Читать книгу Fing - David Walliams - Страница 12

Can you guess what Myrtle demanded for her tenth birthday? In the incredibly unlikely event that you guessed…

A pair of exploding socks.

A life-sized blue-whale bath toy. When it went in the bath, all the water spilled out.

A balloon model of the Taj Mahal.

A pencil un-sharpener.

And a robot pea.

…then congratulations. You were correct and win one pound.*

Mr and Mrs Meek were forced to give their daughter all these things that she had demanded for her birthday. If they hadn’t, Myrtle would have howled the house down.

“Happy birthday, our beautiful angel!” they called out as Myrtle lay in bed, ripping open the presents and throwing the scrunched-up balls of wrapping paper back at them.

RUSTLE!

DOINK!

Moments later, she was demanding something more. What was unusual this time, though, was that the girl had absolutely no idea what that something should be. Myrtle had so many things that she couldn’t think of a single thing in the world she didn’t have.

“I wanna FING!”

she announced over breakfast. The girl was scoffing a ginormous bowl of chocolate ice cream with seventeen chocolate flakes stuck in it, and an ocean of chocolate sauce on top. Yes, Myrtle had chocolate for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Well, would you say no to her?

Mr and Mrs Meek, who were dipping their neatly cut soldiers into boiled eggs, shared a worried look. A “FING”?

Whatever did she mean?

“A ‘FING’, my dearest darling?” asked Mother, putting down her book, One Hundred Poems for Ladies.

“Yeah. Are you deaf? A FING!”

“What’s a ‘FING’, sweetness?” enquired Father, putting down his book, One Hundred Poems for Gentlemen.

“I dunno, but I want one!”

“How do you spell it?” asked Mother.

Myrtle’s face went scarlet with fury.

“I ain’t fick! You spell it the normal way. F! I! N! G! FING!”

The girl thumped the breakfast table with her fist to add emphasis.

BASH!

All the crockery flew into the air, and smashed on to the floor.

“Pick up the pieces! NOW!” the girl ordered.

On their hands and knees under the kitchen table, Mr Meek whispered to his wife, “What are we to do? Our beloved offspring wants a ‘FING’. But I don’t think a ‘FING’ is a real thing. I worry a ‘FING’ is a made-up thing.”

“We’ll have to think of SOMEFING – I mean, something,” replied Mrs Meek just before she felt a boot up her bottom.

BOOF!

“OUCH!” she cried.

“SHUT UP DOWN THERE!” came the voice from above. “I can barely hear myself blow off!”

“That’s better.”

Mr and Mrs Meek were in a panic. If they didn’t come up with some “FING”, there was going to be TROUBLE.

BIG

TROUBLE.