THERE WAS ONCE AN OGRE who loved to eat… CABBAGES! And he loved to eat … SAUSAGES! And he loved to eat… RADISHES! But best of all… absolutely best of all… he loved to eat… PEOPLE!
But there’s nothing so extraordinary about that, because that’s what ogres do. None the less, he was a very extraordinary ogre – and I shall tell you why. He was very… very… very … incredibly… unbelievably… wonderfully SLOW!
When he got up in the morning, it took him eight hours to get out of bed. It would take him nine hours to walk downstairs, and then it would take him ten hours to boil his breakfast of human heads and gentlemen’s socks. Then it would take him fifteen hours to eat it. It would take him twenty hours to get up from the table, burp, and put on his Ogres’ Boots (which are, by the way, very expensive). And it would take him another twenty-three hours to walk to his front door.
Now, as I expect you know, there are only twenty-four hours in a day, so it had already taken him three days, and all he’d done was get up and have breakfast.
He was, as you can see, a very slow ogre indeed.
Being so slow was a slight problem when it came to stealing… CABBAGES! out of people’s gardens.
And being so slow was a slight problem when it came to snitching… SAUSAGES! out of butchers’ shops. And being so slow made it quite difficult when it came to rustling… RADISHES! out of people’s salad bowls. But you may well wonder how on earth… how on earth… such a slow ogre could even in a thousand years… ever manage to catch people to put in his breakfast stew.
Well, here’s this Ogre getting up this morning. It’s already taken him six days to put his coat on and leave his lair. It’s taken him three weeks to walk down the road, and he’s just arrived at the house of a very rich gentleman.
It’s taken him half a day to knock at the gates. In the meantime nobody has come in or gone out, because… well you wouldn’t, would you, if you had an ogre as tall as three men standing outside your gates?
But now the Gatekeeper shouts through the letterbox: ‘Go away! We don’t want any ogres around here, thank you very much.’
‘Oh! I’m not an ogre,’ says the Ogre. ‘I’m just a poor fellow who has grown too big through eating… CABBAGES! and eating… SAUSAGES! and eating… RADISHES!… ’
And?’ asks the Gatekeeper.
‘And nothing else,’ replies the Ogre.
‘I don’t believe you,’ cries the Gatekeeper.
‘But look at me,’ says the Ogre. ‘I’m so slow, how could I possibly be an ogre?’
So the Gatekeeper looks out of the window, and he sees the Ogre moving so slowly … so extraordinarily slowly… that he barely seems to be moving at all.
‘Anybody could run away from me before I’d got the chance to grab ‘em and rip off their heads and boil ‘em up for a delicious breakfast stew… I mean a disgusting breakfast stew,’ says the Ogre.
‘That’s true,’ says the Gatekeeper. ‘Maybe I’ll open the gate.’
But the Gatekeeper’s Daughter says: ‘Daddy! Don’t let him in!’
So the Gatekeeper shouts back to the Ogre: ‘But before I open the gate, first tell me what you want.’
And the Ogre replies: ‘Oh! I just want to do an honest day’s work, in return for a dinner of… CABBAGES! and… SAUSAGES! and… RADISHES! and… ’
‘And?’ says the Gatekeeper.
‘And absolutely nothing else at all,’ replies the Ogre.
‘Honestly?’ asks the Gatekeeper.
‘Honestly,’ replies the Ogre.
‘Well, in that case, maybe I’ll open the gate,’ says the Gatekeeper. ‘We could use someone as big as you to put up the Christmas holly.’
But the Gatekeeper’s Daughter cries: ‘Daddy! Don’t let him in!’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ says the Ogre. ‘I’ll put up the Christmas holly and I’ll put on a show for all the little kiddies.’
‘Well that would be very nice,’ says the Gatekeeper, ‘but maybe I should just check with the Master of the House.’
So he goes to the Master of the House, and the Master of the House says: ‘He sounds like an ogre to me.’
‘But he says he’ll put up the holly and put on a nice Christmas show for the children,’ says the Gatekeeper.
‘Oh! That would be very nice,’ says the Master of the House. ‘Maybe we should let him in after all.’
But the Gatekeeper’s Daughter yells: ‘Looks like an ogre – is an ogre! Daddy! Don’t let him inF
‘What’s she doing here?’ cries the Master of the House. ‘I don’t want to be told what I can and can’t do in my own house!’ And he has the Gatekeeper’s Daughter trussed up like a turkey and locked in the Tall Tower.
Then he and the Gatekeeper go to the gate and look through the letterbox.
‘Hmm,’ says the Master of the House. ‘He may put on a very nice show for the children, but he’s as tall as three men and he’s got razor-sharp ogre’s teeth. Maybe we shouldn’t let him in after all.’
‘Oh,’ says the Ogre. ‘I’m only big because I eat … CABBAGES! and … SAUSAGES! and … RADISHES! and …’
‘And?’ says the Master of the House.
‘Absolutely nothing else at all,’ says the Gatekeeper.
‘That’s right,’ says the Ogre. And my teeth are only razor-sharp because I like whistling!’ And he whistled a little tune.
‘Well, in that case, maybe we’ll let you in,’ says the Master of the House.
But the Gatekeeper’s Daughter shouts down from the window in the Tall Tower: ‘Daddy! Don’t let him in!’
Meanwhile the Mistress of the House has come out to see what all the shouting’s about. She looks out through the letterbox and says: ‘Well, he may put on a very nice show for the children, and he may put up the holly very tastefully, but he still looks like an ogre to me.’
‘But he’s so slow,’ says the Master of the House.
‘He’d never be able to catch any of us,’ says the Gatekeeper.
‘That’s right,’ says the Ogre.
‘Well, in that case,’ says the Mistress of the House, ‘maybe he can come in.’
And, from right up in the Tall Tower, comes the voice of the Gatekeeper’s Daughter: ‘DADDY! DON’T LET HIM IN!’
But the Gatekeeper has already drawn back the first bolt on the gate. And, because she’s up in the Tall Tower, the Gatekeeper’s Daughter can see the Ogre, on the other side of the gate, starting to lick his chops. So she yells down: ‘He’s going to boil your heads for his breakfast stew!’
‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ says the Ogre.
‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ says the Master of the House.
‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ says the Mistress of the House.
And the Gatekeeper draws back the second bolt.
Now the Gatekeeper’s Daughter can see the Ogre starting to drool and slobber at the mouth.
‘He’s going to catch you all and pull off your heads!’ she cries.
‘Oh! Somebody shut her up!’ says the Mistress of the House ‘Even if he were an ogre, he’d never be able to catch any of us.’
‘That’s right,’ says the Ogre, licking his lips.
‘That’s right,’ says the Gatekeeper. ‘I’m looking forward to the Christmas show.’ And he pulls back the third bolt.
Now all that separates them from the Slow Ogre is one small latch. And the Gatekeeper’s Daughter can’t shout out anything, because someone’s tied a neckerchief round her mouth. But she’s thinking: ‘Daddy! Don’t let him in!’
And the Ogre’s drooling and slobbering and licking his lips, and the Gatekeeper’s just about to lift the latch, when he stops and says: ‘Wait a minute! My daughter’s a very smart girl. She’s usually right about most things.’
‘But she’s only a child,’ says the Master of the House.
‘And she’s still got her hair in braids,’ says the Mistress of the House.
‘That’s true,’ says the Gatekeeper, and he lifts the latch, and the Ogre bursts in and grabs everybody in the house – except for the Gatekeeper’s Daughter, because she’s locked up in the Tall Tower. Then he stuffs them all into the big black bag that he always carries, and races off back to his lair – for you must know that the Slow Ogre can move surprisingly quickly when it’s a question of making his breakfast stew.
Now, the Gatekeeper’s Daughter is still trussed up like a turkey, but she manages to wriggle free. She rips the neckerchief from her mouth. Then she takes the rope with which she’d been tied, hangs it out of the window and slides down it… right to the ground.
Then she runs back into her father’s bedroom, stuffs all his smelliest old socks into a pillowcase, and races off to the Ogre’s lair.
The Ogre’s got a cauldron of water coming up to the boil, and he’s got all the people locked up in his great iron meat-safe. And they’re all moaning and crying and blaming each other for not having taken more notice of the Gatekeeper’s Daughter.
The Gatekeeper’s Daughter, meanwhile, has marched straight up to the Ogre’s front door and knocked on it. (That’s a very brave thing to do, and I don’t think even she would have done it if she hadn’t had a very good plan.)
The Ogre’s just thinking: ‘Hm! The water’s coming to the boil, so I can pop in a few heads… but first I need a bit of seasoning. I’d better borrow some of the gentlemen’s socks… ’ (I hope you haven’t forgotten that he always liked gentlemen’s socks in his breakfast stew – the smellier the better.)
So he’s just about to open the meat-safe and grab all the gentlemen to see who’s got the smelliest socks, when he hears the knock on the door.
‘S’funny!’ says the Ogre to himself. ‘Nobody likes me. Nobody ever comes to visit me. Nobody ever knocks on my door.’
But he goes to the door anyway (only it takes him an hour or so because he’s starting to get a bit slower again) and he opens it.
There’s the Gatekeeper’s Daughter, holding the pillowcase full of her father’s smelliest socks.
‘Something smells good!’ exclaims the Ogre. And he’s just going to grab the Gatekeeper’s Daughter to pop her into his mouth as a pre-breakfast snack, when she opens up the pillowcase, and the Ogre can’t help sticking his head inside, because the Gatekeeper’s socks smell so good.
Then, quick as a flash, she ties the pillowcase around his neck with the rope. And the Ogre starts flailing around, going: ‘Oh! I can’t see! It’s all gone dark! Oh! But it’s so delicious! The smell is like… it’s like… heaven… yum, yum, yum… ’
And while he’s blundering around, getting slower and slower, unable to decide whether to take the pillowcase off his head, so he can see, or to keep it on his head, so he can go on smelling the socks, the Gatekeeper’s Daughter – quick as a flash – opens up the Ogre’s meat-safe and lets everyone out. They all dash for the door and run off as far away as possible from the Ogre’s lair.
The Ogre, meanwhile, has decided to sit down in his favourite cosy chair, while he takes the pillowcase off his head – only he’s moving much slower by this time. The Gatekeeper’s Daughter sees what he’s going to do, and – in the time it takes him to get over to his favourite cosy chair and start to sit down – she’s switched it, so that instead of sitting down in his favourite cosy chair, the Ogre sits down right in the cauldron of boiling water!
By the time the Ogre’s realized what’s happened, and before he can get the pillowcase off his head and get himself out again … he’s cooked – right through! And so are the socks!
When the Gatekeeper’s Daughter gets home, her father makes a great fuss of her and says: ‘In future, Chloë, we’ll always listen to you.’ And the Master of the House and the Mistress of the House all nod in agreement. And Chloë looks at them all smiling down at her and she says to herself: ‘Hmm! I wonder if you will?’