost gooey. And that savoury scent – redoubled in intensity – flooded once again into their noses. Bartholomew drew his closed paw out from the ground, and lifted it gingerly to his lips. His tiny tongue crept out and tasted. New mousy tears moistened his furry cheeks. Sure enough. The whole island, was a giant wheel of cheese.