Bartholomew Butterfield, bless his cotton socks, was an old man. Very old. He’d recently married Tiffany, a girl young enough to be his great-granddaughter’s imaginary friend. Bartholomew also had no friends. Well, one. Agnes, his ancient tortoise.
One day, Bartholomew decided to throw a party. He wanted to show Tiffany off, prove to himself he wasn’t completely invisible, and maybe, just maybe, make a friend or two. He sent out invitations to everyone he knew. Which was, essentially, the postman.
Party day arrived. Bartholomew, decked out in his finest tweed suit, anxiously paced by the window. Tiffany, resplendent in a dress that cost more than his retirement fund, sipped champagne and scrolled through Instagram. The doorbell remained stubbornly silent.
Hours crawled by. Bartholomew slumped onto the sofa, dejected. “Nobody’s coming, Tiffany,” he sighed. “I’m an old man, married to a young wife. Why would anyone want to be my friend?”
Tiffany, without looking up from her phone, chirped, “Maybe they’re intimidated, Barty. I mean, look at us! The epitome of… well, something.”
Suddenly, a loud clatter came from the garden. They rushed outside to find Agnes, the tortoise, surrounded by a small, but enthusiastic crowd. It turned out Bartholomew had accidentally addressed all the invitations to the local branch of the “Association of Tortoise Enthusiasts”.
“He’s Bartholomew,” Tiffany explained, pointing to the bewildered old man. “He’s Agnes’… companion.”
One enthusiastic member, clutching a notebook, exclaimed, “So you’re the one who’s been feeding Agnes organic kale! Brilliant! Tell me, what’s your secret to getting her shell so shiny?”
Bartholomew, beaming, launched into a detailed explanation of his tortoise-polishing technique. For the first time in years, he felt truly popular. Tiffany, however, quietly muttered to Agnes, “He may be ancient, but at least he knows how to throw a shell of a party.”
