Thimble, as you might have gathered, creates a lot of havoc. But he is also my best friend. He sleeps on my bed at night and helps me on with my splints in the morning. My splints are plastic things which I wear round my calves and feet. They keep my feet flat to the ground and stop me from walking on tiptoes, which might be great for ballet but is useless for football. I have taught Thimble to play football. He is a brilliant goalie, really bendy, like Gordon Banks in his prime, except Gordon Banks never stuffed the ball down his shorts and ran off with it.
Anyway, on with the story.
It was a wild windy night at Dawson Castle. The rain lashed at the castle defences. Mum looked glum and Dad looked glummer.
‘I’m sure the weather was better before that monkey came,’ he said.
‘Don’t talk about Thimble as if he isn’t here,’ said Mum. ‘He understands everything.’
‘How many times must we tell you,’ I replied. ‘He speaks in sign language and everyone understands it except you.’
Dad turned to Thimble. ‘What’s the sign for “Dad”?’ he asked.
Thimble blew a raspberry.
‘See? He doesn’t know.’
We said nothing.
Outside, the rain was getting heavier.
‘What a miserable summer,’ said Dad.
‘We need a holiday,’ said Mum.
‘We can’t afford it,’ said Dad.
‘Actually,’ said Mum, ‘there is a way we can afford a holiday.’
‘How, Mum?’ I asked.
‘Just leave it to me’, said Mum.
Next day it was still raining, Dad was still glum, but Mum said she had some great news.
‘Holiday’s sorted,’ she said.
‘Brilliant!’ I cried.
‘Hang on,’ said Dad. ‘How much?’
‘Not one penny,’ said Mum.
‘Explain,’ said Dad.
‘You remember that site I found on the web?’
‘Not … nestswap.com?’ said Dad.
‘That’s the one. Remember, you said it was the height of lunacy to let total strangers stay in your house while you stay in theirs?’
‘Tell me you haven’t arranged a home swap!’
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Mum.
‘It will not be fine!’ railed Dad. ‘A man’s home is his castle! You don’t let total strangers into your castle!’
‘This is a woman’s home,’ said Mum. ‘I paid for it.’
‘I’m paying you back!’ cried Dad.
‘When you write a bestseller,’ replied Mum, ‘i.e. never.’
‘Don’t say that!’ said Dad.
‘Where are we going, Mum? I asked.
‘Blingville. Where they hold the film festival.’
‘Wicked!’ I said. ‘Isn’t that in France?’
‘The south of France. Guaranteed sunshine.’
‘At least that rules out Thimble coming,’ grunted Dad.
‘Why?’ I replied.
‘I can hardly see us getting a monkey through customs,’ said Dad.
Mum said nothing.
‘Nora. You’re not thinking of smuggling Thimble through customs, are you?’
‘We can’t leave him here,’ said Mum.
‘Of course we can! We’ll put him in kennels or something!’
‘Monkey kennels?’ I said.
‘Or something,’ said Dad.
‘He’s coming,’ said Mum, ‘and that’s that.’
‘And how exactly do you propose getting a monkey past passport control?’ asked Dad.
‘You remember my friend in the passport office?’
‘What, the crook?’ said Dad.
‘She’s not a crook,’ protested Mum. ‘She just believes in the free movement of people. And monkeys.’
‘You’ll never get her to…’
Mum laid a passport on the table. Dad seized it. ‘Timothy Dawson?’ he cried. ‘Timothy Dawson? Hang on, what about the photo…? Hell’s bells, what did you do to him?’
‘Just a wig and some face paint,’ said Mum. ‘Then a bit of photoshopping.’
Dad was aghast. ‘Why did you give him my surname?’ he protested.
‘You’re always saying you’re the head of the household,’ said Mum.
‘Head of the human household!’ said Dad. ‘Not the monkey one!’
‘What about his tail, Mum?’ I asked.
‘We’ll roll that up and stick it in his trousers,’ said Mum. ‘It’ll just look like he’s got a big bum.’
‘I need to think about this,’ said Dad.
‘Think quickly,’ said Mum. ‘We leave tomorrow.’