junk, but still she wanted something more. The funny thing was that she just didn’t know what.
Can you guess what Myrtle demanded for her tenth birthday? In the incredibly unlikely event that you guessed…
A pair of exploding socks.
A life-sized blue-whale bath toy. When it went in the bath, all the water spilled out.
A balloon model of the Taj Mahal.
A pencil un-sharpener.
And a robot pea.
…then congratulations. You were correct and win one pound.*
Mr and Mrs Meek were forced to give their daughter all these things that she had demanded for her birthday. If they hadn’t, Myrtle would have howled the house down.
“Happy birthday, our beautiful angel!” they called out as Myrtle lay in bed, ripping open the presents and throwing the scrunched-up balls of wrapping paper back at them.
RUSTLE!
DOINK!
Moments later, she was demanding something more. What was unusual this time, though, was that the girl had absolutely no idea what that something should be. Myrtle had so many things that she couldn’t think of a single thing in the world she didn’t have.
“I wanna FING!”
she announced over breakfast. The girl was scoffing a ginormous bowl of chocolate ice cream with seventeen chocolate flakes stuck in it, and an ocean of chocolate sauce on top. Yes, Myrtle had chocolate for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Well, would you say no to her?
Mr and Mrs Meek, who were dipping their neatly cut soldiers into boiled eggs, shared a worried look. A “FING”?
Whatever did she mean?
“A ‘FING’, my dearest darling?” asked Mother, putting down her book, One Hundred Poems for Ladies.
“Yeah. Are you deaf? A FING!”
“What’s a ‘FING’, sweetness?” enquired Father, putting down his book, One Hundred Poems for Gentlemen.
“I dunno, but I want one!”
“How do you spell it?” asked Mother.
Myrtle’s face went scarlet with fury.
“I ain’t fick! You spell it the normal way. F! I! N! G! FING!”
The girl thumped the breakfast table with her fist to add emphasis.
BASH!
All the crockery flew into the air, and smashed on to the floor.
“Pick up the pieces! NOW!” the girl ordered.
On their hands and knees under the kitchen table, Mr Meek whispered to his wife, “What are we to do? Our beloved offspring wants a ‘FING’. But I don’t think a ‘FING’ is a real thing. I worry a ‘FING’ is a made-up thing.”
“We’ll have to think of SOMEFING – I mean, something,” replied Mrs Meek just before she felt a boot up her bottom.
BOOF!
“OUCH!” she cried.
“SHUT UP DOWN THERE!” came the voice from above. “I can barely hear myself blow off!”
“That’s better.”
Mr and Mrs Meek were in a panic. If they didn’t come up with some “FING”, there was going to be TROUBLE.
BIG
TROUBLE.
After breakfast that morning, Mr and Mrs Meek gave their daughter a lift to school. And I mean “lift”, literally. Every morning, they were forced to lift her up and carry her there. Myrtle refused to walk even though it was only a short distance away. It was a mighty effort carrying her. As she mostly ate chocolate, Myrtle was as heavy as an ox.*
“PUT ME DOWN!” Myrtle ordered as her poor parents made their final stagger to the school gates. Once they’d carefully lowered her to the ground, Father passed his daughter her industrial-sized lunchbox. It was so big and heavy it was on wheels.
“Have a lovely day at school, my sweetest of hearts,” he said.
“DON’T FORGET – BY THE TIME I GET HOME FROM SCHOOL I WANNA FING!” she bawled, before waddling off into the playground, knocking several smaller children to the ground as she did so.
“My angel of heaven, we promise we will do our absolute bestest best!” called out Mother brightly.
This stopped Myrtle in her tracks. Slowly she turned round and reached into her lunchbox.
“BESTEST BEST ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH!” she hollered. Myrtle pulled out one of the tall cartons of chocolate milk and lobbed it at her mother.
It hit poor Mrs Meek right in the face, soaking her and her pink flowery dress.
“Thanking you kindly,” remarked the lady, not sure what else to say.
Father passed his wife the handkerchief he always kept in his breast pocket.
“There we are, Mother.”
Mrs Meek dabbed at the chocolate milk. It was little use. The pink flowery dress was now a brown chocolatey mess.
“BESTEST BETTER THAN BEST!” appealed Father.
Once again, Myrtle reached into her lunchbox.
“Oh
