Spit clot Claude. Ever since he was a baby Oliver had kept his first clot of spit. In order not to swallow it while eating, he attached it to the roof of his mouth and managed to take care of it year after year. Oliver liked to play trains with it along his teeth. He whistled a signal to show that spit clot Claude was on its way, while he lay on his back and shunted it onto his top jaw. Oliver curled his tongue into a tunnel, leading Claude backwards over his molars into the dark depths of his throat. When Oliver started school he soon became famous for his tricks with his clot of spit. The boys cheered when Oliver pretended to swallow Claude, but then pressed it up through his nose. When the slimy clot slid out of his nostril his friends shouted, “Do it again. Do it through the other nostril”. Oliver soon became the school’s most popular boy. The teachers however were not so keen. The women teachers particularly considered the clot of spit quite disgusting. When Oliver pressed Claude out of his nose, let it run down his chin, and then licked it up again, even the toughest teachers felt decidedly queasy. ”Please”, they said, “not here, not in class, not where I can see it”. One day Oliver started to play “on the roundabouts” with Claude. He swung his head round and round, so that the clot picked up speed. It was so old and sticky that it didn’t loosen, just whizzed around, so that the whole class felt dizzy just looking at it. Then, with a nod of his head, he got the clot to loop the loop before he caught it again with his tongue. This resulted in Oliver being sent out into the playground. There, Oliver blew Claude up like bubble gum. He blew two bubbles and formed them into round disks. In the air they became as hard as glass. When the other children came out to play, they said, “Miss Richards thought you were extra disgusting today”. “She almost threw up, and is considering expelling you for a week”. “Fame has its price”, Oliver replied calmly, chewing his spit clot disks soft again. At that moment the children felt a violent tremor under their feet. An earthquake caused the playground to split open, and hot steam and smoke poured out of the crack. “Lava”, shouted the teachers. “Run for your lives”. Oliver peered down into the gap and saw the red lava bubbling towards the surface. “I need help”, he cried to his teacher, while he began to form spit clot Claude. “Not on your life”, she yelled, pulling the children away from the crack. The ground shook under Oliver’s feet, and the souls of his shoes sank into the asphalt. Still he stood calmly while he blew Claude into a long sausage and pushed it down into the crack. When the lava came into contact with the spit it started to hiss. The heat caused the spit to form a hard surface so that the lava couldn’t break through it. The lava solidified and filled the crack in the playground. “You can all come back now”, Oliver shouted. “My clot has stopped the eruption. The teachers tiptoed cautiously back on frightened feet. They peeped anxiously into the crack. There they saw a film of what looked like glass, and under it the lava lay stiff and lifeless.
When they realised that Oliver had saved them from mortal danger, they cheered loudly, and elected him and spit clot Claude the school’s greatest heroes.
The Candy War Once upon a time there was a Sweet Country and a Chocolate Country. King Cara and Queen Mel lived in Sweet Country with their three caramel children and the jelly people. Chocolate country was situated on the other side of Sugar River. King Cadbury, Queen Rose and all the soft centres lived there. There were so many of them that the jelly people in Sweet Country could often hear them arguing about not having enough room. But no one had thought of the possibility of them going to war until a smartie’s bullet shattered the caramel children’s bedroom window. “We are being attacked”, they cried, jumping out of their banana cream beds. They put on their marshmallow armour in record time, and rushed out onto the veranda to blow their winegum trumpets. “All jelly men to arms”, they shouted, as chocolate balls, toffee bombs and m-grenades crashed around them and into the castle walls. Jelly men soldiers rushed to their little-goody canons. They carried fruit drops, which they fired into the soft centres. But they had little effect. The soft centres were only dented when hit and bounced back to normal again immediately afterwards. They marched closer and closer, while the jelly men peppered them furiously with fruit drops. “I can’t hold them back much longer”, a desperate jelly man shouted. “Neither can I”, a jelly woman cried. They were all soon captured, and the soft centres poured cooking chocolate over them. One after another the brave jelly warriors stiffened under a coating of dark chocolate, while the soft centres shouted joyfully. “We have won. We have won”. King Cara and Queen Mel stood despairingly on the roof of their sugar castle, and watched as their caramel children came running back with a horde of soft centres after them. “We must surrender”, they groaned. “The soft centres are everywhere, even in the castle”. They had no option but to go down to the throne room and yield to Sweet Country’s conquerors. When the caramel children appeared, the soft centres snatched the meringue crowns from their heads, repeatedly crying. ”We have won”. The soft centres folded out a map of Sweet Country, and cut it up, so that each of them got a piece. They were overjoyed at being kings of their own little sugar lands at last. But it wasn’t long before rejoicing turned to quarrelling. “My land is smaller than yours”. “No, you have got more than me”. “But I have only got sugar tops and icing mountains, they don’t count”. “Of course icing counts as much as sugar sand”. “If you are so fond of icing perhaps you would like to change with me?” “No, I don’t want to change”. “You see, you have got a better piece than me. It’s not fair”. Some soft centres started fencing in their small territories with liquorice strings. But as soon as they had put up a fencepost their neighbour came and moved it. “That post is on my land!” “No it’s on mine!”
“No, it isn’t!” Soon the soft centres were fighting bitterly among themselves, and were so busy arguing they forgot to take care of their small sugar lands. When the caramel children became aware of all the quarrelling, they decided to counterattack. Under cover of night, they slipped silently away to their jelly men heroes with hot water and brushes. They carefully washed away the chocolate coating, and then cranked up the candyfloss machines. While the soft centres argued about liquorice strings, fence posts, sugar tops and icing, the caramel children entangled them in sticky candyfloss. One after another, they were stuck together so they couldn’t move. Then the jelly soldiers rolled the soft centres onto the chocolate rafts they had used to cross Sugar River, and pushed them over to the other side. The next morning, in the light of the sun’s first sugar rays, King Cara and Queen Mel could put their meringue crowns back on again. They received the people’s acclaim from the palace balcony, waving back happily. But most of the applause was for the caramel children and all the strong and brave jelly warriors.
The Love-struck Wigs The wigs lay like hairy jellyfish over the heads of the models when the rich, bald lady entered the wigmaker’s shop. She took a quick look around the room before she began to study the women’s wigs more closely, one by one. “This is too thick”, she said, pointing, “and this is too long. This is the wrong colour, and this looks like seaweed.” “What about this one?” the wigmaker asked, holding up one with silver grey curls. “Or this with a fringe and waves?” While the lady tried on the wigs in front of the mirror, two wigs became very agitated. Perry and Ricky were sweethearts and couldn’t bear the thought of being parted. “She mustn’t take you”, Perry whispered, while Ricky tried her best to look as ugly as possible on the lady’s head. But which wig do you think she chose?” “This is the wig for me”, she said, brushing Ricky’s ringlets away from her eyes. “What do you think?” “Absolutely perfect” the wigmaker slyly flattered her. He wasn’t particularly concerned with the truth provided he made a sale. “Then I’ll take this one”, the lady said, admiring her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t notice that Ricky’s locks reached despairingly out towards Perry. Some of the wigs sighed with relief when the lady left, while others were disappointed that she hadn’t chosen them. But Perry cried and cried inconsolably. He was so heartbroken that slowly but surely his hair turned grey, dry and thin. The wigmaker shook his head when he saw the state of Perry’s hair. “I can’t possibly sell you”, he said, and threw him into the dustbin. This didn’t bother Perry at all. “No pain can be worse than the torment I feel at the loss of my darling Ricky”, he groaned, when the dustbin was emptied. Meanwhile, the lady hoped the men would find her attractive now. But the wigmaker had lied to her. The wig didn’t suit her at all. Her friends laughed at the hopelessly old-fashioned curls, and the men kept their distance. Night after night she came home alone and cried herself to sleep. Perry cried too, lying in a seagull’s nest among all sorts of trash on the rubbish dump. . One day a desperately hungry man came plodding along searching for eggs. Angry seagulls pecked the top of his head, while he moved from nest to nest. He caught sight of Perry, picked up the wig and shook old toothbrushes and ice-cream sticks out of the hair. I can use this to protect my head, and also to disguise myself, he thought. That night the man crept around the houses where the richest people in town lived. He was wearing Perry so that he wouldn’t be recognised, and sneaked into the lady’s house. He crept quietly up the stairs, pausing on each step to listen. Even though he was very careful, the lady woke up as he was helping himself to her jewels. She hurriedly put on her curly wig before clearing her throat: “Hem, are you looking for anything special?”
The burglar jumped, startled. His first reaction was to run as fast as he could. But something held him back. Something strange happened to the lady too. She was about to ring the police when she felt a sudden overpowering tenderness for the man with the grey, unwashed hair. “Ricky, is that really you?” Perry asked, feeling so electrified that all the hairs on the thief’s head stood on end. “Yes, it’s me,” Ricky replied, her curls stretching out towards him. “Let us be sweethearts again!” No one knows for certain whether the wigs were to blame, but the lady suddenly fell so hopelessly in love with the thief that she jumped out of bed and embraced him on the spot. The burglar was more than happy to be hugged, and melted completely in her arms. Overcome with emotion they wept, their heads so close together that the wigs twisted their hair into an everlasting love knot.
The Coltsfoot That Taught The King How To Grieve. King Glad and Queen Smile were driving home to Happy land. They had been on their honeymoon, and were more in love than ever. King Glad was so pleased to see the fantastic flowers on the sunny slope below the palace once again, he forgot to concentrate and drove into a tree. King Glad survived the crash, but his beloved Queen Smile died there among the flowers. He was so upset that he took off his crown, and commanded: “This is all the flowers fault. From now on I don’t want to see a single flower in Happy land. If one shows itself it will be pulled up by the root”: The flowers were so scared they hurriedly wizened away, and were never seen again. King Glad continued to be angry with the flowers for years, and not one dared appose his ban. Until one spring, when coltsfoot Harold ventured to peep out between the new grass shoots and winter’s last patches of snow.” “You mustn’t do it”, the trees, bushes and grass exclaimed. “King Glad has forbidden all flowers “. “I can’t see any glad king here”, Harold said, stretching his neck. As he looked around, the sun shone on his yellow hair, causing it to fold out, and hey presto, a large bumblebee settled on his head. “We haven’t seen the likes of you for ages”, the bumblebee remarked, smacking its lips as it helped itself to the nectar. “Everyone is so frightened of the angry king”, Harold said, “but I can’t see him anywhere here”. “He never goes out”, the bumblebee explained. “Since the queen died he just sits up in the tower and spies through his binoculars. If he sees a flower he sends his servant to pull it out, so take care”. Harold wasn’t at all interested in being careful. “We have been underground long enough”, he thought, and called out to the other flowers. “It’s time you showed yourselves again”. But it wasn’t long before King Glad spotted the coltsfoot through his binoculars. “A flower”, he screamed furiously. ” On the very spot where we drove off the road. That’s probably the flower that caused us to crash. Get rid of it this instant”. The King’s servant rushed out to do the kings bidding, but as he bent over to dig up the flower, the bumblebee stung him on the nose. “Ouch”, he shrieked, and ran back to the palace as fast as he could. “Have you got rid of it?” the king asked. “I was stung by a bumblebee, your majesty. Can you kiss it better?” “You incompetent fool! I’ll go out and dig it up myself”. King Glad marched down to the sunny slope below the palace with angry, determined steps. Hundreds of impatient shoots pressed themselves up in each footprint. The king stopped by coltsfoot Harold, pulled it up by the root, and threw it towards the queen’s gravestone. “That’s what happens to those who disobey me”, he shouted across the meadow.
But when he attempted to walk on, he couldn’t move. His feet were firmly fixed among the shoots. He tried to pull free, but snowdrops, bluebells, coltsfoot, anemones, meadowsweet, primulas and crocuses held him in a tight grip. King Glad fell to his knees and stared across the carpet of flower shoots. He saw how they pressed themselves out of the ground, and stretched towards the sun and warmth. It was such a lovely sight that the king could no longer hold back his grief. Large, regal tears fell onto the flowers, loosening their grip on his feet. He felt almost relieved to be able to let go of his anger at last, and begin to grieve over his wife’s tragic death. King Glad tottered across to the queen’s grave. He sat by the headstone, his arms around it, thinking of all the happiness he had felt while she lived. “Even though my dear Queen Smile is no longer here, I have her laughter and merriment in my heart”, he thought, and planted coltsfoot Harold at the foot of the grave. From that day on, all flowers were again allowed to bloom freely in Happy land.
Michael’s Nocturnal Wings One night in the autumn, as Michael lay in bed in his room, he felt something beginning to grow out of his back, close to his shoulder blades. Small, sharp bones pressed through his pyjamas, rustling crisply, as thousands of feathers spread themselves out into wings. The wings grew quickly, and were soon so large that Michael had to get out of bed and stand on the floor. When he turned his head he could see them: White wings covered with feathers, stretching towards the ceiling and down to the floor, where long guiding feathers touched the rug.” I’m sure I could fly with these,” he thought. “But how does one do that?” Michael pulled on his woolly cap. He walked out into the garden and felt the cold, dew-wet grass beneath his feet. “It’s a good thing it’s dark”, he thought, feeling clumsy with the unfamiliar wings. He tried flapping them, and was lifted slightly off the ground. Not enough to take off, but a promising start. Perhaps it might help to run, he wondered, and set off towards the apple trees. “I am a bird, I am a bird”, he muttered, and the wings began to beat automatically. Michael felt himself lift from the ground, he flew over the trees and soared suddenly far above the house’s red tiled roof. When he looked down he became frightened and forgot to think as a bird. The wings stopped beating, and Michael dropped like a stone towards the ground. “I am a bird, I am a bird”, he hurriedly reminded himself, and luckily the wings started beating again. A couple of extra strong strokes brought him well over the rooftops, and towards the town sleeping far below him. While the light slowly dawned, Michael flew over the royal palace, over the house of parliament and the railway station. He took a turn over the new opera house, over slumbering boats in the harbour, and the old fortress. A woman who saw him fly over City Hall, felt quite dizzy. Frowning in disbelief, she had to look down to get her balance. When she glanced up again Michael had disappeared. “I’m sure I saw a boy with large, powerful, angel-like wings, and wearing a red woollen cap fly by”, she muttered to herself. But as this was the hour when night turned to day, she thought she must have imagined it. The morning sky had reddened when Michael turned for home. It was time to land and get back to bed. But he didn’t know how to land. He felt scared again and forgot to think like a bird. He started to fall. The road rose up towards him at colossal speed. Then he remembered how large birds like swans and geese, land.. They need lots of space, flapping their wings and running at the same time, while attempting to brake without falling forwards. With that thought in mind he steered into the garden where the ground was a little softer. He leaned backwoods as soon as he had flown over the fence, struggling with his wings as he stepped down onto the grass with one foot. Taking long strides, he bounded across the lawn, braking as hard as he could. Even so, he was still moving so fast that he fell into a pile of wind fallen apples. Luckily he didn’t hurt himself. He wasn’t even disappointed at the unsuccessful landing. No, he laughed so loudly he was worried that his parents might wake up. He hurried into his room with the wings trailing behind him, and got into bed. The wings started to shrink immediately, disappearing into his back. The feathers rustled strangely as they pressed themselves together under his skin. At that very moment his mother came into his room.
“It’s morning now”, she said, smiling. “Have you slept well?” Michael nodded, feeling carefully with his hands. The wings and holes in his pyjamas were gone, but his woolly cap lay on his pillow. Was it a dream, after all? Michael got up and smiled. “I have slept like a log”, he replied, deciding to keep his adventure to himself. Dream or not, he thought. It doesn’t matter one way or the other, because the experience was great, whichever way you look at it. What’s more, the wings might sprout again tomorrow night!
The Rock Song Have you ever had a tune on the brain? With the same music grinding around in your head over and over again? I have had that experience many times, and sometimes it has been so bad I have thought I would go crazy. But it was never quite as bad as when “Rock you” was popular. “Rock you” was so catching that everyone who heard it sang the refrain while they danced like lunatics. The rock tune was heard on the radio, on the telephone when waiting for a connection, as background music in the shops, on TV, PC and MP3s. People everywhere wandered around in complete confusion with “Rock you” on the brain. The music made everyone forget what they were doing, they couldn’t remember what they had intended to buy in the shops, they had no idea what they should enquire about on the phone, and no longer knew where they had thought of going. But when two trains, packed with passengers, collided, because the drivers were spaced out on “Rock you”, and hadn’t noticed the signals- then it was far from funny. It’s my fault, “Rock you,” thought in despair. What shall I do? I can’t just take the song away or get people to stop singing me. But if I change, perhaps people will forget me. So it put a fart into the refrain, which sounded something like this: “We will, we will rock you (fart), rock you (fart). ”We will, we will rock you (fart), rock you (fart). Unfortunately, this made the song even more popular, and people became even more hooked on it. Hairdressers cut off peoples ears, gardeners pulled up their flowers, waiters poured wine into milk glasses, and carpenters built crooked houses, because the song made them laugh. But when two pilots lost control of a jumbo jet and crashed, because they were laughing so much, it wasn’t at all funny any more. What can I do to stop people liking me? “Rock you,” wondered. Perhaps if I put in a burp, like this: We will, we will rock you (burp), rock you (burp) We will, we will rock you (burp), rock you (burp) Do you think that helped? Not at all. Everyone loved the burpy sounds. They drew in air so that they could produce a real belch when they sang. Preaches belched in church when they married couples, bosses ruined their careers by belching at important meetings, politicians burped in parliament and the Prime Minister offended the King with a juicy belch. The King couldn’t control himself either, he began to dance on the table at his own birthday party while he sang and burped. Now “Rock you” felt he must do something even more drastic. If I swear, surely no one will like me any more. We will, we will rock you (****), rock you (****) We will, we will rock you (****), rock you (****) What do YOU think? Did the tune lose its popularity now? Of course not. It became even more popular. A whole series of accidents followed in the rock song’s wake. Children with iPods forgot to take care in the traffic, youngsters let go of the rail on the roller coasters, and teenagers forgot to wear their helmets when riding their scooters. “Rock you” felt so bad about it all, he began to cry. Now the refrain sounded like this:
We will, we will rock you (sniff), rock you (sniff) We will, we will rock you (sniff), rock you (sniff) But even this didn’t help. Everyone loved the sadness. They sat by their radios, blubbering. They wept with the tune, mourned and sobbed in time to the music. People drove their cars with the stereos on at full blast, and eyes bathed in tears, so you can imagine the result. The poor rock song didn’t know what to do. Whatever it did led to accidents and grief. To end it all, “Rock you” threw itself into the sea, and then the song sounded like this. Gurgle gurgle, gurgle gurgle, GURGLE GURGLE- GURGLE GURGLE Gurgle gurgle, gurgle gurgle, GURGLE GURGLE- GURGLE GURGLE Even this was a hit, especially amongst submarine tourists on shipwreck safari. They loved the bubbly, gurgly drowning melody. The song became a subterranean hit. Its popularity was such that mermaids neglected to keep out of sight, causing divers to forget to surface in time. Many a bewitched frogman drew his last breath with “Gurgle, gurgle” on his lips. Is there nothing I can do? “Rock you” thought in desperation, as it swam ashore. Only babies and small infants don’t go crazy because of me. Then suddenly, the way to put an end to its popularity became quite clear. “Rock you” would turn itself into a lullaby. The sort of song its parents sang when it was a tiny rock tune in nappies. We will, we will (rock a bye baby on a tree top) We will, we will (when the wind blows the cradle will rock) Now, finally, people stopped rocking to the song. It was no longer a hit, and “Rock you “ could relax and breathe out at long last.
Annie’s Dream Quilt Annie’s old quilt was full of real down, but it was too short for her now. “You’ll catch cold”, her mother said, and bought her a quilt made of artificial fibers, which she had bought at a sale. “Every one has bought these quilts now, they are very popular”. “But I’m so fond of my old one”, Annie said, clasping it tightly, “it has always given me such lovely dreams”. “Stuff and nonsense”, her mother remarked, and carried the quilt up into the attic. And even though Annie complained that she slept badly under the new quilt, she wasn’t allowed to have the old one back. In a pine tree, which stood just outside the window where the old quilt lay, a couple of pigeons started to build a nest. From the very first night in their new home, they had such good dreams they decided to lay their eggs there. Soon two small pigeons lay in the nest, and they also started to dream – about playing with homing pigeons, about racing each other on sunny days, about turtledoves, doves of peace, and shiny flag posts to perch on. In the evenings, the pigeons flew to the town square hoping to find some crumbs. But lately, fewer and fewer people had come to sit on the benches by the fountain. Soon, no one came to feed the birds. The young pigeons flew from house to house, and soon discovered that everyone was sleeping badly. Large and small, young and old, tossed and turned in their beds at night. Sleeping badly caused people to become tired and listless. Farmers couldn’t be bothered to cultivate their land any longer, bakers stopped baking bread, doctors left the sick to take care of themselves, lawyers wouldn’t defend their clients, judges became apathetic, policemen let the thieves go, and the thieves hadn’t the energy to steal. It didn’t even get any better when people began to starve. Hunger just made them more apathetic. The young pigeons couldn’t understand why people were sleeping so badly. They slept well themselves, and had lovely dreams every night. “I wonder what causes us to sleep so well”, the boy pigeon cooed. “We didn’t have such good dreams before we built our nest here”, father pigeon clucked thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should try sleeping somewhere else”, the girl pigeon suggested. “Good idea”, the boy pigeon replied, and packed his beak brush in his overnight bag. “If people don’t soon start feeding us again, we’ll starve to death”. The young pigeons slept that night in the tree outside Annie’s bedroom, and they didn’t manage to sleep properly either. They just sat shivering on the branch, dreaming about cats’ claws covered in blood, pointed teeth full of pigeon feathers, and staring, yellow eyes. “At least we know now that our deep sleep comes from somewhere near the nest”, the girl pigeon remarked, as they flew home early next morning.
“Those poor people”, the boy pigeon clucked. “If that’s how they are sleeping at night, it’s not surprising they haven’t the energy to feed us”. At home on the branch, mother pigeon nodded towards the open window in the attic, and cooed. “Do you think it could have something to do with that old feather quilt there?” “At least it’s worth looking into”, father pigeon said, and flew in to inspect it more closely. When the pigeons landed on the quilt, they could all feel how it radiated warmth, drowsiness and a sense of security., “Those lovely dreams must be in here”, the girl pigeon chirped, starting to tear holes in the quilt. Late that night, all who had enough energy to be out of doors, could see two small and two full grown pigeons using all their strength to shake an old quilt over the town. Feathers showered down over the roofs, and the strange thing was, that for the first time for weeks, everyone slept well that night. Annie woke to find a white feather, which had wafted in through the window, lying on her new quilt. She had dreamt something she remembered dreaming before, when she had slept under her good, old quilt. Dream feathers, she thought. Could it be that…? She rushed up into the loft, looking for her old quilt, but she couldn’t find it. A few loose feathers lay by the open window, and outside she saw a starving family of pigeons. They sat on a branch staring at her desperately, with down between their claws. Then Annie understood what had happened, and ran out into the street. “Take out your old quilts”, she shouted as loud as she could. “Take out your old quilts full of lovely dreams”. Every one did as Annie said. They shook out, aired, hugged and squeezed their old quilts. Then they slept for a long, long time. After a few days life was back to normal. Farmers worked in their fields again, bakers baked bread, doctors felt the inclination to treat their patients, lawyers became keen to win a case, policemen resumed their hunt for thieves- and the thieves, unfortunately, again felt the urge to steal. In the nick of time, people began to wander back to the square with the benches and fountain, to feed the hungry pigeons. Annie’s mother gave her a new quilt, full of thousands of lovely dream feathers. In that quilt, as in all feather quilts, there is a feather already full of THIS dream. The dream about the dream quilt.
The Boy Who Wouldn’t Tidy Up Once upon a time, there was an only child called Arnold. He was given everything he wanted, and was allowed to do just as he wished-and that was to play with his toys. He had so many toys in his room, that one day, his mother heard him shout: “Help, help, I’m drowning”. His mother rushed in to help, and just managed to rescue him from his overcrowded room. Arnold took a deep breath, coughing a little. “That was a near thing, mummy. I almost suffocated in there”. “Perhaps you should tidy up a little”, his mother said, carefully. “TIDY UP! Are you crazy? It’s so boring. I NEVER do anything that’s boring”. “But you almost drowned in your own toys just now”. Arnold sank to the floor, suddenly quite exhausted. “I’m too tired, mummy. Tomorrow, perhaps.” When his father arrived home in his limousine, from his job at the stock exchange, his wife told him what had happened in Arnold’s room. But his father didn’t think they should be too strict with him. “Let him play and enjoy himself while he can”, he said, wolfing down a tin of Russian caviar. “But what about the toys?” “We can simply build a new room for him, now that the old one is too small” “It’s not too small”, Arnold’s mother said. “There are just too many toys there”. “That’s the same thing”, his father replied, stuffing himself with gooseliver patty and quails’ eggs. “We can build a new room, so that he doesn’t drown in his own mess”. Carpenters arrived the following day, and that same evening a brand new room, complete with bed and wardrobe, was at Arnold’s disposal. “Now I don’t need to be scared of my toys”, he said, relieved, and fell asleep while his parents stood at his bedside slurping oysters as their supper treat. Early next morning Arnold started pestering his mother for new toys. She bought him racetracks, train sets, remote controlled tanks, mediaeval castles with archers, computer games and pogo sticks. By lunchtime his room was so cluttered, his toys threatened to bury him again. Arnold went in to his mother, who was busy grilling a veal steak for her husband. “Mummy, my room is a bit messy again” “Perhaps you should tidy up this time. We spoke about that the other day”. Arnold was suddenly terribly tired again. “No, it’s too much of an effort, Mummy. It’s been a long day, what with a new room and everything” “What do you suggest we do then?” “Build a new one, of course”, Arnold replied. His mother turned to her husband. He smiled at her, pieces of truffle between his teeth.
“Quite right, do as the boy wants”, he said, lighting an enormous hand rolled Havana cigar That evening they worked at full speed, while Arnold sat watching a programme on TV., about children who were starving. Just before midnight his new room was finished. He was so tired at this point he didn’t even notice how pleasant it was to move into a clean and tidy room. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. But what do you think happened next day? That’s right, he demanded more toys, and made such a clutter that he had to have another new room, and then another, and another. Each room was built onto the former along a corridor, which became longer and longer every day. Some months later the corridor was so long that his father bought him a bicycle. “He needs that, now that his room is in Hunger Woods”, he said, slurping turtle soup. “Hunger Woods”, Arnold gasped, the hairs on his neck standing on end. “It isn’t dangerous, as long as you keep your window tightly closed”, his father said, swilling the soup down with champagne. That night, Arnold had a nightmare. He dreamt that all the doors in the corridor opened, and a tidal wave of toys washed towards him, while starving people stood outside his window, scratching at the glass. Arnold let out such a piercing scream that his mother woke up. She shook her husband. “Arnold’s screaming!” Her husband rolled over on his lamb’s wool sheet. “He’ll be fine”, he grunted, feeling a trifle peckish. “He’s terrified. We must save him!” They slid out of bed, and started to run. While they hurried down the corridor, they shouted “Hang in there Arnold, we’re on our way”. The room was so far away, it took them a whole hour to reach it. Sweaty and exhausted they burst into the newest room. But it was empty. “Arnold?” his parents called, quite out of breath. “I’m here”, he replied, from the neighbouring room His parents peeped in, and couldn’t believe their eyes. Arnold was tidying up! He cleared up all day. His rooms were soon in perfect order, the toys packed and sorted into boxes. There was no stopping him. For weeks his mother supplied him with floor cloths, vacuum cleaner bags, garbage bags and boxes for his toys, as he cleared himself back to his original room. It was only then he felt he could relax. He brushed his teeth, washed himself and gave his parents a good night kiss. “You could have been a little stricter with me”, he said, smiling mischievously at them. “Are you ill, Poppet?” his mother asked, feeling his forehead. “Aren’t you interested in getting everything you want, and doing what you fancy any more?” Arnold considered this for a while. Then he replied: “Of course I would like everything I fancy, and do exactly as I like. But if it leads me to Hunger Woods, I’d rather tidy up now and then.
The Greedy Splinter It was his birthday. He sat art the end of the festive table, which was covered with hot dogs, pop and cakes. His best friends sat at the table with him. But he wasn’t happy, because he had a splinter in his finger. “I can take it out for you”, his mother suggested, coming towards him, tweezers in her hand. But the birthday boy turned away. “No, no, no, it hurts so badly”, he whimpered “Surely it’s better to pluck it out now than leave it in your finger”, his mother said But the birthday boy turned further away. “Leave me alone”, he said, looking at her beseechingly. At that very moment, the splinter came to life, and the first thing it felt, was hunger. It glanced curiously out of the birthday boy’s finger, and noticed the hot dog he was picking up. That looks good, the splinter thought, and swallowed it whole. “It took my hot dog”, the birthday boy exclaimed, moaning as he felt the splinter grow in his finger. His mother blinked, uncertain whether she should believe what she had just seen. “I think you should let me pull that splinter out now”, she said sternly, pointing with the tweezers. But he turned away again. “No, no, no”, he bellowed. “It will hurt even more, that’s for sure”. His mother realised it was useless to argue. “OK”, she sighed. “Eat some jelly first, then we’ll see to the splinter afterwards. Is that a deal?” The birthday boy nodded uncertainly, but just as he was about to eat his jelly, the splinter stuck out its tongue, and SLURP, the jelly was gone. “It took my jelly too”, the birthday boy complained, while the splinter licked its lips, and cast its greedy eyes on the cakes His mother still couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. “What is actually going on here?” she asked. “The splinter is eating my food”, the birthday boy shouted. “Honestly! Now you really must let me pull that splinter out”, his mother said yet again. ”You did promise” But the birthday boy turned away once more. “I’ll have a cake first”, he said, reaching out to the dish. But what do you think happened then? Exactly! The splinter emptied the cake dish, and now his finger grew until it was the size of a loaf of bread. “Ow, ow, it hurts so badly”, the boy moaned.
Now his mother became really angry. “I have no intention of standing here and letting a stupid splinter eat up all my cakes”, she hissed, making for the splinter with murder in her eyes, and tweezers at the ready. “No, no, no! It will hurt much, much more”, the birthday boy screamed, waving his finger about, so that the splinter caught sight of all the young birthday guests sitting at the table. Delicious children, it thought enthusiastically, nonchalantly swallowing the girl who sat nearest. “Help, help”, the girl called desperately from inside the splinter. Then his mother hurled herself forward. “That’s enough”, she said sternly, grabbing the splinter tightly with both hands. But before she managed to yank it out, the splinter swallowed her too. She stared despairingly at her son as she disappeared down its throat. “Now see what you have done”, she complained.” You should have let me deal with it while it was tiny. After his mother was eaten, the children became panic stricken and tried to run away. But the splinter caught them with its tongue and swallowed them all. The birthday boy now sat alone with his enormous finger. There was no food, no mother, no cakes and no friends. The greedy splinter had eaten everything. By this time the splinter was much larger than the birthday boy himself. He hung helplessly fast while it gobbled up the table, the sofa, the lamps, the pictures, the cupboard, the books and the bookcase. Its long tongue sneaked into the kitchen, and stripped it of the cooker, dishwasher and fridge. After the splinter had swallowed everything that was loose, it started to pull up the floorboards. Now, finally, the birthday boy cried: “Help, help, can someone please pull the splinter out for me”. But it was too late. The house started to fall apart around him. Beams and walls were sucked into the splinter’s enormous throat. When the floor disappeared the boy fell into the basement. There the crazy splinter devoured the storeroom, bicycles, old tyres and even the boiler. The birthday boy sat on the basement floor and stared sadly at his finger. A finger with a splinter as big as a house. After some time, he heard sirens from fire engines and rescue teams. Now they’ll rescue me, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief. But when they arrived, the splinter simply gobbled them up too. The birthday boy began to cry loudly and bitterly. “Please help me”, he sobbed. “Help me get rid of this splinter” Then he heard the sound of saws, hammers and drills. The firemen had taken out their equipment inside the splinter. They slashed, beat, bent and broke an opening, so that his mother and the children could escape. After a great deal of effort, the firemen emptied the splinter, and when they were finished the birthday boy let them pull it out of his finger, without as much as a murmur. His mother straightened her clothes while viewing the heap of rubble that had once been their home.
“It was a good thing you finally got rid of that splinter”, she said. “But now we must start to clear up”. And as the children and the firemen helped rebuild the house, they sang the happy birthday- to-the-splinter-song for the birthday boy, which sounds like this: Happy birthday dear splinter Happy birthday dear splinter But I’d rather do without you Happy birthday to you No more birthdays dear splinter No more birthdays dear splinter I’m so happy without you No more birthdays for you.
The Magic Painting Henry, Derek, Ida and their dog Puffy were at a boring art exhibition with their parents. While the adults stood, heads on one side, trying to understand the paintings, the children and Puffy crept away. They wandered through room after room, until they found a picture they liked. The painting was of an apple tree, with ripe, red apples hanging almost to the ground. The tree was surrounded by soft meadows in green and yellow. A dusty road, lined with old, crooked oak trees, wound its way through the fields. Above huge snow capped mountains, the sun shone down from the edge of a white cloud onto a silvery fairy-tale castle, standing at the far end of the road. The children and the dog stood and stared. It was as if the painting was pulling them to it. Slowly, they started to move towards the picture, and then a ladder appeared at one corner. It slid silently out of the frame, and down to the floor. Henry walked over to the ladder. He tried a rung, and it held. The others watched, fascinated, as Henry stepped over the frame, and disappeared into the painting. Puffy was so confused that he jumped after him, and landed in the picture too. The flowers painted on the canvas reached to Henry’s ankles, just like real flowers. He waved to the others. “Come on. It’s lovely here!” Derek was only halfway up the ladder, when Ida heard the sound of approaching footsteps. “Hurry,” she whispered, holding onto the ladder. Immediately Derek was inside she hurried after him. She saw a shadow on the marble floor of the corridor just outside. No one must spot us now, she breathed, and jumped from the frame into the fresh, green grass. The children stood perfectly still under the apple tree while the guard walked by. As soon as he was out of sight, they picked a large, red apple each, and one for Puffy too. “Tastes really good”, Henry mumbled, munching away while looking at his reflection in the shiny peel. “Tastes almost better than the real thing”, Ida agreed, smacking her lips. Derek looked around. A little breeze played with his blond hair. A crow sat chattering on a branch in the apple tree. Henry bent over, plucking at the moist earth. “There are even real worms here”. “A strange painting,” Ida muttered,” I wonder why it put out a ladder for us”. Then they heard a voice, which seemed to come from the apple tree, the ground, the meadows, the road, the oak trees and the castle, all at the same time. “I am the painting”. Derek and Henry huddled together, fearfully, but Ida bravely held her ground. “I hope you don’t mind us being here?” she asked, waving her apple core around. “I have been waiting for you”, the picture replied.
“Have you?” “I have thought there ought to be children here, ever since I was an empty canvas”, the painting explained. “I pestered the artist about it, and he really tried to do it for a while, but eventually he just gave up. So here I hang; an empty painting of a tree with apples no one eats, a road no one walks on, and a fairytale castle without children. But now, at long last, you are here”. Then it became quiet again. Henry and Derek got up and walked onto the gravelled road. The landscape in front of them wound towards distant, snow capped mountains, and the meadows stirred in the wind. “The last one to reach the castle is an apple core”, Ida said, starting to run. Ida got there first, and which of them was the apple core, was forgotten. For soon all three were struggling with an enormous door. “One and two and PULL”, Ida shouted, and then the door opened, very, very slowly. Now they could see that the castle was also painted on the inside. Silk curtains hung at the windows, and there were four-poster beds in the bedrooms, with new mattresses and dream quilts too. Everything was exactly as it should be in a royal castle. In the throne room they found three crowns and gowns. The children dressed up as princes and a princess. Then they opened the window looking out onto the almost endless, painted landscape. The children played, forgetting all about time and place, until a sad looking man came shuffling down the stairs, and asked: “Who are you, and what are you doing in my castle?” While all this was happening the children’s parents stood in the director’s office. “Where are our children”, their mother wanted to know, “we have searched everywhere”. “Oh, I’m certain they are here somewhere”, the director said, reassuringly. “Now, the guard and I will go a round with you, and we are sure to find them.” Back in the painting, Puffy barked at the sad man, who was carrying an assortment of brushes and a well-used palette. “Puffy isn’t dangerous”, Ida said, quietening the dog. “Who are you actually?”, Derek asked. The man slumped down onto the throne. “I asked first”, he said, grumpily. “We are just three children and a dog”, Derek explained,” three children and a dog who liked this painting so much we climbed into it”. “The painting itself said we could”, Henry said. The man groaned dejectedly. “What else did the painting say?” “It said it had pestered the artist to get him to paint some children, but he had apparently just given up”, Ida said. The miserable man looked at them wearily. “I am the artist”, he sighed.
“Why do you hide away here?” “I didn’t manage to paint the children”. “Why not?” “They can’t stand still!” he shouted, throwing his brushes down. “And they ask so many stupid questions”. “Why not try us then”, Derek suggested, encouragingly. “I’m sure we can stand still for you”, Ida said eagerly. Even Puffy agreed with the idea, wagging his tail so the artists brushes danced across the floor. “It won’t work. Children are hopeless models”, the painter said firmly. This made Ida angry. “Listen to me mister artist! Here you have three ready dressed models and a dog in your castle. Where would you like us to stand?” Ida’s determined voice brought the painter to his feet. “I’ve always thought the royal children would look well on the lawn in front of the castle”, he said, picking up his painting gear. In the meantime their parents were searching for Puffy and the children. “We have looked through almost all the gallery without finding them”, the director whispered to the guard, as they walked into the room with the apple tree painting. The children’s father stopped in front of the picture, looking for the title and the name of the artist. “Who has painted this?” “We don’t actually know”, the director said, “we found it outside the gallery one morning. Abandoned, like an orphan. So it has neither a title nor the artist’s signature. “It’s so attractive that I could almost fancy stepping into it”, the mother remarked. “That would cause a sensation”, the director chuckled. “Imagine people wandering into the gallery’s paintings”. “It’s almost as if there’s something lacking”, the father said. “It lacks life”, the director said, “I don’t think it’s quite finished. “But what have we here?” the mother asked, pointing at some figures outside the castle. Ida, Henry and Derek were too busy concentrating on standing still to notice the director’s head leaning on the picture frame far away by the apple tree. “Goodness me. It’s three children and a dog. It looks as if they are being painted into the picture”. The mother and father bent closer, their heads touching the canvas. They could see it all quite clearly. Their children, in regal garments, being painted by an artist. “They are inside the picture! How are we going to get them out?” Their mother began to shout: “Come out! Come out of that picture this minute!”
The artist was just on the point of adding a dash of white paint to Puffy’s ear, when distant shouting disturbed him. He turned, waving his brush irritably “Can’t you see I’m working?” “But our children!” their mother screamed. “Our dog!” their father bawled. Then they heard a booming voice, which the children recognised. It was the painting itself rumbling “The children and the dog will be returned when the painting is finished”, it said. “Now let the artist work in peace”. The director stepped back, terrified. There the artist stood in his own picture; painting three dressed up gallery guests and a dog directly on the canvas. “This is dreadful. A catastrophe for the gallery, and a tragedy for the family. I don’t know how… “ At this point the father, patting his wife on the cheek, said “Could we perhaps buy the painting?” The director mopped his brow, relieved that the parents weren’t angry. “We can make you a good offer”, he said. So the parents bought the painting with their children, their dog and the artist inside. They carried it home and hung it on the best wall in the sitting room. The children and the dog continued to model between four and six o’clock every day, until the artist and the painting were both satisfied.
The Jealous Christmas Decorations It was Christmas Eve. Three children and their father sat in front of the decorated Christmas tree and stared. But they weren’t staring at the glittering star at the top of the tree, nor at the heap of presents lying under it. It wasn’t the angels, the tinsel, the glass balls or the lights that held their attention. No, the family sat and gazed, bewitched, at a painting their father had bought at an auction. It pictured an apple tree in a garden, a road winding through golden cornfields, and a castle with three children and a dog in front of it. The painting was so fascinating, the children and their father imagined themselves part of it. They couldn’t even be bothered to give their presents a curious squeeze, something the gifts and decorations found very annoying. “You’re taking all the attention from Christmas”, the Christmas star complained. “I can’t help being more attractive than you”, the painting replied. “Can’t you just move back a bit, at least while it’s Christmas, so that the family can think of something other than apple trees and fairytale castles”, the Christmas angel suggested. “Yes, we all think you should do that”, the other ornaments said.” Go and hang somewhere else until Christmas is over”. But the painting wouldn’t move. “I’ve as much right to be here as you”, it said. This was too much for the ornaments. Next day was Christmas day, and if the family continued to gape at that painting like idiots, the whole of Christmas could be ruined. The Christmas angel was appointed leader of the “ save Christmas” committee. She took a firm grip on the longest garland, swung herself onto the picture frame, crawled along the edge, and plucked out the tacks that held the painting in place. “Now we will finally get some Christmas spirit into this room”, she said grimly, dragging the painting down to the floor. “Don’t do that”, the painting begged. “You’re scratching me badly”. But the angel continued to drag the painting under the carpet, while she said, threateningly: “Now lie here quietly, and heaven help you if you show as much as the tiniest corner tomorrow”. There was a commotion when the family entered the sitting room on Christmas morning. “The painting. Where’s the painting?” the youngest child cried. “It was here in its frame when we went to bed”, the middle one said. “The door and windows are locked, so it can’t have been stolen”, the largest child reasoned. The children and their father searched everywhere but couldn’t find it. “What shall we do now we haven’t got the painting to look at”, they complained. “LOOK AT US”, the Christmas tree, the decorations and the presents shouted. But the children weren’t listening. They continued to search, even after everything in the house had been turned upside down.
Later that evening the children sat exhausted around the table and looked sadly at their father. They didn’t want their Christmas dinner. They wouldn’t unpack their presents either. They just sat grieving over the missing painting. The Christmas angel thought this was going too far. “If they won’t celebrate Christmas, then we must do it for them. Line up and march towards the dining table!” she commanded. The Christmas decorations jumped from branch to branch down the tree until they landed on the carpet, and could feel the painting’s rough surface under their feet. One after the other the decorations walked rolled and dragged themselves across the floor. It was quite a sight to see them climbing up the table leg, but the family weren’t the slightest bit interested. On arrival at their destination, the Christmas angel propped herself up against a glass and proclaimed: “Now we are going to eat and enjoy ourselves. It serves those stupid people right!” The decorations had never experienced such a Christmas. The lights from the Christmas tree dragged the cord after them and shone warmly across the table. Pixies poured the drinks and the angels carved the turkey. They ate and drank, filling their tummies, while they sang their own version of Jingle Bells. Christmas day, Christmas day, what a lovely treat, Here there’s turkey, stuffing too and masses more to eat. Christmas gifts, Christmas gifts, we will have such fun, Tearing all the wrappings off and opening every one. Paper chains, paper chains, stuffed with Christmas cake, Broke apart, the extra weight was more than they could take. Angels all, angels all, flew down from the tree, Gorged themselves on sausages and all that they could see. Coloured balls, coloured balls, liked the trifle best, But they weren’t too picky, and sampled all the rest. Tinsel bright, tinsel bright couldn’t stand the pace, Lay and groaned, had stomach-ache, a really sad, sad case. Soon the well-stuffed pixies had their beards full of Christmas pudding, and the tinsel felt heavy and faint from overeating. “Cheers!” cried the Christmas angel, raising her glass. “Cheers for the decorations’ Christmas”. “And for the presents’” someone called from the tree. The Christmas angel put down her glass, pressing her hands to her overfull stomach.
“The presents, of course”, she replied merrily. “Now we must open the presents!” “Hurray!” chirped a flock of tiny angels, flying down to tear off wrapping paper. “Finally”, groaned the presents, thrilled to be opened at last. The decorations lowered themselves from the table on a string of tinsel, ran over the floor, and threw themselves onto the parcels. They tore off the wrapping paper, laughing and shouting. And all this happened while the children and their father just sat looking on. After opening all the parcels, the decorations were so worn out, tired and full that they barely had the energy to climb back to their proper places on the tree. Eventually even the Christmas star managed to puff and pant its way to the very top. But it was so exhausted that it hadn’t the energy to light up. A few small burps were heard here and there, and then they were all asleep. The painting heard that all was still. Christmas must be over now, it thought, peeping cautiously out from under the carpet. One of the children caught sight of it. “Look there! Look there!” she shouted. Their father jumped up from the sofa and saw a tiny corner of the painting. His eyes filled with tears of joy, and he laughed as he carefully pulled it out. “Is that where you have been? Oh how we have missed you”. While their father replaced the picture into its frame, it was as if they all woke up from a dream. “The Christmas decorations have eaten up all our food”, the eldest child said “The Christmas decorations have opened all our presents”, the middle child said. “The Christmas decorations are snoring on the tree”, the youngest child said. This made their father angry. “Let’s just get rid of it”, he said, carrying the tree with its over-stuffed, sleeping decorations out onto the balcony. “We don’t need a Christmas tree when we have our lovely painting”. So he locked it out and left it in the stormy winter night. Out on the balcony the Christmas angel woke up. “What’s happened?” she mumbled, shaking off the snow. “Goodness knows”, the Christmas star said, sneezing, “but it’s awfully cold here” One by one the decorations woke up, and gazed longingly into the bright, warm room where the family were enjoying themselves eating cake and playing with their presents. The children peeped occasionally out at the tree, which stood askew and windblown on the balcony. “I miss our Christmas tree”, the little one said. “Me too”, the middle child agreed. “We haven’t even looked at it properly”, the eldest said. “That’s true”, their father said. “The only thing we’ve looked at is the painting”.
So their father brought the tree in again. They brushed the snow from its branches, and thawed out the cold, frozen and over-fed angels, pixies, tinsel, paper-chains and all the other decorations. Then the children and their father joined hands, formed a ring and walked round the Christmas tree, while they and the decorations sang their version of “jingle bells�. Now, at last, everything was as it should be on Christmas day, for the family, the painting and the Christmas decorations.
The Carpet Weaver Tamara was poor and thin, and she stood by loom number 568 in a carpet factory. Her job was to change threads and choose colours, thus giving the carpets a varied and beautiful pattern. In this factory the looms couldn’t be switched off. They wove both day and night, while the workers minding them were changed at the end of each shift. But no one came to relieve Tamara. She worked continuously and could neither eat nor rest, because if she left the loom it would break down. Day after day went by, and Tamara became more and more sleepy. She was so tired eventually that she stumbled and fell into the loom, and was woven into the carpet. After a while the loom stopped with a bang. Then an alarm rang, waking the manager. He shot out of his chair and was soon on the spot at loom number 568. But the weaver, who should have been there, was nowhere to be seen. “Darned worker”, he mumbled, rolling up the carpet. “”She’ll have to pay for the repairs herself when I find her”. Tamara tried to say something to the manager as he rolled up the carpet, but her voice was so weak it disappeared in the noise from the other looms. Next day the carpet was rolled out in the exhibition hall. Customers from all over the world could see immediately that there was something special about this carpet. “What a wonderful pattern”, the owner of a gold mine in Mongolia remarked. “The figure looks almost alive”, a bank manager from Timbuktu said. “It looks like an angel”, a fairytale princess said. Everyone thought Tamara was just a pattern woven into the carpet. For who could imagine it was a real person they were looking at. Rumours about this special carpet reached the manager. He went down to the exhibition hall himself to take a closer look. Something about the pattern reminded him vaguely of the woman who used to stand by loom 658, or was it 568? He couldn’t quite remember. But she has certainly made a good job of this carpet, he thought; as he glanced slyly up at all the interested customers. I think I’ll double the price, no; I’ll raise it ten times. Then he stood up, cunningly stroking his beard. “The price of this carpet is raised a thousand fold”. This made the carpet so expensive that most of the customers chose other, cheaper carpets. But one man remained. He was a rich, Arabian oil sheik, who felt that the carpet spoke directly to his heart. “I’ll take it”, he said, blinking rather nervously. Because this was the most expensive carpet he had ever bought, and it couldn’t even fly! Hours later the sheik’s servants rolled the carpet out onto the palace floor. Then Tamara woke up, but she was so exhausted she thought at first she was dead. Her arms and legs were withered and she had no feeling in the rest of her body either. But she could still hear. She heard children’s voices. Children’s eager voices, whizzing backwards and forwards above her, discussing the new carpet.
Tamara forced herself to open one eye, and saw that the room was full of flying carpets. Large and small carpets flew backwards and forwards, right up to the ceiling. But the strangest thing was all the thin children staring at her from inside the carpets. Tamara just managed to speak “Where am I? And who are you?” she whispered. “You are in Arabia, and we are carpet children”, a boy hovering just above her head replied. “But what are you doing inside the carpets?” “Pedalling, of course”, the boy answered. “How else could we manage to fly?” Now Tamara could see the pedals and all the tiny propellers whirling round just under the woven fabric “So that’s how flying carpets manage to fly”, she said, so quietly that they could barely hear her. “It’s hard work, but that’s the way we live. Bye the way, where are your propellers?” Tamara smiled wanly. “I just fell into the carpet loom by mistake”. She said. “You poor thing”, the boys said, gathering around her. “Perhaps we can pull you out”. While this was happening, the manager of the carpet factory searched and searched for the weaver who worked at loom number 568. He thought he would give her some buttons and cotton reels he had lying around as thanks for weaving a carpet he had sold for 10 million pounds. He also considered dropping his claim on payment for repairing the loom. In return, of course, she would have to work for him for the rest of her life. “Where are you, my dear little weaver”, he coaxed. But Tamara couldn’t answer, as she was sleeping safely and soundly in a soft bed in the palace’s largest bedroom. The carpet children had forgotten to tell the sheik about the lady they had rescued. So when he came into the room to enjoy the sight of his new carpet, he only saw a large hole and loose threads where Tamara had been. The sheik dropped to his knees. “It’s ruined”, he sobbed, crushing the carpet between his hands. “The picture of the beautiful lady has disappeared”. Before the carpet children had time to tell him what had happened, he had flown back to the factory. Furiously he threw open the door to the manager’s office. “I want my money back”, he thundered. “Now, immediately!” “Aren’t you satisfied with the carpet?” the manager asked. “No, he shrieked, poking his head through the loose strands.” The picture has disappeared”, he said, feeling tears gathering in his throat. “The picture of the beautiful, gorgeous lady has gone”. The sheik dried his tears with the remains of the carpet. “Where is she?” he asked, sniffling. “Tell me where she is”. “How should I know”, the manager replied, offhand. “I have worries enough trying to find the weaver who made the carpet”.
This made the sheik so angry that he kicked the manager’s desk violently. “Missing workers are irrelevant to my carpet. The pattern is no longer there, and without the picture of the beautiful, slim lady the carpet is worthless”. “OK, I’ll give you your money back”, the manager said, “ But then you must take me with you to Arabia”. After a long journey the manager and the sheik arrived at the palace among the sand dunes. Inside the palace the factory manager was practically ambushed by flying carpets. “Quiet now children, just be quiet. This is the manager of a carpet factory… “Then you are probably looking for the lady who fell into the loom,” the carpet children said, all speaking at once. “Yes, possibly”, the manager said, bewildered. For he had, of course, never seen talking carpets before. The carpet children grabbed him by his beard, and pulled him into the room where Tamara lay among a pile of gold embroidered pillows. “Aha, so there you are” the manager said, smiling falsely. “Isn’t it about time you came back to work. Loom number 568, or was it 658, has been repaired and is waiting for you. All expenses connected with getting it repaired I thought perhaps”… The manager was interrupted by the sheik, who had caught sight of Tamara. He was so moved at seeing that the carpet pattern was alive, he knelt in front of her and began to sob. “My beloved, beloved carpet…or whoever you are”. “I’m Tamara from the carpet factory. Who are you?” The sheik couldn’t resist the impulse to clasp Tamara’s hand “I’m the sheik here about. Will you marry me?” Tamara felt really confused. She glanced from the miserly manager to the amorous sheik. “I bought the carpet with you inside because I was so enchanted”, the sheik explained, meeting Tamara’s eyes with a loving look. “When your picture disappeared from the carpet, I was heart broken. Losing you was really painful, as painful as only true love can be. But now you are here, in my house, in the flesh!” “I am actually far more hungry and thirsty than interested in getting married,” Tamara said. “Your carpet children have been very kind and shared the little they had with me”. “Have they really”, the sheik remarked, slightly embarrassed. “If I feed them too well they fall down, you see”. Tamara looked at him severely. “I know a little about how unpleasant it is to be woven into a carpet”, she said. “If you want me to be your wife, you must release the children, and adopt them as our own. The sheik leaped up, joyfully. “I promise”, he cried. And with a snap of his fingers he commanded his servants to cut up the costly carpets. In the background the manager cleared his throat.
“What about”… he began. The sheik understood immediately what he was about to say. “Here are your ten million”, he laughed gleefully, counting out the money. “This wonderful lady and the carpet children’s freedom are worth every penny”. So they were married. And Tamara lived happily ever after with the sheik and their adopted children in the palace among the sand dunes.