One pissed off prince

Tim, Yaz and I almost didn't go to a creative writing class this evening, but thanks to everyone else's memories being better than mine, we got there in the end. I'm not sure what I was expecting from it, but it wasn't to be asked, within minutes of plonking down, to get on and write something. Anything, apparently.

We swapped worried looks and got on with it, and then all three of us were brave enough to read out what we'd written to the class. Tim's was a pretty darned fab description of a new ice age (he nearly decided to write his own obituary and set me off into a giggling fit when postulating the line, "He died as he lived: in a hovercraft") and Yaz retold the story of Goldilocks with much more personality - she was pleased to see the porridge, in this version, because of its slow-release carbs.

I was quite proud of my own nonsense - so I thought I would share the unpolished, ridiculous result. I think I might have been channelling IDV as I wrote it. Enjoy! I think...

Lilypads aren't what everyone would class as superior garden furniture, I know, but you learn to work with what you have. Actually it was cosier than you'd have thought, spreading my gnarled little toes across one lilypad each, froggy bottom dangling in the water. Like skiing, only with less of a slope.

And if you're going to get turned into a frog, there are worse places to sit and croak than the royal garden, with all its ridiculous fripperies - I'd recommend it if species swaperoo is your cup of pond murk. So there I sat, testing my balance and feeling a little smug, when SHE appeared, wafting along the garden path like a stick of candyfloss with purpose.

Which purpose, it seemed, was to be as dreamy and wafty and candyflossy as possible in the hope some half-brained noble would find the whole thing enchanting. I once had myself, when I was still strutting about in tights and codpiece, but when you're a frog you get plenty of time for reflection.

Mostly regarding the optimum lilypad position for successful fly-catching, but the simpler things do often bring a sense of perspective. I watched as the dozy bint rolled a golden ball in my direction and looked at me expectantly. It plopped in the pond, flicking a drop of water directly in my eye.

She smiled. I scowled. Though, being a frog, I don't think it conveyed awfully well.

"Well go on then," she said, a little testily. I wasn't done scowling.

This princess wasn't big on patience, for no sooner had I stretched out a leg to make a show of wriggling a defiant toe than she'd grabbed me in her rabid little hands and was digging her nails into my poor bulbous sides. Her lips loomed as she planted a kiss square on my froggy face and - poof! - I was a human again.

Moments passed, moments in which I found enough dignity to maintain my scowl, even knee deep in pond weed without a sock to my name.

"Minky," I said, punctuating my displeasure by coughing up a mosquito.

"Yes, sweetie?" she replied, her face lighting up.

"Must we go through this every time?"

She pouted as I picked up my poor lilypads, now a little squished, and placed one in front and one behind as I heaved a theatrical sigh. The lengths you have to go to these days, I thought wistfully, to hide from a girl once you've dumped her.