took. They got up the next day as though a whopping great water tank had burst in their brains, flooding out any other thoughts apart from plumbing.
Yeah, thatâs what I thought, too. A load of codswallop, with the distinct smell of last monthâs Camembert. But itâs true. Thatâs how it happens in my family. Wham! Bham! Your lifeâs down the pan. Happy eleventh birthday.
So youâll understand how excited I was to go to bed the night before I turned eleven.
Yeah, not very.
âGoodnight, son, and the best of British,â said Dad, clenching his fist in a manly gesture of encouragement, as I slunk up to bed wearing my spanner-shaped slippers. (Another PPP.)
âSleep well, sweet dreams,â giggled Mum, as she switched off my light.
But actually I wasnât too worried because, unknown to them, I had a plan. There was no way I was going to Dream the Dream.
As soon as Mum had gone, I snuck out of bed and put on my football kit. The whole shebang: boots, shin pads, socks and all. Then I climbed back into bed clutching my football in one hand and my box of
Goal!
back issues in the other.
You see, Iâm planning to be an international footballer. Not a plumber â international or otherwise. And I reckoned that if I dressed the part, it might make me dream of football.
Not plumbing
.
For a long time I couldnât sleep. I was trying so hard
not
to think about plumbing that all I could think about
was
plumbing. But eventually I must have dropped off because the next thing I remember was the football rolling off my bed and waking up with a start.
I blinked at the clock.
3:03 am.
Had I escaped my destiny? I couldnât remember Dreaming the Dream. And I certainly wasnât swinging from the light at the thought of bleeding a radiator.
I sighed deeply, lay back on my pillows and closed my eyes with a smug smile of satisfaction.
And thatâs when I heard itâ¦
âWilliam Box? Are you William Box?â
I sat bolt upright.
âOnly the address isnât very clear. And I havenât got much time.â
I gasped.
Standing at the bottom of my bed was a thuggish-looking bloke. If Iâd seen him on the street, Iâd have crossed the road. He was tall and mean-looking, in a hooded top and jeans. His nose was squashed, and his hair looked like a loo brush. But the weirdest thing was the light. All around him was a white light, sunglasses bright. It hurt to look.
A rush went through my brain: was it a burglar? Or a mad axeman?
âWhat do you want?â I squeaked, shading my eyes and clutching my football mags, in case he made a grab for them.
But he wasnât listening. He was peering at a scrap of paper.
âWilliam Box, 15 Lavender Rise?â he muttered to himself. âLavender Rise? What sort of stupid, girly sounding address is that anyway?â
Suddenly I felt cross, despite myself. The fact that some spiky weirdo in a translucent, hooded top was standing at the bottom of my bed somehow seemed less important than my street name being ridiculed.
âWhatâs wrong with Lavender Rise?â I said.
âWhatâs
right
with it?â he snapped. âBut who cares what sort of frilly street you live in. Are you William Box or not?â
I was still cross, but I nodded.
That seemed to please him, because he dropped the paper and stepped forward with a sort of twisted smile on his face.
And thatâs when an awful thought smacked me on the chops. Maybe I was actually asleep. Could this be something to do with Dreaming the Dream? Was this bloke about to tell me my future was toilet-shaped?
âLook,â I said desperately. âIf this is anything to do with plumbing, I donât want to knowâ¦â
He frowned.
ââ¦Because, I am
not
going to be a plumber â not ever! So if youâre anything to do with Dreaming the Dream, or toilets, or central-heating systems, Iâm not interested. Not in the
Yeah, thatâs what I thought, too. A load of codswallop, with the distinct smell of last monthâs Camembert. But itâs true. Thatâs how it happens in my family. Wham! Bham! Your lifeâs down the pan. Happy eleventh birthday.
So youâll understand how excited I was to go to bed the night before I turned eleven.
Yeah, not very.
âGoodnight, son, and the best of British,â said Dad, clenching his fist in a manly gesture of encouragement, as I slunk up to bed wearing my spanner-shaped slippers. (Another PPP.)
âSleep well, sweet dreams,â giggled Mum, as she switched off my light.
But actually I wasnât too worried because, unknown to them, I had a plan. There was no way I was going to Dream the Dream.
As soon as Mum had gone, I snuck out of bed and put on my football kit. The whole shebang: boots, shin pads, socks and all. Then I climbed back into bed clutching my football in one hand and my box of
Goal!
back issues in the other.
You see, Iâm planning to be an international footballer. Not a plumber â international or otherwise. And I reckoned that if I dressed the part, it might make me dream of football.
Not plumbing
.
For a long time I couldnât sleep. I was trying so hard
not
to think about plumbing that all I could think about
was
plumbing. But eventually I must have dropped off because the next thing I remember was the football rolling off my bed and waking up with a start.
I blinked at the clock.
3:03 am.
Had I escaped my destiny? I couldnât remember Dreaming the Dream. And I certainly wasnât swinging from the light at the thought of bleeding a radiator.
I sighed deeply, lay back on my pillows and closed my eyes with a smug smile of satisfaction.
And thatâs when I heard itâ¦
âWilliam Box? Are you William Box?â
I sat bolt upright.
âOnly the address isnât very clear. And I havenât got much time.â
I gasped.
Standing at the bottom of my bed was a thuggish-looking bloke. If Iâd seen him on the street, Iâd have crossed the road. He was tall and mean-looking, in a hooded top and jeans. His nose was squashed, and his hair looked like a loo brush. But the weirdest thing was the light. All around him was a white light, sunglasses bright. It hurt to look.
A rush went through my brain: was it a burglar? Or a mad axeman?
âWhat do you want?â I squeaked, shading my eyes and clutching my football mags, in case he made a grab for them.
But he wasnât listening. He was peering at a scrap of paper.
âWilliam Box, 15 Lavender Rise?â he muttered to himself. âLavender Rise? What sort of stupid, girly sounding address is that anyway?â
Suddenly I felt cross, despite myself. The fact that some spiky weirdo in a translucent, hooded top was standing at the bottom of my bed somehow seemed less important than my street name being ridiculed.
âWhatâs wrong with Lavender Rise?â I said.
âWhatâs
right
with it?â he snapped. âBut who cares what sort of frilly street you live in. Are you William Box or not?â
I was still cross, but I nodded.
That seemed to please him, because he dropped the paper and stepped forward with a sort of twisted smile on his face.
And thatâs when an awful thought smacked me on the chops. Maybe I was actually asleep. Could this be something to do with Dreaming the Dream? Was this bloke about to tell me my future was toilet-shaped?
âLook,â I said desperately. âIf this is anything to do with plumbing, I donât want to knowâ¦â
He frowned.
ââ¦Because, I am
not
going to be a plumber â not ever! So if youâre anything to do with Dreaming the Dream, or toilets, or central-heating systems, Iâm not interested. Not in the
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