Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a mythical city of learning. Many students came here from all over the land. They came to soak up the wisdom of the local druids and to experience their customs. Studio they called it, and it was magical.
Little did they know the fate that was to befall them, one sunny day in May. The foe they would face and the strength it would ignite.
Jealous of the fun that the students were having and desperate for delicious English cakes a fell beast stirred from its lair.
The students were in the feast-hall enjoying some cakes in celebration of a local hero, Saint George.
Happily eating away they never saw the dark spec in the otherwise clear blue sky. Only when its vast shadow fell across their mugs of tea did they realise something was wrong.
Down swooped the dragon. Fire burst from its gullet, a ceaseless wave of heat that scorched and blackened the very currents in their fruit cake.
Jam crytalised and cream evaporated as scones shrank beneath the flames.
The students screamed. Such was their commitment to learning that even their cries of terror were in English. They scattered and fled, trying to avoid the sky worm as it swept around for another pass.
"What is this fell creature?" Hitomi asked, crying out to her Social Activity Organiser.
"It is Carole the Dragon. We had thought it slain by its own gluttony or resting content on its vast pile of gold, sated by centuries of blood. But it has returned," I answered.
"Call for Saint George," they cried in unison, all save those with their teeth sunk deep in Bakewell tarts.
"He will not answer," I replied. "He is busy with the post. There is an unholy amount of franking to be done."
By now Carole had returned, smoke crept from its nostrils as it steamed and bellowed. The students huddled in terror, thankful, in these last moments that they would die full of cake.
But then something changed. The air whispered with promise as Kasumi stepped forward. "It falls to us," she said in a hushed tone.
A rumour ran through the crowd. They no longer cowered but stepped forward in an unbroken line, a defiant light in their eyes.
The dragon landed, shaking the very earth. Its tail coiled, thrashing angrily.
"Marc forged this blade for Saint George," I said, drawing forth a mighty sword. "For he was a Blacksmythe ere he worked for Student Services." I handed it to the students.
"Take this lance," said Edwina. "For it was given to me by Sir Edward, the finest of knights, and it makes me weep to wield it now. So sorrowful is our parting. Take care for it was tempered in the tears of the sad lion and this gives it great power." She passed over the lance, with a gentle sob.
And the students charged.
In the smoke and the haze the sound of steel on scale rang out. I could not see, save for plumes of flame and the flash of armour bedecked in the red cross of Saint George. Thus the students fought for themselves.
And when the smoke cleared the dragon was slain.
And did they live happily every after? No, but they lived on enriched by the experience. Able to look back and say, "I was there, at the Studio Cambridge Saint George's Day Tea Party".
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