Paddington Goes Absolutely Mental

“How do you do, good sir?” Paddington said to the man standing behind the counter. No reply was forthcoming, which Paddington had grown used to.

After ending up in London after being exiled from his native land of Darkest Peru, he’d first been shocked to learn of the rather rude way many Brits carry themselves. But now, he was used to it. Expected it, even.

“No bother,” he said to the man, “but might I trouble you for a cup of tea, plenty of milk, and a slice of toast? With marmalade and butter, preferably?” Paddington was in a café; he’d just popped in to grab a quick drink and a snack to sate his appetite. He’d had a long day, so this was just what the doctor ordered.

“Thank you kindly!” Paddington said, but the grumpy-looking man behind the counter replied not a single word. He simply spun on his heels and started making Paddington’s tea.

Paddington heard the sound of the toaster click down as he took his seat by the large bay window, looking out onto the busy London street, observing the cabs going here and there, and spotting a big red bus every now and then. Darkest Peru didn’t have those busses, or roads for that matter, so Paddington always liked spotting them out and about.

So too, Paddington rather enjoyed looking out at the world, seeing all the different people coming and going. He liked to sit and wonder about their lives. What were they doing today? Did they have any hobbies? What were their names?

He often thought about his place in the world, and how he interacted with the other inhabitants. Paddington tried his very best to be a level-headed chap, but as of late, the busy city of London was testing him. It was just yesterday that a speeding taxi — they call them Black Cabs in the city, he’d learnt — splashed through a puddle and soaked him all the way from head to paw.

And then this morning, poor Paddington had been pushed from pillar to post, jostled to and fro in the hustle and bustle of the ever-chaotic streets of early morning London. Between you and me, Paddington had just about had enough. In fact, it’s why he had to pop into this café; lest he lost control and snapped.

Whilst he was waiting for his tea and toast, Paddington looked around at some of the other people he was sharing the café with. They sat at tables, some on their own and some in pairs. All of them, he noticed, looking at their phones.

These phones were something that greatly confused Paddington when he first made his way to Britain. After all, why would people spend all their time staring into tiny glowing rectangles? What could be more enjoyable than spending time in the real world, and talking to real people?

Part of him believed that it was phones, and what seemed to be everyone’s addiction to them, that was causing the world – or at the very least London – be become ruder.

As we’ve said, Paddington was always doing his very best to stay level-headed in this hectic world. But seeing people on their phones, when they could be speaking to one another and making new friends, was something that really pushed his buttons. It was one of the rather curious quirks that humans seemed to have.

On the table next to his sat an old man and a young boy. From the similarities in their faces, Paddington surmised that they were grandfather and grandson. It would be a lovely sight, grandpa taking his grandson out for a bite to eat at the local café. Indeed, it really would be lovely, Paddington thought to himself, if it weren’t for the phones.

You see, the old man was sat drinking a coffee and staring down forlornly at the young boy. And for his part, the young boy hadn’t once acknowledged the old man. No, instead he was content to keep his head down, staring into the phone that lay flat on the table.

 “Do excuse me,” Paddington said, leaning over the small gap between tables to tap the small boy on his shoulder, “but would you be open to advice?”

“Advice?” the boy asked.

“Indeed,” he tipped his head to the direction of the old man, “Might I suggest you put the phone away and speak to your grandfather?”

“What?” the boy asked again.

“These are fleeting times. You shan’t get them back.”

As the boy was about to reply, the old man spoke up, cutting him off. “What you saying to my boy, bear?”

“Oh I do apologise,” Paddington remarked, “but I was just suggesting that your –  grandson, is it? – make the most of these times.”

“These times?” the old man asked, leaning his elbows on the table, lines beginning to crease his forehead as a frown started creeping its way onto his face.

“Well, you know,” Paddington said, “You won’t be around forever.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Threat?” Paddington said, exasperated, “by gosh no!”

“Right answer,” the man said, “You’re lucky we were just leaving. Otherwise you’d be having a bigger problem on your hands.”

And with that, the old man grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him along as he strode from the café and down the street. Paddington watched them again from the bay window. Peculiar people, he thought, most unpolite.

Had Paddington not wanted to remain polite to everyone he met, there were a few choice words and names he’d like to have aimed at the man before he departed. Perhaps something to do with his mother and her unscrupulous ways or unhygienic nature. But alas, the time had passed. And Paddington didn’t know the old man’s mother; so wouldn’t want to fabricate an untruth. Still, it would’ve been fun.

By now, the smell of freshly toasted toast was wafting through the room, which had the wonderful effect of cheering Paddington up immensely. There was nothing he loved more than a lovely cup of milky tea and a delicious piece of crunchy toast, covered with plenty of marmalade for good measure.

“Here,” the man from the counter said, plonking down a plate and cup on his table. Paddington noted, not without a slight annoyance, that the man spilt the tea. But it was the man said next that tested his patience: “No marmalade.”

“I must say, this is quite disappointing,” Paddington replied.

“Is what it is. Three quid.”

Looking down at the man’s outstretched hand, Paddington could feel the anger beginning to bubble. “Sir,” he said, “Might I suggest a slight reduction on the payment?”

“No. Three quid.”

“If you don’t mind, I must insist.”

“Why?”

“Well. I entered your establishment enquiring as to a delicious slice of toast with plenty of Marmalade.” Paddington looked down at the plate on the table, and then back up at the man, “And I’m sure you’ll notice, there’s no marmalade to be seen.”

“We’re out of it.”

“Indeed, you’ve informed me of that. Would you not agree that my not receiving the complete order warrants a discount?”

“No,” the man said again, “three quid.”

“This is become a most serious matter,” Paddington said, slamming his fist down on the table, and straight into the puddle. His previously spotless raincoat was now speckled with tea.

First he was pushed around in the street. Then the weird old man and his grandson, or whatever he was. And now this inconsiderate gentleman is demanding he pay for toast with no marmalade? It all became too much for Paddington.

 “Right,” he yelled, “That does it!”

Paddington picked up the cup and threw it across the room. The bear, the man, and the handful of other people sat at the tables watched it arc through the air like a graceful bird, spinning and twisting as it did so, right before colliding with the front counter, smashing through the display cabinet. Shards of glass dusted the assorted pastries and scones.

The man was standing in disbelief, staring at the smashed glass and the now unsellable stock. He was so stunned that he had no chance to react, no chance to protect himself, as the now feral bear dug its teeth into his arm. He spun and spun, screaming and swatting at the bear; but nothing would make it let go.

“You ged wha yah dezerf," Paddington managed to say, with his teeth clamped down on the man’s arm.

In the confusion and chaos, neither the man nor the bear had noticed one of the café’s patrons poke her head out the door and hail a passing police officer. This caused, as you’d imagine, for them to both be taken by great surprise when they were tackled to the ground.

After much snapping and biting and kicking and punching – and a few unmentionable words – the police officer managed to pry open Paddington’s jaws and release the man’s hand, which was now bleeding profusely. By the time the man had rushed over to the sink and was running his arm under a tap, he looked back to see Paddington being handcuffed.

“I must insist you unhand me!” Paddington yelled out. But it was no use. He was dragged from the small café and loaded into a waiting police car. We shan’t go into the ins and outs of the British judicial system, but suffice to say after much waiting, many interviews and a single court appearance, Paddington found himself in entirely new surroundings.

East Wing of Wandsworth Prison. Cell 2F to be precise.

“What you in for?” his heavily tattooed, bald-headed cellmate asked.

“Simply wanting a slice of toast and some delicious marmalade,” Paddington replied, his ears down reflecting his miserable mood.

The man didn’t reply. Instead, he reached below his bed and slid out a shoebox. With the lid popped off, he showed Paddington the contents. Inside, much to Paddington’s disbelief, was a treasure trove.

Tea bags. Real British butter. And best of all, a small jar of marmalade.

In an instant, the day was transformed. A few moments ago, all hope was lost. Paddington was preparing for the next six months to be miserable. No tea or marmalade or anything. But now? Well, his future looked bright. His mood, much like his ears, was now as perked up as can be.

That was much more like it!

Note: Have you ever had to sit through Paddington 2? Good lord, it's boring. So whilst my nephew was loving it, my mind wandered and created a Paddington Bear that went nuts.