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Mr Benn, The shopkeeper, just who is he & what's he up to?
Fandom: Mr Benn
Characters: The Shopkeeper
Gen, c. 1500 words
Open The Door
I think it was my father who said that you can't go looking up at the sky for a messiah. If the human race is going to be saved, he said – probably from somewhere in the middle of a huge cloud of cigar smoke – then it's going to have to be saved by a human. He didn't mean for it to be just the one of them; I suspect he meant that it ought to be some sort of global co-operative. But humans, definitely. Doing their human thing.
It was easy for him to make pronouncements like that, of course. Observing humanity from the outside as he did gave him the opportunity to scrutinise and judge, to a degree that they never entirely manage themselves. He saw things that they don't, and he made sure that I saw them too. Not that he expected anything to come from those lessons; for any grand master-plan for human salvation to emerge from his unique insights. Dad, you see, was a demon. A card-carrying absentee from hell, escaped from some tedious sentence of eternal damnation to prowl the backstreets of Richmond. He loved to watch the world go by outside the windows, in much the way that one might watch a football match; gazing benevolently upon mankind from the vantage point of his tobacco-soaked local. A perennial outsider, whose only interest in the home team was the fact that he had married one of them. The rest, I suspect, had as little significance to him as the dozen hard boiled eggs he ritually devoured each morning.
I, on the other hand, am somewhat different. It comes from being half-human, I imagine; the mixed-up-DNA equivalent of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (although made with English jam, naturally, bought at the local Co-Op). I think I was something of a bafflement to my father, if not entirely a disappointment. Whilst not exactly demonic in appearance, he could, if required – although it's hard to see why it should be, particularly in Richmond – reveal a set of nine inch long fangs capable of spitting a noxious, flammable venom up to twelve feet. He also had a long tail, of which he was inordinately proud – some might even say vain. It had a slightly alarming habit of meandering its way down his trouser leg, apparently entirely of its own volition, to sprawl decadently in patches of sunlight – usually until my mother threatened to step on it. In contrast, I possessed nothing more exotic than the ability to teleport myself about the place, a talent that my father viewed as somewhere on the same level as walking. A great achievement for a baby, but hardly something that one is still inclined to applaud in a grown man.
And so the world finds me – I am what I am, as the song says – the pale and slightly portly, bespectacled son of a Moroccan seamstress beached upon a foreign shore, and a venom-spitting demon hiding upon an even more foreign one. From my mother I inherited a fine hand – if I do say so myself – with a needle and thread, and an appreciation of textiles, fashions and haberdashery. From my father I inherited the ability to disappear at will, and a nose that one might charitably describe as 'sharp'. My father taught me to rise above humanity, my mother taught me to bask within it, and I, caught between the two extremes, have never entirely managed either. We're trapped here together, though, humanity and I. Whatever my father advised, I could never bring myself to turn my back upon my neighbours. If nothing else, to do so would severely limit the opportunities for conversation.
My mother, as I have said, was a seamstress. In long ago days, when London property was a good deal cheaper than it is now, she bought herself a plot of land, built a little shop, and set to work filling it with clothing that she wanted to sell. Not necessarily clothing that anybody wanted to buy, which somewhat curtailed her income, but it made her happy. I used to help her, and together we would fashion garments from every book that came our way; every fairytale, every grand historical epic, every romance, swashbuckler or comedy. Soon enough the shop was filled with every costume one might wish to don, although truth be told, we sold few enough of them. My mother was not in the slightest bit discouraged, and with my father's occasional 'helping' hand, and my own ready needle, she continued in her work almost until the day she died. With her gone, the shop was mine. All that remained was what to do with it. The sales continued, in dribs and drabs, and the sewing continued as well. I expanded the workroom, so that I could add suits of armour and chainmail to my wares; deep sea diving equipment and crowns hammered out by hand. Well, why not? Nobody was going to buy the blasted things anyway. I might as well have my fun. It wasn't until my father passed away as well that it occurred to me how I might best make use of the whole endeavour.
It was my father's words that started it. I was looking for suitable quotes; those little verbal representatives of my father that might stand in for him during my speech at the funeral. I kept thinking about that one about salvation. I have no aspirations to lead the way myself, naturally. What am I but a shopkeeper? But little things improve the world, in the same way that a little salt improves a chip, or a little jam improves a scone. You don't have to change the recipe, or throw out the oven. And as I sewed my latest costume, in the quiet of some moonlit summer's night, I thought about my neighbours. The way that they argued, so often over trivial little things. The way that the children squabbled in the streets, and the parents argued over groceries, and the milkman and the postman grumbled about who had parked whose van in whose way. They needed, I decided, to smile more. They needed something to make them smile. They needed, in short, a way to escape from their squabbles. And if they couldn't find one, then I would have to find it for them. Me, a needle and thread, and a shop full of outlandish evening wear.
Well, I admit that it's hardly a recipe for success. One doesn't generally set out to conquer the world with a length of fine yarn and a room full of hand-sewn vintage hosiery. We have to work with what we've got though, and what I've got is clothes. Clothes, imagination, and a shop built upon the very spot where my mother and father first met; the very spot, that is, where my father, sparkle-eyed and clothed in mischief, first launched himself into the world. A few consultations, in dark and stuffy rooms wreathed in purple smoke; a few spells, found in giant, leather-bound books lurking in libraries hidden beneath the streets of Kingston; a few furtive offerings – specially created garments, burnt in the dead of night on Wimbledon Common, on three, green-boughed bonfires spilling thick white smoke across well-trodden grass – and it was time to begin. All that I needed was the right person, to set it all in motion.
You don't need giants or warriors to change the world. You don't need politicians, kings or demons. Sometimes all you need is one, neatly dressed suburbanite looking to put a little fun back into his life. Strange things happen, they say, when the ordinary and the unusual collide. Bad things, good things, and a universe between. I don't claim to be able to predict any of it. I just know that a simple, ordinary man, with the right kind of adventuring soul, can walk through a doorway and change the world around him. Perhaps not permanently, perhaps not significantly, but a little. So try it, next time you're out this way. If around you there are voices raised in conflict or frustration; if the street outside your window is a maelstrom of petty strife and disorder; drop by for a visit. Try on a costume, see where it takes you. It may be nowhere, it may be a genteel tea party, it may be a storm at sea, or a vicious, tooth-and-claw battle with pirates on the edge of the galaxy. Spin the wheel, make a choice, set a tiny piece of the universe to rights. I'll be waiting for you, in the shop that most of the world passes by. There's no charge. All I ask is an open mind, and a soul that races ahead of you in search of its dreams.
In return... well, you'll see. Just as soon as you open the door.
The End
Mr Benn, The shopkeeper, just who is he & what's he up to?
Fandom: Mr Benn
Characters: The Shopkeeper
Gen, c. 1500 words
I think it was my father who said that you can't go looking up at the sky for a messiah. If the human race is going to be saved, he said – probably from somewhere in the middle of a huge cloud of cigar smoke – then it's going to have to be saved by a human. He didn't mean for it to be just the one of them; I suspect he meant that it ought to be some sort of global co-operative. But humans, definitely. Doing their human thing.
It was easy for him to make pronouncements like that, of course. Observing humanity from the outside as he did gave him the opportunity to scrutinise and judge, to a degree that they never entirely manage themselves. He saw things that they don't, and he made sure that I saw them too. Not that he expected anything to come from those lessons; for any grand master-plan for human salvation to emerge from his unique insights. Dad, you see, was a demon. A card-carrying absentee from hell, escaped from some tedious sentence of eternal damnation to prowl the backstreets of Richmond. He loved to watch the world go by outside the windows, in much the way that one might watch a football match; gazing benevolently upon mankind from the vantage point of his tobacco-soaked local. A perennial outsider, whose only interest in the home team was the fact that he had married one of them. The rest, I suspect, had as little significance to him as the dozen hard boiled eggs he ritually devoured each morning.
I, on the other hand, am somewhat different. It comes from being half-human, I imagine; the mixed-up-DNA equivalent of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (although made with English jam, naturally, bought at the local Co-Op). I think I was something of a bafflement to my father, if not entirely a disappointment. Whilst not exactly demonic in appearance, he could, if required – although it's hard to see why it should be, particularly in Richmond – reveal a set of nine inch long fangs capable of spitting a noxious, flammable venom up to twelve feet. He also had a long tail, of which he was inordinately proud – some might even say vain. It had a slightly alarming habit of meandering its way down his trouser leg, apparently entirely of its own volition, to sprawl decadently in patches of sunlight – usually until my mother threatened to step on it. In contrast, I possessed nothing more exotic than the ability to teleport myself about the place, a talent that my father viewed as somewhere on the same level as walking. A great achievement for a baby, but hardly something that one is still inclined to applaud in a grown man.
And so the world finds me – I am what I am, as the song says – the pale and slightly portly, bespectacled son of a Moroccan seamstress beached upon a foreign shore, and a venom-spitting demon hiding upon an even more foreign one. From my mother I inherited a fine hand – if I do say so myself – with a needle and thread, and an appreciation of textiles, fashions and haberdashery. From my father I inherited the ability to disappear at will, and a nose that one might charitably describe as 'sharp'. My father taught me to rise above humanity, my mother taught me to bask within it, and I, caught between the two extremes, have never entirely managed either. We're trapped here together, though, humanity and I. Whatever my father advised, I could never bring myself to turn my back upon my neighbours. If nothing else, to do so would severely limit the opportunities for conversation.
My mother, as I have said, was a seamstress. In long ago days, when London property was a good deal cheaper than it is now, she bought herself a plot of land, built a little shop, and set to work filling it with clothing that she wanted to sell. Not necessarily clothing that anybody wanted to buy, which somewhat curtailed her income, but it made her happy. I used to help her, and together we would fashion garments from every book that came our way; every fairytale, every grand historical epic, every romance, swashbuckler or comedy. Soon enough the shop was filled with every costume one might wish to don, although truth be told, we sold few enough of them. My mother was not in the slightest bit discouraged, and with my father's occasional 'helping' hand, and my own ready needle, she continued in her work almost until the day she died. With her gone, the shop was mine. All that remained was what to do with it. The sales continued, in dribs and drabs, and the sewing continued as well. I expanded the workroom, so that I could add suits of armour and chainmail to my wares; deep sea diving equipment and crowns hammered out by hand. Well, why not? Nobody was going to buy the blasted things anyway. I might as well have my fun. It wasn't until my father passed away as well that it occurred to me how I might best make use of the whole endeavour.
It was my father's words that started it. I was looking for suitable quotes; those little verbal representatives of my father that might stand in for him during my speech at the funeral. I kept thinking about that one about salvation. I have no aspirations to lead the way myself, naturally. What am I but a shopkeeper? But little things improve the world, in the same way that a little salt improves a chip, or a little jam improves a scone. You don't have to change the recipe, or throw out the oven. And as I sewed my latest costume, in the quiet of some moonlit summer's night, I thought about my neighbours. The way that they argued, so often over trivial little things. The way that the children squabbled in the streets, and the parents argued over groceries, and the milkman and the postman grumbled about who had parked whose van in whose way. They needed, I decided, to smile more. They needed something to make them smile. They needed, in short, a way to escape from their squabbles. And if they couldn't find one, then I would have to find it for them. Me, a needle and thread, and a shop full of outlandish evening wear.
Well, I admit that it's hardly a recipe for success. One doesn't generally set out to conquer the world with a length of fine yarn and a room full of hand-sewn vintage hosiery. We have to work with what we've got though, and what I've got is clothes. Clothes, imagination, and a shop built upon the very spot where my mother and father first met; the very spot, that is, where my father, sparkle-eyed and clothed in mischief, first launched himself into the world. A few consultations, in dark and stuffy rooms wreathed in purple smoke; a few spells, found in giant, leather-bound books lurking in libraries hidden beneath the streets of Kingston; a few furtive offerings – specially created garments, burnt in the dead of night on Wimbledon Common, on three, green-boughed bonfires spilling thick white smoke across well-trodden grass – and it was time to begin. All that I needed was the right person, to set it all in motion.
You don't need giants or warriors to change the world. You don't need politicians, kings or demons. Sometimes all you need is one, neatly dressed suburbanite looking to put a little fun back into his life. Strange things happen, they say, when the ordinary and the unusual collide. Bad things, good things, and a universe between. I don't claim to be able to predict any of it. I just know that a simple, ordinary man, with the right kind of adventuring soul, can walk through a doorway and change the world around him. Perhaps not permanently, perhaps not significantly, but a little. So try it, next time you're out this way. If around you there are voices raised in conflict or frustration; if the street outside your window is a maelstrom of petty strife and disorder; drop by for a visit. Try on a costume, see where it takes you. It may be nowhere, it may be a genteel tea party, it may be a storm at sea, or a vicious, tooth-and-claw battle with pirates on the edge of the galaxy. Spin the wheel, make a choice, set a tiny piece of the universe to rights. I'll be waiting for you, in the shop that most of the world passes by. There's no charge. All I ask is an open mind, and a soul that races ahead of you in search of its dreams.
In return... well, you'll see. Just as soon as you open the door.
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But little things improve the world, in the same way that a little salt improves a chip, or a little jam improves a scone. .
And this is lovely.
All I ask is an open mind, and a soul that races ahead of you in search of its dreams.
This is lovelier.
And by Crikey, 'Spin the wheel, make a choice, set a tiny piece of the universe to rights.'
Mr Benn is the Dice Man! He believes in randomizing experience and interacting with the Universe! (So do I, but I don't think I'd look good in one of his outfits.)
This, it's a little bit scary, and beautiful.
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And thank you. :)
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