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Part One

It was a sunny Sunday. Nigel was cheesed off, 

let alone fed up. Why?   Because he thought he 

didn’t exist.

Of course, it was true that he could use his 

brain to do some serious thinking and he could 

see and feel his hairy arms. He could also 

scratch his cuddly body with several of his hairy 

legs.  

In his opinion, Nigel was actually quite a good 

looking Squeakler with a very pointy snout, a 

huge smile, droopy ears and multiple yellow 

eyes that made him stand out among the 

Squeakler population.  

“Oh yes,” he squeaked to himself. “What a 

looker!”

However, he really needed to find out if he 

existed in the human world beyond the grass.

And that was the big snag. Nigel had not been 

discovered. In fact, no Squeakler had ever been 

discovered.  

Nigel had hoped that a famous explorer would 

happen upon his particular blade of grass, peer 

through a magnifying glass and realize that, 

yes, this was a brand new species.

“This is a brand new species!” he would exclaim 

excitedly.

No such luck.

Well, it was Nigel’s birthday and he was going 

to do something about it. In 25 seconds time 

Nigel would be 360 minutes old.  

So he was not going to let the moment pass 

without a nibble on a tiny portion of birthday 

cake, a kiss on the cheek from Maureen and the 

chance to be discovered.

Another problem was that Nigel had absolutely 

no idea how he was going to get discovered.  

He needed to consult someone with a much 

better brain.  

So, who was there?

There was Alan Squeakler who lived among his 

many books, but he was starting to go senile. 

Darren was a very likely candidate as he knew 

everything there was to know about pieces of 

light filament, orange peel, drops of ink, 

matchsticks, blue fluff and cornflakes, as he 

had been collecting, sorting, counting and 

stockpiling them along with many other useless 

and usually smelly objects for a rainy day.  

What he really needed was to get a life ....and 

an umbrella.

There was Sharon, a fashion innovator and 

licensed tattooist:- not really what he was 

looking for.  

There was the dusky Esperanza Manuela Bonita 

de Squeaker who spent all her time trying to 

spell her name.  

And then there was Bob. Well, Bob was just 

odd. It was hopeless. 

Nigel sighed but got interrupted mid-sigh by a 

familiar tune:-

“Happy Birthday to you, 

 Happy Birthday day to you,

 Happy Birthday dear Nigel, 

 Happy Birthday to you!”

“Wow!” beamed Nigel. “They remembered!”

Nigel looked at his watch. The hand was 

pointing to 360.

Hundreds of Squeaklers were perched 

precariously on nearby blades of grass, smiling 

happily and singing the most horrendous, gut-

wrenching version of “Happy Birthday” Nigel 

had ever heard.  

They were all clearly out of their hairy heads on 

dew drop gin and herbal-infused wasp cookies.

Nigel scrunched up his face and stuck many 

hairy fingers in his ears to block out the din.

“Thank you very much for that,” he squeaked 

back at them, eventually. “That was really 

memorable.”

Ever the diplomat, Nigel smiled his nice smile 

and helped himself to birthday cake. He was 

really hoping that the whole sordid ceremony 

was not going to repeat itself ever again. No 

way! His ears and stomach couldn't take it.  

“Listen lads,” Nigel announced. “This is all very 

nice and everything but I want to be 

discovered.” 

Silence descended over the assembled masses. 

Heads turned and tilted and hundreds of brows 

were furrowed. Someone dropped the cake.

Then, as one, they fell into roars of laughter.  

Giggles were giggled and knickers were wetted. 

Several baby Squeaklettes dribbled snot and 

others fell off their perches. Nigel had said 

something funny.

However, among the thousands of well-

wishers, one very brainy Squeakler was not 

laughing. It was Tim.  

Tim had retired early from a very long and very 

unrewarding career of almost 10 hours. He had 

tried valiantly to teach ‘Imaginology’ to Infant 

Squeaklers who had absolutely no concept 

whatsoever of giants, dreams, ever-afters, 

haunted forests, possibilities or Channel 4. It had 

been a lost cause.  

However, despite being slightly depressed (plus 

the fact that cake made him sick), Tim slowly 

scuttled over to Nigel. 

“Well,” smiled Tim, cracking his many knuckles, 

“that certainly caused some giggles among the 

populous.”

Nigel tilted his head. He had not meant to be 

amusing; he was deadly serious.

“I’m being deadly serious, Tim,” he protested. 

“I’m coming up to my 361st birthday and what 

have I done with my life so far, eh?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders and raised a wiry 

eyebrow. “Enlighten me,” he said.

“Nothing..... Worth..... Mentioning,” came the 

slow, sad reply. “Unless of course you count 

perching on the top of very tall blades of grass, 

eating cake and dreaming.”

Tim was obliged to help him out; it was written 

in law. 

So he put several arthritic arms around Nigel in a 

friendly grandpappy sort of way and used a spare 

arm to point into the far distance. He took a deep 

breath.

“Out there somewhere is someone who may 

stumble quite by chance into this very clearing. 

He will be carrying three reference books, a 

magnifying glass and a compendium of unused 

Latin names.”

“That someone might glance down and squint at a 

speck of something perched on this very blade of 

grass. He will then examine that speck through the 

magnifying glass, blink a few times, question his 

own eyesight, blink again and then compare what 

he sees with what is actually recorded.”

“And, if I’m not recorded?” asked Nigel, intrigued.

 “Well,” continued Tim, “after consulting The 

Royal Botanic Society, the creators of "The 

Encyclopaedia of Bugs and Beasties" and the 

compilers of the local telephone directory, a 

name would then be chosen from "The 

Compendium of Unused Latin Names".”

“Wow! Yes! Yippee!” squeaked an ecstatic Nigel. 

“I’d have a Latin name....what an honour, what 

an absolute toe-curling honour!” 

Nigel was pleased; and Tim was pleased that 

Nigel was pleased.  

Nigel toyed with the idea of having a Latin 

name. 

A few possibilities popped into his head:- 

Nigellus Nigellus, Nigelum Squeakaloram, 

Squeakellum Nigella, and, for some strange 

reason, Keith Crumpsall.

“Nigel? Nigel?” Tim clicked several of his fingers 

and bought Nigel back from his daydreaming.

“Oh, sorry,” muttered Nigel, stretching a few of 

his arms above his head. “I’ve just got to go 

and get pampered and preened just in case an 

explorer discovers me in the next.....”

He looked at his watch. The hand pointed to 

362.

“.......1,078 minutes...Bye!”

Tim watched Nigel scuttle off to the nearest 

shower block then sighed very heavily. Should 

he have stopped Nigel from pampering and 

preening?  

Well, he just didn't have the heart to tell him 

that the probability of an explorer “discovering” 

Nigel in the next few hours was very near 

impossible.

On the other hand, as he was the cleverest 

Squeakler in the colony, this was an opportunity 

of a very short lifetime to do something 

Squeakler-changing. Plus, it was written in law.

So whilst Nigel pampered and preened, de-loused 

and de-odourised, Tim devised a plan.

He scratched some notes on a scrap of paper, 

drew a sketch of a fantastical model on a bigger 

scrap of paper and looked up ‘Cake-related 

sicknesses’ in his medical book.  

News of what was happening spread throughout 

the colony via the telepathic Squeakograms.  

Soon many thousands of Squeaklers had ceased 

their giggling, dried out their knickers and were 

huddled around Tim to help in any way they 

could.  

All except Bob, who was odd.

For the next few minutes, Tim’s brain worked 

overtime:- he drummed his fingers, nibbled his nails, 

stuck out his tongue, had one caramel biscuit and 

went to the lav several times. 

The onlookers looked on and wondered if they could 

help in any way. They were not disappointed.

“Right everybody! Gather round!” An excited 

Tim shouted to the huge assembly. “I have an 

idea!”

Silence descended over the assembled masses. 

Heads turned and tilted and hundreds of brows 

were furrowed. Nobody dropped any cake.

“First,” announced Tim, “are any of you 

Squeaklers artists?”

A low murmuring oozed through the crowd.  

Heads turned and tilted and hundreds of brows 

were furrowed. Questions of an artistic nature 

were asked. After several seconds, a tentative 

hand was raised.

“I ‘ave a pencil,” declared a debonair Flying 

Squeakler with a Parisian accent, half an ear and 

a smock.

Tim strained his eyes and beckoned him from the 

depths of the grassy clearing. 

The creature skimmed gracefully forwards on its 

gossamer wings then crash landed in an ungainly 

fashion.

“Name please?” 

“Vincent,” said Vincent scrabbling to his feet.

“Okay, Vincent, here is a scrap of paper.   Now, show 

me your skills with a pencil,” said Tim, rubbing a few 

of his hands together expectantly.

Keen to show off his ability, Vincent took the paper. 

He turned it round and round then examined the 

back, front and edge. He held it at arm’s length and 

considered the artistic possibilities. The crowd 

leaned forward in rapt expectation.

“Ah, oui. I ‘ave eet,” he declared triumphantly.

The crowd leaned back.

He scrunched the paper into a ball and swatted it 

into the sky with the pencil.

“Voila!” he announced gleefully, “Anyone for 

cricket?”

“Ah....Right......that wasn’t quite what I had in 

mind,” said Tim diplomatically, “but that was a 

good cover drive nonetheless.”

He turned back to the crowd:-

“Okay then, being as nobody can draw; perhaps 

there is a Squeakler who has a face like a human.”

Another low murmuring oozed through the crowd.  

Heads turned and tilted and hundreds of brows were 

furrowed. Questions of an anthropological nature 

were asked.  

After a second every hand was raised.

“What’s a human face look like?” they asked in unison.

Tim gave what he thought was a pretty good 

description:-

“Well, the head is sort of roundish, with a pasty-

pinkish-brownish face on the front. There’s a small silly 

snout in the middle and above that are two piggy eyes 

with permanent vacant expressions.   Under the snout is 

a gormless-looking mouth and the whole thing is set off 

by a mass of unruly, greasy hair and tiny knobbly ears 

stuck on the side.”

There was a pause. Then there were smiles of 

recognition throughout the crowd. As one, every 

Squeakler turned and pointed.

“Bob!!” 

Bob, who was sitting in a puddle a long way off, 

was suddenly aware that millions of eyes were 

looking at him and millions of fingers were pointing 

at him.

“It wasn’t me,” he whimpered defensively.

A rather bewildered Bob was summoned from 

his puddle. He dripped his forlorn way to the 

front and pleaded with Tim:-

“I...I... was somewhere else...I don’t know 

anything about a missing cake...and...and...my 

bottom’s wet,” Bob stammered apologetically.

Tim put on his friendliest, most comforting smile 

that he could manage.  

He put several arthritic arms around him in a friendly 

grandpappy sort of way.

“Bob, Bob,” he said soothingly, “we are not accusing 

you of anything. We want you to do something very 

special for Nigel.”

Bob’s eyes widened, his mouth fell open. 

“Me? Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. Now go and dry your bottom, 

comb your hair and be back here in 20 seconds.”

Bob did not need telling twice. 

“Second part of the plan,” announced Tim, “is to 

write three book titles on three pieces of poop-

hog vellum. Any volunteers?”

Esperanza’s hands shot up. She jumped up and 

down.  

“Me! Me!” she enthused. “I can write and smell 

every word I know!”

“Well, not quite, Esperanza, but I do admire your 

enthusiasm,” smiled Tim. “Go and report to Alan 

Squeakler for details.”  

Esperanza did not need telling twice.

Darren was asked to assemble masses of matchstick 

fragments, globules of chewing gum, several great 

lengths of discarded dental floss, an enormous pile of 

cake crumbs and a large soap bubble.

“Oh, and Darren, we need a foreign reference 

compendium,” added Tim. “What Latin do you know?”

“Squeaklers admodum exigua sunt,” he said proudly 

and strutted off to locate the items requested.

Tim’s plan was coming together nicely and for the 

next several seconds he tweaked it, erased some 

minor errors and had another biscuit.

*   *   *

Nigel celebrated his 365th minute birthday by de-

scaling his elbows and smearing oil of poop-hog 

across his new quiff. He hoped for a kiss on the 

cheek from his beloved Maureen.  

He did a full turn in front of a vertical puddle and 

admired what he saw.

“Oh yes,” he squeaked to himself, “what a looker!  

Now...let’s go and get discovered!”

He left the shower block with a confident air and 

the sense that, despite the fact that being 

discovered by a passing explorer was very nearly 

impossible, there was always a very small chance 

that he would.

* * *

Tim spotted Nigel from a long way off and realised 

that he had to be stalled. Someone had to distract 

him. Quick as a flash, Tim sent an urgent 

Squeakogram to Sharon. 

It read:-

“Stop Nigel stop can’t stop the plan stop create a 

suitable diversion stop Tim stop”

*   *   *

Sharon was concentrating very hard on her client’s 

left ankle. She was adding the final touches to a 

beautiful, exquisitely-designed, silver and blue 

tattoo of intertwined dandelions and shimmering 

rain drops when the Squeakogram arrived. 

She paused in mid-inking, read the message and 

then gently lowered her delicate wisp of a quill onto 

a silk-covered pillow. 

Sharon gave her sincere apologies and left her 

client listening to Svetlana Squeaklova's rendition of 

the divine Adagio from Harpweb Concerto No.32 by 

Ludwig Arachnia.  

After placing the very latest edition of Inks to Make 

you Think on a side table along with a tumbler of 

soothing herbal cocoa, Sharon tiptoed slowly out of 

her salon in search of Nigel. 

“‘Ang on darling!!” an angry voice growled from 

within. “Wot abaaaht doin’ LOVE and HATE on me 

knuckles?”

*   *   *

Darren, meantime, had enlisted the help of 

hundreds of Council Carrier-Squeaklers who turned 

up at his treasured stockpile with all manner of 

suitable and not so suitable receptacles for 

transporting all of the gear.  

There were thimbles, sieves, and toothpaste 

tubes; pencil cases, cake cases and nut cases; 

cowboy boots, clogs, slippers and a wooden leg; 

ice cubes, slices of bacon and a trifle; wicker 

baskets, wire baskets, shopping trolleys and an 

aardvark.

Stan Squeakler, the foreman, was clearly in charge 

of his workers and all their various vessels. 

Dressed in regulation Council dungarees and 3 

steel-toed wellies he was wielding 2 clipboards, 

a very pointy pencil and a megaphone.

Stan was directing operations. His workers 

looked up to him in as a supreme organizer and 

multi-tasker but cringed at his lack of bodily 

hygiene and his badly woven toupee.

“Tarquin!!” he bellowed. “Take that aardvark back 

to the Page 1 of the dictionary where it belongs.” 

Stan didn’t really need a megaphone but used it 

anyway for effect and to give him an air of extreme 

superiority. 

Tarquin was not impressed: - “Why don’t you stick 

your mega...”

“NOW!!!” bellowed Stan again.  

Tarquin about-turned and dragged a disappointed 

aardvark back home.

Stan resumed his ordering-about. His eyes 

scanned over every tub, tube, and tin. His pencil 

hovered over the endless lists of boxes, bins and 

bags.  

He ticked off thousands of acceptable 

receptacles and crossed off those that weren’t.  

He was happy. Some of his workers were not.

Eric, a bulky muscle-bound Squeakler, was one 

of them. He was disgruntled. He announced his 

feelings of disgruntlement to a huddle of his 

fellow hod-carriers. He whispered to them in a 

conspiratorial way:-

“Look,” he whispered, “I don’t know about you 

lot, but.... it’s Sunday, it’s a beautiful day and 

we should be down the pub eating roast 

cockroach and spuds.  

We are not being paid any overtime, we have 

not had our regulation 10 second toilet break 

and, above all, Stan Squeakler is an outright 

hod-ist.”

A low murmuring oozed through the group.  

Heads turned and tilted and many brows were 

furrowed. Questions about workers’ rights were 

asked. Two grubby hands were raised.

“What’s a toilet?” whispered Frank.

“What’s a hod-ist?” whispered Neville.

“Honestly Neville, don’t you know your rights?  

Section 14, para 6a of the Squeaklerland 

Equality Act clearly states that, and I quote:- 

“No Squeakler shall be discriminated against 

because of race, religion, secks, spelling, age or 

brick carrying abilities.”

There was a long pause. Neville’s brow furrowed.

“What’s secks?” he queried. 

Eric gave up.

*   *   *

Sharon had caught up with Nigel and slid to a halt 

in front of the perfectly pampered Squeakler.

“Nigel,” she crooned seductively, “you look 

soooooo handsome today. Is that poop-hog oil 

shining on your new quiff?”

Nigel was taken aback. No Squeakella other than 

Maureen had ever bothered to ask him anything 

ever. He was suspicious.

“Sharon, how nice of you to say so. Yes, it is 

poop-hog oil but I can’t stop to chat ‘cos I’m off 

to get myself discovered....Bye.” He started to 

move off.

“Whoa there,” Sharon blocked his path again and 

ran several slender fingers down his cheeks. 

“Nigel, you wouldn’t want to be discovered 

without looking your absolute best, would you?”

Nigel panicked:- “What d’you mean? What’s 

wrong? I’ve overdone it haven’t I? Oh no! I knew 

the quiff was too much!”

Nigel starting sobbing and shaking then sank down 

onto several of his knees.

Sharon bent forward and with a beautifully 

manicured fingernail, tilted Nigel’s damp chin 

towards her. She looked deep into many of his 

watery yellow eyes.

“Oh Nigel,” she said lovingly, “I didn’t mean to 

make you cry. I just wanted to give you a gift for 

your ...” she hesitated. “What birthday are you?”

Nigel glanced at his watch. The hand pointed to 

368.

“I’m now 368 and I have to be discovered. So if 

you don’t mind I have to.......a gift did you say?”

Nigel wiped away some stray snot and smiled a 

tiny smile.

“I’ll show you. Come with me,” she said.

*   *   *

Things were really coming along a treat back at the 

clearing. Tim studied his diagrams, plans and lists of 

things to do. 

Stan and his crew had deposited all of Darren’s 

stuff. All was well. Well, almost well. He called Stan 

over.

“Stanley, my dear fellow...."

(Stan hated being called Stanley and he despised 

the condescending manner in which Tim smarmed 

up to him. He was after a favour, he could tell.)

“......you and your boys have done a wonderful 

job and I must congratulate you on organising 

such a mammoth task with very little notice and 

on a Sunday, too. Well done! Well done!.........”

(More smarm.....Wait for the killer question, 

thought Stan)

“....Thing is.......”

(Here it is)

“...can you lay your hands on some ladders, 

scaffolding, hard helmets, toughened boots, 

fluorescent jackets, safety barriers, and a packet of 

caramel biscuits?”

There was an awkward pause. Stan looked 

aggrieved. He straightened his back, and placed his 

clipboards and his megaphone very deliberately on 

top of Timothy’s precious paper work. He took a 

deep breath, leaned menacingly forward and poked 

him in the chest with his sharp pencil.

“Now listen here Tim-o-thee.......”   

(Timothy...That’ll annoy him, thought Stan 

wickedly) 

 “......I want to make it abundantly clear that being 

a Foreman for Squeaklerland Council carries great 

responsibility. I have to be trustworthy, reliable 

and honest. I have to exude authority and inspire 

my workers. My paper work needs to be 

immaculate, my pencil fully operational and I must 

never, ever do favours for anyone, for any price 

whatsoever. I hope that answers your question.”

Stan picked up his clipboards and megaphone, put 

his pencil in the top pocket of his dungarees and 

turned to go. He felt good. That told him.

“That’s quite understandable Stan,” said Tim, reeling 

back slightly from the odour of Stan’s armpits. “I 

admire your loyalty, dedication and work ethic. I’m 

really very sorry to have embarrassed you and 

called your integrity into question.” 

Tim sighed. There was a pause.

“How about a free massage with Celine the 

Sensuous Centipod?”

“You’re on!” replied Stan.

*   *   *

Nigel looked at Sharon then at the birthday 

present.   He looked back at Sharon:-

“Thank you very much for these...er... these...” 

He was stumped. He had no idea what they were.  

Sharon came to his rescue.

“I call them ‘shooze’,” she said, proudly pointing 

to 7 very small identical leathery items in a 

presentation box.

“Riiiggghht,” replied Nigel dubiously.

“Try one,” she said encouragingly.

“Riiiggghht,” replied Nigel again, “I will.”

Nigel removed one shooze from the box, shut 

his eyes and was about to take a bite out of one 

end.

“Stop!   What are you doing?” cried a horrified 

Sharon. “You wear them on your feet!”

Nigel, whose face had gone red, quickly replaced the 

shooze in the box. He smiled apologetically.

“Sorry Sharon, they really are lovely shooze and I will 

treasure them always.” 

“You are more than welcome, Nigel,” she replied.

“One thing, though......” continued Nigel.

“What’s that?”

“What are feet?”

*   *   *

The clearing by now was not very clear at all. 

There was a huge pyramid of cake crumbs 

surrounded by scaffolding and ladders.  

Jammed into the sides were two incomplete and 

very rickety arm-like structures made from 

hundreds of pieces of matchstick kept together 

with chewing gum and dental floss. 

Resplendent in all their health and safety 

gubbins, Stan’s workforce were carrying more 

and more pieces of rubbish up into the sky 

beyond the grass. 

As for Stan himself, well, he was scritching 

under his toupee and smearing three of his 

sweaty hands down his dungarees. Oh yes, he 

was in his element alright with his shiny 

megaphone and his pointy pencil. Plus he had 

Celine’s mobile number in his pocket.

Eric had been temporarily promoted to Chief 

Security Squeakler and was guarding the soap 

bubble against marauding gangs of teenage 

Squeaklers with pins, catapults and splats of 

toilet paper.

Frank, as Temporary Assistant Security 

Squeakler, was standing with several of his arms 

folded by a roped-off celebrity area. He was a 

mean and moody bouncer with muscles to match 

and a very pretty dandelion tattoo.

Bob would rather have been sat in a puddle than 

seated in a squishy armchair sipping Bamboo 

Samphire in the roped-off celebrity area. But, hey 

ho, he’d put up with it, if he had to.

Tim scanned the scene around him. There was a 

business-like yet happy atmosphere. He deserved 

a hot cup of dew drop tea, a caramel biscuit and 

15 seconds with some of his feet up. Yes, that 

would definitely be very nice indeed.

“Aaaah,” he sighed contentedly,“peace at la.....”

“TARQUIN!!!”

Stan’s bellow shattered the clearing. Tim fell off his 

chair.

“TARQUIN!!!.... TAKE... THAT... AARDVARK... 

BACK.... THIS... INSTANT”

*   *   *

Sharon, having explained to Nigel what feet and 

shooze were, was now faced with an extra problem.

“Nigel,” she asked, “how many of your limbs are legs 

and how many are arms?”

“Well, they’re interchangeable of course,” replied 

Nigel in a matter-of-fact sort of way. “Sometimes all 

7 are legs and sometimes I use 2 as legs and 5 as 

arms. Depends whether I’m running very fast or 

having a bath.” 

“Put it this way,” said Sharon, “what is your 

preferred limb arrangement for the rest of today?”

“Mmm...Let me see,” mused Nigel, “my favourite 

is 5 legs and 2 arms.”

So Sharon took 5 of the finest hand-made poop-

hog leather shooze out of the presentation box. 

They were black, green, yellow, red and white. 

She put one on each of Nigel’s 5 feet.

“Thank you so much for my lovely birthday 

present Sharon but now I really must dash.” 

He looked at his watch. He was now 371. 

“I’ve really have to go and be discovered.” 

Nigel teetered off on his many-coloured stilettos.

*   *   *

Despite having the use of 7 arms, Esperanza had 

spent a very long time copying out three book 

titles on two millimetre thick, maroon-coloured, 

finest poop-hog vellum. Her efforts were to be 

applauded. 

“That is such beeew-ti-ful lettering, Esperanza,” 

said Alan, clapping four of his hands in 

appreciation, “but there is a teensy problem with 

the titles. Take look for yourself.”

Esperanza’s deep brown multi-eyes scanned the 

words on the vellum labels. 

Esperanza could not apologize enough for the 

glaring mistakes. She rectified the problem in an 

instant. 

“There you go,” she said proudly.

Alan pushed his multi-lensed spectacles up his 

ancient snout and squinted at the three new titles:

There was a long moment of silence. They looked at 

the titles then each other.

“Esperanza?”

“Yes Alan?”

“Do you want to go and lie down in a darkened room?”

“Yes please.”

*   *   *  

Darren and Vincent meanwhile, were sitting double 

crossed-legged on a depleted pile of debris 

regarding the now completed Compendium of 

Unused Latin Names.

Darren was pleased that Vincent could fly in and 

help him out with the more tricky cricket-related 

names. But unfortunately, a great many pages were 

smeared with garlic, wallpaper paste, a few ant 

droppings and the merest hint of poop-hog poop. 

“C’est la vie,” sighed Darren, trying to scrape 

off the gunk.

“Per ardua ad astra,” replied Vincent as he flew 

off into the sky beyond the grass.

*   *   * 

Nigel was in a splendid mood; he was light-

hearted and very optimistic; his oiled quiff was 

lolloping over numerous left-hand eyes in a 

very fetching manner. 

The buttons down his cuddly body glowed and 

his five new shooze, though exceedingly 

wobbly, were a wonderful fashion statement. 

He strolled, as best he could, through grassy 

tussocks and clambered over some slumbering 

Squeaklettes.

“How do they manage to stick all those thumbs in 

their mouths at once?” thought Nigel, 

absentmindedly.

No matter. He was absolutely completely finger-

crossingly very hopeful that there was a definite 

smidgeon of likelihood, in all probabilities, that a 

human explorer would stumble, by chance, into 

the clearing and discover him....possibly.  

Suddenly, something occurred to him.  

So he paused, furrowed his brow and knitted 

his eyebrows in a wonder–where-everyone-is 

sort of way.

“Wonder where everyone is?” thought Nigel.

*   *   * 

Tim was now extremely busy and was nearing 

panic stations:- he had run out of caramel 

biscuits.

Around him, hundreds of Squeaklers were 

scuttling, crawling, climbing or flying in all sorts of 

directions. Most were carrying, in any available 

acceptable receptacle, the last pieces of rubbish to 

be stuck, tied or lashed to the fantastical model 

that now loomed over the tallest blade of grass.

There were just the last few crucial elements to put 

into place. Tim checked the first item on his check 

list:-

1.     Reference book covers

“Oh eck,” said Tim, “Where is Esperanza?   I knew I 

shouldn’t have....”  

Tim was getting closer to stations of a panic variety. 

“And where’s Alan? No, no, this can’t be happening!”

“I’ll send a Squeakogram. Yes, that should do it....or 

I could go myself....No, no that’s no good...Oh eck... 

what if something dreadful’s happened?”  

The panic stations were coming into view. Tim put 

several hands up to his stricken face. His pulse was 

racing. He sobbed.

“Tim?”

A hand tapped his shoulder. Tim swivelled round.

“Alan!! Thank goodness!!” Tim gave the elderly 

Squeakler five hearty, relieved handshakes. “I was 

beginning to panic,” he continued. 

He looked over Alan’s shoulder into the distance.  

“Where’s Esperanza with the book covers?”

“Thing is.....Tim....”Alan hesitated, “Esperanza 

came over with a severe bout of spelling sickness 

and she’s.....well, she’s... not written anything 

intelligible. So I....”

“Oh no,” Tim interrupted, and started panicking 

again. “How is she? Where is she? Is she on 

medication?”

“Tim, Tim,” said Alan soothingly, “I have given her 

some extra strength Sqwabble tablets, mainly Z 

and J, and she’s recovering in a darkened room.”

Tim was relieved and certain stations had 

disappeared. 

“That’s good,” he sighed, “but she was supposed 

to have writ....” 

Alan stopped him in his panicky tracks.

“Here...They....Are!” he announced in a rather 

“de-daar” sort of a way.

Alan reached into an old P.H. Squeakler-bag and 

extracted the items in question. “I did them 

myself,” he added proudly.

Tim carefully relieved Alan of the book covers in 

a reverential fashion. He examined the beautiful 

calligraphy and perfect spelling. He smiled a big 

smile. 

“Wonderful....absolutely wonderful,” he said.

“You’re very welcome,” came the reply.

There was a pause.

“Got any caramel biscuits, by any chance?”

*   *   * 

Nigel, meanwhile, had furrowed his brow. Then a 

beam of realisation spread across his face. This was 

followed, a beat later, by a look of abject horror.  

“If they are all hiding among the tussocks ready to 

jump out and sing a surprise ‘Happy Birthday’ to me 

yet again, I swear I will do something very 

unpleasant with poop-hog poop and a plentiful 

supply of plungers.”

Nigel would soon find out.  

*   *   * 

Tim had ticked off number one on his check list.  

He now scanned the next two:-

2.      Compendium of Latin Unused names

3.      Bob

So Darren was sent for and he duly arrived with 

his book with a bit less gunk on it.

“Great work Darren, many thanks,” he hesitated 

slightly whilst flipping through the pages.  

“Any problems?” continued Tim with a real sense 

of dread. “Any spelling mistakes, grammatical 

inaccuracies for instance?” 

Darren looked Timothy straight in his eyes.

“Nope.” 

*   *   * 

Bob was blotto. He had fallen off his squishy armchair 

into a puddle and was consequently deliriously happy. 

He’d only downed one shot of Bamboo Samphire but it 

had had an odd effect on his metabolism. His piggy 

eyes smelled green, his wiry hair sounded yellow and 

his feet were stuck up his snout.  

Life at the moment was rather weird and, for some 

reason that Bob’s brain couldn’t comprehend, a very 

large Squeakler with muscles and an interesting tattoo 

seemed to be guarding him.

Frank Squeakler had not flinched with his security 

duties. No one had dared breach the celebrity 

roped-off area or disturb its only occupant in any 

way whatsoever.  

He had “acquired” a pair of Gluchee sunglasses 

and hitched over one ear was a listening device.  

There was a small microphone hidden up his 

sleeve. Oh, yes...he looked the part.

Without warning, an excruciatingly mind-

squeezing screech pierced Frank’s eardrum.

“EEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!..... Frank? Base 

to Frank! Come in Frank!”  

A distorted, disembodied scream crackled over 

the ether and slammed into his tiny brain. 

“Frank... are... you... there?!”

Frank hit the side of his head with some of his 

hands to clear his ear-ways. He put his sleeve to 

his mouth.

“With whom am I communicating?” he breathed 

warily into the mike.

“With whom am I communicating?” the scream 

repeated.   “Frank you nitwit it’s me, Tim, not the 

Queen!”

“Well, its abaht time matey.”   Frank, whose ear-ways 

were coming back into focus, was a tad annoyed.  

“D’you know wot it is like standing abaht babysitting 

Bob?”   He didn’t wait for an answer. 

“Well, I’ll tell ya. I ‘ave been on me feet a very long 

time while ‘is lordship ‘ere ‘as been lounging, yes 

lounging in a squishy armchair supping Bamboo 

Samphire.”

Frank was getting into his stride.

“And, I tell ya now.....,”  

Frank was really going for it.

”..... I am not, repeat not, entering into the so-

called “celebrity” area and dragging ‘im aht of a 

puddle where ‘es now collapsed in a drunken 

‘eap with a smile on ‘is face and ‘is feet up his 

snout.   So, stick that up your pipe and smo....”

“FRANK!!” screamed a noise in his ear. “Sober him 

up and get him over here RIGHT NOW!”

There was a minor hesitation. Frank knew his 

rights. How dare he? He wasn’t going to be ordered 

about by a trumped up non-union Squeakler like 

him. No way.

“Be there as soon as we can,” he said.

 *   *   * 

While Bob was being sobered up, Tim checked the 

very last item on his check list:-

4.     Bubble 

“Right,” he said to himself, “best go see Eric.”

Tim scuttled over to where Eric was guarding the 

precious bubble. He slithered to a halt. The Chief 

Security Squeakler looked awful.  

“Eric?” he said, “What ever’s happened to you?”  

Tim stared at Eric. Then he blinked a blink of 

disbelief and slowly scanned him from top to toe.  

Eric’s whole body was peppered in tiny pins, splats 

of chewed up toilet paper and there was brown goo 

running down his cheeks.

Eric took a deep breath. He was aggrieved.

“You know,” he said pointedly, “that I have 

approached this security assignment very seriously 

boss and I have defended the integrity of this 

magnificent bubble to the very end but, to be 

honest, I have had about as much as I can stand 

from ...”

He took an even deeper breath.

“....an unruly, ill disciplined, bad-mannered, 

uncontrollable...” 

He was struggling to find the right words.

“........odious.....” That was good.

“........well-dressed....” Not so good.

“........seven-legged, mob of gangly oiks who have 

peppered me with pins and twanged me with some 

very nasty soggy material using high-powered 

catapults.  

"I have, as you can see, protected the bubble from all 

their vicious attacks but have sustained in the 

process, some painful injuries. My best jacket is 

ruined and will have to be replaced plus I have goo-

related trauma to my face.”

Eric puffed himself up into his haughtiest stance. He 

continued unabated:-

“I will seek legal advice and I expect monetary 

compensation for this vile assault on my person.”

He waited a beat for the news to sink in then 

continued.

 “Well Tim-o-thee, what, pray, are you going to 

do about it, eh, eh?”  

Eric folded many arms across his prickly pin-

cushioned body in a defiant attitude.

“Good grief Eric, this is terrible,” sympathised 

Tim. “This is a very serious disciplinary issue.”

Tim paced up and down thinking of a strategy.

Eric was losing his patience.

“Right okay, first things first,” said Tim. “I’ll have to 

immediately send for the necessary law-enforcement 

Squeaklers to hunt down these ruthless perpetrators 

and bring them to justice, then you will have to be 

thoroughly interviewed, photographs taken, and all 

CCTV footage scrutinised minutely and, naturally, 

witnesses will be summoned, then forensics will 

need........”

“Er.....” interrupted Eric rather sheepishly.

“What?” 

“No need to do all that,” Eric was even more 

sheepish.

“Whhhyyy?” came the drawn out inquiry.

“He’s sitting over there with an aardvark.”

*   *   *

Tim sent Tarquin on his way with a flea in his ear 

and a note to his Mum. 

The aardvark trudged his weary way back to you-

know-where and Eric was de-pinned, de-splatted 

and de-gooed.

“Okay Eric, let’s forget about that unfortunate 

incident and concentrate on this magnificent 

bubble. What d’you say?” 

“Fine by me, boss” he said. 

*   *   *

“You want us to do what?” asked Darren.

“’ave you gone completely bonkers?” queried Frank.

“How long have we got?” inquired Stan.

“Have you got an aspirin?” pleaded Bob.

These questions echoed round the assembled masses 

moments later. Tim had detailed the final pieces of his 

plan. Eric, Frank, Sharon, Alan, and Darren and 

Neville were not convinced. Stan and his workers 

were doubtful. Bob had a headache. 

Nigel was getting ever closer and speed now was 

of the essence.Tim addressed the crowd:- 

“Look everybody; Nigel is coming up to his 380th 

minute birthday. We have all worked extremely 

hard to make it his best birthday ever. So let’s 

get this done.”

“Exactly how long have we got?” repeated Stan, 

getting agitated and smellier by the second.

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