where the pupils felt a little superior just because their parents had to pay for them to go there. They were a very good team though, and within the first ten minutes had scored. The pressure was immediately on, and Darvesh stole the ball off a boy who looked twice his size and passed it to Dennis.
“Lovely tackle, Darvesh my son!” shouted Darvesh’s mum.
The thrill of possessing the ball made Dennis forget his cold for a moment, and he weaved his way through the defence and approached the goal-keeper, a luxuriant-haired boy sporting brand new kit, who was probably called Oscar or Tobias or something. All of a sudden they were face to face, and Dennis sneezed again uncontrollably.
The snot exploded onto the goalie’s face, blinding him for a moment, and all Dennis needed to do was tap the ball past the line.
“Foul!” shouted the goal-keeper, but the referee allowed it. It was foul, but not technically a foul.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Dennis. He really hadn’t meant to do it.
“Don’t worry, I have a tissue!” exclaimed Darvesh’s mum. “I always carry a packet with me.” She hurtled onto the pitch, hitching up her sari to avoid the mud and ran up to the goalie. “There you go, posh boy,” she said, handing him the tissue. Darvesh rolled his eyes at his mother’s one-woman pitch invasion. The goalie tearfully wiped Dennis’s mucous from his floppy hair. “Personally I think St Kenneth’s doesn’t stand a chance,” she added.
“Mummmm!” shouted Darvesh.
“Sorry! Sorry! Play on!”
Four goals later, one from Dennis, one from Gareth, one from Darvesh, and one ‘accidental’ deflection from Darvesh’s mum and the game was won.
“You are through to the semi-final boys! I can’t wait!” exclaimed Darvesh’s mum as she drove the boys home, beeping out tunes on the Ford Fiesta’s horn in celebration. For her it was as if England had won the world cup.
“Oh please don’t come Mum, I beg you. Not if you’re gonna do that again!”
“How dare you, Darvesh! You know I wouldn’t miss the next game for the world. Oh you make me so proud!”
Darvesh and Dennis looked at each other and smiled. For a moment their victory on the pitch made them feel like they owned the Universe.
Even Dad raised a smile when Dennis told him that his team were through to the semifinals.
But Dad wasn’t going to stay happy for long…
“What the hell is this?” said Dad. His eyes were popping out, he was so angry.
“It’s a magazine,” replied Dennis.
“I can see it’s a magazine.”
Dennis wondered why his dad was asking, if he already knew what it was, but he kept that thought to himself.
“It’s Vogue magazine, Dad.”
“I can see it’s Vogue magazine.”
Dennis fell silent. He had bought the magazine from the newsagent’s a few days before. Dennis liked the picture on the cover. It was of a very pretty girl in an even prettier yellow dress with what looked like roses sewn on the front, and it really reminded him of the dress his mum was wearing in the photograph he’d kept. He just had to buy it, even though the magazine was £3.80, and he only got £5 a week pocket money.
ONLY 17 SCHOOLCHILDREN ALLOWED IN AT ONE TIME read the sign in the newsagent’s shop window. The shop was run by a very jolly man called Raj, who laughed even when nothing funny was happening. He laughed when he said your name as you walked through the door—and that was just what he did when Dennis went into the shop.
“Dennis! Ha ha!”
Seeing Raj laugh it was impossible not to laugh too. Dennis visited Raj’s shop most days on his way to or from school, sometimes just to chat to Raj, and after he picked up the copy of Vogue he felt a twinge of embarrassment. He knew it was usually women who bought it, so he also picked up a copy of Shoot on the way to the counter, hoping to hide the Vogue underneath it. But after ringing up the Shoot magazine on the till, Raj paused.
He looked at the Vogue magazine, then at Dennis.
Dennis gulped.
“Are you sure you want this, Dennis?” asked Raj. “Vogue is mainly read by ladies, and your drama teacher Mr Howerd.”
“Umm…” Dennis hesitated. “It’s a present for a friend, Raj. It’s her birthday.”
“Oh, I see! Maybe you’d like some wrapping paper to go with it?”
“Um, OK.” Dennis smiled. Raj was a wonderful businessman and very skilled at getting you to buy things you didn’t really want.
“All the wrapping paper is over there by the greetings cards.”
Dennis reluctantly wandered over.
“Oh!” said Raj, excited. “Maybe you need a card to go with it too! Let me help.”
Raj bounded out from behind the counter and began to proudly show Dennis his range of cards. “These are very popular with the ladies. Flowers. Ladies love flowers.” He pointed out another. “Kittens! Look at these lovely kittens. And PUPPIES!” Raj was really excited now. “Look at those lovely puppies! They’re so beautiful, Dennis, that they make me want to cry.”
“Er…” said Dennis, looking at the card with puppies on it, trying to understand why it might make someone shed actual tears.
“Does this lady friend of yours prefer kittens or puppies?” Raj asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Dennis, unable to think what this “lady friend” of his might like, if she existed. “Puppies, I think, Raj.”
“Puppies it is! These puppies are so beautiful I want to kiss them all over!”
Dennis tried to nod his head in agreement, but his head wouldn’t move.
“Is this wrapping paper OK?” asked Raj, as he pulled out a roll of what looked suspiciously like unsold Christmas wrapping paper.
“It’s got Father Christmas on it, Raj.”
“Yes, Dennis, and he’s wishing you a very happy birthday!” said Raj confidently.
“I think I’ll just leave it, thanks.”
“Buy one extra roll, I’ll give you a third free,” said Raj.
