The pleasant, happy sounds of a party in full swing were suddenly dispersed as a terrible cacophony (a corpus of cacophony no less) arose from somewhere in the vicinity of the Party Tree. There, on the ground below it lay a jumble of pots pans and kettles, their metallic surfaces reflecting the light from the lanterns above and shimmering and glittering much like a mirrorball. Those nearby remarked how peculiar it was that a collection of kitchenware should fall from the Tree.
“Mr Pan Man, must you always arrive like this?” said Piosenniel, standing over the pile and glaring down at it sternly.
The pile of pans lay there for a while, before slowly organising itself into a human shape. A wizened face crowned with a large silver saucepan peered out.
“Eh? What’s that? Alive? Yes, thank you, Madam. I am quite alright. Somewhat shaken, but certainly alive,” the Saucepan Man replied as he stood up.
“I said must you always arrive like this?” Pio retorted impatiently.
“Ah, Mistress Piosseniel,” said Saucepan, blinking in recognition. “Erm, yes, I am afraid so. It is the only way I know.”
The mischeivous glint in his eyes softened Pio’s stance somewhat, although she still had a bone or two to pick with him.
“And what, may I ask, were you doing in the Party Tree?”
“Hearty glee? Yes I …” began Saucepan, but thought better of it on catching the glare in her green eyes. “Er, well, when I heard of the party, I crept up there to polish my pots and pans. You know how much I feel at home in trees. I was intending to arrive early to help with the preparations, but I … um … well … it was so comfortable up there that I’m afraid that I fell asleep. Still, it looks to be going well."
Saucepan favoured Pio with his best practised sheepish grin, but she had not quite finished her admonishment.
“And you call that Middle-earth wear, do you?" she said, indicating his metallic attire. She still had not quite forgiven him for clouting her with one of his pans at last year’s party, even though it had been wholly unintentional (and somewhat fortuitous as matters had turned out).
Saucepan regarded her red hair and green eyes, but thought better of making an impertinent remark.
“But Madam. This is my very best formal kitchenwear. And I am wearing waistcoat and breeches beneath in true Hobbit fashion, I can assure you.”
“Well, if you say so. I trust that Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow Downs Club Band will be making an appearance later.”
“All in good time,” replied Saucepan, winking and tapping his nose with his finger. “But first I must deliver my gifts and secure myself some refreshment. Farewell for now, Mistress Elf.”
Piosenniel grinned affectionately, and took the sensible precaution of clapping her hands over her ears, as the shiny figure clanked and clattered his way through the crowds, stopping every so often to exchange greeting with those he knew.
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