Eating Things on Sticks by Anne Fine

you know? It’s a whole week on the mainland.’ His face went dreamy. ‘Just imagine! Supermarkets! Cinemas! Banks! A choice of restaurants!’
    â€˜Trees!’ I suggested.
    â€˜We have a tree on the island.’
    We didn’t tell him the bad news.
    â€˜What I don’t understand,’ said Uncle Tristram, ‘is that there’s such a splendid prize for winning Eating Things on Sticks. Yet all you get for being the Best Beard on the Island is one measly nit comb.’
    Everyone round us gasped again. Some even shrank back in horror.
    â€˜ All? ’
    â€˜ All you get?’
    â€˜Did he say, “All you get is one measly nit comb”?’
    Uncle Tristram determinedly stood his ground. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘One measly nit comb.’
    Everyone looked to the man with the silken beard to put us right again.

    â€˜It isn’t just the nit comb,’ he explained. ‘Enchanting as that is. It is the honour . Honour unrivalled!’ He spread his hands. ‘Think of it! Best Beard on the Island! And not just any old island. Here! Here where there were no razor blades at all during the Fifty Year Skirmish. Here where there was a scissor shortage during the Nine Year Ferry Strike. Here, where the Great Shaving Cream Shortage lasted for almost a decade. Surely you can imagine the sheer undiluted glory of being crowned the Best Beard on this Island? Why it will be more of an honour even than – than . . .’
    He waved a hand, as though scouring the air around us for the perfect example. Again, moving along the back of the tent wall, I saw that shadow of what looked like an exploding haystack.
    â€˜Than winning the Olympics?’ I offered tentatively.
    â€˜Oh, at least! At least .’
    As the man said these words, the shadow of what looked like an exploding haystack stopped dead behind the tent wall. It was such a strange silhouette that I was tempted to step out of line to track down its source. But we’d been waiting for so long already, I didn’t want to risk losing my place.
    It was another ten minutes before the check-in lady at the trestle table announced that everyone was stamped and photographed, and we were ready. ‘Off you go!’
    We all spilled out of the tent. ‘Where’s Morning Glory now?’ demanded Uncle Tristram. ‘It can’t have taken her all this time to give one little fox stole a decent and harmonious funeral.’
    I looked across the fairground. In the far corner, Morning Glory was about as close as you can get to a police officer who is supposed to be busy doing his duty. They had their backs to us, and they were staring at a cottage that had a FOR SALE sign leaning against its wall.
    I pointed. ‘There they are.’
    Uncle Tristram scowled. ‘I certainly don’t intend to miss that ferry this evening. So if they’re going to borrow my car to go back and barricade that stream, they’d better get on with it.’
    Almost as if she’d heard him all the way across the fairground, Morning Glory turned. She took Officer Watkins’ arm and, pausing only once to blow a kiss back over her shoulder at the pretty little cottage, she led him off towards the car park.
    Uncle Tristram lifted anxious eyes to the helicopters circling above us. ‘I certainly hope he doesn’t take off the tarpaulin.’
    â€˜Those helicopters won’t be up there long,’ I said. ‘Mum’s bound to tell them it’s all been a terrible mistake.’
    â€˜You’re sure you didn’t spend too long explaining?’
    â€˜No, no,’ I told him. ‘Under ten seconds.’
    â€˜Good lad. We should be safe then.’ He turned to face me and stuck out his hand. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Though we may stroll together amiably through this great wonderland of things on sticks, we are as though sworn enemies with daggers drawn. In your own time! And