The Storyteller's Big Day

The Storyteller was humming , if a little frantically, a frilly little tune to himself. Today was "The Day". "The Day" he had been awaiting for the last three and a half weeks ever since he had heard that he had been selected for the final of the Storytelling Competition to be held in the local Leisure Centre.

He had, it has to be said, been a little frightened by the Leisure Centre bit, never having set foot inside a Leisure Centre. He wondered if it meant he should attend in informal attire - sweat pants perhaps? Or should it be running shorts? The very thought of himself in a pair of natty lycra running shorts made frissons of embarrassment and shame run up and down his back, but, after a lengthy telephone conference with another Storyteller, Francis Frogwatcher (don't ask! some people just have very strange hobbies in their free time), he discovered that he could wear his usual bright yellow hat and long red coat and was able to concentrate on washing, ironing and starching his outfit until it stood quite freely on its own in his wardrobe.
The Storyteller walked stiffly (perhaps he had overdone the starching bit?) to his front door and along his garden path, rehearsing his tale to himself as he went. The day was frosty and clear and, for a minute, he thought he heard an echo from further up the lane but perhaps it was just a fragment of his imagination?
He caught the Free Bus into town, still rehearsing his tale and still hearing that echo, this time coming from behind him. He turned frequently but, apart from a frail and hooded figure, hunched down in its seat three seats behind, there was nothing there.
On arriving at the Leisure Centre the Storyteller made his way into the main hall. The judges were sitting in a huddle at the front of the stage and a gaggle of storytellers were milling about, muttering to themselves and generally becoming more confused and nervous.
The Storyteller sat down at the back of the hall. He rehearsed his tale once more and once more he heard an echo. He noticed that the frail and hooded figure from the bus was sitting four seats along but, although a frightful thought was lurking at the edge of his mind, he managed to put it out of his head and concentrate harder on his tale.
The time came. The Storyteller rose from his seat and marched confidently to the front. He told his tale (a tale of freedom and frankness he had picked up from his adventures during the French Revolution involving much frippery and frolicking) and sat down again to great applause.
Next up was the frail and hooded figure from the bus (and from the seat four seats along).
The Storyteller froze with shock. The tale being spun in a fragile and reedy voice was......oh no!.....exactly the same free and frank, frippery and frolicky tale as his own!!!! THAT was where the echo had come from......that frail and hooded figure......who was it?....there was something familiar....but what?
As the figure returned to its seat, a croaking sound could be heard from under its hood. The penny dropped, the wheels were grinding, the fruit-machine hit the jackpot. 
"FRANCIS BLOOMING FROGWATCHER!!" bellowed the Storyteller as he jumped up from his seat. He belatedly remembered, during the lengthy telephone conversation about "What to Wear" he had mentioned the tale he would be telling and continued to shout.
Francis looked up in dismay. He looked left and right in a frightfully fearful manner, gathered up his hood and feebly skittered away, out of the door (followed, I have to say, by a very varied assortment of frogs and toads but that's another story).
Once the judging was over a wonderful party was held for all the Storytellers and, at the end of the day, the Storyteller made his way home, humming softly to himself.
Did he win? Well no he didn't actually. But then, you see, that's not what Storytelling is about really is it?