Tipsy

The Candyfloss Land Spring Party was the loudest thing that had ever happened.

Zippy was zooming. Squirmy was wiggling on a table. Winky was leading a conga line that had gone round the garden four times and shown no sign of stopping. Somebody had brought a drum.

And Tipsy stood by the flowers, tip-toeing so softly the petals didn't wake, and thought: nobody would notice if I went home.

It wasn't a sad thought exactly. It was a small, flat, grey one, the kind that sits down in your middle and won't get up.

Tipsy was good at listening. Tipsy was good at breathing, and at going slowly, and at sitting with a friend who was crying. But nobody throws a party for quiet. Nobody shouts "three cheers for the fluff who didn't say anything!"

So Tipsy did the thing Tipsy teaches everybody else. Breathe in through the nose, and fill your tummy up like a balloon. Hold it. Then let it out, slowly, slower than that, until the balloon is empty.

Three times.

And on the third breath, Tipsy noticed something.

The conga line had gone quiet. Winky had flopped down on the grass, puffed out. Jitters was by the gate with her paws over her ears. Shivvy had gone a bit wide-eyed near the drum.

They were all, every one of them, looking for somewhere softer.

"Over here," said Tipsy.

And one by one they came — Winky flopping, Jitters creeping, Shivvy holding on tight — and sat down by the flowers where it was cool and green and the noise was just a friendly hum in the distance.

"Breathe in the fluff," said Tipsy.