I am Not Roald Dahl! Read online

the one who owned the menacing footsteps, that is).

  “I bought this parrot from you only last week...” the voice continued, “...but it’s dead.”

  “Hmm, that sounds familiar,” I whispered, listening intently.

  “It appears all right to me,” said a second person – also a male.

  “All right?” the first man replied, his voice rising with anger, “I suppose he’s all right, if you happen to like dead parrots…ones that have been nailed to their perches!”

  I laughed. There was no one in front of me. I was listening to a television programme – a repeat of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, to be exact. I wondered where it was coming from, but because of the almighty pea soup, it was impossible to find out. Despite this failure, it did cheer me up, though, and I set off with renewed vigour, thinking at least one other person was still awake – even if they were only watching ancient repeats on the telly.

  “A quarter mile to go, Jeremiah,” I told myself. “Only a quarter of a mile, then you will be out of this terrible fog, safe from whoever is following you.”

  My house, my home was getting tantalisingly close, as minute-by-minute, yard-by-yard, I trundled through the pea soup I was in. Suddenly, I saw a gate, and I shouted, “I know that gate! It’s Mrs Pereira’s front gate!” I was so happy, seeing it. I felt like kneeling down and kissing it, but I did not. No. Instead, I began to run; I began running as if my life depended on it. “No one is going to get me,” I yelled defiantly, “no one at all!”

  Yes, it was still foggy, incredibly foggy, but I kept on running, dashing down the street to my house, my home. Like a man possessed, I sped through that fog as if it wasn’t even there, forward towards my final destination.

  Stopping at a gate, MY GATE, I fumbled in my pocket, trying to find my key. Pulling it out, I inserted it into the door lock. Opening the door – my front door – I went in. I was home. NOTHING could harm me now.

  “Excuse me,” a voice called out from behind me.

  Turning round, I looked out from my doorway, into the fog. “Who’s there?” I asked, afraid.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to be bothering you,” the voice continued. “I think I have something that belongs to you…”

  My eyes narrowing, I said, “Where are you? Show yourself!”

  Footsteps, I listened with trepidation to the sound of footsteps, his footsteps, getting closer and closer. Suddenly, from out of the fog, he appeared; a man, an incredibly old man, in a black coat so long it dusted the ground. He was smiling; the old man was actually smiling. With an arm outstretched, he said, “I believe this is yours?”

  Leaning out from the doorway, I tried to distinguish the object. “It’s my hat!” I cried out, quite in surprise, “Where did you find it?”

  “You dropped it, a mile or so back,” he replied, handing it to me. “I knew it was yours, because no one else was about. I would have returned it to you sooner, but in all this fog, I had quite a job trying to work out where you actually were. I had to keep stopping and starting, listening to your footsteps… You are okay with that, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, and thanks,” I replied, relieved that he was not an axe murderer.

  “I’ll be on my way, so,” he said, turning towards the gate.

  Feeling guilty for having such bad thoughts about him, I said, “You wouldn’t like to come in for a cup of tea, would you?”

  “It depends,” the pensioner replied.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you have any biscuits,” he said, laughing.

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied.

  “Never mind...” he answered, once more heading for the gate.

  “How about a glass of warm Madeira wine?” I asked.

  If there is a moral to this story, I feel it must be something along the lines of the following...

  ‘When the night is so dark you yearn for the dawn more than anything else, when it finally arrives it might not be what you expected.

  THE END

  Hickety, Pickety

  Hickety, pickety, my black hen,

  She struts around and around again,

  I wonder will she lay me an egg,

  ‘Cos if she don’t I’ll roast her leg.

  Wot, Nott, Kakuri and the HI BA HOU:

  The Fabled Crest

  We were not boy wizards, vampire’s assistants or even living skeletons, we were normal everyday people living normal everyday lives, with no inkling of the tremendous events that were about to unfold.

  Our adventure began with the arrival of a peculiarly small Christmas card, which sent us hurtling to the mystical land of Onisha, where Umahia, the Grand Mystic, asked for our help. He told us that he needed our help to fight, stop and ultimately defeat ‘Miafra, the evil,’ the mystic who had stolen his powers, the seasons, free will and all time. Umahia told us that we had powers, powers that up until then we had no inkling we possessed, which might, just might defeat this evil man…

  We had no idea, no inkling whatsoever, that we were going to be attacked by Protectors atop Hound-Horses, fight a statue hell-bent on killing us, be betrayed in our sleep, and be forced to fight a dangerous beast called a Dragonsaur. No, we had no idea at all. If we had, we might have chosen not to heed Umahia’s call, leaving the land of Onisha - and the Earth - exposed to untold dangers…

  Rioghbhardan and Fikri

  Hello, my name is Nott and my best friend is Wot. We have been friends as far back as we can remember; we live on the same street, went to the same school and shared most all our childhood experiences together, we are and always have been the very best of friends. As adults, we spend most of our free time together, and could never envisage it being any other way.

  My name, my real name is actually Fikri, and Wot’s is Rioghbhardan. Neither of us ever liked these, given, names, and from an early age, we would play happily for hours on end, trying to choose new ones. Despite spending so much time in this preoccupation, we found it difficult to choose alternatives, names we felt more suited to. Begrudgingly, we accepted them, until one sunny summer’s afternoon when we got a bit giddy, playing, thinking about possible new ones. Acting ‘the cod,’ singing in unison, we said, “What’s in a name? I do not know! It’s not our aim to go on so, trying to find what’s best or not – what must be resolved, or not.” With those words still ringing in our ears, we suddenly stopped singing.

  “That’s it!” Rioghbhardan cried out. “From now on we shall be called What and Not!”

  I immediately agreed, though I changed the spelling slightly, proclaiming, “From now on we are WOT and NOTT, and that’s that.” Little did we realise these names were to remain with us throughout our childhood and well into our adult lives.

  As we grew older, we did not drift apart as so many childhood friends tend to do, if anything we actually grew closer. This does not mean we always got on well. Quite often, we would appear, to those watching us, more akin to enemies than friends. The reason for this is that we are entirely different people. Wot is a laid-back type of individual who will not be rushed into a quicker rate of knots than he is comfortable with – he gets the job done, but on his terms. This trait can sometimes drive me bonkers, because I have a quick mind with an uncanny ability (or so I am told) to work things out. I want to get things done as soon as is humanly possible and cannot understand why anyone would have any other way of behaving. This difference in personalities has always ensured that life is far from dull for the two of us.

  Physically speaking, Wot is a larger than life individual, whose favourite colours are earthy browns and greens; his clothes definitely reflect this taste. He always wears flared, cord trousers, whether they are in fashion or not, and a casual, polo neck shirt. Despite prematurely greying, Wot’s short-cropped hair compliments rather than takes from his appearance, but a series of loose wrinkles running horizontally across the back of his head, quite unique to him, have to be seen up close and personal, to appreciate their uniqueness. br />
  I am just over half Wot’s height, of a thin build, with black hair and moustache. My preferred items of apparel are a crisp blue suit, white shirt, black tie and my old trilby hat that I would never be seen anywhere without.

  …We were two friends living normal everyday lives with no inkling of the tremendous events that were about to unfold...

  A Knock on the Door

  24th December.

  Sitting comfortably in his favourite armchair in front of a roaring log fire, Wot was looking forward to a relaxing evening at home, watching his favourite Christmas television programmes. He had already opened the present he had bought himself – a really warm and comfortable pair of Christmas slippers, decorated with all sorts of festive scenes and motifs. Before he turned on the television set, Wot withdrew a little red book from out of his shirt pocket, and then opened it. It was within this small book that he partook of his favourite pastime – writing poetry. He loved writing his poems. He received so much pleasure when writing them, and he never suffered from writer’s block, which so many other writers endure. When he took pen to paper, with the words flowing freely, he was in another world. Some of his poems were long, others so short they were finished almost as soon as they had begun. He wrote happy ones that made him laugh, sad ones that made him cry and every other conceivable type in between. Down through the years in which he had been writing, recording his thoughts and feelings in rhyming verse, there was one thing he had always felt,