Mr Mould is one of the more dull cases at the Royal Institute for Weirdoes. He does not have any outstanding features that would make for an interesting report. In fact he is just mould, not even an exotic type found in the jungles of Borneo. The same boring old type that grows in bathrooms; mould, mildew, call it what you will, names are irrelevant for this kind of thing. Just know that it is the lowest of low, the most ingenious of life forms, confined to only the moistest rooms. This is where all moulds start out on their journey. First the spores land on a moist enough spot and start to grow. They can grow to considerable size depending on the moistness of the spot they have chosen to anchor. Every once in a while a mould, given the right circumstances, can grow to truly gigantic proportions. This in itself is not particularly unusual but once the mould has reached significant size it can take on a level of intelligence like that of a human. This phenomenon happens once every million years and is called a mouldemoistaria.
Conditions were right, the timing was right, the stars were aligned, just about everything was perfect for a mouldemoistaria. In the middle of Bethnal Green, in the house of a young aspiring novelist, a mould started to grow. The bigger the mould grew, the more scared the novelist became. Once the mould was the size of an apple the novelist would not go in the bathroom. You see he was a hypochondriac and feared the spores would make him ill. As he was just an aspiring novelist he didn’t have any money, certainly not to shed out for a mould extractor, or handyman, to deal with it. Luckily his house was close to a public loo and he felt comfortable enough to chill in there. He didn’t open the door to his bathroom till it was too late. The mould had grown, but not only had it grown physically but mentally as well. One day when the novelist was sitting by his typewriter the bathroom door opened; there standing at the doorway was a dark green figure. He didn’t look particularly threatening in fact he looked quite sweet. He was shaped exactly like the novelist. Small, a little tubby round the belly, the same crooked nose and chubby cheeks. The novelist fainted. He didn’t fall and hurt himself because he was sitting in his comfortable writers chair. It had holes in the arms for his coffee and the seat was made of zebra’s liver, which is apparently very soft. The mould roused the novelist but the novelist fainted again when he woke. After three rounds of fainting the novelist finally stayed awake long enough to hear the mould speak. His voice soft and calm like an old peanut, if it could speak, did not do anything helpful for the novelist. As it turned out the mould’s voice was exactly like the novelists. This freaked him out again but instead of fainting he got up and started shouting at the mould, all sorts of nasty things like, ‘get out get out whoever you are’, ‘I can’t even wash my underarms anymore cos of you’, ‘I’ll call the police, but I doubt they’ll do anything, your just a mould’. That last comment stayed with the mould for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to be ‘just a mould’ and he ran out of the house sobbing.
The next three weeks were the worst in his life; he slept on the streets and in people’s greenhouses, sucking the moisture out of bathrooms and cellars. Finally he found his way to a Samaritans home for the homeless and needy. The workers were very kind to him and let him stay if he could keep the mildew from ruining their building. The mould started to life a happier life from then on and the workers grew fond of him, calling him Mr Mould. The longer he stayed at the Samaritans the sicker and weaker the workers were getting. The doctor said all their allergic conditions were worsening, and diagnosed it with simply being around ‘too much mould’. The workers asked Mr Mould to leave, which broke his heart. Mr Mould went back to stealing the moisture from peoples houses and sleeping rough until he was caught by the police for trespassing on the mayor’s property. The police luckily enough didn’t sentence him but sent him straight to us.
We at the Royal Institute for Weirdoes happily took him in and our doctors are researching the phenomenon that caused his birth. They found out that there can only be one ‘intelligent’ mould at any one time and that each time the mouldemoistaria happens one mould dies and another is reborn through his moist material. They identified that the novelists bathroom must have been the moistest place the old ‘intelligent’ mould could find. At present the researchers are trying to find out ways in which Mr Mould can roam about freely and not have adverse affects on others around him. Currently they have him in a bubble, similar to the one for Yogurt Boy and those two have become good friends, often seen bouncing around the playground together.
The novelist has under very poor financial situation tied to sue Mr Mould for being a replica of him but the case is not going very well for him as the public are backing the mould because they feel sorry for him. This novelist has taken full advantage of his situation with his first book coming out called ‘Mould, my story’. We hope Mr Mould a lovely future and maybe one day he can fit into society and not as bathroom pain. That’s all folks see you next time.