one of the old-person-shaped holes on the sofa.
He let out a big sigh (I won’t write it out, you can probably do your own sound effects by now) and began rummaging around, as if he was looking for something.
‘Go on,’ Mrs Stinkthrottle said, prodding Fizz in the side with her finger, ‘help him find it.’
‘Find what?’ Fizz asked.
‘Find the remote control, for the telly,’ she said, pushing him towards the sofa. ‘He’s only gone and lost it again, the stupid old man.’
Normally if you wanted to find a remote control you would just reach down in between the cushions of the sofa, because that’s where it’s usually fallen, but Fizz couldn’t see any cushions, just lots of gaps in between lots of rubbish. He’d have to reach in there and he didn’t like the thought of what he might find.
He pushed his hand, as carefully as he could, into a crack in the sofa-shaped pile and felt around. There was something damp down there. It was a bit like squeezing a warm sponge, only it felt lumpy as well. (Fizz remembered his mum’s custard. She’d almost been kicked out of clown college when she was younger for her lumpy custard, but her other skills (falling over without hurting herself, taking a pie in the face without flinching, walking in ridiculous shoes and so on) had been superb so she’d completed the course with pretty good grades by the end, but her custard consistency remained inconsistent. (The flavour, on the other hand, was what her Desserts Professor described as ‘spot on’. (Fizz missed it awfully.)))
He pulled his hand out empty and, without looking at it, plunged it into the sofa in another spot.
This time it seemed to be a dry crevice, full of fluff and crumbs. Since his hand was sticky and wet from whatever it was he’d found on his first search, all this stuff stuck to his fingers and when he pulled them out it looked as if he had grown fur. Colourful, crumby, crumbly fur, but fur all the same.
‘Hurry up,’ Mrs Stinkthrottle said, ‘reach deeper. Stick your arm all the way in, go on, up to your shoulder. Have a proper rummage, sometimes it gets right to the back.’
Fizzlebert did as he was told and, with his eyes shut and his arm stretched out as far as it could go, his fingers closed around something hard and rectangular. He could feel a set of buttons on the top. This must be the remote control, he thought, and he pulled it out.
‘Here it is,’ he said, holding his prize aloft. (I already said in Chapter Two what ‘aloft’ meant, but we were in a tent at the time. This time Fizz was in a house that actually did have a loft (although, unknown to him, the Stinkthrottles always called it an attic), and this time his hand, clutching the remote control, actually pointed towards it, so well done Fizz.)
‘How dare you lie to me, your own grandmother!’ Mrs Stinkthrottle snapped, snatching the object from Fizz’s hand and looking at it.
When he looked round, he saw that it wasn’t the remote control after all, just a mouldy chocolate bar. The squares on the top were what had felt like buttons, but now Fizz could see it, it was obvious he’d made a mistake. It was also obvious that the bar of chocolate was probably older than he was.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Trying to make a fool of your grandma,’ the old woman said, almost talking to herself. ‘What a rotten child it is.’
She looked at the chocolate bar (which was covered by a layer of lightly swaying greenish-pink furry mould), picked a piece of feathery fluff off one end, and took a big bite.
At that moment the room filled with noise and Fizz jumped with fright. It took him a moment to realise it was just the television turning on.
Mr Stinkthrottle sat on the sofa with a big grin on his face and the remote control in his hand. He’d obviously found it down the other side of the sofa, where Fizz hadn’t been looking. Because of his poor hearing the volume on the telly was up to maximum.
‘Come
He let out a big sigh (I won’t write it out, you can probably do your own sound effects by now) and began rummaging around, as if he was looking for something.
‘Go on,’ Mrs Stinkthrottle said, prodding Fizz in the side with her finger, ‘help him find it.’
‘Find what?’ Fizz asked.
‘Find the remote control, for the telly,’ she said, pushing him towards the sofa. ‘He’s only gone and lost it again, the stupid old man.’
Normally if you wanted to find a remote control you would just reach down in between the cushions of the sofa, because that’s where it’s usually fallen, but Fizz couldn’t see any cushions, just lots of gaps in between lots of rubbish. He’d have to reach in there and he didn’t like the thought of what he might find.
He pushed his hand, as carefully as he could, into a crack in the sofa-shaped pile and felt around. There was something damp down there. It was a bit like squeezing a warm sponge, only it felt lumpy as well. (Fizz remembered his mum’s custard. She’d almost been kicked out of clown college when she was younger for her lumpy custard, but her other skills (falling over without hurting herself, taking a pie in the face without flinching, walking in ridiculous shoes and so on) had been superb so she’d completed the course with pretty good grades by the end, but her custard consistency remained inconsistent. (The flavour, on the other hand, was what her Desserts Professor described as ‘spot on’. (Fizz missed it awfully.)))
He pulled his hand out empty and, without looking at it, plunged it into the sofa in another spot.
This time it seemed to be a dry crevice, full of fluff and crumbs. Since his hand was sticky and wet from whatever it was he’d found on his first search, all this stuff stuck to his fingers and when he pulled them out it looked as if he had grown fur. Colourful, crumby, crumbly fur, but fur all the same.
‘Hurry up,’ Mrs Stinkthrottle said, ‘reach deeper. Stick your arm all the way in, go on, up to your shoulder. Have a proper rummage, sometimes it gets right to the back.’
Fizzlebert did as he was told and, with his eyes shut and his arm stretched out as far as it could go, his fingers closed around something hard and rectangular. He could feel a set of buttons on the top. This must be the remote control, he thought, and he pulled it out.
‘Here it is,’ he said, holding his prize aloft. (I already said in Chapter Two what ‘aloft’ meant, but we were in a tent at the time. This time Fizz was in a house that actually did have a loft (although, unknown to him, the Stinkthrottles always called it an attic), and this time his hand, clutching the remote control, actually pointed towards it, so well done Fizz.)
‘How dare you lie to me, your own grandmother!’ Mrs Stinkthrottle snapped, snatching the object from Fizz’s hand and looking at it.
When he looked round, he saw that it wasn’t the remote control after all, just a mouldy chocolate bar. The squares on the top were what had felt like buttons, but now Fizz could see it, it was obvious he’d made a mistake. It was also obvious that the bar of chocolate was probably older than he was.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Trying to make a fool of your grandma,’ the old woman said, almost talking to herself. ‘What a rotten child it is.’
She looked at the chocolate bar (which was covered by a layer of lightly swaying greenish-pink furry mould), picked a piece of feathery fluff off one end, and took a big bite.
At that moment the room filled with noise and Fizz jumped with fright. It took him a moment to realise it was just the television turning on.
Mr Stinkthrottle sat on the sofa with a big grin on his face and the remote control in his hand. He’d obviously found it down the other side of the sofa, where Fizz hadn’t been looking. Because of his poor hearing the volume on the telly was up to maximum.
‘Come
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