I wrote it.

Nothing special this - I just haven't written for a bit and wrote this to demonstrate something about adapting stories for different audiences. I wondered if I could give it some attention later and flesh it out and that and it might be better than it is so putting here to remember.

There was nothing for Mr H. Dumpty to do. He was a fat man. An egg shaped man. Not a pretty young thing. A fat old egg shaped man. He’d had a job once. A job he’d enjoyed. They closed the factory down. Knocked it to the ground.

He wanted to do something but everywhere he went he got told. ‘No jobs here mate’ So he drunk. Cider, vodka, whatever he could get his hands on.

One day they was a parade. A royal parade. At last! Something to do.

Mr Dumpty got up early and went to get a good view. He climbed up on a wall and sat there, waiting for the parade. Of course, he’d brought his vodka with him.

He waited and waited, until finally the king’s parade was passing. The crowds waved and cheered and Mr Dumpty waved and cheered as well. He waved for all his life was worth. He waved, desperate to be seen, desperate not to be a nobody, desperate to be a somebody for a moment, desperate for the king to see him, just for a split second, to be gazed on by royalty, to be watched by someone who mattered, he waved and he waved and he waved so much that….

He fell. Crack. Head, pavement. Skull split like a delicate eggshell.

There was a commotion in the parade. The king had seen him fall. He ordered his men to the scene.

But it was too late. They couldn’t revive him. No matter what they tried.