If only you had somebody upon whom to bestow your great capacity for love.
"Have you come here with your son?" ask one of the fathers, with a dry, mocking, laugh. "Or are you a boyless man?"
And though you are sufficiently riddled with envy to grab his tongue, and pull on it really hard - resulting in a police caution (the less said about that the better) - you decide to use all your available skills to put an end to your misery.
You are going to return home and make yourself a special son of your very own!
There, before you, is your very own son, as real as any other boy, save for his inert coldness.
"I shall call you... Petherfenny," you declare, choking back tears. It is the happiest moment of your life.
"This shall be our first father-son experience, Petherfenny," you say, through bloated muffs of emotion. "A long, father-son nap!"
With your wooden boy cradled in your arms, you slide beneath your duvet, and settle down for your hard-earned sleep.
Within moments, you feel the gentle tug of Morpheus at the corners of your consciousness.
With great relief you confirm that your balsa heir is still beside you in the bed. But then you become aware that there is another presence in the room. Standing on your dresser, with her knees bowed, is a brown fairy: the source of the low ululations.
"I am the Brown Fairy," grumbles the brown fairy. "I understand you have made yourself a wooden boy."
"That's right," you reply, puzzled. "Am I in trouble?"
"Not yet. I am the Brown Fairy, and I know the joy you have brought to so many people through your work. Cupboards. Shelves. Straddling your lathe for their amusement. This is why I am here to grant your greatest wish: I shall bring life to your wooden child. I shall make Petherfenny a real boy!"
"Cool!" you reply, as she sets to work, performing a strange ritual which involves several short claps of her hands, and a number of guttural yelps.
You begin to click your fingers unnecessarily.
"Ooh, yeah," you say as you click, eyes closed, head thrown back. "Yeah, yeah!"
"Hello, father," says Petherfenny, in a high-pitched rasp, as he sits up in the bed, "I am a real boy now."
"Can it be?" you stammer, tumbling out of bed with alarm.
"Yes it can," belches Petherfenny, lifting his smock to demonstrate that - yes - he is indeed a real boy.
"Do you like it, father?" asks your son, waggling his hips from side-to-side, while drooling into his own lap.
"I do like it" you reply, "But not in a bad way."
"You get back under the covers, Father," croaks Petherfenny. "I want to make you breakfast in bed."
You remain in bed, despite the crashes and bangs coming from elsewhere in the house. You want to give Petherfenny this opportunity to explore the boundaries of his newly-given sentience.
He returns with a rusty bowl, which he throws onto the duvet in front of you.
"Eat it, pig!" he snaps, unexpectedly.
You look into the bowl, trying not to gag at the fumes which leak forth from its contents.
"I'm not really hungry," you stammer.
"Eat it or else!" shrieks Petherfenny, shaking violently.
"What is it?"
"Never mind that," he barks, before grabbing a handful of the grey slop and forcing it into your mouth.
It tastes even worse than it looks. Your digestive system struggles to contain the rancid sediment, but somehow you manage to lick the bowl clean.
'Why?" he snaps.
"Because I created you."
Petherfenny scoffs, crouches above your duvet, and emits a cone of ripe diarrhoea.
"Look what I just created! That's my son that is! I'm going to call him Pendrasian!"
Petherfenny starts pointing at the excrement, screeching: "You must treat me with respect, Pendrasian!"
"Love me?" he scoffs. "You don't even know me."
"I only want the best for you," you reply.
"Perhaps you should've thought about that before making me," he snarls. "Do you have any idea how much pain I'm in? I'm an aberration, a perversion of nature. I shouldn't even exist."
"Don't be like that," you insist.
"It's true," hisses Petherfenny. "I'm riddled with tumours and cysts. I can feel them, chewing away at my organs. And there's all this stuff leaking out of my groin."
"Look at me," he screams, his trembling fingers pointing out the blisters covering his veiny torso. "I'm a monster! A travesty! I am Darwin's transgression!"
"No you're not," you beg. "But we should probably get you to a doctor"
"I'm not letting myself be touched up by some wretched old nonce," he sneers.
He then starts fitting, vomiting repeatedly over your bedroom floor, and banging his head against the carpet.
"Stop it, Petherfenny," you order. "You're going to hurt yourself!"
"I'll hurt you, you f@cking c@@@!" he barks.
"Jesus Christ," you mutter to yourself, as you begin cleaning up the mess.
"Fine," you snap. "I wish I'd never had you."
You regret your words the moment they leave your mouth, but before you know it, Petherfenny has burst into tears, and plunged his head into your bucket.
"Petherfenny - no!" you scream, in tandem with the inhuman racket echoing from the pail.
But it is too late. The moment your son has made contact with the soapy water, whatever Brown Fairy magic had brought him to life has been washed away.
Your wooden boy is draped over the rim of the bucket, as lifeless as when you first made him.
You pick your son out of the bucket, and start breaking him apart with your hands. Using your carpentry skills, you fashion his remains into his own little coffin. Later, you hold a modest funeral for him in the grounds of your carpentry warehouse.
As you lower Petherfenny/Petherfenny's casket into the ground, you find the irony so hysterical that you laugh sufficiently hard to wet yourself.
"RIP, Petherfenny," you chuckle, wiping away your tears of mirth...