The Onion Patch

Aunt Mildew v the Mud

2012-01-25T03:50:00.000-08:00

I have a friend called Bert. He likes:
• Football
• Saturdays
• Grubbing around in the playground
• Sliding on the kitchen floor on his knees
• Trying to pick up stuff that he probably shouldn’t be trying to pick up.

My friend Bert doesn’t like:
• Washing his hands
• Washing his face
• Washing his feet
• Baths

This was all very well when his parents were around – they seemed to have quite a relaxed attitude to these things. But when they went away for a Special Birthday and Bert’s aunt came to stay, well. That was a different matter.

She was there for four days but Bert said later it felt like four million years.

Aunt Mildew likes:
• Cleanliness
• Tidiness
• Things that smell nice
• Baths

Aunt Mildrew doesn’t like:
• Dirty Bert

By the time the four days were up, Bert was a different boy. His teeth sparkled like diamonds. His hair shone like gold. His face was just a face, unsmeared by mud and with no pen on it.

Even his feet were so clean and fragrant that butterflies alighted on his toes, mistaking them for flowers.

But Bert did not look happy. It took me a long time to recognise him. When I did, I threw some mud at him.

Then he smiled.

Small Kings

2012-01-16T10:30:00.000-08:00

King Lucullus was young and rather reckless and had never done much ruling before. So when the old king his father died and he took over the reigning of the patch of grass and pebbles between the café and the fishing boats, people drew breath and wondered how it would go.

At first Lucullus was very busy. He decided to have the pebbles moved to the left hand side of his kingdom, and some plants brought in the make the area around his palace look a bit nicer. But there were no plants in his lands, so he had to make a series of sneaky forays into his neighbour’s kingdom. King Pog, an older but definitely more fearless king, was away visiting his wife’s family on the other side of the main road, a journey of many weeks, so Lucullus took his chance and pinched four mighty sea cabbages and some thrift. He would have uprooted more grass as well – for Pog’s lands were greener than his own – but he heard rumour of the king’s return so made haste back to behind the café.

When King Pog saw the devastation caused and the vast craters of soil across his once-beautiful kingdom, he was furious. ‘He could have just asked!’ he thundered. ‘Well, in that case, I will have his pebbles to line my Imperial Avenues! Bring me all the pebbles you can carry.’

King Pog’s soldiers sighed and made a series of daring forays into King Lucullus’s lands to steal his pebbles. Lucullus was not away, he just didn’t notice, being young and reckless.

And so, I am sorry to say, many years followed of the great to-ing and fro-ing of grass and soil and pebbles and little gravelly rocks and plants until both kingdoms looked pretty much as they had to begin with. But King Lucullus felt that he had worked the wilder and more reckless side to his nature out, and could now get down the business of ruling properly.

Ben the God of Lego

2011-10-07T05:41:00.003-07:00

My friend Ben is brilliant.

He only has to look into my box of Lego to come up with the best ideas for space ships, armed fighter jets, power-propelled underwater zoom subs. Even the names are his; I usually just make boats and cars and aeroplanes.

The sound of rummaging and digging and scattering fills the house when Ben comes round to play. Last time we made an intergalactic star-station filled with sub-humanoid creatures and ectoplasm that was actually playdoh, but when Ben had twisted it into strange and wonderful shapes, I really believed it could be ectoplasm. He took apart my police helicopter and the dinosaur my sister had made to create the star-station pod walkways and a range of alien monsters that looked a bit like giant spiders.

‘They look a bit like spiders,’ I said.

‘They’re not spiders. They’re semi-anthropoid beings made of unidentified matter from the planet Clag. Pass me that boat; I want to make a Speeder Tank.’

Just before Ben’s dad comes to collect him, we put all the Lego that Ben had made on display in my bedroom. Then, after he’s gone, I look at it and think; I wish I was as good at Lego as Ben. He’s brilliant.

I wish he hadn’t broken up my police helicopter, though.

Hair

2011-10-04T04:15:00.000-07:00

My hair and I have lived separate lives. There have been times when we seem to have followed a similar trajectory, most mostly I think we are together by chance.

It began life as a halo; wispy silky strands that fell upon my cot pillow as quickly as they appeared, embroidering it with gold. It grew long and fringed, then bobbed and short and long again, almost without me noticing. It rose and fell with the seasons and the years and my mother’s whims.

When I was eight she took me to her hairdressers with a picture of a pageboy and instructions to cut my fringe so short that there was nothing left to hide behind. I am not sure I have ever recovered from that.

At seventeen it went scarlet in response, I thought, to the shock of exams, before taking on a more gothic hue and roping itself into tangled locks that I knotted with coloured rags and ribbons. Carrying its weight and wearing it like a badge that stated my intentions, I strayed out of school and into a far away university where I became known as the Girl with the Purple Hair. But really, it was the Purple Hair with the Girl; I was content to live underneath its shadow in relative obscurity.

A teary afternoon behind rain-streaked glass, steamy on the inside and alive with the insect clip- clip of scissors saw the last of the purple locks fall to the floor, swept up and away like the vestiges of my mismanaged romance. I was the Girl with Nothing, no identity salvaged. ‘I look like a six year old boy!’ I wept all the way home and the pain of that almost transcended the dull ache of my heart.

It was sober and sleek for my first job; empowered and even sleeker during subsequent promotions while I spiralled out of my depth. It went away completely in the aftermath of the illness, to return tentatively as brittle and curly as a wiry dog. I would look at myself in the bathroom mirror, hand over my head, then hand over my face, trying to decide which one was me. ‘Why did you desert me?’ I scolded, but nevertheless touched it gently and lavished it with expensive conditioner to prevent it from littering my pillow again.

I believed that hair and illness hung in a fine balance. While one stayed and grew strong, the other would not come back.

‘You look so different, it suits you,’ said my friends. But of course it didn’t. It never has. It has only suited itself.

Nowadays I am red-cheeked and brisk, feeling my old age like a delicate gift. I get on with things, a real do-er. I run groups, nurture my grandchildren and my garden with kindly absent-mindedness. I am busier than I ever have been, but my hair is finally still; white and peaceful in its old-lady crop. I have forgiven it; it has, if you like, found peace.

A Murder of Hummingbirds

2011-10-04T04:14:00.000-07:00

It was the hippos that started it.

‘I don’t see why we should be known as a crash and you get away with being a charm,’ complained Grand Lady Hippo as she adjusted her tail before daintily seating herself. ‘I for one have never been part of a crash of hippos and I never shall be.’

The hummingbirds to whom she was directing her comments settled menacingly upon the branch above her head. Their leader snarled at her. ‘Don’t get ideas, lady. There’s nothin’ charmin’ about us. We’re hard, we’re nasty. We mean business. We want to be in a murder, like the crows.’

‘Well, be my guest,’ replied the crow loftily, looking up from his newspaper. ‘I think I speak for my fellow crows when I say that the collective term ‘murder’ has never appealed and we would be more than happy to exchange. For example, we all feel that a culture of bacteria is completely wasted on them. I’ve never seen one read a book in its life! Whereas I have several degrees and my wife is a master of philosophy.’

‘Yeah! Yeah!’ twittered the nightingales (‘What’s a bacterial?’ asked one. ‘Never you mind,’ growled the leader through gritted beak, ‘you just get on with robbing that nest.’) ‘That settles it then, us lot will be a Murder of Hummingbirds, and you lot,’ he waved a wing at Grand Lady Hippopotamus, ‘can be a Charm of Hippos and you high and mighty crows can be a Culture. And them bacterials can be whatever they want.’

‘Ooh!’ cried a passing llama. ‘In that case, darlings, I don’t want to be a herd. Everyone’s a herd, its so passé. I want to be something daring, like a whoop.’

‘You can’t be a whoop,’ muttered a baboon. ‘We’re a whoop, and if you become a whoop then everyone else will want to and then you might as well have stuck to being in a herd.’

‘Oh,’ said the llama, dejected. ‘How about a congress?’

‘Nope,’ replied the baboon grinning. ‘We’re a congress, too. We have two words, you see. You’ll just have to stick to herd…Oh! What are you doing?’

The murder of hummingbirds had swooped on the baboon whose grin was fading fast. The leader sat on his nose.

‘If the lady wants to be in a whoop, sonny Jim, I suggest you let her. All right?’

‘All right,’ mumbled the baboon and sidled away.

‘Lovely job, come on lads – let’s MAKE SOME NOISE!’ And off the hummingbirds flew, leaving all the animals happy with their new groups. All except the baboon, who wished he’d handled things differently.

Lord of the Drawers

2011-06-16T11:07:00.001-07:00

The climb had been long and difficult but at last he heaved himself over the edge and into uncharted territory. He was in a strange place, strewn with strange cloth objects.

Suddenly someone, or something pulled his legs out from under him and he lay, helpless, among the cloth objects.

‘Who goes there?’ boomed a voice close to his ear.

‘I am the Lord of the Sock Drawer. And who, pray, are you, villain?’

‘I am King of the Underpants. No one enters my drawer without asking first!’

The Lord of the Sock Drawer got up into a sitting position and rubbed his leg.

‘That hurt. What are all these things?’

They are the Underpants. Since time began my mission has been to guard their resting place.’

The Lord of the Sock Drawer looked about him. Since time began he had been guarding the Socks, but today, for a reason he could not explain, he had felt the urge to leave his drawer and explore.

‘Do you want to come with me?’ he asked the King of the Underpants.

‘OK.’

So they left their drawers, which turned out to be housed in some sort of large wooden box, and for many days and nights travelled across the Land of Bedroom, the Land of Landing, until they came to a room with a slippery surface.

‘The Bathroom,’ whispered the King of Underpants to the Lord of the Sock Drawer. ‘We must be very careful. I have heard bad things about this place.’

AAAAAAARRRGH!

Something, or someone, ran at them with a huge stick with bristles on one end, knocking them both flat on their backs.

‘Take that! And that! I am the Queen of the Bathroom Cabinet and nobody, I repeat, nobody enters my domain without a written request and confirmation!’

‘Oh Queen, we are the Lords - (‘and Kings’, said the King) of the Drawers, exploring uncharted territories.’

‘Ah. Well you’d better come in then.’

They had a very pleasant stay with the queen, but after a few days the Lord of the Sock Drawer started to worry about his socks, and the King of the Underpants found the bathroom to be a little draughty, so they bade the good queen farewell and journeyed, over days and hours, back to the bedroom.

‘Goodbye friend,’ said the King of the Underpants.

‘Goodbye,’ said the Lord of the Sock Drawer. ‘You are most welcome to visit.’
But he knew that he wouldn’t be venturing out of his sock drawer again, not for a long time.

Lost (g)love

2011-03-21T11:22:00.001-07:00

(One for the grown-ups...)

She was lost a long time ago.

She never saw her partner leave. She thinks he was taken away, but still, she wonders why he never looks for her. Perhaps he does, but in the wrong places.

It happened at a railway station, Euston, she thinks. And there she has stayed since the winter, on an overlooked ledge near the vending machine. Sometimes people try to pick her up but quickly they replace her, knowing she’s not for them after all.

She was lovely in her day: vanilla kid leather, delicately stitched by careful Italian hands. And well-cared for, too. She and he: a luxurious, expensive couple, used for February weddings and job interviews, lunch with an amour, dinner with a husband.

She has watched people come and go, witnessed the weather turn from rain-strewn to light-dazzled. She, on her ledge, has seen many glances and twitches, shufflings and surreptitious checking of make up, of wedding rings, of business notes.

Then, oh! Her ledge is crowded with wool – a great green hairy wet wool thing with its fingers all stretched and a hole in the palm. It stays on her ledge and over the weeks tries to be friendly, tries to start conversations, even tries a clumsy advance. But each time she turns away. This creature is not for her. Only the beautiful, vanilla, delicately-stitched partner into whose warmth she folded at the end of the day.

Ninja Hen

2011-03-08T03:12:00.000-08:00

‘Aha!’ thought the fox.

‘Oh heck,’ thought the hen.

‘Swiftly does it, old boy,’ thought the fox, and pounced.

‘Brace yourself,’ thought the hen and gritted her beak.

‘Ouch,’ thought the hen, as she was carried off in the fox’s strong jaws. ‘Remember your training, remember your training.’

‘Yum,’ thought the fox as he dumped the hen down in a corner of his den and busied himself setting the table with salt, pepper, a knife, a fork, a red and white checked napkin (for he was a fastidious chap) and a bottle of tomato ketchup, just in case.

The hen kept her eyes firmly closed until just the right moment. She had been the best pupil in her class and now remembered everything she must do as if it were written down in front of her.

‘Woo hoo!’ thought the fox when he’d finished his preparations and licked his lips in anticipation of supper.

‘Right, now!’ thought the hen and in a swirl of feathers, a scissor kick of claws and a splicing jab of her wings, she leapt up from the corner shouting:

‘CLUUUUUCK!’

‘Oh,’ thought the fox, when he regained consciousness the following morning. ‘Oh dear.’

He rubbed a sore bump on his nose and wondered, as he tried to stand up and fell down again, who had tied his front paws together.

‘What happened to my dinner?’

He looked round him, but the den was empty. The table was still laid with salt, pepper, a knife, a fork and a red and white checked napkin. But in the place of the bottle of tomato ketchup was a nice, brown egg.

(In memoriam Doris and Esmeralda)

A boy and his bike

2011-03-01T02:23:00.000-08:00

After clambering up the side of the steep hill dragging his bicycle behind him, it seems a good idea to rest for a while at the top. The sun beats down on the boy’s back; it’s the start of the summer holidays and six weeks stretch ahead of him like an endless plain.

From up high on the hill he can see the flash of a lake, the red of a tractor in a field, the distant flatness of sea. From here the white chalk horse is so close, etched into the hillside by who knows who.

‘One, two, three, go!’ he says to himself and taking one final look down, he kicks away the ground beneath the wheels and launches himself over the edge, skittering over stones and bumping over clumps of grass, half following the chalk path but sometimes taking a short cut. On straight bits he sticks out his legs and feels the strong wind rushing past him, hurrying in the other direction. And the little stones bound along the path with him, rolling and picking up more of their fellows, and the pricky twiggy bushes are chasing him on their stubby little legs and out of the corner of his eye he sees a white thing moving and realises the horse is now galloping close behind him, throwing up clods of earth with its hooves.

Faster and faster and faster they all go, pulling the summer behind them, the boy just ahead and the horse snorting behind. ‘I’ve got you, I’ve won!’ shouts the boy as he feels the ground flatten until finally, in a skid of pebbles and rocks the boy and his bike come to a long slow halt, panting and wide-eyed and not quite believing he’s just done that.

He catches his breath before glancing behind him. All is as it was. But if he looks carefully, he might just see the horse’s flanks panting in and out, high up on the chalk hillside.

(inspired by Louis McNeice’s beautiful poem ‘The Cyclist’)

Mad Hat

2011-02-08T05:37:00.001-08:00

It's raining.
Again.
And Dad says we have to walk into town because Mum's got the car and he hasn't any change for the bus.
I can't believe he thinks it's OK to walk on a day like this, but I stand outside anyway, waiting for him to find the door keys he's just put down and lost.
Again.
My hood makes me look like a tall pixie but as I'm putting it up, Mr B. from over the road runs out of his house.
'You look very miserable, Barney. Do you need to borrow a hat?'
Hmm. A hat. Not sure.
'It's a very fine hat. Old. My grandfather bought it back from China. The story goes he won it in a bet.'
Er…
'It's a magic hat.'
That’s it. I can't say no to a magic hat.
Mr B. runs back into his house and comes out seconds later brandishing the hat.
'When you don't want to wear it any more, say *$%^£**&* (he whispers a word in my ear), and remove it, quickly.'
The hat is squashy and brown and doesn't look magic. But I wave him goodbye and put it on.
Mad!
It turns into a souwester!
'Nice hat,' says Dad.
I take it off to show him, but it disappears to reveal a purple and red jester's hat.
Next is a wide-brimmed fedora. I catch my reflection in a shop window and am pleased. I look like Zorro.
Underneath that is a bowler hat, then a stetson, a top hat, a tricorn.
By the time we have reached town, I am sporting a giant bearskin.
People stop me to comment on my marvellous headgear. As we get on the bus to come home, a small crowd applaud me. It has been a good trip.
'Best return the hat now,' says Dad. My mortarboard nearly caught him in the eye.
I ring Mr B's bell but he is out. No matter! The hat turns into a flat cap, and I post it through the letterbox.

How to draw animals...

2011-01-12T06:55:00.000-08:00

The man who drew pictures for a living was flustered. He had just one day left to create the front cover of a new book, and he couldn’t get it right. On the floor by his desk was a mountain of scrunched up paper; the bin overflowed and he rubbed his eyes with weariness.

I know, he thought, I draw a nice, big rabbit. But he drew the rabbit so quickly that it kicked its back legs in the air and ran off the page to dig a burrow. Hmm, thought the cartoonist, I’ll have to draw slower.

So he drew another rabbit, less hastily, but still it scampered off the page and hid in the first rabbit’s burrow.

Right! This one’s not getting away from me! He drew a whiskery fat rabbit with a carrot, but that rabbit looked at him knowingly from its pencilled eye and hopped away, carrot in mouth.

Grrr, thought the cartoonist. What to do? Time was ticking on, the afternoon had darkened into evening and he got up to light a lamp.

Rabbits are all wrong, he decided. I need to draw a much slower animal that will not flee, nor hide, nor dig. He scratched his head with his pencil. A tortoise! Yes, a tortoise would be perfect. Just to make sure, he drew his tortoise slowly and deliberately until finally it was finished – a beautiful tortoise that would look marvellous on the front cover of the new book.

Hooray! he shouted out loud. The tortoise, clearly startled by the sudden noise, tucked its head firmly in its shell and refused to come out, even when he poked it with his pencil. Now his beautiful tortoise looked like a big pebble. Nobody would buy a book with a big pebble on the cover. He put the tortoise to one side in despair.

The cartoonist made a cup of tea. He walked about a bit. He made another cup of tea and ate a biscuit.

Then an idea came. He would draw a dog. It didn’t matter if he drew it quickly or slowly. He made it a shaggy sort of dog, the sort of dog you’d want to hug. As soon as he finished it, the dog barked, sniffed around a bit then ran off to annoy the rabbits and the sulking tortoise. But the cartoonist whistled and the dog lolloped back, sat down and waited until the man had finished sketching its basket. It got in and barked again, so he drew it a bone to chew on while – at last! – he could finally get some sleep.

Elf

2011-01-05T07:42:00.001-08:00

January is an important month for elves.

On the 30th day the exam results from the School of Elven Magic are announced. No one has ever failed in 500 years.

Except today.

As the air rings green with thousands of tiny elvish hats being thrown up in celebration, one elf creeps away, hat pulled down over his eyes. He doesn’t want to explain that he hasn’t learnt anything at all and had mostly been asleep during his exams.

‘Not to worry!’ he thinks. ‘Everyone needs an Elf. Even an unqualified one. I shall go forth and sell my skills direct.’

So he makes his way to a school playground.

‘What are you?’ yell the children, delighted at the little green chap standing on their bench.

‘I am the Weather Elf! I make the weather!’

‘No you don’t,’ replies a girl. ‘The weather is made by air and water moving around high above there.’ She pointed to the sky. ‘They make the wind and rain and clouds.’

‘Oh,’ says the Elf. ‘Then I am the Flower Elf! I paint the flowers bright colours for all to see!’

‘No you don’t,’ says a boy. ‘Flowers have colour chemicals in them to attract birds and insects.’

These children know more than he thought. ‘Then I am the Rainbow Elf!’

‘That’s water in the air, again,’ says the girl, looking a bit bored.

‘Hmm,’ says the Elf. ‘I am the Honey Elf?’

‘That’s bees.’

The Popcorn Elf?’

‘Made in a pan.’

It seems like people don’t need unqualified elves after all. The Elf waves the puzzled children goodbye and wanders about a bit until evening sets in. As he passes a garden gate he notices a gnome, fishing at a pond. The company of a gnome is better than no company at all, he thinks, and walks under the garden gate to sit next to the gnome, who doesn’t look at him but carries on fishing.

‘Caught anything?’

No reply.

‘I like your toadstool.’

No reply.

‘What a miserable chap,’ thinks the Elf. ‘I shan’t bother with him any more.’ And he lies down under the toadstool and pulls a leaf over him against the cold.

The next morning, the frost has cracked the gnome right down the middle and his head has fallen off.

The Elf looks around him to make sure no one is looking, then kicks the pieces of broken gnome into the pond, saving the fishing rod. Climbing carefully onto the toadstool, he rearranges his hat at a jaunty angle and waits to see what happens next.

Out of the back door shoots a dog and three children. ‘Oh mum!’ they cry. ‘Thanks for the new gnome! The other one was rubbish. This one’s much smilier. And he’s got a better hat.’

‘I am the Garden Elf,’ thinks the Elf, satisfied.

The Museum

2010-11-16T02:13:00.001-08:00

'I'm going to open a museum,' said Aunt Bim. She's a bit mad.

Over the next few weeks, all sorts of oddities appeared; crates of bird and lizard eggs of various shapes and colours, trays of beetles and, last Tuesday, the bemused postman turned up with a pair of antlers, carefully wrapped in brown paper.

'Good,' said Aunt Bim. 'Now my collection is complete.'

Aunt Bim lives in a very small house on a very thin street and nobody could see where she was going to store all her curiousities, let alone display them.
'In the front room, of course. I can live quite happily in the kitchen.'

So all her furniture was moved out and she spent the rest of the week arranging her trays and crates and, of course, the antlers. They took pride of place over the the fireplace.

'What's this?' we asked, the day the Museum officially opened.

'That,' replied Aunt Bim, 'is a hurly whirly beetle, to be found only in deepest Madagascar. They only eat red fruit and, when startled, spin around and rattle their wings. Like this.' Aunt Bim did an imitation.

'And this?'

'That is the skull of the flip-toed lizard of Brazil. If they are caught by predators, their toes fall off. And those,' she moved to the next tray where we were pointing to a familiar looking object, 'are my spectacles. Good, I'm glad you've found them.'

Nobody came to Aunt Bim's museum for a while. She rearranged everything several times to create maximum effect. She bought some peacock feathers and started a small feather collection in a free corner of the room. Still no one came. So she enlarged the 'Museum - Free Entry' sign and painted the letters in red.

Finally, the man that lives at the next-but-one house visited and said he knew someone at the local newspaper, and then she came and took photographs (mainly of Aunt Bim), and then everyone started coming. Aunt Bim made them tea in her overcrowded kitchen and they stayed for a long time, although not many spent long in the front room.

Aunt Bim was delighted. 'I knew it would be a success in the end,' she said. 'Now, do you think anyone would be interested in unusual pine cones? I'm thinking of expanding my collection…''

The stranger we met in passing

2010-11-11T06:52:00.003-08:00

We liked to play in the field close to the house. The grass had just been cut and we collected it into great heaps with holes in the middles. Here we could sit, almost hidden, and make camps from which to throw missiles at each other.

As we foraged for more grass, a stranger appeared, although we had not noticed his approach. He was very tall, but stooped like an old tree and he wore a coat the colour of a pine forest, so long that it swept up leaves and grass clippings and small animals as he moved. The animals peeped at us from under the folds. They didn’t seem in the least bit scared.

In his hand he held a banana.

‘Excuse me,’ he said in a voice as deep and old as the hills. ‘Could you tell me what this is?’

We told him and he looked the banana, pleased. ‘Oh good,’ he said and flung the it far away from him with his long green-sleeved arm.

He waited.

We waited.

‘Oh,’ he said, disappointed. ‘Isn’t it supposed to come back?’

We glanced at each other. ‘You may be confusing it with a boomerang,’ we said.

‘A boomerang. A b–ooo-ooo-mer-ang-ang-ang.’ The word shuddered around the field and bounced off the trees back at us. ‘And where might I find one of those?’

‘Australia!’ piped up the youngest of us.

‘Ah Australia. Thank you so much for your time and assistance. I shall bid you good day.’ He checked a pocket watch that reminded me of the White Rabbit’s in Alice in Wonderland, and disappeared in quite the same manner in which he’d arrived. The animals, who’d been gathered up under his cloak, looked startled and scurried away.

‘How very odd,’ I said. And we all stood around for a little while, not quite knowing what to do.

Then Joe shouted; ‘First one to find the banana gets to eat it!’ And off we raced, flinging up the mown grass around our feet until the air was full of it.

The War of the Words

2010-10-01T02:39:00.000-07:00

The battle had raged for many weeks, before slowly running out of steam, then petering out altogether.

In the castle on the hill lived the Nouns. Solid, dependable types; they knew what was what, but lacked flair and imagination.

In the woods at the bottom of the hill camped the Verbs; full of action and derring do, but often aimless.

When the battle started, the Verbs had rushed at the castle; shouting and flinging and hammering and firing, all at once and all in the same way. The Nouns were terrified and gathered all the things they had at their disposal; rocks, burning oil, arrows, lumps of metal, and threw them from the towers and turrets until the Verbs rubbed their heads in pain and retreated.

This continued for several weeks until both parties were bored. 'What to do?' pondered the Nouns. 'We can't win the war by just being here and finding things to throw.'

'What to do?' cried the Verbs, running about and colliding with each other.

Suddenly, a triumphant horn sounded from the other side of the hill. 'Oh no!' shouted the Verbs. 'It's the Adjectives, come to help the Nouns win the war!' And sure enough, up the hill to the castle gates galloped the Adjectives, dashing and handsome and wonderfully clad in shining armour, brandishing glittering swords and heavy shields. The Nouns flung up their shaking hands in welcome and hurried them into the sturdy castle.

But from over the river and across the fields the Adverbs crept, quietly and sneakily, into the Verbs' camp. 'Fear not!' a voice called joyously. 'Now we can run swiftly and fight courageously and plan carefully. And stop carelessly bumping into each other!'

And so the battle recommenced, and everyone agreed it was far more interesting now.

The House of Djinns

2010-09-23T05:37:00.001-07:00

Do you know what a djinn is?

Mischievous sprites they are, who tinker and tamper with the way the world runs.

Made of smokeless flames that dance like embers in a night sky, they exhale the scent of chocolate and their bony fingers mess with your hair until even a bird wouldn’t consider you for a nest. Sometimes they steal children’s baby teeth from the fairies that collect them and use them to make necklaces that rattle and chatter.

The djinns live in an old house at the end of a twisty lane in the middle of the ancient city. Everyone knows they are there, for the sweet smell of chocolate hangs in the air like mist, and sometimes, if you listen very, very carefully, you’ll hear cackling like so many dried up old witches – it’s not a horrible sound, but it does make a shiver creep deliciously down the back of your spine.

Half of you wants to enter the house through the blue front door decorated with golden handprints, but if you do, the djinns will spin you round and confuse you so much that you feel dizzy and can’t find the door of the room you are in. My advice is to tie a piece of string to the door handle and keep hold of it at all times.

Be careful of the staircase, it’s extremely old and some of the treads have been eaten away by woodworm. That doesn’t matter to the djinns of course; they fly up through the house, burning tiny holes in the ceiling. Once, when the house was new, each room was painted the colour of a different jewel, and although the paint has peeled away, you can still see dusty patches of emerald, ruby and sapphire.

If you do make it through the house, you’ll find some peace in the garden, for the djinns don’t venture outside in the daytime. They’re afraid of the tall trees that whisper secrets about them, and the blackbirds, who loop around the rosebushes singing, ‘go back, back, back’ to any curious djinn who’s even so much as stuck a fiery toe outside. But don’t you do as the blackbirds say – climb over the back wall as fast as you can and run down the twisty lane to tell your friends of your extraordinary adventure.

Clock Goblin

2010-09-23T05:32:00.000-07:00

In the middle of the park is a curious thing: a tall thin tower, a hundred years old, with a small door and a clock at the top. The clock is always five minutes slow. It has been five minutes slow for as long as anyone can remember.

And for a hundred years, small children have run around and around the clock tower, wondering what is for, knocking at its door. ‘There’s no one in there!’ call their mothers. ‘Come on!’ The children give one last knock, just in case, and run away laughing and shouting at each other.

But there is someone there. And every time there’s a knock at the door, he has to get up from his armchair in the tiny room at the top of the tower, slowly shuffle to stairs and make his way carefully down each creaking tread until finally he reaches the bottom. And every time he unlocks the lock, slides the chain and opens the door, inch by little inch, all he sees is an empty space where a visitor should be.

‘Blather and botheration,’ mutters the Clock Goblin crossly. ‘Wretched children, with their banging and hammering and not a blithering thought for my tired old legs and aching back. Grrrr.’ And he closes the door again, slides the chain, locks the lock and eases himself back up the stairs.

The Clock Goblin has been doing this job for a hundred years, before him his father, and his father’s father: their family is a long line of Clock Watchers and Time Keepers. His father is now retired but still comes to the Clock Tower early every morning with that day’s time. And once a year, in May, the Clock Goblin’s parents come to relieve him for a week while he goes on holiday. He never goes very far, just sits grumpily under the slide kicking his feet in the dust and complaining about life in general. It is important to be cross if you are a goblin.

So next time you are in the park and are tempted to knock at the Clock Tower door, spare a thought for the Clock Goblin. And in case you are wondering why the clock is always five minutes late, I’ll tell you. The Clock Goblin’s father delivers the time every morning, like I said, but it takes the Clock Goblin five minutes to climb back up the stairs to set the clock. That’s just the way it is, and the way it will always be, until a younger, fitter Clock Goblin arrives to take over and our Clock Goblin can eventually retire himself, to be contentedly crotchety under the slide.

The Perils of Static

2010-07-06T05:37:00.001-07:00

A circle of chairs stood in the middle of the attic. On the chairs, or rather, hovering uncomfortably in the space where the chairs were, sat a group of small, unhappy-looking ghosts. In their centre drifted a taller ghost, its head tucked neatly under one arm, visibly cross.

‘So, what happened last night? I hear it was a very poor haunting. Anyone want to explain that to me?’

The ghosts shuffled miserably and looked at each other.

‘Come on, one of you. I’m waiting.’

‘It wasn’t our fault,’ mumbled a ghost who was wearing, curiously, a Viking helmet.

‘Wasn’t our fault? Wasn’t our fault? You are the Elite Haunting Corps! Trained in all types of Spectral Appearances and Mysterious Happenings! You are in control AT ALL TIMES!’ The small ghosts cowered beneath the terrifying prospect of their Squadron Leader actually exploding with rage.

The small ghost, on the verge of tears, spluttered ‘But there was a crowd of children there and they were having a sleepover and no one told us that and they laughed at us and caught us in a big net then they rubbed us on their pyjamas until we went static and then they stuck us on the ceiling and we couldn’t move til morning until the static wore off and we had to get out under the door and it all went wrong and…and…’ The small ghost wailed and was comforted by his friends.

‘Oh dear, oh dear oh dear. How very embarrassing. Static cling, eh? Well, I have to say, that’s a new one on me. Static cling…’

And then a strange thing happened. The Squadron Leader, who had never been seen to smile before, let alone laugh, placed his head back on his shoulders, gave it a little twist to secure it and began making a very strange noise that sounded like ‘Huhuhuh.’

One ghost nudged another: ‘He’s laughing.’

‘He’s laughing!’ shouted all the little ghosts together. And down below, in the house, the people looked up from their dinner and said, ‘What is that noise? Funny, never heard that before. Must be the water pipes.’

The Floating Island

2010-06-09T12:07:00.000-07:00

The Island of Marmura is small, round and flat, and that's why it's so easy to move.

But for as long as anyone who lives there can remember, it's bobbed around the North Sea, bumping into Scotland, then bumping into Ireland. When the islanders really want to move quickly, perhaps to avoid a huge wave, or a sharp rock, they grab their enormous paddles, gather along the beaches and all paddle together, as fast as they can, until they've propelled the island to a different part of the ocean, where they drop anchor and stay until the next huge wave comes along.

That's the most important thing you need to know about Marmura, the other thing is that it is always raining.

One particularly grey, drizzly day, a small boy said to his mother: 'Why it is never sunny here? I want to go somewhere sunny. We can move our island wherever we want, so why don't we just go somewhere else?'

At first his mother was shocked, then she thought about it, then she told her neighbour. At first the neighbour was shocked, then he thought about it, then he told his brother, and so on, until finally everyone on the island was in agreement; they were fed up with rain! They were going South!

Many days and nights passed, and the islanders' arms ached from so much paddling. The sea was wide and empty, and they had not met another soul, but to their delight the rain had almost stopped. Then, on the fifth day, somewhere off Spain, they met another island, this one long and thin and rocky, being rowed toward them by hundreds of small people wearing large hats.

'We're heading North,' cried the other islanders in unison. 'It's far too hot where we come from, and it's always too dry. Where are you going?'

What a stroke of luck! The islanders swapped clothes, traded their umbrellas for suntan lotion and firelighters for fans, bade each other farewell and bon voyage, and waved happily until each island was a tiny speck on the horizon, then disappeared.

Fireflash and the Freezer of Doom

2010-05-04T03:30:00.000-07:00

He was destined for better things. He was FireFlash the Ice-Fighter, Super-Robot.

'Go on!' shouted the rowdy dolls from the ledge above. 'Show us yer fire-shooters!'

He could hear them giggling, then that ghastly bear who thought he knew everything joined in.

'Fire-shooters. Fire-shooters, I ask you,' scoffed the bear in a loud stage whisper. 'Yes, that's really what we all need in a child's bedroom. I bet they don't even work, you know.'

'Actually, they work perfectly,' retorted FireFlash through permanently gritted teeth. 'But there has to be an emergency first. I can only respond to emergency situations. I have to use my powers responsibly – it is in my programming.'

He shut his ears to the laughter that followed. He should not be with these… creatures. He should be in a bedroom that needed him, amongst grateful victims of almost-dreadful fates.

-----------------------------

'Shut them in the fridge! Shut them in the fridge!'

'Ice them! Let's make them into ice cubes!'

Small hands stuffed the toys into the freezer compartment. No one really knew why, but it was good fun. The door shut; an ominous click.

'Oh, heavens,' said the bear, not so clever now.

The dolls huddled together, wide-eyed with fear. 'What are we going to do? We'll freeze in 'ere. I'm only wearing me purple sparkle mini skirt and matching heels.'

You think you're badly off?' cried the bear. 'Look at me! Those ruffians robbed me of my scarf and hat. I am a Christmas bear, designed for warmth and cuddliness. Oh! Look at my fur – spikes, spikes of ice!' He brushed ineffectually at his fur, let out an anguished sob and sank back dramatically against a floret of broccoli.

The dolls were about to scream, but from behind last summer's ice lollies came an unfamiliar trundling sound. A squat figure emerged, firing flame-jets from his mechanical hands.

'Stand back, ladies. Bear, you may need to hide your eyes. It'll get pretty hot in here, but I'll soon get us out.' Bags of frozen peas turned to mush; the lollies formed a sticky orange lake and water flooded from the freezer all over the kitchen floor.

The dolls swooned. The bear hid behind his paws. As the freezer lid was lifted by an angry-looking mother, everyone cheered. No one laughed at FireFlash the Ice-Fighter again.

Trouble in Rainbow City

2010-03-15T03:08:00.000-07:00

There was trouble in Rainbow City. The colours were rioting and running amok, splashing themselves across the city streets and generally causing a mess.

Black called a meeting. ‘We are all doomed,’ he announced. 'There is no order! Colours are running into one another and it is all turning...' he turned and pointed a trembling finger out the window...'A Sort of Greyish Brown!' There was an anguished gasp from the small gathering.

Blue, who was late, raced in, apologised and took the last available chair next to Red. No one else wanted to sit next to Red, who was simmering angrily and occasionally letting off steam like a cross bull. ‘Don’t touch me!’ hissed Red. 'Or I’ll end up like her.’ He pointed at the far corner of the room to Purple, who stuck her tongue out.

Orange and Yellow had no such problems and were sitting so close to each other you couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other started. They grinned inanely at the rest of the room. Black, who’d kicked off the meeting, could think of nothing else to say and sat down hurriedly, hoping Grey or White would take over.

Suddenly, a terrible din could be heard from down the corridor. The stomp of heavy boots thundered and a door slammed, breaking the silence in the room.

‘Let’s run away,’ Yellow, cringed and nudged Orange. Orange continued to smile in a rather fixed way. ‘OK,’ he whispered through his teeth and they started to get up. The footsteps stopped outside the meeting room door. ‘Eek!’ screamed Red, and scrambled into Blue’s lap. Together they dashed over to the far corner and hid behind Purple.

The door was kicked open. ‘RIGHT, YOU ‘ORRIBLE LOT!’ In strode Pink, looking mean and scary. ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE INVITED ME IN THE FIRST PLACE, YOU LILY-LIVERED LOT OF LEMONS! I’M HERE TO SORT THIS OUT!’ And, to the dread of the other colours, who wondered what on earth he could be carrying, he reached into his large bag and pulled out a flipchart.

‘WE WON’T BE ABLE TO DO ANYTHING WITHOUT THIS!’ he bellowed, and handed round an assortment of pens. ‘I'LL SPEAK, AND YOU…’ he pointed to the quaking Yellow, ‘...CAN DO THE WRITING.’

Everyone looked at Black, who said nothing and looked carefully at his feet. ‘CUP OF COFFEE, PLEASE. BLACK, NO SUGAR,’ Pink barked. ‘YOU WANT ORDER? I'LL GIVE YOU ORDER!RIGHT, LET’S GET STARTED!’

And within a few days, A Sort of Greyish Brown had gone back to wherever it had come from, and Rainbow City regained its dazzle.

A dangerous job

2010-02-24T02:51:00.000-08:00

The postman hid behind the gatepost. He could feel his heart thumping from his head down to his toes, as though it was trying to escape from his chest. On the other side of the gate was a black dog; its head shaped like a mallet and growling an ominous rumble of thunder. The postman was extremely scared. He imagined the dog eating him, gobbling him up so that nothing remained except his postmans' bag. And his bicycle. The dog might even eat that.

He moved an inch behind the gatepost and felt the dog's hatred like hot breath on his neck. His palms sweated as he gripped the parcel he had to deliver. He peeped from behind his brick pillar of safety and the dog barked and ate some gravel, crunching the stones in its terrible teeth. Should the postman throw the parcel over the gate and run? No, the dog would surely eat the parcel.

Then the postman had an idea. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled: 'I have a parcel for Sammy! A parcel for Sammy!'

There was silence. Then the sound of something clearing its throat. The dog's head appeared through the bars of the gate.

'Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I'm Sammy. The parcel will be for me. Ah yes, the new bone I ordered. Sorry about the barking and all that, but it's part of the job description. Good day.' And the dog trotted off towards the house, parcel delicately held between its teeth.

'Hmm,' thought the postman. He looked at the next package in his sack. It was addressed to Tiger Phillips. The postman took a deep breath and pushed his bike along the pavement.

The war of the words

2010-02-08T02:12:00.000-08:00

Professor McGherkin's monkey

2010-01-25T07:13:00.000-08:00

Professor McGherkin had a pet monkey.

The monkey was extremely clever and could pour water into a cup, hit a nail with a hammer and build a tower with wooden blocks.

Professor McGherkin looked at her monkey and thought, 'What a clever monkey. I bet I could teach it to speak.'

So the monkey suddenly found itself by Professor McGherkin's side all day long. They went to work together, drove home in the car together and went to the shops on Saturday together. All the time Professor McGherkin talked and talked and talked, about everything she saw and thought and heard.

The monkey looked at her, and said nothing.

So Professor McGherkin bought the monkey everything it could wish for; a new swing in the garden, a basketful of bananas, and a little furry toy monkey to play with in case it got lonely.

The monkey looked at Professor McGherkin, and said nothing.

Professor McGherkin was starting to despair of ever teaching her monkey to speak. Her friend, Doctor M'Flingo, noticed how uspet she was and suggested that she treat the monkey a little more like a human being, then it would undoubtedly learn to speak.

Delighted with this new idea, Professor McGherkin purchased a comfy bed, with quilt, for the monkey, a little chair for it to sit on at the dinner table, and, best of all, a fine pair of bright blue breeches for the monkey to wear.

Professor McGherkin helped the monkey to pull the breeches on, and she sat down, waiting.

The monkey looked at Professor McGherkin, and said:

'Do you mind if I don't wear these breeches? They are dreadfully itchy. And, I've never thought blue is my best colour.'

Professor McGherkin fell off her chair.

The monkey looked at Professor McGherkin, and said nothing.

Tiny monsters

2010-01-22T10:36:00.000-08:00

WE ARE THE TINY MONSTERS AND WE DEMAND TO BE HEARD!

So said the banner, carefully placed at the foot of the old oak tree in the park; the one that had been hollowed out by time and heart rot but still bore a good display of leaves each summer and acorns every autumn.

Hmm, I thought and peered closer. The plaque was a small piece of wood barely ten centimetres long and the words were carved then blackened. I sat a tree root to pick it up, then winced as something small and blue ran out from the hole in the tree and hit me on my bare toe with a sharp stick.

'Ow! What did you do that for?'

'Grrrr,' said the small blue thing, very faintly, and waved its arms about.

'Don't Grrrr at me,' I replied, a bit cross. 'There was no need to be nasty.'

The small blue thing frowned, then beckoned me closer. 'There was every need. I am but one of a terrifying horde of monsters. We live in this tree. We frighten passers-by on a daily basis and should be renowned throughout the park for our dreadful deeds and awful acts.'

I tried not to smile. 'But you're tiny!'

'Exactly our problem,' replied the tiny monster. 'Why do you think we've made this banner? We are truly horrendous, but not many people notice us. It's not a good situation.'

I pondered for a while. 'I can see that is tricky, for what good is a monster if it is not scary?'

The tiny monster sat down on my toe, looking dejected.

'Wait, I have an idea!' I cried. 'No one can see you individually, so you have to make yourselves bigger! Fetch the other tiny monsters!'

The tiny monster glanced at me dubiously, but did as I asked.

Slowly, all the tiny monsters sidled out of the hollow. It was true that they weren't very frightening.

'May I?' I asked, and arranged a row of the monsters standing together with their arms linked. Upon their shoulders I placed another, smaller row, and on those another, and so on until I'd made a human pyramid. Of monsters.

'Try that,' I said, pleased with the effect.

They wobbled a bit, and the top one fell off a couple of times, but they finally got the hang of it. The small blue monster winked at me and they staggered off to the other side of the tree where they immediately scared two children and a man on a bike.

I hear that they are now enjoying being extremely terrifying and have also learned the power of teamwork.

The valley of the lost balloons

2010-01-22T05:53:00.000-08:00

The party had been good, but not as good as the silver and blue superhero balloon that he was given at the end. His mum wound it around his wrist a few times so it wouldn't blow away, for balloons had been lost before, and there were always tears.

As they walked home, the wind picked up until both the boy and his mum were bent into it. It tugged at their clothes and messed with their hair, and pulled the balloon out and away behind him.

Oh, oh no! Oh!

His mum held one hand, the balloon held the other, but the balloon won and up, up, up the boy went. He was, it has to be said, a bit scared, but he managed a brave wave and his mum waved back – 'be home for tea!' she called, before a mighty gust of wind took him up above the rooftops and past a perplexed seagull, who squawked crossly to see a boy in a place where a boy shouldn't be. He stuck his tongue out at the seagull and the wind whipped him away.

He could see the silver grey sea, and the boats far out on the waves, and below him people and dogs looked up as he floated, waving, over their heads.

The balloon carried him toward the hills as if it knew where it was going. He left the town behind and instead of people looking up at him, surprised cows and horses mooed and neighed in greeting. And then, hidden in a deep valley, was the most amazing sight he'd ever seen; thousands upon thousands of escaped balloons, all bobbing and meeting and bumping; round ones and long ones and funny-animal ones, some with writing on, or numbers, yellow and blue and cherry red and gold.

The boy unwound his balloon and bobbed around with them for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes he thought he heard other children, laughing and squealing with delight, but he never saw them, and gently the balloons bounced him up and down, some sighing as they deflated, new ones arriving all the time.

How he would have liked to stay with these friendly balloons. But the sun dropped and the wind picked up again, and the superhero balloon found him for the return journey.

A nice cup of tea

2010-01-22T05:43:00.000-08:00

If you travel across the sea for a very long time, eventually you'll come to a rather beautiful, mountainous land of thick trees and soaring blue skies. However, it's extremely unlikely that you'll ever go, and for one very good reason.

Giants live there.

Well, only two giants. One lives on the peak of one mountain. The other lives on the peak of its neighbour. The two giants can just about see one another's house if they squint, but they never make the trip down the mountain, across the V- shaped valley floor and up the other side of the mountain, because they can't stand each other. This has been going on for so long that neither giant can remember why they dislike each other so, but there it is.

The first giant (let's call him Bill) was sitting outside his house one fine spring morning warming his toes in the sun and feeling surprisingly perky. Occasionally, he'd glance over the valley and amuse himself by thinking of really horrible names to call the other giant, and this made him feel even happier. 'A cup of tea would go down well now,' he thought, and went inside to put the kettle on.

But, oh no! There was hot water, tea bags, a mug, but no sugar! A cup of tea was unthinkable without sugar. The giant hummed and haaed for eons, then decided there was only one thing to do. So he took a deep breath and roared across the valley:

'GOT ANY SUGAR?'

The reply took a while, but finally he heard:

'MIGHT HAVE.'

So he pulled on his boots, cursed and set off down the mountain, across the valley and up the other side.

Without saying a word, the second giant handed Bill a brown paper bag, folded over at the top.

'HNNF,' he said.

'GRFF,' was the reply, and Bill trudged back down the mountain, across the valley and up to his house to reboil the kettle and open the bag.

Inside was indeed enough sugar for one cup of tea, and something else, hard and round. The giant frowned and scratched his head. It was bound to be something horrible, something to ruin his day: A nasty smelly thing? A slimy wet thing? A dirty rubbishy thing? He pulled it out, fearing the worst.

It was a biscuit.

The hole at the bottom of the garden

2010-01-21T08:27:00.000-08:00

One winter's afternoon I found a hole at the bottom of the garden. A hole too big for a rabbit. A badger maybe?

So I fetched my trowel and dug a little, just to see if I could find out what lived there.

As I scraped around the entrance, the soil fell away by itself and the hole got wider and deeper. Little steps of earth had formed, looking a bit like stairs. I should stop, I thought. But I couldn't. What could possibly live down here?

I forgot to have any lunch, so busy was I digging. I started to notice that the hole was divided into areas, almost like rooms. And the rooms had little mounds of earth in them, almost like tables and chairs.

The afternoon drew on. I felt uncomfortable about digging any more so I jumped down into my hole and called out 'Hallo?' There was no answer. I tried again. 'Halloooo?'

Then I heard a faint 'hallo?' I looked around me but couldn't see anyone. Again it called, and it seemed to be coming from the direction of my house. I peered into the gloom and realised I'd left the back door open all this time. Did my eyes deceive me, or did I see a tiny person standing there, looking as puzzled as I did? Quickly, I started shovelling earth back into the hole, but before I covered it completely I pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper from my back pocket and scrawled on it; 'Sorry about the mess.'

Then I put my trowel away and returned to the house. The door was still open and there were muddy little footprints all over the place. Stuck to the TV was a tiny note. 'I'm sorry too,' it read.

I went to the window and waved, just in case.