“You’ve broken my translator!” cried Tarquin. Catching sight of her smouldering hair in the polished cooker hood, Aunt Mira shrieked,
“Never mind the blooming toaster, what about my hair!” she said, waving her hands angrily in the air and doing a laudable impression of the Bride of Frankenstein. “I’ve only just had it rinsed and set!”
Harold fawned wetly over his wife, before turning on Tarquin with the ferocity of a disgruntled sheep,
“Why on earth did you bring such a dangerous appliance into our home? Have you lost all your senses? You stole it, didn’t you!” Tarquin wasn’t listening as he was overcome by a horrible, sinking feeling.
“Where are the books!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Panic stricken he began searching the kitchen.
“In your bedroom of course,” said his aunt, pulling clumps of singed blue, silvery hair from her head. “Why on earth you put books…” Before Mira could finish her sentence, Tarquin leapt up and cried,
“Oh, thank, you!” before planting a kiss on Harold’s bemused, bald and sooty dome and smacking another on his aunt’s blackened cheek. “Thank you!” Tarquin shouted over his shoulder as he hurried from the kitchen and charged up the stairs to his bedroom to find the books. He found the journal and exercise book on his bedside cabinet. He opened the exercise book hoping to find answers to the many questions rushing through his head. The first twenty pages of the book were filled with writing, diagrams and drawings, with the remaining pages disappointingly blank. Tarquin looked despairingly at the journal and realised, much to his dismay, that nothing had been translated, just copied.