Growing Up with Gilderoy

Introduction

Now as far as autobiographies go, this is it. The one you’ve been waiting for. You hold in your hands the pinnacle of autobiographies, and it’s a shame really that it’s of such a humble young gnome. What I mean of course is that although the book is very special, and the gnome in question is equally special, he is even more modest, so chances are you will really enjoy hearing undersold stories of his adventures during his first fifty years on this planet.

Now, I hope this hasn’t put you off reading this fantastic book. It is really worth a read and even if the stories are toned down, you will still be amazed at what all three foot six or so of gnome can do, particularly when he is someone with so much zest for life and so much life experience for someone so young. You will get to read about tales of love and loss, and then love again, tales of bravery and heroics and we may even enjoy a laugh or two along the way.

So let’s get started. Put on your favourite slippers. Take the phone of the hook. Curl up in your favourite chair, and watch the hours melt away as we go on this journey together and you can really find out what it was like to be growing up with Gilderoy.

Chapter 1: Birth

Please imagine African chanting during this first portion of the book. It will really help set the scene.

The sounds you are now hearing are the noises that proclaim the birth of someone special. A future king perhaps, or a beloved freedom fighter, or perhaps even a master novelist and singer. I fall in to the later of these categories. I was born into a fairly average family. My parents were non-descript labourers, all of my ancestors were non-descript labourers. Not a single person in my family line gave any hint that someone special could be born from such a line. And yet, here we are.

You can stop imagining the chant now if you like. Or don’t, it might make the rest of the chapter even more interesting. Please get back to me on that.

When I was born, I was immediately bathed in the sunlight, poking out from the rain clouds. The clouds parted to reveal a perfect spring morning (in our equivalent of January I might add), the leaves on the trees were as fresh and green as even anyone had seen them. The birds chirped joyfully, perfectly harmonising with the pitch-perfect cries of this new-born child. Everything seemed right with the world just from one brief moment of pain from the non-descript mother of this gnome.

My mother let out a cry of joy for seeing her son for the first time. The perfectly formed features of his face, the perfectly formed mop of golden hair, gently resting on the pale, but perfect skin of his brow. Never in living memory had anyone present seen such a perfect looking child. Even my crying was a joy to hear. With the birds chirping along in harmony, it was a wonderful song to be heard, filling the hearts of everyone around with joy and was surely a sign of the joy and wonder that I would bring when I learned to talk.

Okay, so since writing this I’ve had a bit of an argument with my mother. I asked her to proof read this first bit which she was more than willing to do, but she insists that the way I have written it is completely wrong, so she has told me to write it again. Apparently using artistic licence to make a beautiful story even more amazing is considered bad form by more experienced gnomish writers. I suppose I can’t really blame her. She has told me a thousand times not to exaggerate. I’m not sure how she knows this, as I’m not sure she even knows true art anymore. But as she’s my mother, I really should listen to her, so here’s a more realistic, and this time completely true account of my birth.

So that African chanting thing didn’t happen. There was however, the patter of rain against the side of our small village home. This was still a good backing track to the birth of someone a little bit special such as me.

Now, I can already here you saying, “But what of that being hit by the sunlight bit?” and that bit was true. Admittedly it was more of just the meteorological effect of the sun coming up in such a way that it shone through the windows of our house and just happened to hit me in my crib. The people who witnessed this, being the uneducated rabble that they are took this as a sign of future greatness and a fair few of them still use witnessing it as a claim to fame amongst the rest of the village, particularly with how I grew up.

I suppose I should get on to the story of the birds harmonising with my crying. Some people might try and argue that I was slightly off key, but in my defence, I’d never had a singing lesson before and the birds were even more off key than I was. I think it is safe to say though, that those who did hear this symphony rather enjoyed it and preferred it to the dull patter of footsteps they normally hear early in the morning.

My appearance at birth was very much that of any baby; red. I think I was more of a ruby red than a beetroot red that you normally see, but I was still red. I did have some wispy golden hairs, but nowhere near the perfect head of hair I described earlier. My nose, ears and mouth were pretty much perfect however. Granted, you grow into your features as you grow up, but mine seemed to grow with me and I always looked as I do now.

I should probably say at this point, that my parents are not non-descript. It’s just that I really don’t think describing them adds to either the joy of storytelling or to the enjoyment you will get from this reading experience. If either of you are reading it now, I apologise for calling you non-descript. I hope this clears things up a bit so we can move on.

Hello to all who have managed to put up with this drivel so far. This is Cruroar’s (Gilderoy’s) mother. He asked me to read through to see if the second version was any better, I think you’ll agree that while it’s an improvement, it is still nowhere near the truth. I could just tell him that, but I thought it would be more fun to add some pages in and give you the real story while letting him play big-man author. I doubt he will even notice these pages. If he did then either he would remove them, or use them as padding because he can’t get enough words together to make a book worth reading. I hope you find these bits a bit more believable and I expect you will find them just as entertaining.

So, from the beginning. Cruroar’s birth so far has been made out to be a marvellous event steeped in signs of greatness. I wouldn’t be surprised if you couldn’t keep a straight face while reading his

version. It was of course nothing of the sort. My Husband and I run a small pottery business in the village. It’s slow work and poor paying, but I tell you, when we get home at the end of each day we feel we have really earned our rest. Not like when Cruroar finishes writing. Do you know how long it took him to write that introduction? Three weeks. It’s as if he was trying to be slow. He really needs to find a proper job, or at least a lady friend to keep him busy. Suffice to say he won’t come and join the family business. Too much dirty work for him.

Anyway, back to the story. Cruroar’s birth was nothing less than agony for me. He was my third child, but he gave me the most pain. I think it was that big head of his. I suppose with it being as big as it was I should have expected him to have an ego the size of a Dragon’s horde. He was correct in that he was born while it was raining. But he was wrong that the clouds suddenly broke and he was bathed in light. I think that was my fault. He was a gullible child and telling him things like that kept him happy most of the time. He shut him up when he was crying and miserable after being bullied to think he had such a monumental birth. But I digress.

The rain was pounding down for days after he was born. But that’s Typical January weather for you. There were a few birds about that morning, but most of them flew away upon hearing the deafening screams of Cruroar from his cot. He just didn’t want to sleep, or eat, and I just couldn’t get him to shut up. I had so many complaints from the neighbours, and we lost so many customers, we contemplated moving away. But the roads are dangerous and we knew that bandits would have got us on the roads if we tried. To make ends meet, we had to send our eldest child out as an adventurer. He was very good with a sword, and great at tracking animals, so that life came easily to him. If there’s space I might regale you of some of his tales later.

So as you can see, Cruroar’s birth was nowhere near as special as he made out. Honestly, at the time he seemed more of a curse than a gift. But he is still my son, and even with all of this I did, and still do love him to bits. Hopefully, this is the only section like this I have to write, but knowing Cruroar, you’ll be hearing a lot more from me.

Chapter 2: Wait, where are we?

I don’t come from your world. I was born, and still live in a word that could be described as not too dissimilar from Late Medieval Europe. Though saying that, there are some key differences. Let’s start with the similarities though. For instance, my world has not started harnessing electricity as a way of powering things. We rely on candles and fires for light; we ride horses and carts to get to distant locations, and there is a huge divide between the rich and the poor.

The caste system is still very important with us still paying a lot of devotion to the King of our land. Not that anyone around here knows exactly why he is king rather than some other shmuck. I suppose one of his ancestors must have been the one to conquer this land many moons ago. I might ask one of the elves, the elders amongst them might have witnessed it given that they have been walking this land for near on a millennium. But I’m getting distracted. There are a fair few what we refer to as Nobles; people of wealth who own large amounts of land and pay the commoner class to do most of their work for them. Although a noble owns most of the land and businesses in the village, we don’t hear much from them other than during tax season. We also have a vast priest class, but I will move onto this in a bit.

Magic exists. At least it does in this world. People from all walks of life can either be born with magical abilities, search them out, or even be gifted them by the gods. This takes many forms. We have bards (like myself) who can channel magic through singing or through other forms of music. The Clerics of the gods are blessed with some of their god’s power in order that they might do their deity’s will in our world. They make up the majority of the priest of a deity, though there are also monks and main others who do dedicate themselves to the gods, sometimes to more of an extent than Clerics. Druids, the people of nature, are granted power from nature itself, in order to protect it from harm. Sorcerers, born from lines that bred with Dragons, or Angels, or other supernatural creatures, are gifted their powers at birth and are perhaps the most unpredictable magic users as they haven’t necessarily been trained to use it. And although there are plenty of others, the only other magic wielders I will mention is Wizards. Wizards are scholars, seeking out knowledge and learning how to use magic in a way that those who are less academically gifted could only dream of.

My world is not made up only of Humans. As I said in my introduction, I’m a Gnome. We are decedents of the fey, the spirits of the woods. We are not a tall race (the tallest of us are still shy of 4 foot tall), but what we lack in height, we make up for in attitude and personality. Our main concerns are just to enjoy ourselves. Unlike other races, we realise that we only have a finite time to leave our mark, even if it is often close to 400 years, so let’s make sure we do it.

Humans are well, humans. They’re probably not too different from the inhabitants of your world. They have a fast developing culture and even though they drop like flies in comparison to gnomes, are great fun to be around. Or at least most of them are. Some are just pains, but then any group has its bad apples.

I personally like the Dwarfs. The hardy and wise mountain men, who may be gruff and surly at times, but they are kind and good hearted. As their name suggests, they aren’t tall, with few over five foot, but they are stout, tough and defend what is good and right. It’s hard not to admire this dwarven spirit. Dwarves have a fantastic blacksmithing tradition, and it is often said that dwarven made weapons are worth their weight in gold. Unlike gnomes though, dwarfs often have little understanding or time for humour. I don’t think any dwarf has ever understood a joke I’ve told them, but they can’t really be as bad as stories make them out to be.

Elves are another story. Many humans think of elves as near immortal beings, mainly because that an elf is more likely to know your great-grandfather than you are. But these rumours are untrue. But these slender forest dwellers do live for centuries. I’m not fond of elves, mainly though that’s because one half-elf (half human, half elf) I met named Lailanni cared more about making money than making friends and helping people. But then again, she was quite attractive. And at least she at times seems to care for Archibald (her servant), even if her safety and financial stability is more important to her than him.

As with half-elves, there are also half-orcs. In general, orcs are quite savage things and don’t live in the cities. In general they’re not the brightest of creatures, but you wouldn’t want to risk telling them that in case they decide to decapitate you with their axe. Saying that, I met a half-orc the other week, who had been raised by Humans, and he turned out okay. Maybe it’s the orc parenting that causes half-orcs to be so violent.

Members of the other civilised race are called halflings. Even by Gnome standards halflings are tiny, with few taller than three foot. But they are very much like gnomes. They live for fun and amusement, and are far less bothered about the worries of humans. Halflings are brave, curious, and are often considered lucky, mainly because they often manage to get themselves out of the trouble they not themselves into with little difficulty.

I hope this has given you a bit of an insight into the world I come from. If I was better with maps I could give you an idea about our landscape, but geography was never one of my strong points.

Chapter 3: A child like me

We should probably get back to the main narrative now. Growing up from a baby to a position where I could start school was easy for me. Within weeks of being born I was walking and talking like anyone and by the time I was one year old I was even singing. I was learning nursery rhymes faster than my mother could come up with them, and I even started making my own up. I was the original author of “Jack and Jill”, believe it or not, not that I ever took credit for it. Well I suppose I am taking credit for it now, but before now I hadn’t taken credit for it.

I also picked up gnomish and sylvan quickly alongside the common language my parents used when dealing with the other races, particularly humans. This started my love of languages. As soon as I could read, I started learning other languages, just to see what I could pick up. I think I was fluent in elven before I started school, and could even speak the basics of draconic.

Learning languages wasn’t my only love of course. Singing was even more important to me. I practiced every day and every night until what you call the small hours came around. Not that the neighbours or my parents minded, because I was soon at perfect pitch and was effectively serenading them asleep. Even before starting my education I sung in the temple choir and even did a few solos for them.

When I was ten, I built a tree house in the woods near my house. Father had made sure that there was nothing dangerous around the area, though in truth I did more of the checking than he did. It was a really cool tree house too. I had two levels of rooms and a slide going from one to the other and then from each floor to the ground too. I had so much fun playing in it. I remember one time, when a wolf got in, and started shredding the cushions. When I say this I told it off, and it started cuddling with me as if to say sorry and that it wanted to be friends with me. Normally, mother and father didn’t want me to have pets, so I had to keep it a secret. They found out eventually when one of my friends let slip about it. I never spoke to that friend again, but only because they hadn’t forgiven themselves for doing it.

I didn’t see my older brother much during these early years of my life. My parents said that he was off traveling, and that maybe someday he would take me with him on a trip. This opportunity came shortly after my eighth birthday. He came to visit us, bringing his usual gift of gold for my parents, and then offered to take me on a trip to the next village over for a few days.

As I said, he travelled a lot, and I didn’t realise this at the time but it was dangerous to travel, so he carried weapons and wore a lot of armour. On this trip he had two swords with him, one really long, and the other a bit shorter. Part way along the path he asked if I wanted to hold the smaller of the two. Excitedly I agreed. Shortly after this, we were attacked by a bear. It came out of the woods and

let out a roar. Scared by what was going on, I swung my sword around and managed to stab it, killing it in one shot. It was pretty amazing to do and to this day I have never forgotten what happened. My brother was so please with what happened that when we got the village he bought me a really big ice cream. He had one two, but he dropped it so I gave him the rest of mine.

When we got back, my brother told mother what happened and she was excited for me and even let me look after the shop for an afternoon because I had been such a grown-up about what happened. That day we sold more pottery than any other day that year. I also gave the shop a makeover, rewriting all the signs in every different language I knew at that point. Everyone was really impressed with how I did. Sadly I didn’t get a chance to watch the shop for quite a while because I was needed around the house more and more. I think mother liked how clean the shop was when I was there so got me to do the same thing to our house. Still, it was fun to spend the time I did with my brother even though I now haven’t heard from him in quite a while. I guess he’s just really busy travelling. Perhaps in my travels I will come across him again and then we can have a storybook reunion where we hug and regale each other with our stories.

If you are reading this now brother, please do come and see mother at some point in the future. She misses you. Also I will now take this time to dedicate this book to him, as without his inspiration as a traveller, I won’t have had half as many adventures to write about, and you would all have to wait another fifty years for this wonderful book, so I think you all owe him a big thank you too.

Okay, I said that I would need to do this again, and I am sorry that I was right. I will start at the end of this chapter as I think it is important you all know that Cruroar’s brother died taking down an Evil Red Dragon, sacrificing himself to protect a village of halflings, about thirty years ago. I’ve made my peace with it, but you have to understand that Cruroar was just a child at this point and I didn’t think he would handle the death of his brother well at that age. At the time it was easier just to say he was going on a long trip. And now that he’s older, I expect he could handle it, but if I were to tell him that I lied at the time he might never forgive me or his father. Perhaps I’ll have to tell him that it was recently, though I doubt he will fall for it as he has become far more perceptive to lies than he was as a child. Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest I can get back to the rest of this chapter.

I will start with his claim about “Jack and Jill”. He did not come up with it. It was actually about the only nursery rhyme he knew as a child, and even then, before he was about five he could only gurgle along to his father or I telling it to him. It was for around six months the only way to get him to go to bed. Again, he didn’t learn to walk or talk, let alone sing until after his fifth birthday. Granted, when he did start talking he did pick up linguistic skills quickly and did learn gnomish and sylvan by the time he was ten or so. I would be willing to wager that this is the closest thing to the truth he will write in this book. He didn’t hear a word of either elven or draconic before this, and he certainly couldn’t read or write to discover them on his own.

As for his singing, he did sing a lot, and at any hour, and we certainly were not okay with it particularly early on when he was about as off key as he could get. He did improve, so I suppose the practice did pay off, but it certainly cost us and our neighbours a fair amount of sanity to get to that point. He did sing in the temple once. But this was a prank by some of the older kids. They told him he could go and sing a song in the middle of the Morning Prayer session. He came home crying after being laughed off the stage by the other kids after the usual members of the congregation evacuated

holding their ears to try and block out his singing. It was terrible for them to do it, but it certainly shut him up for a couple of days until they apologised.

Now the tree house story is a good example of Cruroar’s tall tales. Firstly, we couldn’t afford to build a really big tree house as he describes. The one we built for him had a single room that he could go and play in, in our back garden. This was fine, until one of the neighbourhood bullies found out and smuggled a stray, mangy cat into it. Cruroar wasn’t happy about this but the boy threatened to tell us that he had caught it and hidden it rather than the bully. After a few nervous days Cruroar did let slip what was going on, and scared ran into his tree house and hit. We told him to come out with the cat, and he agreed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t catch the cat and it completely destroyed the tree house as Cruroar tried to catch it. It’s a shame really, as My husband spent days building it, and that cat destroyed it in less than an hour. Needless to say, we didn’t rebuild it for him, and the cat got away.

I should also explain exactly what happened when his late brother did come to visit. Crufire was a very capable adventurer and brought plenty of treasure back for us on the rare occasions he did come to visit. He mainly dealt with small scale problems, like local bandits and clearing caves for villages. He never asked for a reward, but people are generous (or at least grateful) when you help them. This one time he came to visit, shortly after Cruroar turned eight, Cruroar was asking if he could go “on an adventure” with Crufire, and knowing he would be in safe hands with Crufire, we let them go to the shops on the other side of the town.

In most villages this wouldn’t be a particularly arduous journey, but I told Crufire to take the scenic route so that myself and Mr Mongothsbeard (my Husband) could have some extra alone time. So they set off with Cruroar overly excited and Crufire wandering why he ever agreed to it. Dealing with Cruroar also gave him a chance to see what it would be like when he would (I hoped) be dealing with his own hyperactive children.

Even though I wasn’t there, this is the account I heard from Crufire. As Crufire carried a couple of swords, Cruroar was asking if he could hold one. Now Crufire was never bright, but he realised this would be a bad idea, so instead gave him a small stick and called it a ‘sword of smiting’. Of course Cruroar loved this and played with it endlessly on the trip. Shortly after this, they came across a stray dog that was after the ‘sword’, so Cruroar hit it, and it got scared and ran off. Crufire exclaimed that Crurorar had defeated it and Cruroar became even more excited and kept carrying the stick until he returned home.

When they reached the other side of the village, Crufire did get Cruroar an ice-cream along with one for himself. About halfway through his ice-cream ,Cruroar dropped his and started crying. Being the kind older brother he was, Crufire gave Cruroar the rest of his ice-cream. Who’s to say whether Cruroar or Crufire was telling the truth? Me. I can guarantee that Crufire’s version is at least close to the truth that Cruroar’s.

When he did return, Cruroar told us his version of events, and although we all realised it wasn’t what happened, and we even said that it was probably at least stretching the truth that he killed a bear, we acted excited for him. To stop him getting into more trouble, we told him watch the shop for the afternoon Of course I was still there watching him, so that nothing could go too wrong. I needed bothered as he made more trouble than I could stop. He broke more pots than he sold, and scribbled

over all the signs. It’s unbelievable how much of a mess an eight year old gnome can make even when supervised. I think I went hungry for a week to cover the cost of that afternoon. Granted, since then, Cruroar has become far better at dealing with the shop and we haven’t had incidents like this since.

Chapter 4: School life

I started school when I was eleven (a full year before gnomes normally do), so that I could learn to look after myself. I loved school. I got to meet a lot of nice people, and they all liked me. I was the most popular kid in my year, not just with the other students, but also with the teachers who loved for me to teach them all the languages that I had learned.

I was often getting into trouble at school. I liked to play pranks and tricks, like any gnome, and although I sometimes got caught, I mostly didn’t. And the times I did get caught, I managed to talk my way out of it. A good example of this was when myself and a couple of others snuck into the nearby woods during our lunchtime. We weren’t meant to leave the playground at lunch unless we were going home for lunch, which no one did. The day we snuck out, we had heard rumours of a dead owlbear (yes you read right) and we wanted to go and see it since we were all young boys who found this idea amazing.

So as soon as lesson finished, we picked a spot near the edge of the playground, and waited until no one was looking, and then we snuck under the fence. We went further into the woods looking for the body, fighting anything that got in our way. After around quarter of an hour we found the body, and poked it a bit, making sure to move it so that no one else would find it so we could go back and find it later. We had lost track of time while we were poking and hiding it, and even with running back, we were still late back to class.

Our teacher noticed we were missing and sent people looking for us, so when we got back to the school grounds, we had to sneak through the corridors and avoid the teachers and other staff looking for us. This was as much fun as our lunchtime skiving. We used diversions, and the schools vent and hidden tunnel systems to navigate our way back to class. It was a shame that one of the others got caught, but we all knew that was a risk when we started.

Getting back into class was the hardest part of all. Mainly because the teacher knew we were missing and was waiting for news so had an eye on the door and our seats at all times. Luckily, I had prepared for this eventuality. One of my class mates had been told to wait for a signal and then distract the teacher so we could sneak off. Surely enough, when she looked out the window and noticed the bird with a blue beak, she got up and spoke to the teacher allowing us to sneak in through the window. We then got on with copying our neighbours’ work while the teacher was still distracted. Eventually our classmate sat down and the teacher noticed we were there.

“Where have you been?!” he bellowed across the room, making everyone (including me) flinch. “We’ve had the whole School searching for you! Well? Spit it out then Gilderoy!”

Calmly I replied “but sir, I’ve been sitting here working. I’ve nearly finished the work you set.”

Taken aback he came over and looked through what I had copied. Stunned he walked back to the front, gesturing for us to get on with the work and muttering about how his memory and eyesight

must be going. We thought we had gotten away with it. But then around half an hour later, we were called to see the headmaster.

The headmaster was known for being calm and fair, so you can understand that when I saw that his face was bright red and concealing a lot of rage, that I knew he was absolutely furious with us. In the chair on the other side of the desk, sat the one who had been caught. It was pretty clear that he had grassed us up. He and the other boy sat in silence as the headmaster shouted at us, bellowing words that really shouldn’t be said around youngsters, in many different languages and dialects. Needless to say I knew most of them anyway. He then asked me to explain why we were off school grounds. The silence from my so called friends was deafening. I decided it was up to me to rescue us all.

I told him how we could see the body from the edge of the playground and we knew that although some (like us) could handle this, many of the younger children would have been traumatised. So we decided that it was in the best interest of the school, for us to move it further into the woods out of prying eyes, and then inform someone so that it could be dealt with properly. Only it had taken longer than we had hoped it was a big owlbear and we really needed someone strong like the headmaster to help us move it. My friends looked stunned by this story, and then started nodding in agreement. Surprised and charmed, the headmaster told us that what we had done was noble, but still against school rules, and that we should have just told the teachers so they could have it dealt with. He let us off with no more than a “don’t do it again”. I did my best to keep my nose clean for the next few weeks to make sure that the headmaster couldn’t use this as a reason to punish me more for anything else I got caught doing.

A few weeks later though, I was once again up to my old tricks. We had a substitute teacher for a week while our usual one was absent. She was a horrible piece of work, and seemed to despise us all. I really do know why she was even a teacher. So before she left, we decided to give her a ‘leaving present’.

It was one of the most elaborate pranks I ever pulled. It took every member of my class to make it work, and I was head orchestrator. The absolute key to this was timing and build up. We started simple. We rigged her chair to collapse half-way through the morning register. This understandably created an instant reaction of anger and surprise, but we played it off as a genuine fault in the chair. We even spread some of the screw around the base of her chair so she thought that they had just fallen out. Eventually she was convinced, and she once again dropped her guard to the next stage. The rest of the morning went by without incident.

Stage two of the plan was to ruin her lunch. We knew that she had her lunch outside, no matter what the weather. So once she had collected it we got to work. She had warned us that she had a mild peanut allergy, so our next step was to convince her that there were peanuts in her soup. I naturally took the lead. As soon as she had taken her final bite, I went up to her and asked her if she could taste the peanuts in the bread she had just had, even pulling out a slice that had been filled with peanut bits to freak her out. This was to effectively act as a reverse placebo, and it worked; she immediately claimed that her throat was closing and that she needed to see someone quickly. Now came the placebo. I pulled out a vial of soup and insisted that it was what I used to combat allergic reactions to peanuts when the consequences became unbearable. Without thinking she immediately grabbed it and swallowed the contents in one.

Everything was fine for around ten seconds. Then came the kick. She started to claim her mouth was burning and getting hotter as she spoke. What she had downed was hot sauce spiked with tomato sauce. I told her to sit through the pain, as it was all part of cleansing the system. After around two minutes, the pain became unbearable, and she told me to go get her water. So off I ran, as fast as I could to initiate phase three.

Phase three was to reverse the classroom. I had most of the rest of the class ready to turn all the chairs, and tables round to face the other wall. All the displays were to be swapped round, and the blackboards moved. On my signal they started and were on target to be done with plenty of time to spare. Fifteen minutes after stage two started, it finished with me finally running back to her to give her water, claiming that there was a line, and even in an emergency it was rude to push in; my mother hadn’t taught me manors for nothing. After she had calmed down and cooled off, she thanked me, grudgingly agreeing that we should all put politeness first (though she might have been being slightly sarcastic).

I quickly returned to the classroom to check on phase three. Everything was going to plan. The classroom was the other way round, and all the clocks had been moved forward 10 minutes to cause even more confusion. Around fifteen minutes later the normal bell went and we were all meant to start on our way back to class. Most of us were already here though, only the scouts were left to come in slightly before this bell. We all sat down patiently waiting for the substitute to re-appear. Surely enough she came in moments later, holding a steaming mug of tea. At this point we all started asking her where she had been and why she was ten minutes late. She brushed this off, snapping at us to not make things up. Then she saw the clock; and then the other clocks. She looked at her watch, tapping it as it had stopped, getting move confused by the moment. Then she saw the desks. She looked around frantically. Then she dropped her tea, and went to sit and her desk, forgetting what had happened to her chair that morning. Just as she started sitting down the whole class shouted in unison “Miss Wait!” Distracted by our shouts, she slipped falling to the floor again anyway.

Still confused and disoriented, she picked herself up off the floor and grabbed one of the spare chairs to sit on. Without speaking she motioned for us to get on with the work we started that morning, and so we did, for around five minutes. At this point one of the others, who hadn’t been told about what would happen for the next part of the plan, got up and asked to use the pencil sharpener that we knew was kept in the bottom draw of the desk. Without paying too much attention, and without looking, she put her hand in the draw, and felt feathers.

Shocked she looked down to see a head, or at least part of a head of the Owlbear. As I said the other student had no idea about this part so was just as shocked screamed running out of the room. The substitute was stunned, and didn’t move for about two minutes, before bursting into an uncontrollable rage. By this point, another student had snuck out to get the Headmaster. Shortly after her rage reached its climax, the student returned, with the headmaster. Not realising what had happened, our substitute hadn’t seen the headmaster enter, and continued ranting at us. She didn’t notice him until he shout back, at which point she silently turned to look at him, turning white as a sheet as she looked over.

The headmaster yelled just five words: “Get out of my School!” She didn’t need telling twice, and immediately started marching towards the door. As she walked away the Headmaster left, luckily missing the next point of the plan.

She hadn’t notice the tripwire we had set up. As she dragged her feet towards the door, she caught on it, and a noticeable rumble started. It grew, louder and louder, until it was clear that it was coming from the vent above. At this point we pulled the vent open, and down tumbled a metric ton of peanuts, burying her in their golden shells. Once she had freed herself, she was already coming out in blotchy patches on her face and neck. Feeling these she ran, tripping several more peanut based traps, including the peanut catapult we had set up. A huge cheer erupted as she left the building for the last ever time. Since that day, no one is sure what happened to her, though most believe she lived out the rest of her life in a mental asylum, though no one has ever found any evidence for it.

Okay, this is getting out of hand. I’m not even sure where to start with this one. I suppose I should start by noting that although Cruroar did start school when he was eleven, this is actually a year after most gnomes start school. The main purpose of this was to try and help him make friends, not that he had much luck. He always seemed to try too hard and this put a lot of people off. He told that story about the sword, and that impressed people, for about five minutes, before he mentioned killing the bear. He certainly didn’t enjoy school, if anything he hated it. At least two nights each week he would tell me he didn’t want to go back.

The teachers didn’t get on with Cruroar either. They usually found that he was a bit of a show off, and not just that, the things he was showing off with were wrong. Not that he ever accepted this. Even now, he thinks he’s always right, and feels the need to show it (hence the stories). Even though they didn’t like him, the teachers still realised how vulnerable he was and tried their best to look after and keep him safe from the others, particularly the bullies. They didn’t always succeed though.

A good example of this is what actually happened with the owlbear. The other students were pushing him around a bit, and told him that they had a surprise for him at lunch. So on that occasion, thinking he had made some friends, he met these two at the edge of the playground. They told him they were going to take him into the woods for his surprise. Nervous at this he protested, but they overpowered him and ended up dragging him through the wood, the whole time him sobbing and crying out for me.

They dragged him further and further in, until they found the body of this owlbear. Then they showed it to him, trying to freak him out even more than he already was. He managed to put up a bit of a brave face and looked, and recoiled far less than they were hoping. Frustrated by this, they tried to make him touch it, taunting him and eventually even forced his hands towards it. At this point, Cruroar had taken all he could and just ran.

Even though he hadn’t seen the way they had taken him, and they were far bigger than him, he managed to get back to the school ahead of the bullies, and was immediately found by a teacher. This teacher realised what must have happened and took Cruroar straight to the Headmaster. Before the headmaster, Cruroar told the story exactly how it happened, even giving up the names of the bullies. They were soon called in to join him. They tried to claim that they had tried to move the body out of side and needed Cruroar to look out so that the other kids couldn’t find it, but the Headmaster

was having none of it. He punished both of the others harshly (something then never really forgave Cruroar for) and Cruroar got off with little more than a message home to tell us what had happened. He still thinks of this as a huge let off, and tried not to get in trouble for months after this.

Now to tell you about poor Mrs Edgewick. As Cruroar so rudely missed it out, I should start by telling you that this was the name of the poor substitute teacher that only lasted for a week at his school. She was an old family friend, and her parents and grandparents had all been good friends to myself and my husband since our days at school. From this you should be able to tell that she was Human, and therefore at least twice as tall as Cruroar was during this story. She was also far more… shall we say, solidly built than Cruroar. And students had often given her grief because of this. I’m surprised Cruroar didn’t mention this actually. It would be just like him to come up with a creative way of calling someone fa-

Anyway, Mrs Edgewick took Cruroar’s classes for a week covering for his normal teacher. They didn’t get off to the best start. As Cruroar pointed out, Mrs Edgewick had a peanut allergy, and on her first day, Cruroar managed to give her an allergic reaction after giving her a sweet. To be fair to him, he didn’t know and she didn’t tell him before hand and should have asked. But this still meant that she didn’t like him much. Perhaps she did pick on him slightly more than she should have done, but that doesn’t mean I condone what he did on the last day she was there.

So the day started much like Cruroar said. He and some of his classmates loosened some of the screws of her chair. This wasn’t meant to break it fully, only make it so that the back of it went when she leant back on it. But as with a lot of things Cruroar tried, he got overly excited and took it too far. He loosened the wrong screw which meant that when Mrs Edgewick sat down, the whole chair collapsed. As normal, when something went wrong in that class, she insisted that she be told who had broken her seat. Even as she asked this, she glared at Cruroar, as if to say that she knew it was him. Seeing who she was looking at, the other culprits decided to save their own skin and insisted it was all Cruroar. Knowing how bad at lying Cruroar was, you will realise that even as he tried to defend himself, it was the least believable thing he could have said. If he was more confident, he might have tried to bring justice down on the others too, but he was still trying to make friends and didn’t want to upset anyone, so kept quiet about it, or so he said. Knowing him it didn’t even cross his mind that he could do that. So the day didn’t start off well.

Cruroar luckily managed to stay out of trouble for the rest of the morning. Who knows how much trouble he would have been in if he hadn’t managed it. It was at lunch though that the rest of the class had plans. Not to prank Mrs Edgewick, but to get Cruroar in more trouble. Pranking Mrs Edgewick was just the icing for them. They told him that they were going to ‘reward’ him for not tattling on them. They had a couple of pranks lined up for Mrs Edgewick that they were going to let him in on.

They needed him to distract Mrs Edgewick while they ‘prepared’ the classroom. Cruroar wasn’tr always the most creative gnome, and he came up with very few ideas for how to keep Mrs Edgewick occupied. The idea he went with was to make her suffer an allergic reaction. Not knowing where he could find peanuts, he asked around the other students. None of them had any ideas, but they told him just to pretend there was peanuts in the bread that was served with lunch. He could then play off that it was the canteen who must have been trying to get her. They then suggested that they offered her the contents of a vial as an ‘antidote’. He said it was some kind of “palcebo effect”. I think he

must have meant “placebo”, but then science never came as naturally to me as it did to him (not that he was that great either) so maybe “palcebo” is right for what he was going for. He didn’t know what was in the vial, but it was still the best plan he had.

He knew that Mrs Edgewick ate lunch on her own outside in a quite corner, so he knew exactly where to find her to enact his plan. What he did next was probably the first time he had ever managed to properly lie without getting caught at the time. Just as she was finishing her lunch, Cruroar went up to Mrs Edgewick and said in a concerned voice “Mrs Edgewick, you didn’t have the bread did you?”

“Of course I did” she scoffed looking satisfied, “and most delicious it was.”

Cruroar looked even more alarmed. “But the bread had peanuts in! Could you taste them? I thought you were allergic to them!”

“I am” she said slightly quieter. “Now I taste them! My… My throat is closing! Quick get a nurse!”

“No it’s okay! I’ve got this medicine! It’ll stop your reaction.” He pulled out the vial he had been given. He hadn’t looked at it when he had been given it, but now he noticed the reddish colour, mixed with the black dots. He didn’t know what it was but wasn’t sure what it would do either, and if she had been paying attention, maybe she would have realised this.

But, she wasn’t and without thinking, she grabbed the vial, downing the contents in one. And for twenty seconds everything seemed fine. But then she coughed. “Hot. Hot! Hot!!” she exclaimed in pain. “My mouth… It’s… it’s on fire! Water! Get me water! Now!!”

Seeing the pain she was in Cruroar panicked. Not thinking of the school kitchens, he ran straight for the water fountain to grab some water. Now we had always insisted that Cruroar had manners, so when he got there and realised there was a line, rather than push to the front insisting it was an emergency, he just got in line. By the time he had gotten to the front though, he realised he didn’t have a cup or anything to store the water in. At this point he had two ideas. Run to the kitchen and get a cup, or carry the water in his mouth. Thankfully he chose the former.

So off he ran to the kitchen to grab a cup. Once he had it, the kitchen staff asked him what for, so he told them that Mrs Edgewick had eaten something hot, and needed some water. Hearing this they took the cup and filled it with water for him. At this point they asked why he hadn’t asked for a cup of water for her. Embarrassed by this he shuffled away and hurried back to Mrs Edgewick. By the time he got back she was writhing in agony from what I assume was a really hot hot sauce. As he had run most of the way, half of the water had already been spilt. Mrs Edgewick didn’t care though. She drunk it in one and immediately looked more relieved. Still panting for breath she was at least calming down.

While this was happening he tried to explain why it had taken so long, claiming that he had had to wait in line for the cup and then again for the water. She didn’t look like she believed it, but she was in no position to argue the point. She was just thankful the burning had stopped.

Once it was clear that Mrs Edgewick was going to be okay, Cruroar scurried back to the classroom to see what had been done. He walked in to find the room had been turned around. All the desks were facing the wrong way; all the chairs were facing the other wall. The board had been moved, as had

all the posters, which had also been put upside down, and in one case backwards so that the plain side was showing. The other kids informed Cruroar of what they had done. Along with the desks, chairs and room decorations, they explained that the clocks were now ten minutes fast and they planned to claim that Mrs Edgewick was ten minutes late. Other than this, they said they had laid a number of other ‘traps’ around the room, which they couldn’t even remember where they had been set up. This all sounded amazing to Cruroar, but little did he know the full scale of the plans.

Shortly before Mrs Edgewick was due to return, everyone returned to their seats, Cruroar in tow. As soon as he had sat down though he felt and heard a squelch. He asked what it was, but the rest of the class just insisted that it was his chair squeaking as he sat down. Some even demonstrated this by making their chairs make a similar noise. And then they waited.

A few minutes later, Mrs Edgewick walked in, with a steam cup of tea. As she entered she looked up, and dropped the tea. She realised straight away the class was the wrong way round and looked very confused by it. Next she noticed the clock and then checked her watch. “Who’s been fiddling with the time?!” she exclaimed in anger. The whole class reacted insisting that the clock was right and that she had clearly taken far longer to get here than she though. Everyone agree, with this and were about to be let off without being punished, but then Cruroar stuck his foot in it with one comment:

“Seriously, it must have taken ten minutes for you to waddle up here.” The room went silent. Mrs Edgewick turned to look at Cruroar. Stunned by his words, she was silent for a full minute, looking appalled by what he had said. Final she spoke. “Stand up Cruroar.” She said no louder than a whisper. This is when things got worse.

Knowing he was in trouble, Cruroar tried to comply. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get up off of his chair. He struggled and struggled, but couldn’t move without moving the chair. It was now that he realised what the squelch was. “I’m stuck!” he complained. He had been glued to his chair. Mrs Edgewick didn’t look kindly upon this. After a few seconds she responded with a rage that could crack concrete. “How can you be stuck? It’s a chair. You have plenty of movement room. How is it possible for a gnome of your stature to be stuck?” she bellowed.

Knowing Cruroar (or at least knowing a bit about what he is like) you won’t be surprised to find out that this reaction shocked and terrified him in equal measure. Tears welled up, but she kept shouting. He kept squirming and trying to free himself, but he realised that even if he was able to get up, his modesty would certainly be forfeit. There was no way he was getting free of the chair without losing his shorts without some universal solvent.

He managed to wriggle the chair slightly, but this made things worse. Him moving the chair by the slightest amount pulled an invisible wire, that pulled open one of the vents causing it to hail peanuts all over Mrs Edgewick. Now as both Cruroar and I have noted, Mrs Edgewick was allergic to peanuts, even to them just touching her skin. So a hail of hundreds, or even thousands of peanuts really wasn’t doing her any favours. As she was shouting, she was hit by several peanuts in the face, and her cheeks immediately became to puff up. The shouts of anger were replaced by shrieks of pain and cries for help. Even Cruroar started crying for someone to get the nurse or a first aider. Naturally everyone was enjoying the show too much. So it was up to Cruroar.

Knowing he couldn’t get up, Cruroar shuffled his chair further and further towards the door. This had two effects. The first was that the vent opened more and the amount of peanuts falling increased the further he got. The second was that the class started paying more attention to him. Cruroar always craved attention, so as you can imagine, he loved being in the spotlight. But the rest of the class weren’t happy that he was going for help. They wanted to see their hated teacher suffer. And even more, they wanted Cruroar to be blamed and get in trouble for it.

Even though he was on the end of a row, and had a reasonably clear route to then door, his chosen (in the loosest sense of the word) method of transport was slow and the others had time to react. Several tried to hold him back, others started to pelt him with the peanuts, but others set off the other traps. Barrages of pencils, a beehive, and even a bear trap were set off to try and stop him getting help. Mrs Edgwick’s screams were getting louder, as were Cruroars, and within a few moments help came. The teacher in the next room down the corridor, had heard the commotion, and had come to sort it out. She immediately sent for a first aided and the caretaker.

Both arrived fairly swiftly and within five minutes everything had calmed down again. Mrs Edgewick was taken away to be cared for as she recovered from her allergic reaction to the peanuts. The Caretaker removed the beehive and bear trap, while the other teacher looked after those who had been stung. With all this going on, no one was surprised when the headmaster was called to help sort things out. Naturally the rest of the class tried to blame Cruroar, but the staff could see he was more of a victim to what had gone on than the instigator. No one owned up to who had been the ringleader, so the whole class ended up being punished.

Cruroar was never particularly popular in that class, but somehow it got worse after this. Mrs Edgewick recovered well from the allergic reaction, but was so traumatised by events that she decided to move away and we never heard from her again. I hope this clears up what actually happened in these early days of Cruroar’s schooling. I sincerely hope that the rest of the book is more closely aligned with the truth, but I doubt it will be. Still, I can dream.

Chapter 5: The ‘teenage’ years

I thought I should give you some insight into the years of my life while I went through puberty. I called this chapter the ‘teenage’ years because for humans, this period normally lasts from the age of thirteen to eighteen, but gnomes don’t age at the same rate. If you think about it, it makes sense. As we age slower, it must take longer for us to grow up. So the years that most gnomes are considered teenagers for are between thirty and forty-five.

“Now hang on” I can hear you saying, “Aren’t you only fifty? So doesn’t that mean that you are only just out of your ‘teenage’ years?” Well yes, I suppose. But for me the years of puberty were of a far smaller range. By the time I was thirty-five, I was already done with puberty. My voice had finished breaking, I no longer had spots, and the mood swings that one associate with puberty are long gone. Well I say that, I never really had acne, so I shouldn’t really have said that I no longer had spots, as the only time I had spots was when I had the measles as a child.

I never really experienced mood swings either come to think about it. My hormone levels were fairly balanced, so I never had to worry about sudden burst of anger, tears or elation. I tell you what though; it was weird seeing others go through that sort of thing. Normally I can relate to what

people go through, or are going through. Even if I haven’t experienced what they have experienced, usually I at least know of a song or two that help explain how people feel about certain events. But I can’t recall any songs, or ballads, or poems for that matter where the focus is on a normal person’s puberty. I could write one, but I could only write about what I went through, and that would be a bit too much like bragging for me to ever perform, so maybe I shouldn’t write one. I’m not saying I wouldn’t though if my audiences wanted to hear one, so if you don’t want me to write one and perform it then write to me at my address. I’m sure you all know it or at least know someone who does.

Anyway, as I said it was weird watching my friends suffer from these mood swings. Now I was friends with an elf who really suffered with mood swings. Now she wasn’t exactly the most attractive elf, and certainly wasn’t the most emotionally stable even before puberty, so you can imagine why puberty might have been even harder for her. Now elves have a very efficient immune system, and toxins and any excesses are normally removed efficiently. This is why you should never believe an elf pretending to be sick. Sorry I’m getting distracted again. It’s just been one of those days.

So as I said, elves don’t normally have many problems with spots or other skin perfections because of how well their bodies remove toxins, so it was quite a surprise to this girl, Willow, I think we called her, when she developed a severe case of acne. It was so bad for her that other kids took to calling her “Spotty Twig”. Not a particularly creative nickname, but I suppose it was apt. Her growth spurts had made her tall and thin, even for an elf, and as she was covered in spots. Kids can be cruel, and this didn’t help with her moods. I think she spent more time crying during that year than at any other time in her life.

Saying that, she also had moments that were really uplifting for others to see. While she was struggling with her mood swings, I often tried to cheer her up. Now she never liked me pulling pranks on others, even when the victims enjoyed it too. She said it was mean to find enjoyment in the suffering of others. She also didn’t like poetry (totally weird right?) and was never big on a cappella either, even when I sung her favourite songs. I wasn’t sure what I could do to entertain her, but then she hit me. This certainly cheered her up, and then I realised how to cheer her up; slapstick. Is it weird that she enjoyed my suffering because of my own intended stupidity, but not when it was others that I had caught out with pranks? I never quite understood what the big difference was to her, but clearly she was okay with one, but not the other. I call weird.

That’s enough about Willow, now back to my puberty. Now I’m not sure if I said, but even as a wrong boy I was part of the temple’s choir, and I regularly performed solos usually in the tenor or even soprano range. But when my voice was breaking, the priests and choir masters were worried that I wouldn’t be able to sing at all, let alone in my normal ranges. Most gnomes’ voices take months or even years to fully swap from high-pitched to deeper more adult sounding voices. Mine though practically broke overnight. Now admittedly, I could no longer reach the highest notes that I used to need to sing at, but after my voice broke, I could reach far lower notes. This allowed me to be proficient as both a Baritone, but also a bassist. If I really try, I can still reach the highest notes of my old range, but it takes a lot of effort and I normally can’t even speak the next day, so I longer perform soprano or tenor roles except in a dire emergency.

I was still in school during my ‘teenage’ years. But this didn’t stop me starting a career as a writer. As an extracurricular activity, I edited and reported for the school paper. This didn’t give me much room for creativity, but it still got words flowing. But more on that later.

When I was a teenager, I also got my first job as a writer. It was unpaid of course, but the experience was good, and I got my foot in the door. So this place needed someone to write up the minutes of some of the smaller meetings and also write some of the reports for the less literate members of staff. I was fine doing all of this. My writing skills were good and I knew shorthand (no pun intended) as well as anyone else I had met, so I anticipated few problems. But then I threw myself in at the deep end.

After I had only been there for a week, the person who wrote most of the minutes and wrote up the letters for the directors, fell down the stairs injuring her arm so much that she wouldn’t be able to work for the next few months. With no one to fill her duties, the directors considered shutting down the work place until she was better, such was the importance of her role. But then I said something that I have never regretted since; “I could do it”.

“You?” The directors sneered. “An unpaid intern, taking the minutes of our meetings? Writing the dictations for our letters? Susan was part of the company for seven years before starting her current role. You’ve barely been here seven days and you feel you are qualified to replace her? Now shut up. We didn’t hire you to talk.”

“No, you hired me to write. So let me write” I retorted. “You spent time sorting this position out. It would be a shame if it turned out that was all to be wasted.”

The directors looked puzzled by this. “Go and sort out some of the reports you have to write. We’ll discuss it.” So off I went back to my desk. I got on with my work, but I knew it would only be a matter of time before the bosses returned to me with good news.

Around half an hour later, I was proved right. They walked up to me and one of the less important directors said to me “Why aren’t you at your desk?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re at your old deck. Go take your place at Susan’s desk. Just as a trial. Then come see me. I have a letter to dictate.”

I swiftly gathered up my things, and then without dropping any of it, I rushed to my new desk. My first desk was no bigger than those individual exam desks. But this one, you could have almost sat a giant at this desk, and it would just look like it had been made too low for him. I had more space than I had things to put in the space. My new desk looked bare. But, it felt good to have such a spacious desk. I only hoped that this work wasn’t as hard as they made it out to be.

After spending five minutes sorting out my new desk, I went to the director’s office with extra paper and extra ink, expecting a long letter, and writer’s cramp. But then when I got there, he dictated three lines. He then said with little interest “Now flesh that out.”

“Wait, I thought you were going to dictate the letter.”

“Oh no. I will tell you what I want to be included, but I need you to flesh it out for the recipient.”

“Well who’s going to be the recipient? Am I writing to the king, or to my grandfather?”

“Oh this letter should be suitable for being given to anyone. You have until the end of the day,” He said calmly. But then he caught me off guard by snapping “Now get to it.”

Surprised, I jumped and then hurried out the office back to my new task, daunted by this seemingly impossible task. I still had no idea what I should write to make it appropriate for all. I briefly contemplated writing five individual letters suitable for different audiences. But I dismissed this as a waste of time, as I had seen the most amazing device in the office: the Company’s printing press. I never realised how beautiful such a thing could be. Something told me that sometime in the future I would be using a printing press as part of my everyday life. Part of this was that I expected that whoever this letter was for, it would be duplicated using this very machine, so there was little point doing more than one letter.

So I started writing. And I continued writing for hours, chopping and changing parts of this letter, until it read right. I was about to go and give the director the letter to read, until I saw the sign on his door, saying “Gone for Lunch”. I must have only been working for around thirty minutes, an hour at most. I had been so immersed in my task that time seemed to slow down for me. Looking at the clock on the wall, I had only been working for around an hour. So as it was nearing lunch, and I had little to do until the director returned, I took a slightly early lunch.

Shortly afterwards, one of the other members of senior management noticed me, and asked me why I wasn’t at my desk working. He knew about the task I had been set, and asked me why I wasn’t working on it. I responded that I had finished it, and I couldn’t start something new until the junior director returned. Taken aback by this, he demanded to see my work immediately.

I took him to my desk to show him my work, and he sat their reading my letter. Other than an odd mutter of approval, he was silent for a good five minutes as he read and reread the letter. As he finished reading through it for maybe the fifth or sixth time, stunned, he said “Good work. As you were” and went back to his office.

After he returned from lunch, I was called straight to the junior director’s office. I thought I should take the letter, just to be safe, but it wasn’t even on my desk. I frantically searched for it, until I was certain it was gone. So off I trotted to the office without the letter.

I knocked, and was told to enter. I walked in slowly, frustrated that I didn’t have the letter. The junior director was sitting behind his desk writing as I entered. “How’s your project going then?” he asked, with genuine interest but without looking up.

“Um, it was going well before lunch. I had a reasonable first draft. But then after lunch, I returned to my desk to find it missing. I searched everywhere for it, but it was nowhere to be found. I guess I’ll have to start again.” I said solemnly.

He stopped writing and looked up at me. “Oh there’ll be no need for that. I stopped by your desk to see how you were getting on. But of course you were still at lunch. But the letter was there. So I read it, not expecting much. No offence, but you had only have had an hour to work on it.”

He paused. It was the longest and most silent pause in history. I could literally hear my hair growing. But then he spoke. “It was the most stunning piece of writing I have ever seen come from someone in this office. Even Susan never reached this standard of writing. I’ve spoken to the other directors, and we want you full time when you finish school.”

Stunned, I was silent. I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, a job outside of working for my parents was too good to turn down. But on the other hand, I had plans. I wanted to write novels, not reports, not letters. I wanted to have the freedom to go wherever I wanted, not be stuck in one place. “I, I’ll think about it sir.” I stammered. “No disrespect, but I need to weigh up my options, although it is nice to know that you want someone like me.”

“Of course, you should talk this over with your parents, and think deep about what you want, but there will always be a job here for you should you wish. Now, we need you to complete your reports and letters, as well as get your contract written up. We plan for you to at least join us as a paid employee for the remainder of your time here. Now back to work, we still need those reports done by the original deadlines.”

I rushed back to my office with a million thoughts filling my head. I could barely concentrate on the reports I was writing, but I somehow still managed to get them all done in time. As you can tell, I didn’t take that job, and haven’t regretted this decision. I got to adventure, I got to write, and perhaps one day I will return to the job I was so good at, but certainly not for a few decades yet.

This was over one summer, but during school I was also getting chances to write. I was editor of the school paper for three years, and I was head reporter for two years either side of this period. On top of the other years as just a reporter and writer, I spent ten years writing for it. It gave me a huge freedom to write creatively, but also report the truth, a duty I still continue to this day. There were a number of stories I could tell from these years, but I will just choose one of my favourites; the time of the student strike.

During my first stint as head reporter, the school changed hands and a new headmaster came in to ‘lead us’, although where he was leading us, I don’t know, certainly not into a brighter tomorrow. Mr Vigor was one of the most brash and grumpy dwarves I ever came across. He never smiled, and always sounded early.