The Pineapple Chronicles

Chapter 1 - Waking Up, Porridge, Jim, and the Knock

This is the start of a story based on a collection of stories written by me and my friends at various times. I will credit anyone whose ideas I've used in each story.

This story contains some material inspired by Philip E. Smith.

Characters: Miss Ritchett, Jim Bulter

The sun rose over the simple cottage in the middle of Mulkirk. The cottage, of course, wasn't simple in the "stupid" sense, but in the "basic" sense, which is coincidentally its basic sense. But this wasn't a stupid cottage. It had grown clever by watching the movements of people in and out of it through its sixty-year life. And one of those people had always remained.

Miss Ritchett woke up, groggily and slowly at first, until she remembered what today was. She was about to become the Prime Minister of Biemby! The whole country! Mulkirk, Luraina, even those tiny villages where no-one knew what they were called - not even the villagers!

She rushed to have her breakfast so fast that she spilled half of it down the floor - she would normally be the first to clean it up, and would have to clean the rest of the floor just to make sure, but not today!

She was just about to treat herself to an extra bowl of porridge, for becoming Prime Minister, when Jim Bulter walked in.

Jim wasn't her husband, she made that clear. She had been Miss Ritchett her whole life, and that wasn't about to change. But he came in anyway, and ate there, and washed there, and sometimes slept there, but the old woman didn't want to put her cottage through that much trouble, and discouraged the latter and the one in the middle, although she couldn't really deny him the former - it was common knowledge that she made the best porridge in the city (if you could call it that - it was as spread out as the leftover butter just trying to stretch to covering a whole slice of toast) (the city, not the porridge).

Although she wasn't married to Jim, she acted like it.

"We've got to get you some new trousers," she said, warming up some oats on the simple stove (this one really was stupid - it was on the wall), "those ones are almost falling apart." The scent of the porridge was filling her head, and it all seemed like a completely normal day. She knew, of course, that it wouldn't be soon. She was expected to make her initiation speech in two hours, according to the clock on her mantelpiece, which refused to move, even though she'd prefer it in her bedroom.

And then the knock came.