Monkey and Me by David Gilman Page A

creatures.”
    â€œDon’t talk rot, Skimp. Most of what Jez saw was in his imagination. There are no aliens in the Black Gate,” said Mark.
    â€œThere was a monster! You heard it!” I said, thinking I had better keep them scared enough to stay away from the house.
    â€œWith entrails,” Mark said sarcastically.
    â€œAbsolutely,” I told him. “Horrible. I’m never going anywhere near that place again,” I said. Then I ran into school, grateful that I could escape into Mrs Carpenter’s class about the many wives of Henry the Eighth. It’s only the chopping off of heads bit that’s interesting.
    The government, whoever they are, seem to feel apersonal responsibility for me. Anyone would think they’re like teachers or Mum and Dad, because they recommend that I eat five essential fruits and vegetables every day. So when it comes to lunchtime, it doesn’t matter what I have in my box from Mum, I have to line up and have a hot meal. The dinner ladies, especially Mrs Hutchins, have special instructions to make sure I get all the greens. I have complained that I could get vegetablitis but it seems to be some sort of golden rule that Jez Matthews has to have everything, so she piles them on. And she’s been told that I have to have extra broccoli. Sometimes that’s difficult, especially when it comes to broccoli. No one in their right mind likes broccoli. No sooner is it on your plate than it goes cold. And this is supposed to be a hot meal. That’s called a contradiction. But I have to eat lots of it, so Mum says, because it’s full of iron. Which makes me wonder that if I could get enough down me that I could end up like Iron Man.
    If broccoli’s supposed to be so wonderful I wonder how my chimpanzee had managed for so long without eating this stuff. Then I saw Jenny Moffat scoffing down broccoli like it was her last meal on earth.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked her, though it was quite obvious.
    Jenny Moffat is a well-brought-up girl and never speaks with her mouth full. She also chews a lot. And when she’s finished chewing she cleans her teeth with her tongue and then speaks to you. As I said, she’s a very polite girl.
    â€œHello Beanie,” she said. “How’s your head?”
    â€œIt’s fine. Sometimes it gets a bit hot. So,” I asked her again, “what are you doing? With the broccoli.”
    â€œI can’t stand the stuff,” she said. “But I know I have to eat it because my mum said it will make me beautiful when I grow up. So the best thing to do is to eat it first and get it out the way, then I can eat the rest of food that I really like.”
    I thought that was a very sensible thing to do. It’s a bit like when Dad says don’t put off what you’re supposed to do today until tomorrow. “Get it out the way, then you can play!”
    â€œWould you like my broccoli, because then you could be even more beautiful than you’re planning to be? In fact, you might even become a supermodel, because I know they live off vegetables and salads.”
    â€œIs that true?”
    â€œAbsolutely. I read it. You could have my broccoli if I could have your banana.”
    She considered it for a moment and then nodded. I scraped my broccoli onto her plate and tucked her banana into my backpack. This was an extremely good deal. I was going to make her the most beautiful woman in the world and I hadn’t had to eat the broccoli or exchange my Snickers Bar, which, as a trading currency, holds great value.
    By the time lunch break was over I had managed to secure two more apples, another banana, an orange and a fruit bar. I sacrificed my chips for the apple, and my raspberry yoghurt for the orange, but I could only get a fruit and nut bar for my Snickers, which wasn’t a great deal. It looked a bit soggy and sticky, and I thought that the fruit and nuts might get stuck in the