Two Welsh Girls on the Loose: Other Dimensions

Alternative, or parallel, universes — or whatever you want to call them — can be just fine and dandy, even a hoot and a half sometimes; but you need to understand this: certain things — reality being one of them — might not always fall exactly into line with what you’ve been accustomed.

Take your ‘U948-Q3’ dimensional plane, for example — in which Sweet Betsy and I, your humble servant, Hermione, recently found ourselves stranded: Newton’s Third Law? Simply not applicable.

Fortunately, S.B. was finally able to recover the ’escape switch’ (It’s what they call it, the technical name being impossibly long and a wee bit oxymoronic), which, having been cleverly disguised as a lipstick tube, had been regrettably lent to ‘air-head’ Lanelle at Edwin the Extravagant’s masquerade ball and cèilidh!

Upon activating said escape-switch/lipstick-tube — presto-bingo — there we were, back on good old mother earth! Terra firma! Home sweet home! Our base-line dimension!

Only, instead of early 21th century Wales, it was the Crimean Peninsula, circa 1855, knee deep in a war zone!

Well, when duty calls, duty calls, and before long we were willing vassals in the service of Florence Nightingale, herself — who, it must be said, knew a thing or two about ’getting ‘er done’ for Queen and country! From day one she had us mopping up, changing the beds, washing down the lads — you name it!

When the whole bloody affair was finally over, nerves frazzled, we immediately caught a schooner, headed home — grimly contemplating the career option of becoming the first female Welsh coal miners of the Victorian age.

A week into the voyage — at long last having been invited to dine at his table — we met the ship’s captain, outfitted in all his maritime regalia and finery: cocked hat avec plumage, medals, ribbons, and epaulets sticking out far enough to get a warning from Health and Safety.

But even more shocking than the captain’s sartorial display, was the visage of the personage himself! Our old pal …

“Ferme Akinde!!!”

“Gals! What in the name Hakuna Matata are you two doin’ here!?!”

“Actually, Ferme, that is a very good question!”

“To tell you de truth, gals, I was afraid someting like this might ’appen. Tell me … what was the color of that lipstick thingy I give to you?”

“Pomegranate, Ferme,” answered Sweet Betsy, stone faced. “Which you had us repeat back to you three times!”

“Oooh, oooh, oooooh … I must be gettin’ old. It was the Neon Fuchsia that you was supposed to be taking on that trip to that particular dimensional plane thing ... and it just so ’appens, gals, I got some right here in my coat pocket! … somewhere … erm … just give me a minute, gals … now, where did I put that thing …?”

That ‘evening’ — back in the twenty-first century, back home in our Welsh town Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllant-ysiliogogogoch — we sat sipping pale ales in the Gwyneth & Paltrow, over double orders of fish and chips, contemplating our next escapade.