that’s important. But what I am saying is that sometimes the heart disagrees with the head, and at those times it’s important to remember that your head is the more sensible of the two, being the one that has a brain in it. Your heart is just a squishy pump that moves blood around your body, and it only works if you keep the blood on the inside. So, please, please, please: listen to your head.
I just wanted to say that, you know, get it out there. So, now, if anyone copies Fizz’s stupid antics and is eaten by crabs, I can at least point to this bit and say, ‘I did warn them,’ and no one can pin your accidents on me. Let’s make this clear: your stupid acts are your stupid acts. (And mine are mine, but let’s not talk about those.)
‘Hey, Fizz,’ said Wystan. ‘Look!’
‘What?’ said Fizz, trying to keep his balance as he turned the torch on his bearded companion. His heart was beating so hard in his chest he could hardly hear Wystan over the noise of it.
His bearded friend was pointing his torch at the Aquarium wall just above his head.
‘Someone’s left a window open,’ he said. ‘Shall we climb in here?’
Fizz looked down at the great, weedy, damp rock he was standing on, and the long fall either side of it, and then up at the open window, thought for a very short moment, and said, ‘Yeah, okay.’
Wystan reached out and helped Fizz back up onto the path.
Without talking, Wystan interlocked his fingers and lowered his entwined hands down to about the height of his knees. Fizz put one of his feet in them and in the age-old tradition of the bunk-up, Wystan bunked him up.
Fizz’s hands got a grip on the window frame and he pulled himself in. Once on the window sill, he lowered his legs into the darkness behind him. To his relief he found a platform which took his weight.
He leant out the window and caught the rucksack Wystan threw up to him.
‘Do you need me to lower the rope?’ Fizz asked.
‘Nah, don’t bother about that,’ said Wystan. ‘Just stick your hands out.’
Wystan crouched and sprang like a boy trained in acrobatics and with several years of circus experience under his belt. He caught hold of Fizz’s arms and, with a painful yank, swung himself up over Fizz’s head and through the window so that he landed with a professional acrobat’s crash somewhere on the floor.
Well, at last, they were in, and I think we’ve all earned a cup of tea and a break. Well done everybody, take five minutes to relax.
Chapter Seven
In which some purple fish are seen and in which a conversation about pink sharks is had
Fizzlebert pointed the torch at his feet.
He was standing on a toilet seat lid.
‘Wystan?’ he called in a whisper, waving the torch around the room. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, nothing broken,’ said his bearded accomplice.
Fizz found him with the torch. His beard was spilling out around his chin like a comet’s black furry tail. In the torchlight it threw weird shadows on the wall.
‘Well, we’re in. Now we’ve got to try to find Fish. Where’s the door?’
‘Here, look.’
Wystan pointed and his finger touched it. It really was quite a small room they’d climbed into. You might say, it was the smallest room. But then again, you might just call it the loo, and that would be fine too.
Fizz opened the door a crack. The corridor outside was lit by widely-spaced, dimly glowing lights in the ceiling. The walls along either side were filled, to no one’s great surprise, by tanks of water.
The boys turned their torches off.
‘Look at this,’ Wystan said, looking into a nearby tank.
‘Shark?’ asked Fizz, nervously.
‘Nah, just little purple things. And they’re all still swimming about.’
Indeed they were, fishy little purple shapes, like pipe-cleaners with nozzle-like snouts and tiny frilly fins halfway down their backs. They swished about in the water, rushing between waving fronds of weeds as if they were chasing one another in a
I just wanted to say that, you know, get it out there. So, now, if anyone copies Fizz’s stupid antics and is eaten by crabs, I can at least point to this bit and say, ‘I did warn them,’ and no one can pin your accidents on me. Let’s make this clear: your stupid acts are your stupid acts. (And mine are mine, but let’s not talk about those.)
‘Hey, Fizz,’ said Wystan. ‘Look!’
‘What?’ said Fizz, trying to keep his balance as he turned the torch on his bearded companion. His heart was beating so hard in his chest he could hardly hear Wystan over the noise of it.
His bearded friend was pointing his torch at the Aquarium wall just above his head.
‘Someone’s left a window open,’ he said. ‘Shall we climb in here?’
Fizz looked down at the great, weedy, damp rock he was standing on, and the long fall either side of it, and then up at the open window, thought for a very short moment, and said, ‘Yeah, okay.’
Wystan reached out and helped Fizz back up onto the path.
Without talking, Wystan interlocked his fingers and lowered his entwined hands down to about the height of his knees. Fizz put one of his feet in them and in the age-old tradition of the bunk-up, Wystan bunked him up.
Fizz’s hands got a grip on the window frame and he pulled himself in. Once on the window sill, he lowered his legs into the darkness behind him. To his relief he found a platform which took his weight.
He leant out the window and caught the rucksack Wystan threw up to him.
‘Do you need me to lower the rope?’ Fizz asked.
‘Nah, don’t bother about that,’ said Wystan. ‘Just stick your hands out.’
Wystan crouched and sprang like a boy trained in acrobatics and with several years of circus experience under his belt. He caught hold of Fizz’s arms and, with a painful yank, swung himself up over Fizz’s head and through the window so that he landed with a professional acrobat’s crash somewhere on the floor.
Well, at last, they were in, and I think we’ve all earned a cup of tea and a break. Well done everybody, take five minutes to relax.
Chapter Seven
In which some purple fish are seen and in which a conversation about pink sharks is had
Fizzlebert pointed the torch at his feet.
He was standing on a toilet seat lid.
‘Wystan?’ he called in a whisper, waving the torch around the room. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, nothing broken,’ said his bearded accomplice.
Fizz found him with the torch. His beard was spilling out around his chin like a comet’s black furry tail. In the torchlight it threw weird shadows on the wall.
‘Well, we’re in. Now we’ve got to try to find Fish. Where’s the door?’
‘Here, look.’
Wystan pointed and his finger touched it. It really was quite a small room they’d climbed into. You might say, it was the smallest room. But then again, you might just call it the loo, and that would be fine too.
Fizz opened the door a crack. The corridor outside was lit by widely-spaced, dimly glowing lights in the ceiling. The walls along either side were filled, to no one’s great surprise, by tanks of water.
The boys turned their torches off.
‘Look at this,’ Wystan said, looking into a nearby tank.
‘Shark?’ asked Fizz, nervously.
‘Nah, just little purple things. And they’re all still swimming about.’
Indeed they were, fishy little purple shapes, like pipe-cleaners with nozzle-like snouts and tiny frilly fins halfway down their backs. They swished about in the water, rushing between waving fronds of weeds as if they were chasing one another in a
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