“Giggles guaranteed, cures not included.”
Chapter One
A Day in the Life of Dr. Blunderbus
In the town of Cacklefield (population: “We stopped counting after Mrs Bittlelewhit’s triplets”), there lived the world’s worst doctor or best – depends on how you look at it.
His name? Dr Barnaby Blunderbus.
His licence? Questionable.
Mind you, he did go to a medical school, got a certificate to prove it too. Now, to be fair, Dr. Blunderbus wasn’t a bad man. Far from it. He was always cheerful, always smiling, and immensely proud of his so-called medical expertise, which he believed to be second to none. Everyone else in Cacklefield believed it was “second to a rusty teapot with a bad attitude.” Still, he had an air of confidence that could make a trained surgeon doubt themselves, and a bedside manner that was equal parts comforting and deeply unsettling.
And oh, the ailments he diagnosed. They were… unique.
Once, Mrs. Pumpernickel came in with nothing worse than a mild sniffle. She left with orders to wear a hat made entirely of lettuce for a week to cure “Flibberflabber Fever” — a disease only Dr. Blunderbus had ever heard of. Another time, poor Mr. Wigglesworth twisted his ankle, only to be told he had “Jellybone Syndrome” and must soak his feet in custard every night for three days.
“Custard is the answer,” Dr. Blunderbus told him solemnly. “Always has been. Always will be.”
His practice sat neatly (well… mostly neatly) on the corner of Noodle Lane and Chuckle Street, in a squat little building that smelt faintly of lavender and old socks. Inside, dusty medical books sagged on crooked shelves, old charts peeled from the walls like they were trying to escape, and mysterious jars of potions and powders cluttered every surface. Most had long since lost their labels which, in the wrong hands, could have been dangerous, but in his hands, it was downright terrifying.
Most of the time, his patients left his office baffled but too polite to say anything. Or too entertained to question his treatment. After all, Dr. Blunderbus had been the town’s doctor for years, and Cacklefield was the sort of place where the bizarre was basically a local sport.
On Tuesday, Dr Blunderbus polished his glasses, straightened his bow tie, and practised a smile that said, “Trust me, I’m a doctor!”
Unfortunately, it looked more like, “I will definitely sell you a pet rock in trousers.”
“Right then,” he said to himself, looping his stethoscope around his neck like an overly confident scarf grandma knitted.
“Let’s see who requires my unparalleled medical genius today.”
The Case of Mrs. Thistlebottom
His first patient arrived promptly: Mrs. Thistlebottom, a sweet elderly lady with eyes like a worried hedgehog and a basket of freshly baked scones the size of a small boulder.
“Ah, Mrs. Thistlebottom!” he boomed, bouncing out of his chair like a caffeinated jack-in-the-box. “What’s troubling you? A mild case of the Higgledy-Piggledy, perhaps?”
Mrs. Thistlebottom blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind, never mind,” he said, waving the question away as if shooing a moth. “Tell me your symptoms.”
“Headache. A bit of dizziness,” she said, clutching her scones like a shield.
“Ah! Classic case of the Wobble-wobble-itis.”
Dr. Blunderbus nodded sagely, occasionally muttering “hmm” and “fascinating” as if she’d just described a rare discovery in the world of medicine.
Mrs. Thistlebottom frowned. “Never heard of it.”
“Of course not! Only two known cases in history. Both mine. But not to worry!” He rummaged through a drawer and produced a small jar filled with what looked suspiciously like multicoloured marbles. “Take three before bed, spin around in a circle twice, and you’ll be right as rain by Thursday. Oh, and don’t sneeze near milkmaids. It makes the condition contagious.”
Too polite to argue, Mrs. Thistlebottom placed the scones on his desk and backed out of the surgery, eyeing him warily as though Wobblewobbleitis might leap across the room.
Dr. Blunderbus leaned back, slathered a heroic slab of butter on a scone, and sighed.
“Another life saved. And people say medicine isn’t an art.”
Dr. Blunderbus leaned back, slathered a heroic slab of butter on a scone, and sighed.
“Another life saved. And people say medicine isn’t an art.”
The Case of Mr. Piddlesnatch
Barely had he finished licking crumbs off his moustache when the door to his practice flung open with the sort of violence usually reserved for pirate raids or hungry children.
In waddled Mr. Horace Piddlesnatch, local pigeon enthusiast and part-time ladder salesman, clutching his left ear and muttering darkly about “the end times” and “not trusting birds with side-eyes.”
“Doctor!” he bellowed, pointing dramatically at his head. “Something’s gone pop in my ear, and now every time I blink, I hear bagpipes that go SKWEEEEEE!”
Dr. Blunderbus leapt to his feet, eyes lighting up like a cat spotting a gullible goldfish.
“My word… a clear case of Explosive Ear Popping Disorder!”
Mr. Piddlesnatch froze mid-blink. A wheezy skreeee filled the room.
“That’s… an actual thing?”
“Oh yes,” Blunderbus said solemnly. “Usually only occurs when a pigeon flaps near your ear while you’re on a ladder eating cheese.”
Mr. Piddlesnatch blinked again, producing a mournful “skreeeeeee.”
“…how did you know?”
“I’m a doctor,” Blunderbus replied, as though that explained everything. He reached into a cupboard and pulled out what looked suspiciously like a teapot full of glitter.
“Now, treatment is simple. Pour this into your ear — don’t spill, it stains. Then stand on your tiptoes and hum the national anthem backwards.”
“Will that cure me?”
Dr. Blunderbus smiled. “No idea. But it will be tremendously entertaining for anyone watching.”
And so, Mr. Piddlesnatch dropped two copper coins on the desk, tilted his head, and poured the glitter into his ear. A huge gooey bubble of sparkly slime ballooned out with a SPLOING!, lifted him off his feet, and dragged him through the streets like a squeaky, glittery kite.
Dr. Blunderbus jotted notes with glee and waved after him, as though this sort of thing happened every Tuesday.
The Royal Messenger
By the time Mr. Piddlesnatch had floated away — still glittering faintly and humming in reverse like a broken disco ball — Dr. Blunderbus was feeling rather pleased with himself. Two patients cured (or at least entertained) before mid-morning! He was just settling down with tea and a jam scone when a sound shattered the peaceful air.
The unmistakable clatter of galloping hooves.
The frantic squeak of overworked wheels.
And a voice bellowing:
“Make way for the royal messenger! Urgent business from the capital!”
Moments later, a man in a crimson-and-gold uniform burst into the surgery, breathing like he’d just raced a donkey and lost.
“Dr. Blunderbus!” he panted. “You must come at once! The-”
“Oh, my dear boy! Sit, sit. Quickly now, before it spreads!”
The messenger, caught completely off guard, stumbled onto a bench and watched in horror as Dr. Blunderbus scooped random ingredients into a bottle, shook it like a maraca, and shoved it into his hands.
“Drink!”
“Is it serious?”
“Drink boy. DRINK!
The poor messenger gulped it down in one go. His cheeks went purple. He looked like he might redecorate the floor at any moment.
Blunderbus leaned in eagerly. “The emperor has a blue nose, doesn’t he?”
The messenger blinked. “Yes! And hiccups! And an uncontrollable craving for-”
“Pickled onions!” Blunderbus shouted, slapping his desk so hard that a jar of green powder rolled off and exploded in a suspiciously lime-scented puff. “Classic symptoms!”
“How did you…?”
“Never mind,” Blunderbus said, bustling about. “Fetch me my travelling hat, my emergency custard tin, and that bag of herbs labelled ‘Definitely Not Expired.’ Royalty awaits!”
He struck a heroic pose. “And remember, custard is always the answer!”
Chapter Two
Trouble Brews in the Capital
Meanwhile, in the grand and ever-so-slightly overdecorated capital city of Wiggleton, chaos reigned. And not the usual Wiggleton chaos, like the annual “Who Can Wear the Most Hats” festival (last year’s winner wore seventy-four and couldn’t see for a month), but a proper royal crisis.
The Emperor, a portly man whose moustache could legally be classed as a tripping hazard, lay sprawled on a chaise longue so shiny it blinded three servants and a passing pigeon. He wore a robe so sparkly it looked stolen from an overdramatic theatre production, and his face was… frankly, a health warning.
His nose – bright, unapologetic blue – stuck out like a frosty turnip. Every few seconds, a hiccup shot through him, rattling chandeliers and scaring the royal goldfish. Worse still, he had developed an uncontrollable craving for pickled onions, demanding bowls of them between hiccups with the authority of a man who once declared war over a mis-delivered pie.
“This is preposterous!” the Emperor bellowed – HIC! – “I demand a cure immediately!”
The court physicians shuffled nervously. The chief physician, a man shaped like an ironing board in trousers, stepped forward, wringing his hands.
“Your Majesty, we have tried everything – gummy leeches, steam baths, boiled cabbage compresses – and yet the illness persists. It is unlike anything we have ever seen.”
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Then find someone who can fix me, or I will have your head on a silver platter next to the onions. And don’t think I won’t season you.”
The chief physician whimpered and shuffled into the curtains, hoping desperately to be mistaken for drapes.
By mid-afternoon, word of the Emperor’s plight had spread like jam on hot toast. Through tea shops, taverns, and even the suspicious alley where rats played dice. By the time the gossip rolled into sleepy Cacklefield, the story had grown into:
The Emperor is entirely blue, hiccupped his crown into a chandelier, and can only speak in rhyme.
Dr. Blunderbus was in the middle of a very serious consultation with a teapot in the carriage (he was convinced it was whistling at him) when the messenger’s purple face got his colouring back. The poor chap looked so nervous Dr. Blunderbus could hear his ear drums rattle.
“My dear boy,” said Blunderbus, patting his shoulder with the seriousness of a man about to recommend jelly as brain surgery, “I am a doctor. Your Emperor is in the hands of someone whose medical genius is only rivalled by his ability to whistle through his ears.”
The messenger blinked. “…That’s a thing?”
“Of course,” said Blunderbus proudly. “It was described as my greatest achievement by at least two people and one goat.”
By late afternoon, Dr. Blunderbus was rattling through Wiggleton in a carriage that squeaked like a mouse trapped in a trumpet. He sat bolt upright, radiating the self-importance of a man who once cured a headache with marmalade.
The city blurred past: markets bursting with noisy traders, gossiping townsfolk, and horses that looked personally offended at having to pull anything.
Blunderbus puffed out his chest, imagining his glorious palace arrival: trumpets blaring, the Emperor flinging himself at his knees, courtiers shouting,
“Truly, this man’s mind is sharper than a hedgehog in a knitting shop!”
Perhaps a medal. Perhaps even a statue. Ideally with a custard tin.
“An Emperor,” Blunderbus murmured dreamily. “A patient worthy of my brilliance. And to think, just this morning I treated Explosive Ear Popping Disorder. My career is practically vertical.”
Of course, what he did not know – and what you, dear reader, might want to brace yourself for – was that this “royal illness” was about to drag him into something far stickier, stranger, and more politically dangerous than anything Cacklefield had ever produced.
And considering Cacklefield once endured the Great Week of Exploding Turnips, that’s really saying something.
Chapter Three
A Diagnosis Fit for an Emperor
Dr. Barnaby Blunderbus had never felt quite so important in his entire life. The grandeur of the palace! The desperate pleas of the emperor’s advisors! The sheer gravity of being summoned to save the most powerful man in the land had him strutting along the corridors like a balloon someone had over-inflated with smugness. The plush red carpets made him bounce with every step, like a man secretly testing trampolines.
The chief physician, whose posture suggested he’d been born apologising and never quite stopped, escorted him down a corridor so long you could host a three-day cheese-rolling festival in it and still not reach the end.
“Ah yes,” Blunderbus said approvingly, eyeing the marble statues. “A fine palace. Not quite as grand as Mrs. Bumbersnoot’s greenhouse back in Cacklefield. Fewer frogs, obviously.”
They reached the emperor’s chambers, and Blunderbus was ushered inside. His eyes widened. The room was dripping with riches: gilded furniture, silk curtains so shiny you could fry an egg on them, and a chandelier with enough crystals to blind an elephant at twenty paces. There was even a huge painting of the Emperor wrestling a bear, though Blunderbus suspected the bear had been painted in later to make him look braver.
But the real spectacle was the Emperor himself.
Propped up on a bed the size of a boat, he was draped in velvet and surrounded by twitchy attendants. His once-regal appearance was now spoiled by a nose glowing so blue it could guide ships at night, hiccups that made him wobble like jelly on a trampoline, and a scowl so thunderous it deserved its own postcode.
“Ah, you must be Dr. Blunderbus,” the Emperor croaked, hiccupping so hard he nearly swallowed his moustache. “They say you’re my last hope. If you fail, I’ll have your head!”
Blunderbus smiled as though he’d just been promised unlimited pudding. “Fear not, Your Majesty! I have never met an ailment I couldn’t diagnose. Why, only last week I treated Mrs. Pumpernickel for Pickletoe Paralysis. She’s back dancing in the streets now. Quite badly, mind you, but her enthusiasm is infectious.”
The Emperor glowered. “Get on with it.”
Blunderbus whipped out his stethoscope, which he had lovingly named Bessie. “You have a magnificent chest, Your Majesty,” he said, pressing the cold disc against him. “Like a walnut… if the walnut were a large, slightly grumpy man with indigestion.”
The Emperor raised a single eyebrow so sharp it could slice cheese.
“Hmm. Fascinating… curious… extremely curious indeed,” Blunderbus muttered.
“What is it?” demanded the Emperor.
“Your hiccups are not common at all. No, no… this is a condition far rarer. And your nose! That shade of blue! I’ve only ever seen it on tropical fish and one unfortunate milkman from Upper Biddlethorp.”
The court physicians leaned in, hanging on every nonsense word.
Blunderbus stood tall. “Your Majesty, you are suffering from an extremely rare condition known as… Royal Razzle-Dazzle Syndrome!”
Gasps filled the chamber. One servant fainted directly into the pickle onions.
The Emperor blinked. “Royal what now?”
“Royal Razzle-Dazzle Syndrome,” Blunderbus repeated with the seriousness of a man reciting cake ingredients. “It only affects royalty. Symptoms: hiccups, a brightly coloured nose, a wild craving for pickled onions… and, if untreated, spontaneous jazz hands.”
As if on cue, the Emperor’s fingers twitched dangerously.
“How did I get this… syndrome?” he growled.
“Too much pomp, not enough commoner,” Blunderbus said firmly. “Your royal humours are out of balance. Too many parades, banquets, and throne-sittings. Not enough mucking about in gardens or tripping over your own shoelaces. You, sire, have simply… over-royalled.”
The Emperor blinked. “…So, I’m too royal?”
“Exactly! Standing near you makes me feel like a grubby stable boy. Which I take as a compliment, by the way.”
The Emperor’s mouth twitched. “That could be either a compliment… or an insult.”
“Yes,” said Blunderbus cheerfully.
The Emperor slumped. “Fine. Cure me.”
Blunderbus rummaged in his bag, producing a suspicious jar. “Step one: three Wobblewobble Pills, twice a day, with fizzy lemonade. The fizz is vital, it jiggles the royal humours back into place.”
The Emperor frowned. “And that’s it?”
“Oh heavens, no! Step two: bathe nightly in lemon juice. Proper soak. The citric acid will cleanse your aura, and possibly your elbows.”
The Emperor’s left eye twitched. “And step three?”
“A week of nothing but jellybeans. Every colour. Every flavour. Especially the ones that taste like feet. They restore sparkle to your royal essence. And under no circumstances pickled onions, sire. One sniff and you’ll combust. Figuratively. Possibly literally.”
The Emperor stared for a long, dangerous moment — torn between thinking Blunderbus was a medical genius or a maniac with snacks. Desperation won.
“…Do it. But if you fail, your head goes on my cow poop pile.”
Blunderbus bowed so hard his spectacles nearly flew off. “Excellent! Soon you’ll be as fit as a fiddle, albeit one that squeaks when played.”
And with that, the attendants whisked away the pills and jellybeans, the court physicians whispered like angry pigeons, and Dr. Blunderbus strolled out humming a jaunty tune.
Blissfully unaware that his treatment was about to plunge the kingdom into uproar, and himself into a mess stickier than maple syrup on royal curtains.
Chapter Four
The Emperor’s Condition Worsens
The next few days at the palace were nothing short of pandemonium. The sort usually reserved for rampaging rhinos or one of Aunt Mildred’s “surprise visits” (the kind where she stayed for a month and ate all the good cookies).
Determined to banish his bizarre symptoms, the Emperor stuck (mostly) to Dr. Blunderbus’s prescribed regimen. That meant three Wobblewobble Pills a day (always sloshed down with fizzy lemonade that made him burp the national anthem), nightly soaks in a tub of lemon juice big enough to pickle a whale, and – most tragic of all – a diet made entirely of jellybeans.
The palace kitchens were in uproar. The head chef, a rotund man with a moustache curled tighter than a piglet’s tail, nearly fainted when the order first arrived.
“Jellybeans for breakfast! Jellybeans for lunch! Jellybeans for dinner!” he wailed, throwing his hat into a soup tureen. “This isn’t cooking, this is confectionary chaos!”
Within hours, crates of jellybeans clogged every corridor. Servants staggered under the weight, muttering about “the day sugar conquered the palace.” Several were dragged away in sticky heaps after falling victim to what was later dubbed The Great Jellybean Coma of Wiggleton.
Meanwhile, the Emperor’s majestic marble bathtub had been turned into an Olympic-sized vat of lemon juice. Every dawn, an army of lemon-squeezers marched into the courtyard, crushing citrus until the whole palace smelled like the world’s most aggressive cleaning product. Courtiers carried perfumed hankies to keep from sobbing tears of pure lemon. The royal dog permanently smelled like furniture polish.
At first, there was hope. The hiccups eased, slightly, and the Emperor dared to believe Blunderbus’s treatment might work. But by the third morning, the side effects began.
The nose went first. Once a proud, glowing blue, it now changed colour daily.
Tuesday it was hot pink.
Wednesday it turned lurid lime green.
Thursday it developed zebra stripes.
By Saturday, it had become a tasteful tartan. The Scottish ambassador fainted dead away, clutching the royal carpet in ecstasy.
“MINE”
But the hiccups came roaring back with upgrades. Now, every HIC! launched the Emperor two feet into the air like a very cross pogo stick. Attendants stood round his bed like rugby players ready to catch him. One poor squire took a nose to the chin, fell backwards into the lemon bath, and had to be dubked in the horses trough in the stable.
Then there was the jellybean diet. At first, the Emperor attacked it with childlike glee, stuffing handfuls into his cheeks and declaring himself “a simple man of simple sweets.” By day three, his joy had soured into jellybean-hatred. By day five, his teeth rattled like maracas, his tongue had turned rainbow, and his stomach made noises like a herd of angry walruses.
On the fifth morning, His Majesty snapped. His nose was now violently purple with glitter flecks (no one ever figured out how), his hiccup-bounces had worn grooves into the royal carpet, and he was starving for anything that wasn’t shaped like a bean.
“I can’t take this anymore!” he roared, bouncing half a metre off the bed for emphasis. “My nose looks like it’s auditioning for the circus, my stomach’s staging a protest march, and I haven’t sat still since Tuesday! Where is that blasted doctor?”
The court physicians shuffled uneasily, not keen to point out that the treatment had basically turned the Emperor into a royal carnival attraction.
“Perhaps we should… er… fetch Dr. Blunderbus?” squeaked the chief physician, ducking as the Emperor flung a jellybean with alarming velocity.
The Emperor’s glare could have melted steel.
“Send for him! And if he doesn’t cure me this time, I’ll lock him in the dungeons… with the leftover lemon pulp and jellybeans!”
A messenger was dispatched at breakneck speed, galloping through the palace gates so fast his horse filed an official complaint.
Back in the chambers, His Majesty hiccup-bounced, belly-flopped off the bed, rolled straight into the lemon vat, and surfaced smelling like an angry fruit salad.
Chapter Five
The Emperor Takes a Turn for the Bouncier
Back in Cacklefield, Dr. Barnaby Blunderbus was enjoying the sort of smugly peaceful afternoon poets get paid far too much money to write about. He was in his garden, humming cheerfully as he pruned his rose bushes into the vague shapes of famous historical figures (the Duke of Pasta Palace was macaroni and spaghetti arms).
The tranquility shattered with the sound of frantic hoof beats, followed by a royal messenger exploding through the garden gate like an out-of-control cannonball. Several of the doctor’s prized gnomes were flattened in the process, their painted faces frozen forever in ceramic horror.
“Dr. Blunderbus!” the messenger gasped, bent double and wheezing like an asthmatic accordion. “The Emperor demands your immediate return! His condition has worsened and he’s furious!”
Blunderbus blinked, shears still poised mid-snipping. “Worsened, you say? Hmm. Curious. Likely just a minor royal wobble. Happens all the time. Once cured a man whose ears kept humming sea shanties. Perfectly fine now. Well… mostly fine. He only bursts into song during thunderstorms.”
The messenger looked grim. “You’d better hope it’s just a wobble, doctor. His Majesty’s threatening to throw you in the dungeons if you fail again. And not the nice dungeons. The stinky ones. The ones that smell of despair, boiled cabbage, and damp socks.”
Blunderbus did blanch slightly at that but recovered with a brisk moustache twiddle. “Pish-posh! No ailment has ever defeated me. I’ll simply adjust my notes, make a few quick improvements, and presto! Back to his majestically grumpy self.”
Within the hour, he was rattling palace-wards in a royal carriage, muttering to himself.
“Yes… fewer jellybeans… more lemon… or perhaps a custard intervention… hmm, yes, custard never fails.”
When he strutted through the palace gates, he radiated the confidence of a man who had absolutely no clue how dire things had become.
That confidence lasted precisely three seconds.
The Emperor’s bedchamber was a circus in chaos and not the good kind.
His Majesty’s face was now a blinding neon yellow, glowing faintly like a radioactive banana. Each hiccup thundered like cannon fire, blasting him around the room as though he were a furious royal pinball. Chandeliers rattled, priceless vases toppled, and one portrait of Great-Uncle Nigel fell off the wall and landed squarely on a duke.
His hair had collapsed into something resembling an angry bird’s nest, and his robes looked like they’d been savaged by goats on roller skates.
Attendants dashed about in blind panic, trying to catch him mid-bounce before he demolished another priceless heirloom. At one point, he hiccupped so hard he ricocheted off the canopy bed, did a double somersault, and landed head-first in a basket of lemon-scented towels.
“Dr. Blunderbus!” the Emperor bellowed mid-air, his nose now flashing through colours faster than a disco ball.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?”
Blunderbus kept his fixed grin in place, bowing politely even as the Emperor cannoned into a wardrobe.
“Your Majesty, I can see the treatment has… evolved in surprising ways. Fear not! I shall have you cured before you can say ‘Royal Razzle-Dazzle Syndrome’ three times fast.”
The Emperor popped out of the wardrobe, hiccupped himself across the bed, and smashed straight into a pile of lemon barrels. “FIX IT,” he roared, covered in pulp. “Or I’ll make you bounce in the dungeons until your great grandchildren rattle!”
Blunderbus winced. “Yes, of course, at once,” he said, rummaging through his bag with the air of a man looking for a miracle at the bottom of a biscuit tin.
“Perhaps… yes… a stronger Wobblewobble dose? Or the emergency glitter tonic? No, wait, that might make the nose explode… hmm…”
Meanwhile, pandemonium escalated. Three courtiers fainted after being sideswiped by the Emperor’s ricochet. His hiccups developed an echo, so each HIC! was followed by a ghostly hic… hic… hic… from the palace walls. The royal dog howled in time, creating a sort of terrifying hiccup-opera.
Blunderbus cleared his throat loudly over the chaos.
“Well!” he declared with false cheer. “This is… ah… certainly diagnostic data we can work with.”
Chapter Six
Hats Off to the Cure
In desperation, Dr. Barnaby Blunderbus began hurling treatments at the emperor with the same strategy one might use to fix a leaky roof – try everything and hope one of them works before the palace collapses.
First, he dunked the emperor in a barrel of cold water, which only resulted in a soaking wet monarch hiccupping steam like an irritated kettle. Then, he wrapped His Majesty in cabbage leaves “to draw out the toxins,” which mostly drew out a smell that made the court maids fart while they dusted.
Finally, he had the royal band play a soothing melody, hoping to lull the hiccups into submission, but they accidentally struck up the national anthem, prompting the emperor to stand up mid-bounce and salute, nearly knocking over a priceless vase.
Nothing worked. In fact, the emperor’s rage grew so potent that courtiers began taking bets on which unfortunate soul he’d throw at the wall first.
It was at this boiling point that the door to the chamber swung open and in strolled the court jester. Tall, lanky, and wearing a grin that suggested he knew exactly which noble had been sneaking extra pastries from the kitchens, he jingled merrily as he bowed.
“Your Majesty,” he said, his voice light as spun sugar, “I don’t wish to interrupt your… unique bouncing routine, but have you considered it might be your hats?”
The room froze. You could have heard a lemon drop.
“My hats?” the emperor echoed, mid-bounce, his voice somewhere between suspicion and offence. “What about my hats?”
“Well,” the jester continued, twirling his own cap, “you have been wearing those new feathered monstrosities for weeks. Perhaps you’re allergic. Feathers up the nose, colour changes, violent hiccups – fits rather neatly, don’t you think?”
The chief physician’s eyes went wide, as though the jester had just discovered fire.
“It… makes sense. Feathers can be potent irritants. If Your Majesty allows, we could remove them and see what happens.”
Dr. Blunderbus held a questioning feather to his face, sniffing at the feathers and sneezing blue bubbles through his nose.
The emperor, who was now so desperate he would have tried bathing in gravy if it promised relief, nodded sharply.
“Do it. And if this works, I’ll see you rewarded. If it doesn’t… I’ll use the feathers to tar and feather all of you.”
In a flurry of activity, attendants descended upon the royal headwear collection like vultures at a banquet. Velvet, satin, and gold-threaded feathers were whisked away, revealing a very flattened imperial hairstyle underneath.
And then, something miraculous happened.
The emperor’s bouncing slowed… then stopped altogether. The cannon-blast hiccups dwindled to polite little burps. His nose’s light shows faded, returning to its normal shade, somewhere between “regal pink” and “mildly sunburnt.”
“It’s working!” cried one of the younger physicians, who immediately ducked behind a curtain in case he’d spoken too soon.
The emperor sagged back onto the bed, breathing heavily but evenly for the first time in days. “I can’t believe it… all this time, it was the blasted hats.”
Dr. Blunderbus, who had been watching this unfold with the expression of a man whose carefully stacked house of cards had just been flattened by a goat, took a bold step forward.
“Ah yes, the hats!” he said, nodding sagely. “Naturally, I suspected this from the very start. My… er… experimental treatments were merely to, ah, confirm the diagnosis.”
He waved the feather in his hand and explained,”I need to weed out all the things it could not be to get the correct diagnosis.” He clapped the jester on the back joyously and said, “Well done my friend. I appreciate your help!”
The emperor turned his head slowly, fixing Blunderbus with a glare so sharp it could have sliced through his medical bag. “Enough, doctor. You’ve done quite enough.”
Blunderbus felt the cold prickle of self-preservation. “Y-yes, Your Majesty. Merely glad to be of service,” he stammered, bowing so low his spectacles slid halfway off his nose.
“Leave me,” the emperor ordered. “And pray I never require your… unique brand of medicine again.”
Blunderbus didn’t wait for a second invitation. He swept up his bag, nodded politely to the jester (who was now wearing one of the confiscated feathered hats in mockery), and made a hasty exit.
By the time he reached Cacklefield, his dreams of royal fame had crumbled into dust.
As he trudged back into his surgery, he muttered to himself, “Perhaps I’ll stick to colds and sprained ankles. Yes… less chance of beheadings that way.”
And so, life in Cacklefield returned to its peculiar normal, with Dr. Blunderbus once again prescribing lettuce hats, custard foot baths, and other treatments of highly questionable merit – to a public that, despite everything, couldn’t help but be fond of him.
As for the Emperor? He never touched a feathered hat again, declaring them “a menace to public health” and replacing them with a simpler, safer style… a plain gold crown, with absolutely nothing that could make him sneeze, hiccup, or bounce.
Moira Rand Books 