Trolls on Hols by Alan MacDonald Page A

‘It’s disgusting!’
    â€˜What is?’ asked her son Warren, hurrying over to look.
    â€˜That Mr Troll. Parading around in nothing but a tiny pair of shorts. As if I want to see that before my supper!’
    â€˜What’s wrong with it? Dad sometimes wears shorts,’ Warren pointed out.
    â€˜Yes, but he’s not a troll. Look at the size of that belly. The least he could do is cover it up.’
    Warren stood on a chair to get a better look at Mr Troll’s belly. It was true it was impressively big. Warren had seen Mr Troll’s belly before, bulging beneath the filthy vest he always wore, but today it was on display to the world. It was a pale green with a forest of coarse dark hair that spread from his chest to his belly button. When Mr Troll walked his belly wobbled like a blancmange. Warren thought you could hold a party on it. If Mr Troll lay on his back you could use him as a bouncy castle.
    The front door slammed.
    â€˜Roger, is that you? Come and see this!’ called Mrs Priddle.
    Mr Priddle came in humming to himself happily and planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek.
    â€˜See what, my darling?’ he asked.
    â€˜That!’ said Mrs Priddle, pointing next door. ‘Can you believe it?’
    â€˜Oh! He’s not digging holes again?’

    â€˜It’s not the holes that worry me,’ said Mrs Priddle. ‘Look what he’s wearing!’
    Mr Priddle peered out of the window. ‘Shorts,’ he said.
    â€˜He’s practically naked! I’ve never seen anything so horrible in all my life.’
    â€˜Well, don’t look,’ said Mr Priddle.
    â€˜This is my kitchen, Roger. I’ll look where I like. I’m not going to go round with my eyes shut just because that ugly brute can’t be bothered to weara vest! This could go on all summer. Before we know it they’ll all be parading around the garden in their underwear!’
    â€˜Ugh! Mum!’ said Warren, pulling a face.
    â€˜Well, aren’t you going to speak to him?’ demanded Mrs Priddle.
    â€˜You’re the one who’s offended. You speak to him,’ replied Mr Priddle.
    â€˜How can I speak to him? He’s not wearing a vest!’
    â€˜Never mind his vest!’ said Mr Priddle. ‘I’ve got something to show you. Both of you. Come out the front.’
    â€˜Why?’ asked Mrs Priddle suspiciously.
    â€˜You’ll see. It’s a surprise.’ Mr Priddle groaned.
    â€˜Oh Roger, you know I hate surprises!’
    Mr Priddle forced his wife and son to shut their eyes and, holding them by the arm, he led them outside.
    â€˜All right. You can look now.’
    They both opened their eyes. ‘Oh my giddy bananas!’ gasped Mrs Priddle.
    â€˜It’s a caravan,’ said Mr Priddle.
    â€˜I can see that, Roger. But what’s it doing on our drive?’
    â€˜It’s ours!’ said Mr Priddle proudly. ‘I bought it.’
    The caravan was the colour of pale custard. It had lace curtains at the windows that might have been white in Queen Victoria’s day.
    Warren thought it was brilliant. ‘Can we look inside?’ he asked eagerly.

    â€˜Of course!’ said Mr Priddle. ‘Just be careful with the light switch – it needs fixing.’
    He took them on a tour. It didn’t take too long since the caravan only had three rooms – a tiny bedroom, a tinier bathroom, and a kitchen-cum-dining-cum-everything-else room.
    â€˜See?’ said Mr Priddle. ‘You fold away the table like this and you’ve got another bed.’
    â€˜And who’s going to sleep on that?’ asked Mrs Priddle, folding her arms.
    â€˜Well, us,’ said Mr Priddle. ‘When we’re on holiday.’
    Mrs Priddle pursed her lips. ‘If you think I’m having my holiday in this, you’re mistaken–’
    â€˜I like it, Dad!’ shouted Warren from next door, where he was using the bed as a