Mwynwen - Party on!
By Diana the Valkyrie
I danced off the 940 foot telecoms tower, headed West and slightly South. 


When I woke up, Harry was still asleep, and my headache had gone. Wow, falling
down is seriously not nice. When my head hit the stone floor, it was like
fireworks going off; flashes and bangs. I hope that doesn't happen again. How
do the muddies cope, that must happen to them all the time! No wonder
everywhere you go there's rails to hold on to and walls to stop you falling
off. And now I come to think about it, without any kind of gravy control, how
on earth do they balance on two legs? Why don't they fall over all the time? I
blinked a couple of times, and tossed my head around a bit. Yes, it felt OK
now.

I eased out of bed, not wanting to wake Harry, who was snoring like Sleeping
Beauty before the kiss, and popped outside to the dunny. Then I stopped at the
shower and slashed some cold water over myself, then grabbed a towel and
rubbed myself fairly dry. I lycra'ed up and finished off with a couple of
miles flight to dry my hair and wake up properly. Mostly level, not very fast,
maybe 30 knots, and staying low at around bird level. The birds knew me, I'm
not sure what they thought of me, but I guess birds don't really think. I
wasn't a hawk or an eagle, or any other kind of flying predator, so they
mostly took no notice of me, unless I startled them. Which is good if you're
trying to study their flight characteristics; if they thought I was just some
kind of bird only bigger, that was fine by me.

Harry also thought I was some kind of bird, of course. Or a chick. Harry was
nice; he wasn't my first, of course, and I was pretty sure he wouldn't be my
last, but he would certainly do for now. I followed the winding river through
the valley until I reached Abercadwelly; then I came down for perfect
two-point touchdown just around the corner from the village. I walked along
the road until I came to the phone box, then I popped inside, opened up my
belly-bag, and changed into my civvies; sweater, skirt, shoes and cape. The
cape, I have to admit, is a bit of an affectation, but when you're six foot
three, it looks pretty dramatic to swirl around. Of course, I would never fly
in it, the air drag was just horrendous, unless you stay down to 20 knots or
less. While I was in the phone box, I called Fluff. I had to thank her for the
tasty treat she'd brought me, and I wanted to see if there was any gossip
since I'd dropped her off.

Hi Fluff. Oh, not bad, how are you? Yes, we did. Yes, I did, a big one. On a
scale of one to ten - I suppose twenty or so. I know, I know, but this was a
twenty, right off the scale. No, only twice. No, not today yet, but hey, the
day is young. Fluff, is this all you think about? Oh, I see. Well no, I
wouldn't call it professional curiosity, you're just poking your nose in. Oh
Fluff, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, I'm really glad you brought him
here. No, he still vomits when we fly, but I expect he'll get over that. Yeah,
see you Fluff.

I walked the rest of the way into the village. I needed some fresh
strawberries, some lettuce and to pick up any post. George at the village shop
flirted with me as I picked out a nice crispy lettuce and wrapped it all up
for me in newspaper. I paid him and walked out into the morning sunshine. Back
at the phone box I stuffed all my impedimentia into my belly bag, checked to
see that I was alone, and did a running leap takeoff; flashy but I was feeling
a bit frisky today. I thought about Harry waiting for me back at Gingerbread,
and did a couple of loops and a long corkscrew rolls, just for the sheer joy
of it.

Back at the cottage, Harry was still racking up the zeds, so I made some
toast, with marmite and marmalade, fried a couple of tomatoes and mushrooms,
and let the smell of breakfast wake him up. He ambled over to the dining table
and set out the cutlery. "I woke up but you weren't here". "Out shopping"
"Shopping?" "Down at the village" "Do they know you can, er, um?" "I don't
think so. I don't make it a big secret, but nor do I rub people's noses in it,
they'd get envious. Muddies see all the advantages and none of the drawbacks".
"Drawbacks?" "Well, for example, I can walk, but I can't run." "Can't run? Why
not?" Sure, like it's easy. "Harry, if I can put one foot down before I pick
up the other one, then I can balance if I stir the gravy a bit. But if I
wanted to run, I'd just have to completely fake it. And it's a pretty bad
fake, too, any fool can see it isn't real." He stopped eating and looked at
me. "I guess there must be a whole bunch of stuff I take for granted because I
spent several years learning how to locomote on two legs?" "Watch me, Harry. I
can do the simple stuff, but if I try to run upstairs, forget it." "So you're
like a Dalek?" "Dalek?" "Masters of the universe, couldn't go up stairs?" "Oh,
I can go up stairs, it's slow, and one at a time, and I stir the gravy a bit
to keep upright, and you wouldn't spot that happening. I just can't run up. Or
go down very fast."

Advertising, bill, advert, advert, more junk, begging letter from charity,
double glazing, postcard from Gerry, book-of-the-month, VAT return, advert,
advert, SFO. Uh-oh. I threw the adverts in the bin, passed the
book-of-the-month to Harry "Fancy any of these?", put the bill aside, I'll
give the VAT return to my book-keeper, read the postcard, and then I opened
the SFO letter. Hmm. Business. And with the market for bird-books being the
way it was right now, I thought I'd better take the contract they were
offering. I read the letter again, more carefully, it used the phrase "at your
earliest convenience" which is civil service-speak for "drop everything and
run". Harry came round behind me and read it over my shoulder. Don't you just
hate that? "Hey!" "Sorry", he said, looking totally non-sorry. "What is it?"
"It's a job offer, Harry." "But you're a writer." "If only. I wish I could
support myself by my writing; unfortunately, the market for books about bird
flight is a bit limited. So I do, uh, odd jobs." "Odd jobs?" "Mmm." "What sort
of odd jobs?" "Erm. Jobs that are odd. Peculiar. Unlikely. Weird, even." Light
dawned. "Jobs that call for your, uh, special talents?" "Well, I don't think
I'm that special, Harry, I just do things a bit different from other people,
really." "I think you're special, Mwynwen." "Mmmm?" "Mmmm." "Mmmff." "Nnnngg."
And other muffled noises.

"So why do you call it "Gingerbread Cottage"? "Joke, Harry. There's no such
thing as witches." "I wonder sometimes." "Mmmff." "That old black magic has me
in it's spell" "That old black Magic that you weave so well. Those icy fingers
up and down my spine. The same old witch craft when your eyes meet mine." We
danced, I twirled around and rose up on my tiptoes, did a Grande Jete across
the room, Harry followed a bit more heavily, we came together and I put my
hands on his waist, lightened the gravy down to a nubbin and tossed him across
the room onto the bed, then landed on top of him. "That only your lips could
put out my fire." except that first I lit the fire, then stoked it up to a
good blaze, before fanning it into a conflagration. Then I quenched it, but I
didn't use my lips, I've got a much better quencher. Quench quench quench.

"So what's this all about, Min?" he said afterwards. I leaned on an elbow,
facing him and tried to ignore what he was doing to my breasts. "I'm a cop".
"What?" "A dirty, a rozzer, the fuzz, on The Job". "What with the uniform and
all?" Harry snickered. "I quite fancy a bint in a uniform" "No Harry, I'm not
Uniform Branch, I'm Special Branch, Dog Patrol".

There was a long silence.

"Dog Patrol?"

"Yeah. what did you think they'd call us, Superheroes Division?"

"I hadn't heard ... I didn't know ... you mean there's a ..." "Harry, you're
burbling". I kissed him, and he stopped for a while; so did I. "You're
serious?" "Partly. I do get asked to do things from time to time." "But I
thought superheroes were all, you know, like, independent?" "Vigilantes, you
mean?" "Uh, yes, I suppose you could call them that." "No, Harry. That's just
in the comics. If you prance around in a costume and beat people up, you get
put in prison, people aren't allowed to take the law into their own hands. So
in order to make it all nice and legal, I'm on the Force. Call me Bobby."
"Bobby." "And this is a job for The Camel." "The Camel? Who's that?" "Me."
"Camel??" I nodded. He looked at me. "Bactrian, I assume?" "Bactrian?" I
asked. "Well, the Dromedary only has one hump." I grinned, and replied "They
say that two humps are better that one" "Twice as good", Harry opined, and
continued his attentions to my humps. "No, I call myself The Camel because I
think that calling yourself "Supergirl" is uncool, someone already got
"Batgirl", and "Girl who flies" doesn't have the right sort of ring to it.
"But The Camel?" "As in Sopwith." "Ah." "It turns out that my top speed,
endurance and so forth is very comparable to a Sopwith Camel. It even has twin
Vickers as armaments." Harry continued to play with my armaments.

"So I have to go up to London, to get briefed on this." "Can I come?" "You
just did" "To London." "No, Harry, this is business." Harry put on his
kicked-dog look. "Don't be like that, Harry." "When will you be going?" I
looked out of the window at the sun. "We'll have lunch, I'll get packed, I'll
leave at one." "Today?" "Yes, Harry." "Why today?" "Because you don't hang
about with these things, if you leave them, they get worse, and the trail can
go cold. Maybe it isn't urgent, but they said "at your earliest convenience"
and that means like now." "If I come with you, you can have your meeting while
I wander around Regent Street, then we can meet up for tea at the Dorchester."
Oh wow. "The Dorchester?" He nodded. "Promise?" "Promise." "OK then." "And
then, Min ..." I smiled. "And then, look, it's Friday, the folks down at the
porn vid studio have a bit of a thrash each Friday, you know? To welcome the
weekend? We could crash that, and party on!" This guy was full of good ideas.
"And then there's usually a bunch of us who go on from there to Annabelles,
dance, get stewed" "mmm, sounds nice. Will there be, um, you know? " "Sex?
Min, this is a porn vid studio, sex is wall-to-wall." "OK, you've convinced
me."

This was turning into a major expedition. I'd need clothes, masses of clothes.
My Camel uniform for the business meeting, something a bit restrained but
smart for tea at the Dorchester, something ultra-glam for the party, those
porn stars will all be shining bright, I don't want to look like a dim bulb,
and then something for the nightclub. Wow, it was sounding like a steamer
trunk-full. I started checking through my wardrobe. "Harry, be a love, rustle
up lunch, all the makings are over in the corner there"

OK, what have I got for the party, that's the tricky one, how do I stand out
in a crowd of porn stars? Hmm. Well, there's a couple of things I've got that
they don't, at least not without massive support, plus I'm sure to be a lot
taller. So I dug out my seven inch heels, which would get me up to about seven
feet tall what with those, my own inches and the hairdo I had in mind. And
then a nice simple little powder blue dress, the sort that showed off your
shoulders and sort of gently draped itself over your breasts without actually
hiding them, and which needed shoulder straps to stop if from gently floating
down to the ground leaving you naked, except that mine doesn't have the
straps, I keep it up with a bit of gravy. So I put that on, and the shoes, and
twisted my hair up into a coif with a tail, and called over to Harry. His
expression told me that I was getting the right sort of effect.

I packed all the clothes into my belly-bag, and hefted it. Then I looked at
Harry. Um. Weight. Well, to be accurate, the issue isn't weight, I can always
thin the gravy. The issue is potential energy, which has to be paid for. If
I'm going up to London, I'll want to hit angels three and stay there; if I
have to hoist hefty Harry up that high, it'll be hard work. So I broke the
news to him. He took it badly. He was obviously getting the flying bug.

"You flew Linda to London, what's the difference?" "About 120 pounds, Harry."
And I explained to him about potential energy. "If I really had to, then I
could, but it would be jolly hard work, and I'd probably not go all the way up
to angels three, with an increased risk of panicking the Brylcreme Boys and
have them buzzing me with eggbeaters and such." Harry put on his kicked-dog
look again, but I was absolutely firm on this. "I'll fly you to near Merthyr,
and you can get a train to London, it isn't that big a deal, it'll take about
as long" "Yes, but I wanted ..." "I know what you wanted, Harry, but you ain't
gonna get it."

Harry didn't have much to pack, since he'd arrived with almost nothing, and at
about one o'clock, we held hands, ran down the garden and together shouted
"Geronimo" as we ran off the cliff edge. I picked up as we swooped down,
wheeled left, and set a course for Merthyr. I dropped him off just outside the
town, he could walk in, it isn't far. We kissed goodbye, I checked my
belly-bag, looked around to make sure there weren't any nosy eyes, and did a
running take-off with one fist in the air. The fist doesn't do anything, of
course. I learned that from the Superman film, it looks flashy and it does no
harm.

First, I headed back to the mountains; there was a good wind today, and that
would hit the mountain and rise. I got into the updraft, and circled there for
a while, gaining height. A hawk kept me company, she was there for the same
reason I was. Then, when I'd gotten up a couple of angels, I peeled off, waved
goodbye to the hawk, and headed for the railway, then turned left towards
London. I headed east at about 80 knots, for a couple of hours; at one point,
I saw the eastbound Intercity come up behind me and pass. Harry was probably
on that - he'd get to London before me, but my hurry wasn't so great that I
needed to go above cruising speed. I peeled off as we approached Paddington
and headed for Primrose Hill. There's some good trees there, and I could get
down unobserved. I put on my casuals over the flight suit, and walked from
there to Swiss Cottage, munching on some bread as I went. I then got the tube
to Charing Cross, still eating because a long journey like that really makes
me ravenous, and I was at New Scotland Yard by three pm. I went in. First
stop, the ladies lavatory. Because I needed a quick facewash, and a change.

I don't think I'm shy; I don't think I'm an introvert. What I think, is anyone
who can prance around dressed as a bat is hopelessly exhibitionist and
probably well weird to boot. If I wore my Camel togs on the street, I don't
think I could stand all the pointing and giggling. But now we were indoors,
and it was Official Business, I got out my cape with the camel-head logo on
the back, and attached it round my shoulders. Then I went in to report to my
boss, Inspector Cameron.

"Ah, Constable" he said. "I've been waiting for you." This was something I
hadn't told Harry. This was something that rankled so much, I can't begin to
tell you. I mean, I'm supposed to be some sort of Wonder Woman, right? I'm The
Camel, right? Leap wossnames with a single thingybob, right? And guess how
many superheroines there were? Right. One. And she's a bloody Constable! You
just don't get any lower. You'd think they'd have made me a sergeant, at
least. But no, it's Constable this and Constable that and Constable shine your
shoes. Grrr. I bet if Wonder Woman joined up they'd make her a constable too.

"Sit", he said, like I was one of the four-legged elements of the Dog Patrol.
I sat. He looked up. "Chair, Constable, on the chair, Her Majesty furnishes us
with furniture, kindly stop hovering in midair." I mentally stuck my tongue
out at him. He ignored it. "The shit," he announced, "has hit the fan." "Ah,
and you need someone to fly around collecting it?" He glared at me. "It's
International Telecom. We've been investigating them for months now, and we're
getting abso-bloody-lutely nowhere." "Maybe they haven't done anything?" I
suggested. "Oh, they're in it all right" he said, "in it up to their bloody
elbows." "In what?" "Fraud. Extortion. Monopolistic practices. Market fixing.
Insider trading. Tax evasion. Vat irregularities. Trouble is, they have a
bunch of bloody good accountants covering their tracks. We've seized computers
- nothing. We've hauled a few in for questioning - zilch. And now it's gone
pear-shaped."

"What's happened?" I asked. Cameron leaned forward, so I could enjoy the fetid
smell of his breath, displaying the combined aroma of dead animals, stale beer
and old ashtrays. "They've got their tame MP to ask a Question in the House."
And, I guess, that meant that the heat had gradually descended through the
various departments and ranks at New Scotland Yard until it reached Cameron.
No, correction. Until it reached me. "Orthodox methods have failed, Constable.
So they dumped it on me." "And you're dumping on me, right?" He showed me
seven yellow teeth and a gap. "This is a job for ... The Camel!" he said,
dramatically. "Dung! Dung Dung!!!" I said.

"Yeah, funny." He pushed a large wodge of paper across his desk to me, tied up
neatly in red tape. "Here's your briefing, Mwynwen. Get your finger out." I
stood up and saluted. "Yes sir! Right away sir! On the job sir! CAN DO!!!"
"Oh, fuck off, Min" he said, tiredly.

As I left the Yard, I remembered to take off my cape, and stuffed it back in
my bag. Now I had a bag full of togs, and half a ton of paper, flying was out
of the question, not to mention the difficulties you're likely to face if you
fly down a London street. So, outside the Yard, I hailed a taxi. After all, I
was on Official Business now, I could claim expenses. "Where to, guv?"

And at this point, I was able to do something I'd always wanted to do. I
leaned back in the back seat of a black London taxi, and said "Cabbie - the
Dorchester!"

We arrived outside the main door, and the doorman helped me out. I flashed him
a nice smile as I unfolded myself from the cab - why do they make these things
so small? I grabbed my bundle of papers in one hand, held my bag between my
knees as I fumbled inside for the cab fare, then pulled everything inside the
Dorchester and headed for the Ladies. Because what's right for the Yard, is
most definitely not suitable for a high-class tea-joint like the Dorch.

The Ladies Loo at the Dorch is something else. It's not just your average
toilet, it's a piece of architecture, a work of art. Art Deco, to be exact. I
stripped off my casuals and peeled away the lycra flightsuit, it felt good to
finally get out of that! I used a wet flannel to give myself a bit of a rub
down, get the worst of the sweatiness of the flight off me, then I helped
myself to some of the Dorch's cologne. Then I got dressed; court shoes on
tights, polyester double jersey dress, mid calf, scoop neckline, belt round
the waist, if you've gottem, flauntem. Dab of strawberry behind each ear and
on the collarbone, maybe one down there? No, no way, not in the Dorch, not
even Harry would .. would he? Better safe than sorry, dab dab. Make it all
smell nice and sweet like strawberries. OK folks, The Camel is ready to take
on board a huge load of scones. Bag over my shoulder, but I still had this
ugly great bundle of papers to drag around. Oh well, can't be helped.

I made my way to the Dorchester tea room. The string quartette was in full
flood; something by Mozart, I guessed. I looked round, and there was Harry! I
dumped my bag on the floor, dumped the papers on a chair, and dumped myself on
Harry. We got a few disapproving looks from the other tea-goers; Harry
noticed, and when he came up for air, he said "Just married!" He waved a
waiter over. "More tea for the lady" "I can't have more tea, I haven't had any
tea yet". So we had cucumber sandwiches, and Battenburg cake, and
cress-and-tomato, and they had olive bread, and pecan bread, and dried-tomato
bread, and they didn't even raise an eyebrow when I asked for olive oil
instead of butter, and there was scones and strawberry jam, and fairy cakes
with icing, and lemon tea, and a rich fruit cake with more brandy in it that
was good for anyone, and we had High Tea at the Dorchester. And Harry asked me
about my assignment, so I swore him to secrecy, and told him that he'd be
acting as my deputy, and he asked "What rank?" so I thought fast, and said
"Sergeant", and if he assumed that I outranked him then I hadn't actually told
a pork pie. "So what do I call you?" "I'm the Camel, you can call me
Humphrey." "I'll stick to 'Min'". And then I thumped my wodge of paper onto
the tea table (the Dorch are very tolerant about that sort of thing) and
pulled the red tape.

The papers sort of slumped sideways, and we had a look at what was there.
Company reports, tax submissions, VAT returns. My heart sank. Why drag me into
this? You want a silent traveller through the skies, I'm your Camel. You want
a nitpicker to plough through meaningless mumbo jumbo, include me out. But
Harry seemed to be actually reading this. "You understand any of this, Harry?"
"Sure, he said, not looking up. I used to be a stockbroker's analyst"

Eek! "You never told me this before!" He looked back at me. "Well, it's hardly
the sort of thing one wants to admit to. People ask me, I tell them I'm a male
porn star, I keep my sleazy past a bit quiet. But I don't mind you knowing,
Min." "So you're used to all this sort of stuff?" "Of course. Mind you, all we
ever had to do was come up with three reasons to buy a stock, did you notice
there's hardly ever any recommendations to sell?" "No, Harry. Recommendations
to sell stocks would be like water off a duck's back to me, being as how I
don't have any." "Yes, well," said Harry. "So do you think you can crack
this?" "Min, I don't even know what's here. And after I do, it's got to take
weeks to work out what's going on. If anything."

Well, this was still very good news. It beat the alternative, which was me
spending weeks trying to see what was what before giving up and admitting
failure to Inspector Cameron, who would give me one of his "Well, no surprise
there" looks. So I told Harry that he was in charge of the paperwork in this
case, and I was going off to have a sniff around Exchange Central,
headquarters of International Telecom. "I'll meet you at the party, Harry.
Don't lose the pile of paper"

We kissed goodbye, and I jumped into another black taxi. "Exchange Central,
Telecoms Tower!" "Yes, miss."

He dropped me off at the massively phallic tower; the public reason for this
huge erection was to have the microwave links at the top, so they could get
the range to reach across London. Phooey. I knew what it was all about.
Someone's compensating. I sashayed up to reception, and waited until one of
the six receptionists deigned to notice me. "I want to see the Chairman." "Do
you have an appointment?" "Er, no." "Sorry". "Chief Executive, then?"

We worked our way down the totem pole until I got her grudging agreement that
I could have five minutes with a Junior PR Bunny, Third Class. She gave me a
badge, I got into the lift. The lift went up to the eight floor, and the lift
door opened, and closed. I stayed inside, and sent the lift up to floor 105, 
as high as it would go. Then I opened the hatch in the lift roof and flew up 
through it, so that I was now in the lift shaft.

I flew up the shaft to the top, and it opened out onto the roof, via a safety
door. I lifted the bar on the safety door, remembering the layout carefully; I
wanted to be able to come back this way. Now I was on the roof of a 940 foot
tower, that gave me a magnificent view of the whole of London. I walked to the
edge of the tower and looked down; the cars in the street directly below
looked like toys, the people like ants. I looked up and across London; the sun
was low in the sky behind me, and the red-gold reflection glinted off
thousands of windows like rubies set in the crown of the capital of the
British Empire. Beautiful. But it was getting late, I'd created the means of
entry that I needed, and it was getting close to party time!

The roof of a high tower is a very private place. All high places are - you
just don't get a big crowd of people on a treetop. I hummed to myself and
danced about the roof as I started to get ready. "I'm ... putting on my top
hat ... " I stripped off my tea-in-Dorchester togs, and pulled out my party
frock. It slid over my head with a whisper of powder blue silk (polyester,
actually) and would have puddled round my ankles if I hadn't stirred the gravy
a bit to keep it in place. The electrostatic attraction of the synthetic
fibres molded it to my body like a coat of paint, nipples like bullets; just
the effect I wanted, Harry would be proud of me. I skipped and danced
"polishing my nails", I put my cape on, it added just the right degree of
drama, the big camel face looking haughty and proud, and I could make it flare
out behind me to give a flying effect even when I was mudbound. I put my hair
up into a big loose knot, then let the tail of hair hang down over my back,
spread wide across my back, over the cape. I put on my big seven inch heel
shoes, how do muddies walk in high heels, it feels like I'm falling forward
all the time, I have to straighten up the gravy to stay upright. I reckon that
between the heels and the hairdo, top to toe I would be seven feet two. If
anyone failed to notice me, they'd be blind. When you're going to a party for
porn stars, you have to take extreme measures, and I reckoned I was extremely
extreme, and Harry wouldn't be able to take his eyes off me.

I gathered all my kit up, stuffed it onto my belly-bag, "And I trust that
you'll excuse my dust when I step on the gas" and danced off the 940 foot
telecoms tower, headed West and slightly South. Party on!