_Life is like a handerchief rope, you don't know what colour is coming next and you're damned f you know where it ends_
Being to alert to sleep the daughter of the Village Idiot decided to write something. As the daughter of a Village Idiot, writing skills did not come easily to her. She would more likely fall of the chair if she tries.
Fiona poised the pen and dipped it in the ink. As she did the well fell over and spilled onto the page. Damn her father's hopeless genes. She picked up a handkerchief in the attempt to wash it but as she pulled she reaslised that there was another one tied to the end. Knowing where this was going she continued pulling on the end of the handerchief until a long enough rope of the things was available to wipe up the mess.
Not wanting to give up her persuit of writing, she picked up a charcoal pencil. The charcoal snapped and as she removed a knife from her pocket. Knives are always bad to have around Village Idiots but she kept one near to try and prove the theory wrong. So far today she had dropped the thing on her foot twice and it had "slipped" out of her belt, cutting off her skirt. On another occasion she had had an embarressing conversation with the owner of a bar she had been kicked out of as to why he had found the knife with a sheepskin hanging form it an inch above his head. He had not been impressed.
She sharpened the pencil very carefully as there was a knock on the door. The bookshelf (which strangly had been empty of books a minute ago) toppled and several books fell on her head as she tried to call for the knocker to enter. What came out of her mouth was this:
'Come eeouch'
'Excuse me miss, The Village is calling again. They are asking for thier Idiot back,' said the amused innkeeper while trying not to laugh. Everybody laughs around Fiona, things just seemd more funny when things happened to her.
In many cases this would be considered humourous or even insulting but this was Fiona, she was used to these types of call ins. The villagers of several towns were on the lookout for her and her 'remarkable' talents as a fool.
'Thankyou,' she said tersly, rubbing her sore head as more unseen books fell on her head.
Her father had loved the job, it had been the only job he had ever known. The job of a Village Idiot was meant to be passed down form father to son but there had been a foolish error in the conception which had resulted in a girl. Every fool knows that their oldest child will always be a son but her father had been so foolish to even mix that up, how is anybody's guess. The result was Fiona, a female fool with no wish to be one.
Fiona pondered on the situation, something very hard for a person with foolish genes. If she left now in the dark she would probably end up bumping into some unsavoury character and due to a sequence of humiliating events would have to explain her way out of some kings sock drawers. If she waited until morning The Villagers downstairs would have found out her room but she would be fully rested. They would force their way through a rather foolish spectical of Fiona humiliating herself, and yet again, ending in the whole darn pub roaring in laughter at her misfortune. She would then have yet another royal, travelling gypsy or perhaps a gaol in need of her. Not the best way to start in a new city.
She sighed as she decided the window was the best way to go. She packed the only book she owned (the rest had now dissappeared) as well as her charcoal and other belongings. Somehow her panties were stuck to the bed: best not tempt fate, it could do anything. She climbed out the window with the help of the hankerchief rope and slipped away into the night.
She prayed to whichever god would listen that she would be found.
