As we swirl our way backwards through time, I have my fingers crossed we’ll arrive safely back at the treehouse. It feels like we’ve been away for ages.
‘Hey, I can smell marshmallows!’ says Terry.
‘And lemonade!’ says the inspector.
‘And chocolate, pizza, ice-cream, lollipops, dodgem cars, popcorn and ants!’ I say. ‘We must be getting close to the treehouse!’
I open the lid of the bin and see that, sure enough, we are hurtling straight towards our tree.
Our treehouse.
Our ant farm.
Our ant farm?
OUR ANT FARM!!!
The ant farm that Jill made us promise never to disturb again!!!
‘Terry, can you steer us away from the ant farm?’ I say. ‘Into the chocolate fountain instead, maybe? Or the swimming pool?’
‘I can’t control it,’ says Terry. ‘I forgot to ask H.G. Wells to fix the steering. Brace yourselves!’
We all fall out of the bin onto the level where the ant farm used to be.
There are ants everywhere. Angry ants. Angry ants even angrier than they were before. It doesn’t take them long to regroup … into a massive angry ant-fist!
The ant-fist rises above us. We shut our eyes and prepare to be ant-fist-punched into oblivion …
But nothing happens.
I open my eyes.
The ant-fist is still poised above us but it’s not coming down.
The inspector seems slightly disappointed.
I look across at Terry. There’s a large, weird-looking ant sitting on his head. It’s wiggling its antennas towards the ants in the ant-fist.
‘Is there something on my head?’ says Terry.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘A big ant. I think it’s talking to our ants.’
‘It must be the prehistoric ant I saved from the exploding Bignoseasaur!’ says Terry. ‘It’s been in my pocket the whole time! I forgot all about it!’
‘That’s not the only thing you forgot about!’ says a tiny voice below us.
We look down and see a tiny person with a micro-mini-megaphone.
‘Of course it’s me!’ she says. ‘Where have you been? You went off and left me here all small. I was nearly eaten by a spider, you know. Do you have any idea how scary spiders are when you’re the size of an ant?’
‘I’m so sorry, Jill!’ I say. ‘We had to go travelling back in time to get a building permit for the treehouse to stop it being demolished, but Terry couldn’t control the time machine and we went all over history and into the future and we … well … sort of forgot all about you.’
‘Well that’s pretty obvious!’ she says.
‘We’ve been on quite a journey, that’s true,’ says the inspector. ‘But, according to my watch, only a few minutes have passed since we left.’
‘It’s been much longer than that for me,’ says Jill. ‘Time passes faster when you’re small. I’ve been living with the ants for a whole year. I thought you were never coming back!’
‘Will you ever be able to forgive us?’ I say.
‘Oh, I suppose so,’ says Jill. ‘I have to admit it wasn’t all bad. The real question is whether the ants can forgive you for breaking your solemn promise never to disturb their ant farm ever again.’
‘It appears they already have,’ I say. ‘Well, Terry, at least. Look, they’ve formed themselves into a massive certific-ant of gratitude!’
‘That is so typical of the ant kingdom,’ says Jill. ‘Ants are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met.’
‘Would you like me to draw you back to normal size?’ says Terry.
‘Not right now,’ says Jill. ‘There are a few things I need to do and I think the ants are going to need a little help rebuilding their farm. I’ll call you on the micro-mini-megaphone when I’m ready.’
‘Well, that all worked out quite nicely,’ says Terry.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘except we still don’t have our building permit.’
‘Oh yeah,’ says Terry, ‘I completely forgot. That’s why we went time travelling in the first place … and now we can’t go back because our time machine is broken.’
I turn to the inspector. ‘So do we still need the permit?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ he says. ‘Without the permit, I can’t cancel the demolition. And I can’t issue a permit because your treehouse violates almost every section of the building code.’*
* Note: See pages 86-93
‘But can’t you make an exception?’ says Terry. ‘Just this once? You really seemed to enjoy our trip through time and all the dangerous stuff that happened!’
‘Well, yes,’ says the inspector, ‘but …’
‘And doing the chariot race was way more dangerous than our rocking horse racetrack or dodgem car rink,’ says Terry.
‘And that pit of asps makes our snakes and ladders level look as harmless as a petting zoo!’ I remind him.
‘And aren’t you the guy who fought a giant crab?!’ says Terry. ‘Remember this?’
Terry shows the inspector his selfie.
‘Yeah,’ says the inspector. ‘I did, didn’t I? I really did fight a giant crab.’
‘You sure did,’ I say. ‘Nobody’s ever fought a bigger or more dangerous crab in the history of the entire world.’
The inspector rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, let’s see, I mean given everything that we’ve been through, I’m prepared to be a little bit flexible. I can overlook some things, like the sharks, the bowling alley and the chainsaws … but there’s absolutely no way I can ignore the fact that you do not have a disabled-access ramp, and therefore I simply cannot issue the permit no matter how much I would like to. My hands are tied.’
‘What if we build one?’ I say.
‘Well, of course!’ says the inspector. ‘If you build the ramp I can issue the permit and then call off the wrecking crew. But I’m afraid you don’t have much time. They’ll be here any minute.’
‘No problem,’ I say. ‘We can do it, but we’re going to need some extra Andys and Terrys. Come on, Terry! To the cloning machine! We haven’t a moment to lose!’
With the help of our clones—and some of Jill’s animals—we build the ramp at super-speed and have it ready just in time for the grand opening.
‘So,’ I say to the inspector, ‘what do you think?’
‘I’ve inspected a lot of ramps in my time,’ he says, ‘but this is by far the most dangerous one I’ve ever seen … I LOVE it!
He signs a piece of paper on his clipboard, hands it to us and says:
‘The ramp you’ve built is perfect
And has earned my stamp of approval,
So your treehouse now has a permit
And there’s no need for its removal.’
‘Cool!’ says Terry. ‘We can put the permit on the tree trunk right next to my certific-ant.’
The inspector shakes our hands and says:
‘And now there’s nothing for me to do
But to go and cancel the wrecking crew.
And so I take my leave of you,
I bid the two of you adieu.’
The inspector grabs a vine and swings down through the leaves and into the forest.
‘Now can I say it?’ says Terry.
‘Say what?’
‘That everything has worked out quite nicely.’
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘Because there’s still one thing we haven’t done.’
‘What thing?’ says Terry.
‘We still haven’t written our book and it’s due in at twelve o’clock!’
‘What time is it now?’
‘Almost twelve o’clock.’
‘Gulp!’ says Terry.
