The Truth isn't a Page-Turner

A great number of assumptions have been made about my intentions. Since day one, I have been labelled “entitled,” “spoiled” and “intrusive,” but has anyone ever stopped to ask for my version of events? Certainly not. They have depicted me in a multitude of unflattering ways in children’s storybooks. I have become a figure of fun. And did they request my permission to do that? Of course not. I could probably sue someone, if I had the appropriate legal aid. Maybe it isn’t too late for that. Why shouldn’t I get some of the royalties when I’m the star of the story? I should probably stand in busy bookshops, autographing my own book, but I don’t want to endorse it like that. I do think the way I’ve been characterised has been appalling. I might look the picture of innocence in their illustrations, but my personality has always been presented as something perturbing.

The time has come for me to share my side of the story, in the hopes that someone might feel sorry for me, rather than seeing myself represented as some sort of maskless burglar.

I will admit, by society’s standards, that I am privileged: I am white, blonde and bold - according to the writers. Just let me pause for a moment and interrupt myself to say that the writers have never come forward. They remain nameless on the cover of every book. “Goldilocks,” is presented like it’s the Bible: like it’s completely factual when no one really knows who the original author was. I think they’re just too ashamed to come forward. They want to anonymously log their dramatization of events, without any of the backlash of declaring themselves responsible for its authorship.

In reality, that day, I had been cast out of my own household and into the devastatingly dark and dreary woods. Once I’d been swallowed up by them, I hadn’t a hope of returning to my own poky house. It was a cottage – small by anyone’s standards, and with two parental figures with whom I could never see eye to eye. They wanted to call the shots, but their requests were wholly unreasonable, and so I spoke my mind and got banished from the house for the day.

After walking miles, cold and coatless, I came upon the homeliest looking little cottage I had ever seen. The chimney was puffing out plumes of smoke and the peat from the fire smelt inviting. I had never come upon a place like it before and it aroused my curiosity. Who lived there? Would they take pity on me and offer me something to eat? I hadn’t had breakfast yet and my tummy growled, echoing like an empty cavern.

I tapped on the door, politely and hesitantly, but there was no answer. The door was slightly ajar so I nudged it open a little further and called out a questioning form of hello to the inhabitants, but there was no answer. No one appeared to be there. Why they left their door unlocked when they had ventured out was a mystery to me. It was like an open invitation to whoever stumbled upon their sanctuary, and I just happened to be the first.

When I entered, their was a delicious steam emanating from the kitchen. It made my stomach growl even more fiercely. Three bowls of hot, steamy porridge sat on the counter, spoons sitting in them, begging to be eaten, and they looked like they would just go to waste otherwise. Who, I asked myself, would make such a nourishing breakfast and then just abandon it to go cold on the counter? Maybe there had been an emergency and they had left in a hurry. I decided to take care of it for them, to prevent it going to waste. When I took a spoonful from the first bowl, it burned the roof of my mouth. I spat it out and searched for a drink, but there was none around. I took a spoonful of the second bowl with much less steam. It was stone cold. So, naturally, I tried the third. It was the perfect temperature and I happily devoured it.

My legs ached from miles upon miles of walking through the forest. I decided to take the weight off my legs and sit on a chair. I knew it could do no harm. No one had returned and by all appearances, the place was utterly abandoned. It made sense for someone to occupy it. It was a charming place with so many aspects to recommend it. It was a shame no one was making use of it. I sat on the largest chair, but it was hard as a rock. The second was a plush armchair but it was so soft it felt like I was being pulled into it like quicksand. The third little chair was perfect. To my horror, it broke as I sat on it. I felt terrible – much to the surprise of every reader, I expect. I hadn’t meant to break the chair. It was a lovely little seat and it was purely accidental.

After that, tiredness overcame me, so I looked for somewhere to have a quick lie down before resuming my journey through the woods. I located the bedroom which contained three beds. The first was much too hard, so I moved on to the second. It was so supple it offered no support, so I moved on to the third. It was like lying on a cloud. I fell asleep without planning too. My little body was exhausted from the ordeal it had been through that day.

Can you imagine the shock and terror I felt whenever I was awoken, by not one, but three brown bears?! I’d always been warned of their presence in the woods and to give them a wide berth. They could be vicious if you got too close. I had unknowingly stumbled on to their property and used their resources. Had I known the owners would return and who they were, I would never have entertained entering that little cottage for an instant! I might have been considered foolhardy, but as you can see, I was merely a victim of my own circumstances. I fled the house, never to return again, with three fuming bears pursuing me in their human-hunting rage.

And so, Dear Readers, I hope this story of mine puts things into perspective for you, and I hope that you can look at me more favourably hereafter. As you can see, I was grossly misrepresented in the story in which I non-consensually starred in. If it happened today, can you imagine the heroine I would have been of my own legal battle?

Regards,

Clarissa Johnson (also known – rather insultingly I might add – as Goldilocks.) I dye my hair red these days for obvious reasons.