Ok. Just to get this clear right from the beginning:
Against common belief, I do NOT – I repeat NOT! – know everything.
quite a lot, and quite a lot of that is useless. For example that
most mushrooms will turn pink if you place a new-born toad on them on
New Year's Eve. Not that I have anything against the colour pink –
on the contrary, my ever favourite cauldron is bright pink, and I
wouldn't give it away for anything in the world - but hey, have
you ever tried to find mushrooms or new-born toads on New Year's
All these things – useful, useless or worse – I know because I found them fascinating, intriguing or at least because they were a bloody good laugh. In a nutshell, I know things because they benefit me somehow.
And it does NOT NOT NOT! benefit me to know how hard, say, Auntie Muriel is trying to keep her house clean. I couldn't care less if the dear aunt was drowning in her own garbage. It would not ever bother me if her mess of a house broke down under the burden of all the dirt and dust in this whole bleeding universe!
Do you all get that?
I! DO! NOT! BLOODY! CARE!
I don't even know Auntie Muriel, for Heaven's sake! I don't know whether she has a house or a little hole in the ground to live in! And yet she expects me to know about her efforts in house-keeping. Or lack thereof.
"Merlin knows I am trying …" … "Merlin knows how much I would like to …"
No! Could you please get it into your heads, all of you? I do not know each and every little detail about all your wishes and hopes and efforts. I don't want to know them. Never wanted to and most likely never will. I mean, what do I look like, an Agony Aunt?
to see the matter from my point of view.
Why would a warty old man who has spent the last 1500 years in a tree stump (and pretty much looks like one by now … but that's beside the point), sitting there, day and night (and even morning and evening, would you believe it?), going about his own happy little business (mainly stirring smelly potions in pink cauldrons and looking for mushrooms) and thoroughly enjoying his life, why would this man care about Auntie Muriel's willingness (and obvious incapability - why do you believe I only know things you would like to do, and never those you actually do? I wouldn't be complaining half as much!) to keep her kitchen fit for use? As long as my own kitchen (second branch from the floor. Just in case you're interested, the bathroom's on the third) is in a state that enables it to serve its purpose, who am I to complain?
I'm not the legendary good-doer I've always been sold as. I'm
an eccentric, selfish old man who lives in a tree and who wouldn't
come and put the fire out even if the tree next to him was burning.
I mean, as long as mine is safe, why should I?
Oh, and as for my often-quoted, well known, long and messy beard. If I hear one more person say "Merlin's beard" , I shall cut it off, turn it into a huge pink mushroom and stuff it down the concerning person's throat. That much I know for sure.