Where are they now……Winnie the Pooh.

Life in the hundred acre wood had not been the same since Christopher Robins overdose, he had come back to the hundred acre wood from London after being let go by a Swiss Bank during the crash of 91. It had really opened Pooh’s eyes to a whole new world. Christopher, or Chris as he like to be called now, had a liking for cocaine during the day, cannabis scattered throughout his waking hours and as his redundancy package had dwindled down to the mid three figures, heroin had replaced the coke.

One cold winter day, just after the first snow fall of the year, Pooh went to visit his friend to ask him to roll him a few joints; he had found this new passion due to Chris and his habits. Not having opposable thumbs he found the rolling process impossible. He knew that as long as Chris was not too baked, he would be happy to help out, any time before eleven in the morning and he would be fine. After eleven and it was a totally different box of frogs, Chris would not wake up until gone ten, breakfast would be a couple of fat ones and a mug of tea, once the clock struck eleven out came the spoon and candle, and that was it for the rest of the day. When he arrived at the garden gate, Pooh thought it to be weird that the house was dark, it was ten in the morning, but the dark skies made it feel as though it was just before dusk. The door, as usual, was unlocked and Pooh let himself in. The house was cold and echoed shockingly since Chris had slowly sold all his belongings on eBay, just to raise the cash for his drugs of choice. As Pooh rounded the passageway that led to the dining room he caught his first sight of his lifelong friend.

There, slumped in the corner was Chris, Pooh called his name four maybe five times, but no response came back. As Pooh edged ever closer he could see the syringe still in the crook of his arm. A feeling of dread started rolling around in the pit of Pooh’s tummy, and as it worked its way up to his brain he dropped his stash tray and ran to check the wellbeing of his pal. As he stood beside Chris he could see his pallor was a green slash grey colour, not the vibrant pink it had been. There was vomit down the front of his baggy t-shirt, a puddle of urine where he slumped, and a gag reflex inducing smell of excrement. Pooh waited for the emergency services to arrive and cradled his dead friend in his arms, and thought on how many years ago Chris was just a normal happy child, they would play for hours in the hundred acre wood, play Pooh sticks at the bridge, which now is used by tramps getting smashed out of their boxes on whatever they could afford. When Chris had returned from London he was not quite the same person that had left all those years ago.

Olive wood box

That was three years ago now, and Pooh often thought back to the day he had found his friend dead, especially when he tended his cannabis crop. His life was now unrecognisable to the one in the books and movies, for a start Pooh had mastered the bong, one of his customers on the new estate had shown him this way of smoking weed, so no more asking anyone to skin up for him. It was widely accepted on the new estate that Pooh really did grow the best weed in the west, Pooh never gave his secret away, but he did think it was due to the honey he dissolved in his plant feed, and bat shit. In a secret spot a few hundred yards from his tree he would grow two crops before the cold chills of autumn, the rest of the year he would grow under lights in a secret cupboard deep in the roots of his tree. It made him enough money to buy back just ten acres of the hundred acre wood from the local council.

The wood, well ninety acres of the wood had been sold to developers for cheap housing. Although Pooh had thought it was an eyesore, row upon row of houses all exactly the same, it had given him a rather sizeable client base to sell his product too, every dark cloud and so on. He did have to supplement it at times, usually around Christmas and new year, with weed he bought from growers almost as good as him. The plan was, this coming spring, he would build a big warehouse to grow in, once he had saved enough cash. The plan would be to power it by solar panels to keep costs down, and if he could grow two thousand plants at a time, with four crops a year, it would be more than enough bud to sell, leaving a little more for himself as well.

Many years ago he had felt all he would ever need was plenty of honey and the love of his friends, but since Christopher’s death it had all gone a bit tits up. He still loved honey, but weed gave him that warm squidgy feeling, and he shouted to his empty home…..“I fucking love it” this was evidence to anyone that knew Pooh, that the bong technique was not all he had learnt off the lads on the new estate. Since the death of Christopher Robin all had change for everyone, owl had been caught, and sent to Bristol zoo as one of their treasures of England exhibition, and since Pooh never ventured out of the woods, well, he did go to the themed pub, The A A Milne hostelry, the walls were hung with pictures from his youth, before all changed, but he never went as far as Bristol, so he never did see owl again. Some young kid from the estate had told him after a visit to the zoo that owl had caught bird flu, and died. This made Pooh very sad, but he found with booze and weed, that the pain was manageable.

Cholla Cactus Wood Pen

Then there was Tigger, he could be found selling the big issue in the new town, and drinking methylated spirits under the bridge. On a good day he would splash out on lighter gas for the unique buzz he was looking for. His once beautiful fur was now a patchy alopecia look, and Pooh was sure he had mange, his teeth were now singular as he only had a tooth, and although Pooh would often bump in to him after the pub, most of the time he would give him a very wide berth. His bouncing was now limited to his very pronounced moobs, a sign of liver damage he had heard, and Pooh was sure he could double as a see-saw if he lay on his pot belly. This was not the once proud Tigger he used to know.

Then there was Piglet, he had been shot by kids on the estate with a crossbow as a cheap item for the summer barbecue, and by all accounts, he had been very tasty. Pooh had warned him about running around the woods alone, but he never listened. Pooh had long since been shunned by his old friends, he had to admit to himself that Chris’s death had hit him harder than he thought it would of, and he had finished off the heroin supply left by his friend, but he eventually kicked the habit, he really didn’t like the way it made him feel, and after six months in rehab more had changed in his once innocent home.

Kanga and Roo had been deported back to Australia after they were found to have overstayed with their student visa’s, Pooh still got a little teary eyed at the thought he had not had an opportunity to say good bye. This all happened while he was in rehab, but the story goes that the police and immigration officers descended on the wood at seven thirty one morning kicking in doors and shouting. Kanga and Roo had been led away in handcuffs and leg irons. The press had got wind of the operation and were there snapping away as they were bundled in to the back of a police car and whisked away to the cells. The first Pooh had heard of all this was in the morning papers that littered the rec room. The court case had gone on for weeks, it turned out they had been claiming benefits they were not entitled to, including rent on several homes that did not exist and family that were only real on the paperwork they submitted to the local council. Pooh was shocked to his very core, he had never though the antipodeans would steal from the system to this extent, and still not buy Roo any trousers.

Eeyore’s story was possibly the saddest of all, he had always suffered depression, but it was what had made him a real lovable character. Once Kanga and Roo had been arrested, pooh was in rehab, tigger was nowhere to be found, owl was in a zoo and Christopher Robin had died, he had no one left to jolly him along. One day he just run a warm bath, climbed in and after a few moments thought, he run his cutthroat razor up his arms. He bled to death fairly quickly, Eeyore was not found for many months, by the time he was found all that was left was a Eeyore sack full of bones in water that was now just donkey soup. He was buried in an unmarked grave as there was no one left to give him a proper send off. Very sad indeed thought Pooh.

Life had certainly changed while he had been away, this new life with all its naughty behaviour, including Pooh’s hydroponics were not the antics that had made them a much loved addition to a children’s library, but they had all grown up now, and like various Hollywood child stars the wheels had certainly fallen off their respective wooden wagons. Grown up life with all its pressures was something that he and his friends had no skills to navigate, once the spotlights and cameras had been turned off they had been left to fend for themselves. Chris had left for London and all its temptations, and their lives had started to unravel. It was only after his friend’s redundancy, that drug abuse had touched their lives, but things had already started to turn sour, the drugs were the final nail in the coffin of the hundred acre wood antics. he knew he was not the brightest of bears, and all this reminiscing was giving him a headache. He plopped down in his armchair, filled his cone, flicked on the porn channel on his smart TV, lit the weed, and once again he was buzzing.

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