alas, it was true. Polly hadn’t seen big Jake all summer long. Oh, how she missed riding on his huge furry back and pretending he was a horse or a spaceship!
‘Sigh,’ sighed Polly with a sigh. ‘First no adventures an’ now no Jakey. It’s well unfair.’
And with that she lay back in the long grass. The hot sun beat down and soon she was drifting, drifting away . . .
When Polly awoke it was dusk and the afternoon had grown fat with shadows. A low breeze whispered secrets in the bushes and the light was all funny and golden, full of magic and mystery and moths.
‘What strangery is this?’ whispered Polly. Her hair was standing on end and her arms were covered in goosebumps. It felt like something was going to happen.
And then, sure enough, something did happen. A little figure appeared over the top of Boaster’s Hill. It was the strangest little man Polly had ever pointed her eyes at. For a start, he was only 15.24 centimetres tall. And he was made entirely out of gingerbread, with raisins for eyes. And he had electric muscles so he could walk around like you or me, and blue sparks came off him whenever he moved. And what’s more, he carried an enormous biscuit tin and it was stuffed full of money. And as you know, money is worth a lot of money. And there was an awful lot of money in that tin, and that’s a fact.
‘Hello,’ said the little weirdy, skipping over to where Polly sat. ‘I am Alan Taylor.’
‘I’m Polly,’ replied Polly in wonder. ‘Are you from Fairymagic Dream Land where the rivers run with lemonade and the streets are paved with unicorns?’
‘Please don’t make fun of me,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘Haven’t you ever seen a gingerbread man with electric muscles before?’
‘Sorry, I haven’t,’ replied Polly in embarrassment. ‘I’m only nine. And I didn’t mean to make no fun.’
‘Well, all right,’ replied the talkative biscuit. ‘Here, take some money so we can be friends!’ he continued, offering her a bundle of banknotes.
‘Why, I don’t need your riches,’ said Polly in astonishment, ‘I’ll be your friend anyway.’
‘That’s not how the world works,’ said Alan Taylor sadly, stuffing the money back into the tin. ‘But do come to my party tomorrow,’ he said, cheering up. ‘I’ve just moved into town and built a MASSIVE mansion on top of this very hill.
Look! It’s MASSIVE so I can impress people and get friends. It’s MASSIVE.’
Polly looked up and there it stood, a-gleamin’ and a-glitterin’ in a blaze of floodlights.
‘Rimloff!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s big enough for a king! Or two little kings. They could share it and play hide-an’-seek.’
‘But it’s all mine!’ laughed Alan Taylor. ‘I am so rich! I am so rich!’ he sang, dancing around in the grass and throwing banknotes at a passing aphid. ‘Do you like me, Polly? Do you want some money?’
‘I just told you,’ said Polly firmly. ‘That’s not what friendship is all about.’
‘Of course it is,’ replied Alan Taylor with a frown. ‘But listen. Come round tomorrow afternoon, before the party starts. I’ll show you my house and impress you THAT way instead.’
Well, the truth was, Polly did want to see inside that marvellous house. And she liked Alan Taylor, even though he seemed a bit confused about money and friendship. So she thanked him graciously. Then she tried to curtsey but she didn’t know how, so she just wiggled her arms around and shouted ‘CURTSEY!’ and hoped that would do.
‘Good try,’ said Alan Taylor generously. ‘Well, I’d better get going. There’s lots more people to invite and impress!’
And off he raced on his crunchy little legs, leaving Polly too excited for words. So she said some numbers instead.
‘12! 93! 114!’ she said as she made her way back home, and soon she was in bed, dreaming of gingerbread men and parties and all manner of wonderful things.
Meanwhile, Over at Mr Gum’s
Mr Gum was standing in front of the cracked mirror in the lonely bedroom of his grimsters old house. Blow me down with an oil tanker, he was a horror. He hated children, animals, fun and every cartoon ever made. What he liked was snoozing in bed all day. In fact, although it was eight o’clock in the evening Mr Gum had only just got up. For not only was he a horror, he was a lazer too.
So anyway. There he was in front of the mirror, getting ready to go out.
‘You’re up early, you handsome devil,’ he said to his reflection. ‘What do you fancy doin’ today?’
‘I fancies bein’ even more evil than usual,’ replied his reflection with a nasty laugh.
‘Good idea, stupid,’ said Mr Gum. ‘In that case, I better look me most frightful.’
He got a felt-tip pen and drew some extra scowls on his forehead.
Then he scruffed up his big red beard to make it as wild and frightening as possible. It wasn’t quite terrifying enough so he stuck a couple of beetles in it and a photo of a shark.
‘That should do it,’ he growled. Then he sproinged downstairs, jumped on a skateboard he’d nicked off a six-year-old and headed into town.
On the high street, Martin Launderette was about to close up his launderette for the night when in came one last customer. It was Jonathan Ripples, the fattest man in town.
‘Martin, please be careful with these,’ he said, handing over a bundle of clothes. ‘They’re very delicate.’
‘No
