It all started the day after New Year when I took down my Christmas decorations. Taking down the tree is thankfully an altogether quicker task than putting it up and I had already removed the baubles and the tinsel and was starting to untangle the lights from the plastic coat-hangers that pass for branches when – kazam – the lights went out. Literally. I don’t know how long I was on the floor but when I awoke, groggy and dazed and feeling much like I had the previous morning, I was on the far side of the room with a 6ft Christmas tree between my legs and the pleasant smell of strawberries filling the air.

Slowly and carefully I propped myself up against the wall, shook my head and was surprised to see a piece of pink tissue paper fall to the floor. As I ran my fingers through my hair I winced at the jangle of pain from what my inquisitiveness felt to be a fully blossomed bruise the size of an apple. I swore loudly, only to hear a voice from the doorway say, “Oh, please don’t touch – let me finish making it better”. Admittedly, living on your own and occasioning a large bump to the head can sometimes make you hear voices but I’ve always considered myself a (relatively) sane person and so I was even more surprised when the voice – or more accurately, the owner of the voice – winged her way over to me. She was a fairy.

Fairies, I can confirm, are magnificently more delightful in real life than they could ever be portrayed be it films or photographs or even stories, and my fairy moved with the grace of butterflies and the majesty of swans. She had no wings to flutter instead, with the tempered rise and fall of her outstretched arms she glided across the room in a few simple, purposeful beats. As she came to rest on the edge of the coffee table I was in awe at how beautiful she was, her eyes sparkled the softest blue of a winters morning, the voluminous curls of her auburn hair blending sublimely with what looked to be one of my jumpers and, now that I came to think of it, she was wearing a pair of my jeans also, although they did look better on her than they had ever done on me. I didn’t know what to say. “I hope you don’t mind me wearing your clothes? I needed to put on something - you can have them back if you…” she started to remove the jumper and just for a moment I thought to let her continue before suggesting she keep them for now – she stopped and smiled; It felt like summer.

We talked for an hour as Caprice tenderly nursed my bruise and explained, in her charmingly lyrical manner, what had happened. It seems that a few days ago, Toastie (my toaster) had returned home from a major bender with Breville and the two of them had sat in the front room, finishing off the last of my vodka and heatedly discussing whether, as a result of global warming, they should use more ice in their drinks or simply drink them quicker. At some point Toastie tried to stand up, missed and spilt what remained of his drink down his front, following up with some cantankerous expletives, a puff of smoke and a blown fuse. Breville, drunk as ever, decided that rather than rummage around the kitchen for a spare, they would simply take the fuse from the Christmas tree lights and replace it with the wrapper from one of the chocolate decorations. As most of us know, sweet wrappers and 240v of AC current mix as well as vodka and cider and a shocking hangover was in the post, wrapped and addressed to the person who next touched the Christmas tree lights. None of this explained how Caprice came to be in my flat but, apparently, a connection must have been made between us, so here we were.

To be honest, I’m looking for a fairy tale ending right now and would like to oblige but fate – or at least fate as it rains down on me – was too busy playing with his new Playstation 3. And we had another problem. According to Caprice there are around 5000 fairies in Britain at any one time with many thousands more living in the fairy kingdom, and they freely, albeit invisibly, come and go amongst us as they please, returning home simply by saying the magic word. “Which is?” I asked expectantly. “So many words I’ve thought but can’t recall” Caprice replied with a small shrug of her delicate shoulders, “and yet if I am not home by the setting of this even-sun, I will, I will… ” She trailed off. I guessed it wouldn’t be good.

According to Caprice, the fusing of the lights perhaps activated some kind of protective memory force field in her to prevent her giving out the password should she be captured by evil spirits (no, not tequila or samboka – although sometimes… - no, more like goblins and ghouls and them dastardly estate agents). I suggested a number of options such as finding another fairy and asking them the password but apparently this is strictly forbidden. The only chance we had was to find a spell that would unlock the password - but where would we find such a spell?

Once we’d logged on we headed straight for Google – after all, if it’s out there, its in Google! But two hours later and 1500 pages of Fairy Mythology, some good, some plainly wacky mumbo jumbo, and a large number of quite disturbing pictures - we gave up with a sigh. What could we do now? We had a cup of blackcurrant tea (I keep it for special occasions, like visiting fairies) and Caprice said she was remembering a book, old but in English, and “…1936!” she said with a great big grin - that was when it was published – she was certain, it was also the year she celebrated her 300th birth-year and not a year you’d forget in a hurry! We logged back on and found some sites with reprints that looked promising but they would take at least a week to arrive. Unless…

“Hi, I’m looking for a book”, I said wearing my most plausible smile as I sat down on the metal legged chair. The librarian, in mocking acknowledgement and without looking away from her computer screen, asked, with raised eyebrows and a wave of her hand around the bookcases, “Any one in particular?”

“Well, “ I leaned forward and paused until she looked up; I needed her attention. When she eventually did so I was surprised to see she was younger than my first impression and disarming attractive in that way some people have but would never know and should they know, it would be gone. She waited; I hurriedly gathered my thoughts (they have a habit of straying like sheep) and said, “I’m looking for a book on fairy spells” I waited for her reaction but none came – not even a blink – and as silence enveloped my words, my sentence hung in the air like a trapeze artist waiting for the next trapeze to come along. Still none came; instead she had taken to looking straight at me and - wow – her eyes were the most radiant green.

“Umm,” I stumbled “Do you have many books on Fairy Spells?” I asked, and then I remembered, “Oh yes, and the book I’m after was published in 1936 – possibly London – and”, I decided it was worth a try, “I could really do with it today”.

I’d run out of things to say and as I’d been talking I had felt myself falling for her tousled hair and those small crescents around the corners of her mouth – and then she smiled. “A book on fairy spells? Well, why didn’t you say?” I realised I couldn’t say anything – I was happily drowning in the tsunami of good vibrations that accompanied her smile.

“So let’s see,” she said tapping at a few keys on her computer, “Publisher - London, Date 1936 onwards, keywords ‘Fairy Spells.’” She smiled again as she tapped the last two words, pressed search and waited, her green eyes studying me again while I smiled back at first and then looked nervously between her and the screen. I wanted to say something as the seconds limped by, my brain even suggesting a couple of opening lines until another part of my brain vetoed these as being too obviously a chat-up. These two sides continued to argue it out for a few more seconds before we were all interrupted.

“Well… look at that. There are two books – the first ‘Leggit, P. The history of Liosa’lfar Fairies and Celtic spells.’ 1936. Its out on loan…” tap-tap. “Hmm, and has been since September 2001. The second – ‘Fata, M. The spells of Fairies.’ 1936. Reserved section, Bath Central Library – by appointment only.” I think she was genuinely surprised to find one, let alone two books.

“Is this one any good to you? We could have it brought over next week if you like?” She smiled; I sunbathed in my second summer of the day whilst my brain – uncharacteristically alert for once, perhaps as a result of illogically arguing with itself – tripped over the words “next week” and recognised them as being up to no good.

“Could I go to Bath and take a look for myself?” I asked hopefully and then, at last recognising my obvious anxiousness, I thought perhaps should explain, I mean lie. “Its for a dissertation I’m writing”. Doh! I squirmed in my seat - who on earth would write a dissertation about fairies? Claire didn’t seem to mind. I know because after fifteen minutes, of learning that her name was Claire, that she was from Edinburgh and that Bath library did have the book and I could view it, I was on my way. Oh, and she had my phone number and we were to meet up for a drink on the Saturday evening.

Caprice marvelled as we drove along listening to radio. Not at my car, she said that was an abomination to all living things (not my car, all cars – well, I assumed that’s what she meant). No, she listened in awe to the poptastic sounds of Take That, Mariah Carey and The Cheeky Girls. She was in pop heaven; I drove faster.

Caprice decided she would come into the library with me and made herself invisible but not suppressing her mischievous nature as, to the delight of children and the bewilderment of adults, she pushed books off the bookshelves and flicked the ears of a particularly pug-ugly boy until they glowed red (a bully she said, but still time for him to change).

I pointed out that time was getting on so we got the book, found the spell and Caprice said the magic words to release the password…

“Parazone” she cried “That’s it! That’s the word”. She was jubilant and did a little jig on the table.
“That’s a lime-scale remover,” I said, not wishing to take anything away from her moment but wishing to point out the obvious for obvious sake.
“It means ‘Place of Sanctuary’ in Fairish,” countered Caprice and so, after a few more toilet / sanctuary references we let it be, accepting that language is a funny thing and that once in a while it gets its wires crossed.

We spent the rest of the day together with Caprice telling me about life as a fairy, about the skills of flying, magic spells and about living in the fairy kingdom built on the edge of the horizon. I bought her coffee, which she adored (although it did make her hyper-active and to delightfully, if invisibly, tease the cafe staff) and told her all about Father Christmas, mobile phones and why we had to invade Iraq (none of which made any sense although I think we both agreed Father Christmas was a good idea). By three o’clock we were back home and it was time to say our goodbyes, “Visit any time you like, its all in your dreams,” her parting words as she slowly vanished before my eyes. I smiled, lay back in the sofa and closed my eyes. Just then the fire alarm went off. BEEAARRBEEEARR. Bastard – what is his problem I thought? Just another few minutes…

I opened my eyes and shock my head clear of mugginess - the tree was still lying on the floor but… I ran my fingers through my hair – nothing. Had it been real? Had I met Caprice – and what about Claire? Just then, my phone rang…

Have Fun.