Modern Morals/ Who's Aesop?
If you choose to read these stories and their ‘morals’, please bear in mind that they are meant only as a joke. You are generally safe if you reverse them, e.g:
Always share.
Never lie.
etc…
But that’s boring.
If you do adhere to any of the morals herein, I (the author) shall not be held responsible for anything that your parent/guardian/teacher may do to you as a result, (although you will undoubtedly deserve it.)
DON’T BLAME ME!!
Happy Reading.
Who’s Aesop/Modern Morals 1.Slow Joe.
Joe is always the last one up in his house. His brother is always half way through his breakfast, and his sister has brushed her hair before Joe has even got out of bed. By the time Joe has thrown back his bed-covers and heaved himself up, his brother has usually left the house, and his sister is putting her coat on. Mum, exasperated, shouts, “Joe! Joe! For goodness sake Joe! You’ll be late!”
So, Joe stretches and yawns. He goes to the bathroom where he always brushes his teeth for precisely three minutes. He combs his hair, making sure it is exactly the way he likes it. He slowly gets dressed, and strolls down the stairs with his Mum shouting all the while, “Joe! Joe! Hurry up Joe! There’s no time for breakfast, come on!”
Nevertheless, Joe always has a glass of fresh orange juice and a piece of toast before he goes to school. He munches his toast thoughtfully, clears away his plate, puts on his coat and ambles slowly along to the bus stop.
Every morning, his brother and his sister are there, complaining about the weather, and how the bus is late again. They look at Joe in disbelief – how does he do it; how can he be so slow, and yet never arrive late?
“You were still in bed when we left the house,” his sister grumbles, “how come you never miss the bus?”
“It’s not fair,” his brother complains, “we get up much earlier than you, but even then we have to rush to get ready. What’s your secret Joe?”
To which Joe just smiles rather a smug smile, before being the first to get on the school bus, ahead of everyone else.
Things went on this way for a long, long time.
Then one day…
*
Joe found he was wide-awake. The house was strangely dark and quiet; he strained to listen very carefully. All he could hear was his clock ticking, and the sound of his family snoring in their beds. He lay back down, closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep; but sleep just wouldn’t come.
He sat upright in his bed and switched on the lamp to see the clock. 5.15 a.m.
5.15 am!
Joe had never before been awake this early in the day; he felt so alert and restless. He gave up on trying to go back to sleep, and got dressed, trying to think what he could do while he waited for everyone to wake up.
He washed and brushed his teeth, (for three minutes,) combed his hair and put on his shoes; then he checked the clock again.
5.30.
He made his bed and tidied his room, then went downstairs. He took the cover off the budgie’s cage, fed the fish, let the dog out and let the cat in. He made breakfast and ate it; he even cleared his things away, before he looked at the clock again.
This time it said 6.05 a.m. – almost another three hours until school! Now what? He still felt so awake.
He heard the milkman on the doorstep, so he went to collect the delivery. The milkman almost dropped the bottles when he saw who had come to open the door, “My word Joe! Don’t think I’ve ever seen you up and about this time of day before; everything all right?” he asked, trying to peep behind Joe as if he was afraid some terrible drama might be going on in the hallway behind him.
Joe smiled, “Everything’s fine thanks Mr. Banner. I just couldn’t sleep that’s all.”
“Oh. Righto then,” said Mr. Banner, still looking suspicious as he handed the milk to Joe, “as long as you’re sure.”
Joe put the milk into the fridge, then, hands on hips, looked around for something else to occupy him.
He looked down at his shoes, noticing for the first time just how scuffed and dusty they were.
Rummaging about under the sink, he found the shoe care kit, and polished his shoes until they shone.
That done, he cast about for another task to complete; he was beginning to enjoy himself, doing little jobs that he would never normally dream of doing, while everyone was nicely out of the way, and the house was peaceful and uncluttered.
He emptied the tumble dryer and folded the clothes into the basket, the way his Mum did it, feeling very pleased with himself; but he drew the line at starting on the ironing when he saw how tall the pile of clothes in the wash-basket was.
Instead, he reread his homework, and after some thought and a fair bit of pencil chewing, added more to it.
When he next checked the time, it was 6.55.
He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table, becoming bored. He breathed on the window and drew a face in the condensation with his finger. He even boiled the kettle, although he didn’t make tea.
At 7.15a.m. Dad’s newspaper arrived, pushed half-heartedly through the letterbox as if the delivery boy begrudged bringing it; it fell with a dull slap onto the tiled floor. Joe picked it up and began to read the front page – ‘GRATE BRITAIN’S HARD CHEESE’ read the headlines – something about a strike in a dairy factory. Joe didn’t think it was a very good newspaper.
Then, suddenly, at 7.20 a.m, Joe felt sleepy again. He crept quietly back up the stairs, and got into bed, still fully dressed.
’Oh well,’ he thought as he slipped back under the warm covers, ‘I’m all ready for school so I can have at least another hour in bed; and I’ll be in mum’s good books when I get up, after all I’ve done this morning already.’ Feeling very self-satisfied, he drifted off to sleep…
…just as Mum’s alarm went off.
It seemed like only moments later, yet Joe could definitely hear his Mum. “Joe! Joe! Come on, Joe!”
He heard the front door slam as his brother left for the bus stop, and then again as his sister left. Snapping abruptly awake, Joe became aware that, for the first time ever, he would have to hurry.
Still being half asleep, he forgot he was already dressed and took all his clothes off, thinking they were his pyjamas. “Aaagh!” he screamed, and then hurriedly put all his clothes back on again.
He rushed into the bathroom, only to remember when he got there that he’d already washed and brushed. He ran downstairs, grabbed his mother, kissed his coat and ran out the door.
Then he ran back inside, kissed his Mum, grabbed his coat, and ran out again, leaving his very well done homework behind him. He raced to the bus stop and almost made it on time, except he had shined his shoes so well they had become slippery.
He fell down hard on the pavement, just as the bus pulled away, watching his brother and sister pass him by with surprised looks on their faces.
He could hardly believe it; even as he watched the crowded school bus roll past him, onlookers pointing at him through the steamy windows and laughing at his misfortune, he couldn’t believe it. He had missed the bus! Him, of all people!
Joe hauled himself up and trudged slowly, and very carefully, home. When his Mum opened the door to let him in, she looked surprised too, at first. Then the look of surprise was replaced by a look that said ‘I-told-you-so’.
“Oh Joe!” she tut-tutted, “I’m always telling you to get a move on in the mornings. I just knew you’d miss your bus one day.”
Joe said nothing, but Mum thought he had a very odd look on his face. Very odd indeed.
The moral to this story is: - Stay in bed for as long as you can in the mornings!
S. P Oldham.
Who's Aesop?/Modern Morals 2. Mean Dean
Meet Dean Garret. He is twelve years old and gives nothing to anyone. Be thankful that I told you his name, because he wouldn’t even have given you that.
Dean has no brothers and no sisters; his dad is a tax-collector and his mum is a bank manager. Every Friday, Dean’s mum gives him £10 and says, “Treat yourself to something nice.” Dean snatches the money from her hands like a lizard snatching a bug, and says “£10? Is that all? You never give me anything!” Then he slams the front door behind him, and heads off to the shops.
Now, you might think that £10 is enough to buy sweets to last a whole week, or at least a few days. But Dean spends it all on penny sweets – so many sweets that the shopkeeper had to put them into twenty paper bags. Then Dean stashes the bags under his jacket, making him look like a badly stuffed scarecrow, and opens the shop door quietly.
Cradling the hoard of sweets hidden beneath his jacket like a pregnant lady might nurse her stomach, he looks up and down the street furtively, making sure that no-one is around. Trying not to rustle too much or drop even one sweet, he runs home as fast as he can, and shuts himself in the shed at the bottom of the garden.
There he sits all evening, cramming sweet after sweet into his mouth until they have all gone. He never goes indoors to offer one to his Mum or Dad, he never takes them to the park to share with other kids, and he certainly never saves any for another time.
*
It was a usual Friday evening. Dean had just settled into his favourite corner of the shed, ready to rummage about for his first bag of goodies – chocolate coins – when the door opened, just a crack, and a thin shaft of light fell across Dean’s knee.
He looked up in surprise, and watched as he realised to his horror that the door was slowly being opened.
Dean was so alarmed he actually dropped his bag of chocolate coins. He stood up to face the door, trembling; what would it be? Some terrible stranger come to steal him away? An escaped convict looking for a hideout? An alien looking for specimens of human life for observation? His imagination raced and his heart pounded. His mouth became dry; his knees were shaking.
The door continued to open wider, wider still, all the way; and there… oh he could hardly bear to look, there…there….
… was Sophie, the two year old from next door.
She had obviously crawled through the gap in the hedge again; the knees in her tights were holed, there were twigs in her hair and her hands were muddy.
Dean stood there, too astonished for words; just staring at the pretty, curly haired little girl stood before him.
Sophie, however, seemed completely unconcerned. She glanced at Dean, and then looked past him at the golden chocolate coins that had spilled out onto the dirty shed floor. Her blue eyes grew big and round, and she gasped, “Oooh, sweeties!”
Dean’s astonishment quickly turned to terror, and he fell to his knees, hurriedly scooping up his dropped treasure.
“Sophie sweetie?” asked Sophie, watching Dean expectantly. “Sophie sweetie?”
“No!”
“Sophie sweetie!” A determined stamp of a small foot.
“No! Dean’s sweeties.” Dean was scrambling around, frantically trying to retrieve sweets from cracks in the floorboards, under the lawnmower, in spider’s webs.
At last, panting and sweating, his sweets held closely to his chest for safety, Dean stopped for a rest. It suddenly occurred to him that Sophie had gone very quiet. Maybe she had left? He turned to look in the doorway again, and what he saw there froze him in his tracks.
Little Sophie was sitting down cross-legged. Her tongue was sticking out, her face contorted in concentration, the task of freeing a chocolate from its golden wrapper difficult for her small fingers. Her warm little hands had melted it, so as she finally got it out and raised it to her lips it was more a shapeless sticky lump than the smooth flat coin it once was.
With great pleasure, Sophie opened her small fist and put the whole blob of chocolate into her mouth. Her eyes closed and she dribbled a little bit as the delicious chocolatiness filled her mouth. Then her eyes snapped open, she stood and rubbed her chocolate covered hand down the front of her pink and white T-shirt, and stretched her fingers out to Dean. “More?” she asked innocently.
Dean was flabbergasted. She had eaten one of his sweets! She had found and actually eaten one of his sweets!
“More? Ta?” Sophie tried hopefully.
Dean was transfixed. He could not stop staring at her.
“More?”
He never really understood what happened next. As if in a dream he watched himself hand Sophie another chocolate coin, and another and another. He even began opening them for her.
The coins finished, Sophie moved on to the coconut mushrooms, then the jellies, then the lollipops. In what seemed no time at all, all the sweets were gone, and Dean hadn’t eaten one. Not one.
“They’re all gone.” said Dean in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.
“All gone!” said Sophie philosophically, raising both hands in the air.
“Sophie? Sophie? Sophie where are you?” came the sound of voices from behind the hedge outside.
At the sound of her name Sophie made to leave. Dean suddenly noticed what a state she was in. Not only was she grazed and muddy from crawling through the hedge, but her clothes and face were covered in chocolate; bits of jelly were stuck in her hair, coconut was stuck to the chocolate on her fingers, lollipop sticks stuck to her trousers. What a mess!
But before Dean could stop her, she had made her clumsy way back to the hedge and was calling “Mum-mum.” in a very self-satisfied tone of voice.
Dean watched her go, and then sank down onto the grass, thinking extremely hard. He hadn’t eaten a single sweet, and yet he was feeling quite good.
Really good in fact, better than he had felt for a long time. Why? What had he done? He knew there was a word for it. What was it? He had… he had… Bingo! Shared! He had shared something.
He stood up, suddenly feeling wonderfully proud of himself, and strode towards his house. Sharing; it hadn’t meant much to Sophie of course, but it filled Dean with a strange and wonderful, warm feeling.
She was just a little girl, not much more than a baby really; to her it was nothing more than a nice, unexpected treat. She was quite sweet, when you thought about it.
He smiled at his own unintended joke, oblivious to the goings-on in next doors’ garden. “Sophie! What on earth? Where have you been?” That sort of thing.
Still smiling, Dean was just coming in through the back door of his house, when there was a loud pounding at the front door. Mr Garret went to answer it.
“Where’s your Dean?” Demanded Sophie’s father, “I want a word with him!”
“Dean? Sweeties?” chirruped Sophie
“What on earth is the matter?” asked Dean’s mum, who had come to see what all the fuss was about.
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter! Just look at Sophie!” Sophie, tattered and sticky, stood innocently next to her father.
“There he is!” shrieked Sophie’s mum, spotting Dean trying to slink back out through the back door.
“Dean Garret, come here this minute!” shouted his dad.
Dean knew it was pointless trying to escape now.
“Yes dad?”
“Did you do this boy?” All eyes turned to Sophie.
“Do what?” Dean turned to look at Sophie, “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I only gave her a few sweets,” He was still full of that wonderful feeling that you get when you know you’ve achieved something new, and it showed in his face. He looked proud.
This time everyone turned to look at Dean. Four mouths fell open in astonishment; four disbelieving faces looked at him.
“But” stammered his mum, “but Dean, you never give anything away.”
“It was only one or two sweets.” he protested.
“One or two?”
“Ok, maybe more than one or two,” Dean admitted grudgingly.
“How many more?” prompted his dad, “three or four?”
“Five or six?” asked his mum crossly.
Dean put his hands in his pockets and shifted about uneasily from foot to foot, beginning to feel uncomfortable with all these questions. Sophie was noisily sucking coconut-chocolate off her fingers. There was a tense silence; everyone was waiting.
“A whole bag?” suggested his father, fearfully
“Twenty,” mumbled Dean
“Twenty! You gave her twenty sweets?” Sophie’s mum was shouting now.
Deans’ face blushed crimson and he dropped his head. “No,” he said quietly, “twenty bags.”
“Twenty bags!” shouted everyone at once.
At that point, Sophie pulled her fingers out of her mouth with a funny squelching sound, and pointed at Dean.
“Dean!” she squealed in happy recognition. “Dean! Sweeties!” Then her face went a horrible green colour, “Mummy! Sophie sick!”
Her mother whisked her up and shot Dean a filthy now-look-what-you’ve-done look. Holding Sophie at arms length, she headed for home, Sophie’s father following them closely. He turned at the gate, to shout over his shoulder “You haven’t heard the last of this Dean Garret!”
And then they were gone.
*
“Well Dean,” said his mum in her I’m-very-annoyed voice,” I hope you’re satisfied! Fancy giving a little one like that so many sweets!”
You never normally share!” shouted his Dad, “Why on earth start now boy?”
“I’ll tell you what,” his mother continued, folding her arms to emphasise the point, “that’s it! No more money on a Friday. Not if you’re going to share like that!”
“But Mum!”
“But nothing! Get to your room! Tomorrow you can go and apologise; now bed!”
So to bed Dean went, with the prospect of no sweets, and no money for sweets on a Friday night, ever again. He was to blame for a sick next- door neighbour and her irate parents, and set of parents of his own that were none too pleased with him. Worst of all, he realised, he had no sweets left!
The moral to this story is: Never share your sweets with anyone!
S. P Oldham.
Who's Aesop?/Modern Morals 3. Fake Jake.
If you take a peek into Jake Conman’s bedroom, you will see an entire bookshelf full of awards and trophies. You can barely see the wallpaper for all the certificates and photographs of famous people smiling and shaking Jake’s hand, congratulating him on something wonderful he has achieved, yet again.
Jake has climbed mountains, crossed rivers and survived an avalanche! He has been the hero in a terrible fire in the factory in town; helped to catch two notorious thieves red-handed, and is always helping people across roads.
As for his sporting achievements, well! I hardly know where to start; tennis, football, and rugby, even tiddly-winks. As if all that wasn’t enough, he has gone written two – yes, two – best-selling books about the things he has done.
And he is only twelve years old!
Of course, Jake’s mum and dad, Meg and Tony Conman, are extremely proud of all that Jake has done, and are always bragging to people about Jake, and trying to guess what he might do next.
But there is something that all these people don’t know; not even Jake’s mum and dad. You see, it felt very good to Jake, to get medals and awards and to see his face in the newspapers; but nearly all of the stories of his adventures were just a little bit exaggerated.
For instance, whilst it really was true that Jake had climbed Mount Sheerdeath in Deepest Lunatice, and he had crossed the wide and raging River Dashyu to get to it, what he didn’t tell people was he had paid a guide to lead the way up the mountain, and the river had a bridge across it!
And he hadn’t meant to rescue that fat old cat from the fire in the disused factory. In fact, he shouldn’t have been there at all. His football had sailed over the wall and in through one of the broken windows, and he went running in after that! He didn’t even know the building was on fire!
He had more or less forgotten the ball and was becoming engrossed in exploring the dangerous old factory. He had pulled open the top drawer of an old filing cabinet, and got the shock of his life when a big black, spitting, hissing, clawing, yellow-eyed THING came hurtling out at him.
Jake screamed and ran for his life, noticing the smoke and flames only as he ran past the metal staircase, scraping and bruising his shins as he went; still with the strange, fearsome creature after him. He reached what used to be the front door of the building, double doors, that appeared to be stuck fast; he just couldn’t budge them! He stopped pushing and shoving them only when he realised the mad hissing thing had caught him up.
He turned and froze in horror as the crazed black mass, a cloud of grey smoke behind it, launched itself at Jake, landing with a sharp thud on Jake’s chest.
Jake was sent sprawling through the double doors, clutching in terror at the maddened beast that was in turn hanging on to Jake’s jacket for all it was worth.
When he had stopped screeching, and had opened his eyes, a strange sight awaited him. People were standing in a circle, looking down at him (he could see up all their noses), and two of those people were firemen.
“Well done son!” beamed one of them, “We were just going in to look for that wretched cat!”
The other fireman didn’t look half so pleased. He had a stern look in his eye, but just as he was about to say something, another voice came from somewhere behind the crowd.
“My cat! My pussy-poos! My little putty-tat!” The words sounded funny from such a hoarse and croaky voice. The circle was pushed apart, and a dirty, bedraggled woman came forward to prise the cat from Jake’s chest.
The next thing Jake knew, he was pulled to his feet being hailed as a hero. He was having his photograph taken with the mad cat and the tramp, who insisted on putting her arm around Jake’s shoulder. Jake wrinkled his nose and said nothing.
It was in all the papers that evening, and Meg and Tony Conman were so pleased, they forgot all about telling Jake off for messing around in such a dangerous place.
As for helping old people across the road, Mrs Weary at number 11 was sick and tired of being frogmarched across the street every time she stopped to catch her breath.
So, Jake wasn’t all he was made out to be.
And now, he was faced with a problem.
As usual, the class homework on Friday was to write all about what they had done during the weekend, to be read out to their teacher, Miss Tweed, first thing on Monday morning. They were all to write at least one full page.
Jake normally had no problem writing five or six pages; but this weekend was different. He had been sitting on his bed looking at all his trophies and medals and awards and certificates, and he had begun to wonder; would people like him just as much if he wasn’t a hero? Would his mum and dad be just as proud?
He stopped chewing the end of his pencil, and began to write on the pad in front of him. This is what he wrote:
Sunday 10th February
My Weekend – by Jake Conman.
Friday
On Friday I came home from school. Had chips for tea. Watched telly. Had a bath. Went to bed at half past ten.
(He didn’t even mention that the programme he watched was the T.V series of his first book “Unreal”.
Saturday
Got up at lunch- time. Had breakfast.
Got a letter.
Had tea.
Rode my bike.
Went to bed.
(Not a word that the letter was from Princess Feeble of Florania asking for help with the killer weeds again. (She was only a princess by marriage.).
Nothing about his bike being a dirt bike. (It was his dad’s bike really – he could only ride it if he was with his father.)
Sunday
Went for a swim.
Went for a walk.
Did my homework.
(Went for a walk? Yes – to Land’s End! (The Land’s End pub that is – his parents bought him lunch there.)
That was it; not even a full page.
*
So Monday morning came. Miss Tweed asked Jake to read his work out first, but he declined, saying he would go last. This made Miss Tweed and the whole of the class very excited and eager to hear what Jake had to tell; it must be something really good if he was saving it till last.
So, the other children went first. Sophie told them about shopping; Sam read about staying at his Gran’s; Rob Roberts stood up and declared that he wasn’t going to tell anybody anything, and that nobody had any proof (which raised a few
eyebrows). Eventually it was Jake’s turn. All eyes watched him intently, full of anticipation; he cleared his throat and began …
“Ahem. On Friday I came home from school. Had chips for tea …” and on he went.
All the faces in the classroom went blank. There were a few nervous giggles and uncertain whispers when they realised Jake had finished, and was returning to his seat. There was an awkward silence, and then Miss Tweed asked
“Are you quite alright Jake?”
“Oh yes, thank you.” he smiled.
What a strange week it turned out to be after that. People kept giving Jake funny looks and it seemed as if they were afraid to speak to him. There were no crowds of children around him at play-times; he was left all alone in the schoolyard. Nobody wanted to sit next to him for lunch; no-one invited him round for tea. Jake didn’t like it much at all.
So very, very slowly, Friday came around again; and the weekend.
*
I won’t tell you what happened to Jake that weekend, it’s a whole other story. Instead, let’s fast forward to Monday morning in Miss Tweed’s class.
Jake has asked to go last again, and his teacher and all his classmates look very concerned. Jake takes his place in front of the class, and begins to read from his homework.
“Last Friday evening, as I left school, I noticed a small removal van opposite the school gates. Now, whilst it may have escaped the rest of you, my trained eye immediately recognised the face of one of the most wanted international criminals, Break-and Enter Eddie. Now…”
All the class relaxed, Miss Tweed smiled, and they settled down to hear some more of Jake’s exaggerations, er, I mean adventures.
The moral to this story is: - Always brag and exaggerate, it gets you noticed.
Who's Aesop?/Modern Morals - 4. Scary Mary.
4. SCARY MARY.
Mary Meadows.
Now isn’t that such a sweet name? Doesn’t it make you think of a cute little girl, hair in pigtails, all rosy-cheeked and smiling, sun shining all around her?
Well, you couldn’t be more wrong! Mary Meadows is a very tall thin girl, with very tall thin hair, sharp nails, sharp tongue and even a sharp nose. Her thin lips are always set in a frown and her dark eyes are always screwed up tight with meanness. All of the other kids in school call her ‘Scary Mary’ – but never to her face of course.
The strange thing about it though, is that Mary had two sisters – Molly and Melinda – and they really are sweet. Molly has adorable ringlets in her hair, and a sunny smile; Melinda really does have rosy cheeks, and gentle eyes; but even they are afraid of Mary! Everybody is.
Including Mr Snapper, the headmaster at school, who tries to avoid Mary if he can. When a teacher sends a child to Mr Snapper for being naughty, the whole school can hear him shouting and roaring in his office. If a teacher ever dares to send Mary to him, he meekly says something like “Yes, er…well…Mary, see that you don’t do it again.” the whole time wringing his hands and looking down at his feet. Mary stands there, fists clenched, glowering at him. Then she stamps and bangs her way back to class.
Needless to say, Mary doesn’t have too many friends. Anyone new at school quickly learns what she is like, either from others, or for themselves, the hard way. All of them that is…
… except one.
Lucy Sharpe is a lot younger than Mary. She is very small, very quiet and very shy. So shy in fact, that although she had been going to Highly-Unlikely High School for a week now, she had still not made any friends. Every lunchtime, after she had eaten, she had taken to sneaking behind the school kitchens (which was strictly ‘out-of-bounds’), and fussing the school cat, Stodge.
Stodge is old and fat and lazy. He likes nothing better than to while away an afternoon curled up on top of a dustbin. Now that Lucy has come along to stroke him and feed him scraps everyday, he is in feline heaven. He purrs so loudly that Lucy worries someone is bound to hear and come to investigate. Nobody has, yet.
But there is something that Lucy, being new, doesn’t know.
She had accidentally stumbled across one of Mary’s favourite places, somewhere she likes to spend her lunchtimes away from all those nice people.
*
One afternoon, as Lucy was gently rubbing Stodge’s fat belly, while he stretched his big body out contentedly, purring like an engine, Lucy giggled.
“Stodge! You are a lovely, cuddly old cat!” she said
“No he’s not!” came a spiteful voice from the shadows, “He’s a stupid, smelly disgusting old lump!”
Stodge stopped mid-purr, leapt to his feet, arched his backed dramatically and hissed. Lucy took a step back from him; he was looking intently into the gloom beyond the dustbins. Lucy followed his gaze, and held her breath as somebody stepped forward into the sunlight.
“Oh thank goodness!” Lucy breathed, “I thought it was someone really nasty in there!”
Mary looked most offended for a moment. Then she screwed up her fists and eyes, “I am really nasty!” she hissed, a bit like Stodge, “I’m Mary Meadows!” and she waited for the terrified recognition.
Lucy looked her up and down a couple of times, then put a hand to her mouth, and laughed.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded Mary incredulously, advancing a step with menace.
“Oh nothing,” Lucy replied airily, “you know, you don’t look nasty.”
Mary was taken aback; no-one had ever dared say anything like that to her before. She didn’t know quite what to do, so she took another threatening step toward Lucy, who responded with a big, warm smile.
Now this, Mary was definitely not used to; usually, by this stage, most of her victims were either crying or trying to run away. Lucy just stood there, smiling; Mary was at a complete loss.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy continued, “it’s just that you’ve got something on your face.”
Mary automatically raised a hand to her cheek.
“No, the other side; that’s it.” said Lucy helpfully, “and you’ve got something in stuck on your jumper, a bit of leaf or twig or something, and one of your socks has fallen down, and…”
“Ok! Ok! I get the message!” warned Mary, raising a fist, “but you better watch it Little Miss Perfect, or I’ll …”
“Oh, and there’s a spider in your hair.”
Mary froze, arm still poised to take a swipe at Lucy. Her eyes had lost their screwed up look and were wide open. “What?” she whispered.
“There’s a spider in your hair.” Lucy cheerfully repeated.
Get it out, get it out, GET IT OUT!”
“Would you like me to get it out for you?” There was just a hint of innocent mischief in Lucy’s voice.
“YES!”
“Pardon?”
Mary looked at Lucy in astonishment; this small, mousy little… little… little mouse was trying to get the better of her! Well! She’d show her! If she thought for one minute that…
Mary felt something move in her hair.
“Please!” she said through gritted teeth.
“Oh of course I will!” gushed Lucy. She stepped forward and took from Mary’s spiky hair a long-legged, spindly spider.
Now, the thing about long-legged spindly spiders is that they move fast. Very fast.
And the thing with lazy, fat old Stodge was, being a cat, he just couldn’t resist trying to catch them.
He watched it dangle from Lucy’s hand, still stretched out between her and Mary. It swayed invitingly in the air, eight little legs working frantically away at nothing, until he could stand it no more.
Forgetting his loathing of Mary, he launched himself from the top of the dustbin, through the space between the two girls, breaking Lucy’s hold on the spider and scratching her face as he did so.
The unfortunate spider hit the ground and ran for the shelter of a discarded cardboard box, Stodge pursuing it enthusiastically.
Lucy, round-eyed, clasped her cheek in pain and gave a little “Oh!”
Mary watched as the blood began to rise from the scratches on Lucy’s face. “Better go to first aid.” she grunted.
In shocked silence, Lucy went back through the narrow alleyway and on to the playground, where everybody had lined up, ready to go back to class.
Every pair of eyes in the school fell on Lucy; they all saw the three deep and painful scratches on her face. Well, everyone had been saying all week that it wouldn’t be long before Lucy met Mary – hanging around in her favourite place and all.
Poor Lucy – it looked very sore; perhaps someone should have warned her about Scary Mary?
As she passed the rows of children, they became very quiet; all the excited chattering stopped. They all averted their eyes guiltily; despite the fact that they knew Mary was scary, none of them had ever seen her do anything as bad as this before.
Mr Snapper stopped Lucy as she went by. “Lucy Sharpe! Where have you been? What happened to your face?”
Lucy stifled a sob, “Behind the kitchens.” was all she managed to say in a small voice.
“Behind the kitchens!” repeated Mr Snapper, then, more thoughtfully, “Behind the kitchens? Er... isn’t that where Mary…?”
Lucy nodded, the throbbing in her inflamed cheek making her unable to explain, and continued on to the school nurse.
Just then, Mary came onto the playground, scuffing her shoes, hands shoved deep into her pockets, scowling. Mr Snapper began fiddling distractedly with his tie. “Into class children! Into class!”
Slowly the lines of children filed into the school. Mary made as if to reluctantly join the end of her line.
She just knew she was going to be in real trouble this time, ‘Scary’ Mary or not. Mr Snapper had a look on his face she had never seen on him before. ‘Well, let them punish me,’ she thought, None of them would ever believe it was Lucy’s own fault; hers and that stupid fat cat’s.
She looked Mr Snapper straight in the eye.
“Oh not you Mary, no, no; you take your time.” babbled Mr Snapper. “no need to rush, no need at all.” He was edging backwards towards the doors, eager to get himself out of Mary’s company. “In fact, you don’t have to come in at all if you don’t want to.” closer still, “It’s up to you of course.” through the doors, and gone.
Mary was alone in the playground. Class had started, and she didn’t have to go in, ever again, if she didn’t want to! All because of little clever clogs Lucy Sharpe and that fat old cat, Stodge. And then something very unusual happened.
Mary Meadows smiled…
… and went home.
Moral: - Always take credit for being mean and tough – even if it’s nothing to do with you.
Who's Aesop?/Modern Morals - 5. Nosy Rosie
5. NOSY ROSIE
Most people think that nosiness is bad; anyone who is curious all the time must be meddling and interfering all the time too. To be honest, I think that is mostly true; but not always.
Rosie Banks is an ordinary girl. She isn’t especially clever or especially stupid. She isn’t particularly tall or particularly small. She is neither all bad, nor all good; but she is exceptionally nosy.
What is amazing about Rosie is all the different ways she can be nosy in.
Sometimes she marches straight into a situation and demands to be told what is going on (although this approach tends to make her a bit unpopular). At other times, she just happens to have something to do around a group of people talking, and she pretends to be interested in something else entirely; but all the while she is listening carefully.
She very often hears or sees something in one place, and then hears or sees something in another place, and decides that they belong together, to make one big juicy fact. ‘Putting two and two together’ her mother calls it.
Lastly, but by far the most clever way in which Rosie is nosy, is by asking certain people (usually small children) certain questions. Not outright questions, no, she is much more devious than that.
Let me tell you about the time she put two and two together about the Lawson’s, next door.
*
It was a hot day, and Rosie was alone in the garden, lying on a towel and enjoying the sun, when suddenly she heard voices from over the fence. Rosie, being Rosie, made it her business to listen. She could only pick up snippets, but this is what she heard:
“…got to go.” Mr Lawson was saying, “…old and creaky.”
Another voice, Mrs Lawson this time, “…sagging in the middle.” A sigh, then, “ Oh all right then…get rid…soon as possible…”
“…smelly too.”
“…does not smell!”
“…sometimes does…sad…years and years…”
Then Mr Lawson again, in a soothing tone, “never mind, got to go…”
Through a crack in the fence, Rosie saw Mr Lawson nod his head towards his patio. “Come on, let’s go and sort it out.” and off they went.
Rosie was intrigued. She waited until she heard the Lawson’s back door bang shut, and then she stood up and approached the fence, pretending to be very interested in Dad’s roses.
When she felt it was safe enough, she peered over the fence at the Lawson’s patio. There, fast asleep under a parasol, was Grandma Lawson.
Rosie thought back over the conversation she had just eavesdropped and tried to piece together some of the words. Old, creaky, smelly…
Got to go…? A nasty suspicion took root in Rosie’s mind. She watched Grandma Lawson, snoring gently in the shade, and shook herself. No! Surely not? Of course not!
She told herself not to be so silly, and was about to lie down again on the towel, when the Lawson’s back door flew open, and little Adam Lawson came bursting through it.
He stopped as the brightness of the sun hit him, shifted his dummy from the left to the right side of his mouth, and made a clumsy beeline for his Grandma.
Rosie always reckoned that little ones are good for gleaning information from.
Grown-ups say all kinds of things in front of them, because they believe they don’t understand what they are saying; or because they can’t speak properly yet anyway.
“Yoo-hoo! Adam” called Rosie, in her friendliest voice.
“Wassat?” Adam enquired of thin air.
“Adam! Hiya! Hello there!” encouraged Rosie.
“Hiya!” Adam’s whole face broke into a sticky grin. He turned awkwardly and half trotted-half stumbled towards Rosie.
“Where’s Grandma?” she asked sweetly.
“Gran’ma.” Adam pulled his dummy from his mouth with a wet, rubbery sound, and pointed.
“Gran’ma sleepy!” he volunteered.
“Is Grandma tired, Adam?”
“Sleep! Gran’ma sleep! Night- night!” He looked extremely pleased with himself.
Rosie thought hard. Tired. Old. Night-night? The suspicion that had taken root earlier was growing fast.
“Bye-bye.” She absently waved the small child away, and sank down onto the grass, chewing her lip thoughtfully. This was becoming interesting.
*
Later that day, Rosie had another chance to do some more snooping. Mum sent her down to the shops to pick up some things, and who did she see there, but Mrs Lawson! She was deep in conversation with Mrs Moore.
It was busy in the shop, with lots of people standing around chatting, but this is what Rosie managed to understand:
“Well…very old now of course…uncomfortable….creaks when…stand up…” Mrs Lawson was explaining, whilst Mrs Moore was nodding her head and “Hmm – ing” in agreement.
“No use anymore … taking up space… lumpy…maybe a home somewhere…”
Mrs Moore nodded again and said she understood absolutely; Rosie couldn’t believe her ears! How could they be so heartless?
“Hello Mrs Lawson,” Rosie stood right in front of her. “How is Grandma Lawson today?” she asked pointedly. Mrs Lawson gave her a funny look, “She’s fine, thank you; but I was talking to Mrs Moore, Rosie.”
“Of course you were!” Rosie almost shouted. People in the shop broke off their conversations and looked over, to see what the fuss was about. Rosie gave Mrs Lawson a filthy look and stormed out, minus her mum’s shopping. She fumed and fretted all the way home.
“Rosie, where are my things?”
“What?” she snapped, “Oh, sorry Mum, but something terrible is going to happen!”
Rosie’s mum rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “Oh Rosie, not again! What is it this time? That’s the last time I send you shopping! Always coming backing with half-truths and fairy tales…”
“But Mum, you’ve got to listen to me! Something terrible is going to happen to Grandma Lawson!”
“Grandma Lawson? Who on earth would want to harm Grandma Lawson? Rosie, really!”
“Mum, really!” Rosie sounded desperately serious. Mum sighed and folded her arms, “All right.” she said, “explain.”
“Oh Mum, it’s going to be terrible!” she repeated. “They’re going to do something to her, I just know it!”
“Who are ‘they’ Rosie? Who’s going to do something terrible?”
“The Lawsons are! You should hear the things they’ve been calling her Mum! Old, tired, creaky, smelly! They’re saying she’s no use to anyone, that they should just dump her in a home somewhere! Oh Mum!” she wailed, “She’s such a sweet old lady. She just sleeps a lot, that’s all!”
“Now Rosie, calm down! Are you sure about all this? Remember the time you thought Mr Curtis was building a rocket in his shed?”
Rosie blushed bright red.
“And it turned out to be his gas fire?”
“Mum! This is different” she was irritable now.
“Oh? How?”
“I’ve got proof this time!
“Proof?”
“I heard them!”
“That’s not proof, Rosie!”
Rosie thought hard. “Ok, ask Mrs Moore. She heard her too, talking about poor old Grandma Lawson like that.”
Mum searched Rosie’s face carefully; she looked worried and upset all right. “But Rosie, if they are going to put her into a home, it’s none of our business.”
“So you won’t do anything?”
“Well, what can I do?”
“Right! If you won’t, I will!”
Before her mum could stop her, Rosie was out the door and marching up the Lawson’s path. She banged the front door so hard, the knocker nearly came off in her hand.
She pushed straight past a surprised Mr Lawson, hand still on the doorhandle, and strode into the living room. She took a deep breath, and in a very determined voice, began.
“I happen to know that you want to get rid of something,” she said with great authority, “something that, just because it’s a bit old, and a bit creaky, you don’t want anymore!” She looked at Grandma Lawson, asleep again in an armchair, and tears came into her eyes.
A key turned in the front door. Mrs Lawson stepped into the room, Adam in one arm, a shopping bag on the other. Rosie’s mum trailed in behind them.
“How could you?” Rosie demanded of Mrs Lawson, who was looking at her in astonishment.
“I…”
“No!” Rosie cut her off. “lumpy, and useless,” She spat the words out. “Well we have a use for it! We’ll take it in! So what do you think of that, Mrs Lawson?”
Mrs Lawson scratched her head and shook herself. “Well Rosie, if we had known how strongly you felt, we would have given you …”
“Given me? Given me! How can you be so cold hearted?”
“Cold hearted? I’m sorry Rosie, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
Rosie pointed a shaking hand at Grandma Lawson, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You called her smelly, and old and useless and creaky and…”
Mrs Lawson’s face suddenly showed understanding. “The sofa, Rosie.” she said calmly, “we were talking about the sofa.”
Rosie lowered her hand. “But, but I heard you say you were going to dump her! In a home!”
“No you didn’t. You may have heard me say ‘dump’ and ‘home’, but you didn’t hear me even mention Grandma, now did you?” Now Mrs Lawson sounded like she was beginning to lose her patience.
“Well Rosie?” prompted her Mum.
Rosie suddenly looked a trifle uncertain. “but you said she was lumpy, and smelly!
“Really Rosie! Do you think I would call my own mother smelly?”
“You’ve done it again, haven’t you?” Rosie’s mum said.
Rosie’s face turned the colour of a sun-dried tomato. “Oh dear.” She murmured, “I am sorry. I just thought…”
“No you didn’t think, Rosie Banks! You put two and two together again didn’t you?”
“Yes Mum.” Rosie examined her shoes.
“And what did you get?”
“Five Mum.”
“Exactly!” Mrs Banks turned to the Lawsons. “I am so sorry about this,”
she apologised, and then, glancing at Rosie, added, “you know how she is.”
“Oh indeed we do.” said Mr Lawson, “I think you’d better take her home, before she says anything else.”
“No you don’t!” came an unfamiliar voice from the corner of the room.
Grandma Lawson was leaning forward in her chair; and very unusually, she was wide-awake. Her arms were folded across her chest, and her milky-blue eyes were fixed on Rosie.
‘That’s funny,’ Rosie noticed ‘she looks younger when she’s awake.’
“So,” Grandma had a sore-throat sort of voice, dry sounding, “you think I’m creaky, do you?”
Rosie, unable to speak, shook her head in dismay; the old lady had heard everything!
“You think I am creaky, lumpy and old?”
“Grandma Lawson, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”
Grandma Lawson gave a toothless, wrinkly smile, “Perhaps you’re right.” she mused. Her shoulders were rocking slightly and she was making a funny, wheezy noise. Rosie became quite alarmed, and wondered if someone should call a doctor.
“Not sure about smelly though.” there was a sparkle in Grandma’s eyes that hadn’t been there for a long time; she was laughing, Rosie realised.
“Or useless; but there again…” the old lady’s shoulders were shaking helplessly.
Rosie laughed then, too. Little Adam, still in his mother’s arms, dummy still in his mouth, announced “Gran’ma wake-up, Mummy! No night-night!” And he clapped his hands in excitement.
****
It’s been a long time since any of them laughed as much as they did that day. Rosie still sticks her nose in other people’s business, and has had it pushed out a few times, too.
The sofa went to the town dump the next day.
Grandma Lawson still sits around, snoozing. Now and then though, she’ll open those milky-blue eyes and utter one word:
“Smelly!”
Before she nods off back to sleep, smiling.
The moral to this story is: - Let you’re imagination run away with you; it’s often more fun than reality!
S.P Oldham.
Who’s Aesop?/Modern Morals 6. Lazy Daisy.
I would invite you in to see Daisy Wickes room, but the door won’t open wide enough to let you through. It jams almost instantly on the heap of clothes that lie discarded, along with the books and damp, slightly mouldy towels that are piled up behind it.
Beyond this heap, further into what should be a light, airy, pleasant room, greasy, half-empty pizza boxes, cereal bowls complete with flakes of corn stuck to their edges by slightly green milk, and, I am afraid to say, underwear, worn and unwashed, litter the floor.
The bed, unmade and unchanged for months, stands sulkily in the corner, giving off its own unique odour. The drawers and cupboards, and there are many, all stand partially open, spilling out their contents; belts, bag straps, socks and tights, like Daisy herself when she eats Bolognese and strands of tomato-smeared spaghetti dangle from her open mouth.
Every single surface in the room is covered; the floor, the drawers, the cupboards and the bed. They are cluttered up with all manner of things; from school books and pens to sweet wrappers and hairbrushes. In fact, the only clean thing in the room is the waste-paper bin, which stands innocent and untouched, next to Daisy’s bed.
The only person who can get into the room, is Daisy. She has a complicated method of opening the door just wide enough to get her foot through; she half-closes it again, and then with an awkward half-shuffling, half-kicking motion, she flicks the debris away from behind it, allowing room enough to squeeze through.
Her parents have both given up trying to master this particular skill; her mother hurt herself once trying to do it, and her father, having managed to open it quite wide once, was repelled by the smell from within. It reminded him of dusty books, old socks and rotting food all at once.
You may have gathered then, that Daisy is not the tidiest or neatest person you could ever meet, which is true; but it’s not just that she’s not neat and tidy, it’s more that she’s incredibly lazy.
Lazy’s not so terrible, I hear you say. Well, perhaps not; but there are ways of doing everything, and Daisy’s kind of laziness is not very nice. She has no manners at all; the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ rarely pass her lips. As far as Daisy is concerned, other people exist only to do things for her.
She got away with this kind of behaviour for a very long time…
…until one day during the summer holidays.
*
Daisy was lying in bed one afternoon. Her parents had asked her if she would like to go for a walk with them; they were taking Jasper to the lakes. Daisy hadn’t bothered answering beyond a rather rude, “Shut the door quietly on your way out; I’m trying to get some rest.”
She had just finished eating breakfast; a sticky jam sandwich that she had ordered her mother to bring to her door before she left. After the effort of going all the way across the room to fetch the sandwich, and then all the way back to bed, where she sat up and ate it, eyes half-shut, she was feeling a little tired.
She couldn’t be bothered to put the jammy plate on the bedside table, so she had left it resting on her pillow; and then, rather forgetfully, laid her head back, right on top of it.
There she lay; thinking that she should probably move the plate, or her head, but having no intention of doing either, when she heard a strange, scrabbling noise coming from somewhere on her bedroom floor.
At first, Daisy did nothing, thinking that whatever it was, it would stop soon; but then she heard it again, closer and more insistent.
Her curiosity beginning to rouse, Daisy went to the trouble of propping herself up on one elbow and scanning around for a clue as to where the noise had come from. She had almost given up and flopped back down, when she heard it again.
Daisy’s eyes actually opened wide; that didn’t happen very often. She thought it might be coming from an empty milkshake carton that was lying on its side under the radiator.
She narrowed her eyes like a cat stalking prey, and watched closely. Yes! Whatever was making the noise was in the carton.
Very slowly, Daisy tucked back her bed-covers and got out of bed. Crossing the floor carefully, with the occasional “Ow!” and “Ouch!” as she stepped on a hairpin or a bottle-top, she crossed the strewn floor and crouched in front of the carton. It rocked slightly as whatever was inside it became aware of Daisy’s sudden closeness; an air of expectation settled on the cluttered room.
Daisy wiped away a blob of jam that had trickled stickily down her fringe and into her eye, and waited. Just as she was becoming bored and about to give up and go back to bed, a small, whiskery face peeped out of the carton, glanced at Daisy with something like disdain, and shot across the obstacle course that was Daisy’s bedroom floor.
Daisy shrieked and stood up abruptly; a wave of dizziness washed over her, her body unaccustomed to such sudden and swift movement. But her head quickly cleared, and she shuddered in revulsion. A mouse! There was a mouse in her room!
She turned and eyed the floor, trying to spot it again. She scooped the milkshake carton up and began to stalk the floor, nudging rubbish and discarded clothes gingerly aside with her toes.
Once or twice she caught a glimpse of the little furry invader as it darted from her approaching footsteps, looking for a hiding place; but she wasn’t quick enough, and she soon grew tired of hurting her bare feet on the debris littering her floor.
“This is no good!” she announced aloud, “I’ll never find it in this lot.” She threw the carton down in frustration, trying to think what to do next, when an idea came to her.
Daisy never went into the kitchen cupboard for the cleaning things herself of course, but she had seen her parents do it. She seemed to remember there were some big black bags in there; bin bags, her mum had called them. Maybe she should go and get some, clear away some of the mess and make that cheeky little mouse easier to hunt down?
Daisy quailed at the thought of going downstairs and straight back up again in one go, but she forced herself to do it, and arrived back in her room, sweating and breathless, a roll of black bags clutched in her slick hands.
“Right!” she threatened the thin air, and snapped a bag off the roll.
She began where she was standing; clearing the floor from her feet outwards. One black bagful later, and she had barley cleared a patch around her feet. Determined now, she snapped another bag off and set to work again.
She became carried away with her rubbish collecting, so it came as something of a surprise to realise that the floor was clear; except for the row of black bags that lined the
wall. She could actually see her carpet; a once attractive shade of hyacinth blue, not that it was a very pretty sight any more, stained and tacky as it was.
She stopped, listening intently; there it was again! A brazen scratching, this time coming from under her bed.
Of course! She hadn’t ventured under there yet. Tentatively, she approached on all fours, bag in hand, and began cautiously pulling out the things that lurked under there; she found a greying, mouldering slipper that didn’t fit her anymore, and lots of pieces of mouldy toast that still had lumps of something on them. It was probably jam, Daisy decided; but it had turned white and furry now.
She found lots of revolting things under her bed; the floor under there was clear now too, but still no mouse.
Scratch-scratch-scratch. There it was again, and this time it was coming from her dressing table. Becoming angry, Daisy wasted no time in snatching up her bin and sweeping everything on top of her dressing table, into it. A flash in the mirror revealed the mouse streaking across the floor and scooting up the side of a very full bin-bag; upon which it stopped, quivering as if shaken up and out of breath.
“Got you,” Daisy whispered. Moving slowly, something she was good at, she reached down into the bin and took out an old yoghurt pot, before padding as softly as she could across the room. It wasn’t easy; she kept getting her feet stuck on sticky patches on the carpet, or crunching nosily on crispy ones.
The mouse never stirred; it merely sat, trembling violently and twitching its whiskers. With a surprisingly graceful flourish, Daisy sank the pot down and over the little mouse.
“Yes!” she squealed, punching the air and suddenly not feeling the least bit tired.
She stood, congratulating herself and wondering what to do next when, to her dismay, the yoghurt pot rolled down the bag like a rock rolling from a mountain, and landed, rocking softly, at her feet.
“What? How the?..” She was puzzled; she could have sworn she had caught that mouse, she was certain she had.
The brush of tiny feet across hers told her she was wrong; she recoiled in horror, and watched helplessly as the mouse scampered up the leg of the bed and, to her disgust, into it.
Infuriated now, Daisy launched herself at the bed, tearing off the sheets and covers in a frenzy. She even turned her mattress in her frantic search, and was once more frustrated; no mouse.
“That’s it!” Daisy stormed, “THAT IS IT!” She flung her door open wide and stalked downstairs.
When she returned this time, she was holding her dad’s cricket bat; brandishing it in a very threatening manner.
“Okay mouse, you want to mess about, we’ll mess about,” she snarled, not feeling the least bit silly to be talking to a rodent.
As if in understanding of the situation, the mouse reappeared from behind Daisy’s cupboard, and positively flew, straight between her legs and out of the still open door.
Daisy, insane with rage, could have sworn she’d heard the little creature squeak, “Nutmeg!” as it passed through, and she became still more irate.
With a shapeless noise, something like a war-cry, she turned and followed, hot on the mouse’s heels. No longer bothering to creep or go carefully, she was smashing out wildly at anything and everything in her path; cursing the mouse with every crushing blow.
Nothing was shown any mercy; she shattered and crushed the plants on the stairs, the hall table, the vases and photo frames on the window-sills. She battered the sofa, the lamps, the T.V, the shoe rack and the bookshelves. She lost herself in utter fury until, finally exhausted, she sank to the floor, her hands too weak to hold the bat any longer.
She was panting and breathless; sweat and jam dripping into her eyes. Her heart began to slow and her breathing eased, and suddenly, she realised what she had done.
The house was demolished; from the landing right down to the front door, shards of glass, splintered wood and shattered china covered the floor. The walls were bruised and dented; she had even managed to hack pieces of the stair carpet off in her rage. Daisy was horrified; how on earth would she even begin to clear this lot up?
Then Daisy heard the most terrible sound she could possibly have heard at that moment;
the key turning in the lock on the front door.
*
It took Daisy a very, very long time to clear up the mess she made that day; and years, yes, years, in pocket money to pay for the damage. Her parents, understandably, had been absolutely furious; they refused to believe any tall tales about a mouse. But what shocked and surprised them most, was how tidy Daisy’s own room was. It had become the best room in the house, whereas it had always been the worst.
Her mother was so flabbergasted that she nearly forgave Daisy for the rest of the mess; but her dad had said, “No way! It’s high time this young lady cleaned up her act.” He had drawn up a weekly rota and made sure that each week, Daisy had the worst of the chores.
Her list included:
Scrubbing her bedroom carpet by hand, until it looked like new.
Emptying and cleaning the bins.
Cleaning the toilet.
Walking Jasper daily, at least two miles.
Amongst other things…
Daisy’s room looks far nicer these days I have to say. There’s only once piece of rubbish in her room now. It’s an old milkshake carton, which lies just under her radiator. A little mouse lives in there; Daisy has decided to leave him alone. After all, what possible harm could a little mouse do?
*
The moral to this story is: Never clean your room; it’s just not worth it.