Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

The Elephant

Ladies and Gentlemen, the tale I am about to relate to you is so monstrous, so… unconscionable… it will make you want to go to the toilet quite a lot.

Permit me first to introduce myself. I am Doctor Amadeus Fishbalm - named after my mother’s Crufts-winning Daschund before it met with an appalling accident involving a lawnmower I happened to be pushing.

Although serving a modest apprenticeship as a bicycle-spoke straightener in the town of Little Sewageboom, I had always harboured higher ambitions. I wished to become a famous medical man, thus gaining the respect and restoring the fortunes of my father, an out-of-work race-track florist.

Since I had no actual training, I started out small, teaching archery classes as confidence-building therapy for blind children - a radical treatment I might have thought through a bit more, as it required me to redecorate my apartment after each session.

Eventually, however, I built up a modest surgical practice - specialising in removing unwanted nostril hairs from the residents of the nearby Bed-N-Wee Retirement Home. Business was brisk and I earned extra cash by moonlighting as an illegal armchair stuffer.

In this way, I was able to put away a small nest egg for myself and my good lady wife, Ethel, so she might, one day, forsake her job as a nightclub bouncer at The Nipple Washer’s Arms. I even saved up enough for a top hat, under which I kept my packed lunch and Strawberry Fruit Shoot. As well as looking suitably important, this allowed me free use of both hands when yanking out particularly stubborn nasal foliage.

One day, I was relaxing in my surgery, reading a copy of Professor Moriarty’s Bumper book of Hilarious Surgical Mishaps, when there was a knock at the door.

A dishevelled fellow stood in the hallway. With him was a portly figure with a paper bag over its head. The scruff pointed to a chair in the middle of the room and indicated for his companion to sit. The unfortunate soul ignored him, as the bag didn’t have any eye holes, earning a quick slap for its trouble. It finally groped his way to the chair, knocking over my life-size Lego model of Jack the Ripper in the process. It plonked itself down – crooning quietly and rocking to and fro.

“Good evenink, fine sir,” the toerag said, in a cockney accent. “My name is Reginald Tweeb, warden at Saint Mary Mungo Midge’s Asylum for the Terminally Unsightly.”

“I have relatives there,” I retorted. “What of it?”

“From that orrible place, sir, I have brought you this… thing.”

Tweeb pointed to the hooded figure, who had stopped humming and was now unsuccessfully trying to pick its nose through the bag. I briefly wondered how hirsute its nostrils were and if I might make myself a tidy sum this fine morning.

“I am at my wit’s end with this un.” Tweeb slapped the creature’s head again. “So, having been turned away by every reputable doctor, I finally brung him to you.”

“I was all set to take a stroll past Madam Benbecula’s House of Fluff.” I fumbled impatiently for my fob watch before realising I must have left it inside the last person I operated on. “She serves an excellent salmon and banana toasty on Thursdays.”

“Dr Fishbalm!” Tweeb said sternly. “Society has utterly violated this poor wretch. His whole life, he has been leered at, peered at, poked at, pinched, prodded and dribbled on. And that’s just by me.”

“An excellent bit of alliteration, Mr Tweeb,” I congratulated him.

“Thank you. I was Babinda Borough Barrow-Lad Champion, June 2016,” Tweeb said proudly. “I can sell you one of the official calendars if you don’t mind seeing me naked.”

“I mind a great deal.”

“It’s very tasteful. I’m hiding me boy bits behind a boiled Brussels Sprout.”

Though I was again impressed by his mastery of the tongue twister, I politely declined and directed his attention to the wretch in the chair. It was now having a sneezing fit and the bag was getting progressively soggier.

Tweeb wiped a tear from his eye.

“Eventually, this poor creature was reduced to leaping from behind bushes at Loch Boonderoo and living off sandwiches dropped by fleeing tourists. That is where I, Reginald Tweeb, captured him - having refused to let go of a particularly tasty cucumber and prawn triple-decker.”

So Tweeb was fond of packed lunches, too. I began to feel a bond forming between us, which was broken by a momentous hiccup from the object in the chair. The bag wobbled on its head alarmingly.

“A humane bloke, despite my previous criminal convictions,” Tweeb continued. “I decided to restore him to normality.”

I had to admit, I was intrigued.

“What exactly is wrong with the brute?” I inquired hopefully. “It wouldn’t happen to be an especially hairy deformity, by any chance?”

“Worse than that, I fear. See for yourself.”

Tweeb removed the bag, revealing a ginger-haired man. A Styrofoam cup was attached to the top of his head by an elastic band.

“My God!” I staggered back in horror. “It’s hideous!”

“You should see him first thing in the morning.” Tweeb shuddered at the thought. “This ghastly deformity has earned my unfortunate companion the nickname… Elephant Bloke!”

“Tres obviously,” I agreed. “Excuse my French.”

“To be honest,” Tweeb sighed. “I am sometimes uncertain if he really is human or just a talking pachyderm.”

The creature rose to its feet and glared at us balefully.

“I… am… a… MAN!” it shouted.

We stared at him for what seemed like five seconds but was probably only four and a half.

“No, I’m afraid you’re an elephant.” I tried to let him down as gently as possible. “May I call you Dumbo? It’s my favourite film.”

With a dejected grunt, the object sat again. Tweeb rested one elbow on its head in a paternal manner.

“Dr Fishbalm, I won’t beat around the bush.”

“Please don’t.”

“I want you to operate on this elephant… I mean, man. Try and remove the awful malformationism that blights his cranium.”

“No!” I shielded my gaze from the sickening visage and wondered if I could carry out the procedure with my eyes closed. “Do you realise how dangerous an operation like this could be? I won’t do it, I tell you.”

“I’ll pay whatever you want.” Tweeb opened his wallet and a cloud of dust wafted into the air.

“Oh.” I reconsidered. “When would you like me to start?”

“Time is of the essence.” Tweeb glanced around nervously. “I want to get back before me patients start breaking out of the cellar. Last time they escaped, four had been elected to parliament before I tracked em down.”

“As it happens, you’re in luck,” I reassured him. “I always keep a set of surgical tools in my budgie smugglers.”

“Is that entirely safe?” Tweeb’s eyes widened.

“Only if I don’t check before I put them on.” I strode across the room, opened my underwear drawer and pulled out a scalpel. “Now help me hold the creature down.”

We wrestled the Elephant Bloke to the couch. Since my regular assistant - ham-fisted Bob - was getting his hook polished, Tweeb was forced to assist me in the delicate operation. I donned a cooking apron and gave instructions for him to pass me vital instruments.

“Forceps. Check. Drill. Check. Egg whisk. Check. Vacuum cleaner.”

“Why have you got them all up the patient’s nose?” Tweeb frowned.

“Sorry. Force of habit.” I started again. “Circular Saw. Check. Pool cue. Check. Anaesthetic. Check.”

“Shouldn’t you have administered the anaesthetic first?” Tweeb handed it to the Elephant Bloke.

“That’s for me,” I admonished, grabbing the gas back. “The sight of blood makes me throw up and I’m already feeling queasy, looking at this monster.”

We got to work again, while the Elephant Bloke encouraged us with shouts of ‘don’t touch me there ya perv’ and ‘that tickles, you morons’. Finally, I stood back and admired my handiwork.

The plastic cup was now attached to the side of my patient’s cheek.

“Are you sure that’s right?” Tweeb looked rather concerned.

“It’s not quite perfect,” I acknowledged. “But I feel it will suffice. That’ll be four hundred dollars, please.”

“Does it include tax?” Tweeb’s wallet gave an audible creak as he opened it.

“No. I used Scotch Tape.” I snatched the money from him. “My wife, Ethel, will now escort you through the front door. Violently, if necessary.”

“You fiend!” Tweeb spluttered. “Don’t you care what you have done to this poor beast?”

I pondered the question.

“How much extra would I get for that?”

“What about the simple pleasure of a job well done?” Tweeb scolded.

“If I wanted job satisfaction, I’d have become a pole dancer. Madam Benbecula is always looking for new staff.”

Tweeb’s face darkened and he reached into his trouser pocket.

“In that case, sir, I have something to show you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I only really do noses.”

“I will!” He pulled out a silver whistle, much to my relief.

“I am not Reginald Tweeb at all,” he announced. “My name is Harlan McFarlan, Private Dick - and this is my corpulent sidekick, Fats Norbett.”

“The cup is a disguise,” Fats explained. “And you, Dr Fishbalm, are under citizen’s arrest.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed.” I tapped my fingers together. “I haven’t actually done anything illegal. Not this time, anyway.”

“That’s all right. I’ll make something up later.” Harlan blew on his whistle and two burly men in police helmets burst into the room. I looked at them suspiciously.

“Aren’t those toy hats?” I asked. “And why are they wearing straightjackets?”

“They’re from the asylum,” Harlan countered impatiently. “They think they’re Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. Who am I to argue?”

“Got no idea,” I retorted churlishly. “You’ve used two names already.”

“Nice to meet a fellow professional.” Dr Watson wriggled out of his bonds and tipped his plastic headgear at me.

“Don’t get chummy, Watson.” Harlan thrust his finger out. “Seize that villain!”

What could I do? I ran for it. Unfortunately, the French windows were locked and the Elephant Bloke, or Fats as I now knew him, was blocking the door. So we chased each other round the room for a while. Being quite the sprinter in my youth, I often found myself right behind my pursuers, but a swift boot to the pants soon speeded them up.

After what seemed like fifteen minutes but was probably quarter of an hour, I grew weary of the stalemate and employed an old party trick taught to me by Granny Fishbalm, a children’s entertainer at Sparky’s Fun Park and Crematorium.

“Simon says follow my actions,” I cried, leaping upon the nearest chair. “Last one up is a big smell with bells on!”

The fake rozzers jumped upon my leather armchairs, squealing with delight, while Fats clambered onto the couch. Harlan McFarlan ran fruitlessly back and forth until he realised all the seats had been taken. He tried to climb on the sofa with Fats, who gave him an epic wedgie then pushed him back to the floor.

“No cheating, Harlan. Fair’s fair!”

And there the man stood, adjusting his boxer shorts and fuming at being so easily outwitted.

“I believe you are out,” I said smugly.

“We shall see who is out!” He clouted his henchmen until they climbed down. “You, Dr Fishbalm, are nothing but a fraud and a scoundrel!”

I could bear these insults no longer for I have always been a sensitive type. My own mother and father used to call me little snotty parp-pants, which I could have brushed off if I hadn’t been eighteen at the time.

“I am no fraud, you misguided fool.” I removed my top hat, revealing a Styrofoam cup attached to the top of my head.

“I am an... elephant!”

My shameful secret was finally revealed. No more sneaky mud packs at Bill Wrinkly’s Beauty Parlour for Big Revolting Bikies. No more running away and shrieking like a girl whenever I saw a mouse.

Harlan’s henchmen recoiled in disgust and hid behind my desk.

“Daddy?” Fats said expectantly. “Is that you?”

“Fats,” Harlan sighed. “Your plastic cup is just a ruse, remember? You know very well your father is a trout tickler in the Swiss Navy.”

“Oh yeah.” He removed the cup. “I forgot.”

“Which just proves you are not really an elephant,” I scoffed.

“You, sir,” Harlan beckoned to me. “Come down off that very high chair.”

“Shan’t!” I folded my arms defiantly.

“Grab him, men,” Harlan commanded, as his minions advanced on me.

“Come any closer and I’ll jump.” I tensed my muscles and swung both arms to and fro. “I mean it!”

The henchmen scurried back again.

“I think he’s serious, Watson!” The fake Sherlock Holmes cried. “He’s obviously a desperate elephant.”

“Mr Holmes,” Harlan fumed. “Your nuts.”

“Of course I am,” the man shot back. “You just let me out of an asylum.”

“You’re the one trying to arrest an elephant,” Watson added.

“No!” Harlan held out his hand. “Pass me your nuts!”

“That’s not in the police regulations.” Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I was hoping to start a family someday.”

“Your nuts!” Harlan groaned in exasperation. “The nuts you packed for your lunch break!”

“Oh! Feeling a bit peckish, then?” Holmes fished a packet of Nobbie’s Gum Destroyers from his pocket and handed it to Harlan. He took out a peanut and rustled the bag with his other hand.

“My, what a tasty-looking morsel. Mmmmm!”

How could I resist? I tentatively stretched out my arm, grabbed the delicious treat and stuffed it into my mouth. Harlan backed away, laying a trail of peanuts across the carpet. I climbed down and shuffled after him, scooping them up. He nodded to his companions, who gently took my arms and led me away.

“You wouldn’t send a poor elephant to prison, would you?” I pleaded. “How will I fit in the cell?”

“As it happens, I do have another solution,” the detective said nonchalantly. “I happen to be friends with a country and western singer called Utah Jones, who bends iron bars using her teeth in a travelling circus. For a small cut of your wages, I could secure you a job there.”

“How small a cut?” I asked.

“95%”

My eyes lit up. I’ve always been good at haggling.

“Make it 96% and you have a deal.”

“You drive a hard bargain but I accept.” Harlan spread his hands. “I can see the billboards now. Doctor Amadeus Fishbalm: The Amazing Flying Mammoth.”

“But I’m not a mammoth,” I objected. “And I certainly can’t fly.”

“You will when you’re shot out of a cannon.”