Are monsters like me? (2-4)

Are grizzly monsters afraid of the dark?
Do they pick-up their friends and head to the park?
Are they painfully shy on their first day of school?
When cleaning their teeth, must they stand on a stool?



Are they ticklish too at the back of their knees?
Do they gather brown conkers that fall from the trees?
Are monsters frustrated at tying their shoes?
Do they like to wear bed socks when taking a snooze?








Are they nuts about football and crazy for cricket?
Do they pick at their noses and secretly eat it?
Are they tired of being told to finish their greens?
Do they do lots of farts after eating baked beans?




Are they baffled by long words, tricky to spell?
Do they have middle names that they'd rather not tell?
Are monsters like me and are monsters like you?...




Well, I've never yet seen one... I don't have a clue!

Mind the Gap (5-8)

What happens in that gap, between the wall and cupboard door?

The dark and gloomy gaping crack that hides secrets galore?

Are Boogey Men and Closet Monsters riding piggy back?

Are cranky ghosts and nighttime beasts thinking up a snack?

Could they crunch your bones and eyeballs, could they bite your nose?

And pickle-up your kidneys, drink your brains and grind your toes?

What happens in that slice of dark night looming over there?

The long thin strip of nastiness where demons stand and stare.

Are robbers holding scratchy sacks for stealing lots of gold?

Or pinching all your favourite toys, oh would they be so bold?

Do witches brew-up potions, zapping kids into thin air? 
Will people notice that you’ve gone, will anybody care?

Why don’t you turn the light on, have a peek inside that gap?

I just don't think you'll find a ghost or nasty goblin’s trap.

The things that you imagine really tend to be much worse

Than slobbering wolves or slimy snakes or whacky wizards curse

So take a look and worry not, there’s nothing to dismay

Unless you count that jumper Auntie Flo made you last May!

Cata-pants (5-8)

Harry Winterbottom is a very little boy who has a very enormous pair of spotty underpants.

He’s got lots of other pants too, but the spotty ones are definitely his favourite.

They are also far more enormous than any of his other pairs because he wears them quite so often and pulls them up really high, so that people can see the spots.  So, now they are all stretched and it’s getting to the point where Harry can’t wear them anymore.

Harry is a little sad about this.  He wonders if there is something else he could use his pants for.

Could they make a snazzy hat?

No.  Too floppy.

Could they be used as a shopping bag?

No.  The apples would roll out of the leg holes.

Could they make a cosy den to play in?

No.  They would let in too much light.

Alas, Harry can’t think of a single new use for his oh-so-enormous pants. 

But he still doesn’t want to part with his favourite old under crackers.  And so, the very day that his mother decided it was time to put them in the bin, she found she had a bitter tug-of-war on her hands. 

Harry gripped the waistband of his dear old briefs whilst his mother clung to a leg hole.  

And both HEAVED.

And HEEEEEAVED.

But, Harry’s mother was too strong and when Harry’s foot slipped on the kitchen tiles he was flung over his mother’s head, out of the window and ‘PLOP’ on to Mr Kibble’s rose bushes, three gardens down!

“Yikes!”  Harry’s mother yelled. “My darling little Harry!  I’ve thrown him clean out of the  window!”

But  ...

“Eureka!”  Harry screeched 

“We’ve just invented the Cata-Pant!   We’ll  be able to catapult anything, anywhere!

We can launch ships in to the ocean

 








We can put rockets on the moon

We can fling the fairy on the top of the Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square!

And we’ll never have to throw-out a pair of pants again.  Think of  all the recycling!”  

Nowadays, Harry is a very, VERY rich little boy indeed.  

He’s been named ‘Young Entre’Pant’neur of the Year’ and has been on the front cover of Inventor Magazine three times already!

And all because he refused to give up on his favourite pair of spotty underpants!

There's a shark in Old Barton swimming pool

No one believes that there's a shark in Old Barton swimming pool.  It's odd really, considering the tally of missing children has been growing consistently since it's opening in 1974.

I mean, the absence of those children themselves hasn't gone unnoticed, but no one has stopped to link it to the swimming pool itself...or should I say it's contents.  It's a sad and woeful truth, but that shark in the big pool at the town's leisure establishment is to blame for many a tiddler's vicious demise.

There's a particular type that the shark goes for and it's certainly never the skinny ones.  Those ones aren’t meaty enough for the greedy, giant fish and their bones get stuck in his grimy teeth.

He doesn’t like the chatty ones; the ones too busy talking to concentrate on their swimming.  He finds those ones quite wriggly to eat and, once consumed, they give him terrible wind (all that hot air I suppose).

It's hardly ever the weak swimmers either, for the gnarly old shark won't risk exposing itself in the shallow end, where the learners bob and float atop their various inflatable devices.

That leaves us with the ones he DOES like to eat.  And it’s the dive-bombers!  The ones that take a run-up and hurl themselves in to the water with an almighty yell, splashing water in to the faces of everyone around them.  You know the ones?  You see, the moment everyone turns their heads and covers their eyes, he takes his opportunity.  It means that no one sees him snatch the tucked-up little body as it plunges right in to the depths of his territory. 

Now, you may be reading this with a certain level of scorn; a disbeliever who snorts at the very idea of a shark dwelling in a small town swimming pool. But, ask yourself this....the next time you find yourself in the darkened navy waters of the deep end can you, honestly and truthfully, say that there's no shark hovering silently behind the rusty old grate in the corner?  

What else is that grate there for?

Hmmmm?

Sitting on the edge of the bed

You know when you sit on the edge of your bed and let your legs dangle down over the side?


Yeah, it's best not to do that because the monsters under the bed WILL grab them.


It's only a matter of when.


I promise you....leave them there long enough and .....




WHOOMF!





Try it if you don't believe me.

.

Rainbow Sam

Rainbow Sam is the guy that paints all those rainbows in the sky.

Well, with a name like that, he was never going to be an estate agent, was he.

J-J Pierre's Parisian Friday (5-6)

Little J-J Pierre is French and he lives in Paris. 

He loves ‘lait Fraise’ and he likes to sit on a street cafe terrace, sipping from a frosted glass, watching the world roll by.

On a Friday after school, his ‘Maman’ will order him a portion of thin, salty French-fries, with a little pot of mayonnaise to dip them in.  For herself, she’ll order steaming hot, black coffee and two brightly coloured macaroons.  Then they’ll sit together, side by side, gazing at the people walking by. 

Some rush past, their eyes glued to the pavement, determined not to be delayed a moment longer than necessary.  J-J Pierre likes to imagine that they have secret missions to attend to.  Spy-like missions, involving spy-like gadgets and spy-like cars.  He supposes that they have ‘Top-Secret’ documents in their briefcases, and voice tape recorders in their pockets.  He wonders if their pens are really memory-wiping tools and if they use their lunch boxes as walkie-talkies.

Others wander aimlessly, sometimes looking at maps, sometimes glancing up in to the sky as if to be led by the clouds.  Those, he has been informed by Maman, are ‘Tourists’.  They come to see Paris’ beautiful cathedrals and galleries, its famous river and the world renowned ‘Tour d’Eiffel’!  J-J Pierre likes to try and get in to the background of the thousands of photos they take.  He likes to pull a funny face or make bunny ears behind the many posing faces.

Then there are those that swagger casually by, with their noses held high up in the air.  Fluffy, snooty dogs on long strings of ribbon, skip along at their heels, turning up their snouts at the many things that displease them.  Those people wear smart, colourful blazers with wild, silk scarves and they talk in ridiculously loud voices.  J-J Pierre wishes they wouldn’t speak so loud when their friends are standing so close beside them.  These are his least favourite kind of people and he wonders how they can see where they are going with their noses held aloft!

When J-J Pierre is really in luck, Maman will ask the nice waiter – a tall, thin man in a long white apron which reaches from his belly to his toes – to bring a sticky 'eclair'.  This he eats as slowly as possible, with a miniature silver fork, relishing each and every sweet, delicious mouthful.

Once he has scooped-up every last crumb and Maman has finished the last drop of velvet black coffee and paid the bill with a handful of notes and coins, they brush down their laps and walk slowly home.

Those are the best Fridays for J-J Pierre!  French fries, pink milk, cake and time with Maman!

Jamie's Jungle (5-6)

Jamie likes the jungle at the back of the airing cupboard.

 It has always been there, so he’s never thought to question it.

He’s never thought to dispute the screeching monkeys, or the rowdy parrots.

And he’s never thought to ask about the rasping snakes and mosquitos the size of toffee pennies. 

They have always just buzzed away quietly, night and day, at the very back of the small, dark room, where freshly ironed sheets and shirts are left to air, and where his brother’s long-forgotten cress-growing experiment has started to take on a life of its own.

He knows no one else can see the jungle and all its noisy inhabitants, but that doesn’t bother him.  In fact, it makes him feel special.  Ever-so special.

He knows where all the odd socks disappear to.

He knows that those paw prints on the clean white table cloth aren’t from their pet cat Mildred but, from the velvety panther that likes to sit atop the fresh, warm linen piles.

And he knows that the groany creaking noises that come at night aren’t monsters on the stairs, but elephants leaning, lazily, against giant jungle trees.

But what Jamie doesn’t know is that there is a mountain, looming like a giant, at the back of the cupboard under the stairs.


I wonder when he’ll figure that one out. 


THAT’S where his favourite football went!

Shhh, not telling

Arthur Arty McArthurson has a secret.  

Unfortunately, this is where the story ends, as he’s not telling anyone.

New book

Olivia Alice flies amongst the pages of the books she reads.

First, she cracks open the shiny spine and breathes in that delicious, bitter new-book smell.  Then, carefully and one-by-one, she peels the pages back, drinking in the glossy images inside.  She doesn’t take in the words the first time around, reserving that pleasure for later.

When she’s finished, she closes the book and sets it on top of the large feather pillow on her bed, before she hurries back in to the garden to play.  She’ll wait until bed time to enjoy that new book feeling all over again when, this time, she’ll read through the rolling paragraphs, absorbing each and every word and enjoying the pictures in a whole new light.

Then, having read the book 4, 5, maybe even 6 times, Olivia will fall in to a deep, luxurious sleep and, in her dreams, fly amongst the pages of the book she’s just read.

The way to outer space

I was out in the car with my dad the other day when I saw a signpost to outer space!

It said 

"NCP Space, 1 ----->"

which is odd, because I thought that was the way to Grimsby.  

I wonder what NCP stands for.

Nice

Cosmonaut

People


No
Cats
Please


I will try and persuade Dad to go to outer space next time we're in town.  According to the sign, it's only 1 mile away.

Bananacat

Tobin's cat smells like bananas.

I don’t know why.

It’s not a normal smell for a cat to smell of.

I hope he’s not eaten by monkeys.

Though I understand there isn’t a huge cat-eating problem with the monkeys in England.

Ellery Scrimp (6-8)

Ellery Scrimp, is one wicked beast.  Not nasty, nor spiteful, but evil!  Diseased!

He lives, by himself, in a festering castle.  He sits counting cash.  He’s one mean old rascal.

His fortress resides on the edge of a town, and that’s where he plots about bringing folk down.

He dreams of creating the world’s largest pancake.  Stuffed full with the townsfolk to feed to his pet snake.

He thinks about boiling their eyeballs in butter, to sink on the golf green with his rusty putter.

He wouldn’t think twice about squashing a cat, on the grizzly grill of his huge cadillac.

And he sure wouldn’t mind about kicking a dog, or shoving a granny face-first in a bog.

You see Scrimp is quite simply the nastiest man.  Can you think of a worse one?  I don’t think you can.

One day when Old Scrimp was out coasting along, in his boat of car, he was singing a song,

About orphans in dungeons and lions in cages and terrible battles that ran through the ages. 

He was just warming up to his favourite part, where a warrior king was harpooned through the heart,

When his car started shaking and swerved off the track and the ground opened-up and swallowed him back.

He plummeted south, headlong through the mud, through layers of earth and stinking old crud.

The car windows cracked when he finally landed, with a bang in the dirt.  Old Scrimp, he was stranded!

“What is this place?  How far have I fallen?”  “And what is that smell?  It’s completely appalling”

As his old wrinkled eyes got used to the light, Scrimp finally made out a terrible sight.

He suddenly realised just what had unfurled: he’d dropped miles through earth to the great Underworld!

The floor seemed to move, recoiling and writhing.  The sky was all black, he could hear creatures hiding

Just out of his sight, but not very far, they slithered and snarled and surrounded the car

Things bubbled and snickered and grumbled and howled.  Far off in the distance, something large growled.

Scrimp whimpered and sniveled, he begged and he pleaded.  He cried to a mother he’d not before needed

As pustulous globules and dribbling crocs, licked at his windows and pulled at the locks.

Scrimp cowered inside for hours and hours, brief sleep bringing dreams of pink 

kittens and flowers

But when he awoke he was still stuck in hell, and what made things worse, there was no one to tell

Poor old man Scrimp, so pathetic and scared.  If he’d known this would happen he’d never have dared

To be quite so evil and wicked and mean, I’m sure he’d have tried more to keep himself clean.
If only he’d realised that no one should be, quite as smelly and nasty and wicked as he.

So he sobbed and he had a good think about things, with remorse he decided on whole new beginnings

He promised to be nice and share out his money, he promised he’d go home and try to be funny.

He swore that he’d soak in the tub twice a week and invite people over to play hide and seek.

His sobs were so loud that a kind spirit heard, and decided to give him the chance he deserved.

So suddenly everything turned to a flash.  With a WHIZZ and a BANG he was home with his cash!

With pure joy he yelled out “Wohooo, oh my goodness!  I seem to have found my way back to my fortress.

What a clever old goat I am to escape, from that terrible place with no more than a scrape

I tricked them I did and I made them all think, that I was so sorry, that I’d fix my stink.

But I won’t start smiling or sharing my loot, and I won’t go washing, not even one boot!”

He danced and he jigged with such wild abandon, he just didn’t notice his trousers come undone. 

So when he leapt over his loot to the stairs, he didn’t suspect he’d trip-up on his flares.

With a scream and a bang, he fell down five flights, the details of which might well ladder ones tights!

And where do you think that goose found his soul?  Why, back in the dark, scary land down the hole.