Another late night concern raised by Indy of “can dragons be nice?” fame. This time an important physiological risk assessment. 

Your eyes, by cords, are fastened to your brain:

They pass the messages of what you see

So you can understand it and explain

The world, and what you think of it to me.

Also your eyes are right inside your skull

They’re bigger than they look. Like ping pong balls

Your eyelids help to hold them in as well

I promise you no eyeball ever falls.

So do not keep them shut, no need for dread:

Whether they’re hazel, green, blue, grey or brown 

Your eyes are held quite safely in your head…

But if you don’t believe me, DON’T LOOK DOWN!

This question was asked some years ago by Bea. The result is either blasphemy or just really odd.

Well I’d never been so insulted.

So annoyed

There I was.

Minding my own business.

Doing my job

Being the eternal void.

When here He comes: 

Himself. The Don. Big cheese.

And suddenly

It’s “let there be this

Let there be that.”

Not so much as a “please!”

Light and land and water

Stars and moon and sun 

Animals and birds 

All kinds of tat.

I said “I’ve got a livelihood here mate.

I can’t be the eternal nothingness

With you cluttering up the place

With things. “

Of course by then it was a bit too late.

I wasn’t too impressed.

But when I tried to tell him to his face

“Oi! Keep it down” he says: 

“Can’t you see that it’s my day of rest?”

I don’t know who he bloody thinks he is.

Today’s question comes from Martha, who is two. She seems to have tapped into a rather immature side of me. 

I can only apologise.

Yes, green feathers do come from flying turtles

White feathers come from flying sheep, and purple 

Feathers come from flocks of flying plums,

And smelly feathers come from flying bums.

This question from Lily, who also wonders if at some point humans used to lay eggs. I would say that we did lay eggs, but it was before we were human. Mind you I’m no evolutionary biologist.

When we were very simple, very small

We broke off little pieces of ourselves

To make ourselves again, again, again.

But each new tiny self was just a copy.

A simple pattern, endlessly repeating

Nothing could change. Again, again, again.

And so, one morning, we began to mix

Ourselves with others. 

To make someone who was entirely new

The new one was so small and delicate;

We made a shell so that, at least at first,

The new one would be safe until it grew.

The shell had to be thin, easy to break

So that the new one could get out of there

And strong enough keep out those who’d harm it.

The shells were difficult to keep protected. 

We couldn’t take them with us to find food.

And so we made our bodies be the shell

And when we mixed ourselves to make a new one

We carried them inside to keep them safe.

We’ve changed a lot since then. We’re human now.

(Because, of course, we mixed ourselves with others

And every time we made somebody new

We changed a little bit, became ourselves.)

But that idea has stuck, because it works.

Today’s somewhat confusing query comes from Elffin, who hoped to solve a snack shortage through parental time travel. 

The snacks from next Tuesday

Are ever so tasty

But if you want to eat them

Well, don’t be too hasty

To your time travel whims

I would willingly cater

But if you eat them now

Then what will you eat later?

Such woe will be found

And such hunger you’ll meet

When next Tuesday comes round

And there’s nothing to eat!

This question comes from a Brownie pack to whom my friend Cath, a folklorist, gave a talk about fairies. The kids had a lot of questions about the nature and reality of the tooth fairy in particular, but this one was my favourite. 

She doesn’t often think of god, but sometimes,

After a long night of climbing into windows,

And feeling gently under sleeping heads

To take the tooth from underneath the pillow

And leave a coin, 

After she’s written back five thousand times

To letters asking if she’s really real

And sprinkled fairy dust on all the beds

And shinned down drainpipes to be home by dawn

The heavy bag of teeth over her shoulder…

She sometimes thinks that, if there is a god,

It might be nice if he, or she, or it

Would work a little harder for belief.

A question from Omphileneo which inspired an uncharacteristically spiritual poem from me, which possibly owes something to T.S. Eliot’s The Naming Of Cats.

Maybe we’re born

With a name of our own

With a name we forget

When we learn about words

And the things that we knew

Back before we had words 

Seem to falter and fade and to go,

And how would we know?

And the out-aloud name

The name that we get when we’re born,

It replaces the name 

(The original name)

That we knew.

Long ago, long ago,

And it’s gone and forgotten and lost

Because how would we know?

But the name

(Our original name)

Well, it isn’t a word.

Isn’t something we write.

Isn’t something we say.

It is just who we are

Deep inside.

It’s the name of our soul.

And somebody will know 

Your original name

And they’ll call you 

Without even knowing.

And you, even you 

Will call, one day, the still, secret name

Of another one’s soul

Oh yes, you will call somebody too.

Because, somehow, you’ll know.

And although we forget

Our original names

Just as soon as our new names

Are given to us,

Yes, although that is so…

When we’re called by them,

Then we remember

And that’s how we know.

Today’s important question comes from Erin. It made me think about how many terrible things we are happy for our kids to hear but sexual swear words still send us into a panic. Parental Guidance on this one, but it could have been worse, I suppose.

It isn’t fear, it isn’t fright

Nor is it foe nor fist nor fight

Not fury, furious or fray

Or filthy, fulsome, flaw or flay

The F-word which we must not mutter

The one that’s far too bad to utter’s

Not forbidden or forbode,

(Can’t even write it down in code!)

Not fascist, faction, frack, frustrated

Fiendish, fiery, foetid, fated.

It, I swear, is not fallacious,

Fusty, furtive or fugacious, 

Felon, foul or frown or fool

It isn’t false, it’s not ferrule.

I cannot tell you: please don’t pester!

It’s not fall or fail or fester.

No, this word that’s rated X…

It means, well, people having sex

Because they find the thought appealing 

Or just because they like the feeling

The F-word (no, it isn’t fart)

Is sometimes how a baby starts.

Can’t write it down, though: if I did

This would not be a rhyme for kids!

And so, I fear, you’re out of luck

I can’t tell you a word like that.

Today’s question comes from Lucia. The idea of there being a time when there are no more humans used to fascinate me as a child. I suppose it still does.

Perhaps only the creatures we call pests:

The ones who’ve learned how to survive our mess.

The pigeons and the coakroaches and rats

Will live in peace in our abandoned flats

And houses. And when aliens arrive

And say “we’re glad to see you’re still alive!

We watched all of the times you went to war

Why is it you don’t do that any more?

What is it that brought peace into your nations?”

The rats will say “We had an infestation.

Of humans! Ugh! They made an awful mess

But now they’re gone, and there are no more pests.”

A sad question today, from Max, who was upset by seeing a pigeon nearly getting hit by a car.

The world can seem like quite a dangerous place

Especially for birds. They are so small

And it might seem like no one cares at all

But somebody cares.

The violent rushing of the human race

Where birds get crushed and trampled every week

Or soaked in oil, will no one dare to speak?

But somebody dares.

It’s difficult at times for us to face

The harm we do to others, and to try

To make things better. Even asking “why”’s

A difficult task.

Bad things will happen still, but let’s embrace

Each opportunity to help, to do.

To say that “no one cares” must be untrue:

For somebody asked.