CHAPTER ONE
Jim had a Scrobbler who went with him everywhere. It went to school with him, and to the park, and visiting in other people’s houses. And wherever it went, Jim’s Scrobbler did bad things.
It jumped on the desks in the classroom and swung from the lights. It pulled up the flowers in the park and broke the swings. And when it went visiting at Phil Spit’s house, on Phil Spit’s birthday, it ate the cake – the whole birthday cake! – before the candles had even been stuck on.
The Scrobbler had two beady izzbits, a branbox with very little bran in it, a pair of grabbers and a tickler.
It was bad.
Jim’s Mum said the Scrobbler was anti-social – by which she meant it wasn’t very good at getting along with people, and upset them a lot.
His Dad said it was a menace and would end up very sad and sorry if it didn’t change its ways.
His little sister Sally said it was just plain wicked, and could she have a Scrobbler too, please?
‘No!’ cried Jim’s parents. ‘One Scrobbler’s enough for any family.’
Jim was the only person who loved the Scrobbler. He loved it because it was fun and exciting, and you never knew quite what it was going to do next. He loved it, although it was bad, because wherever the Scrobbler went everyone, but everyone, sat up and took notice.
Now one Bank Holiday Monday, when Jim was coming back from his Granny’s house, which was in another town, he lost his Scrobbler. Everything was fine when Jim got off the train with his Dad and little sister. The Scrobbler was tucked away safe in Jim’s rucksack, with its branbox sticking out of the hole at the top and its beady izzbits gleering all around.
Everything was not fine when Jim got home and went to unpack his rucksack. His Scrobbler wasn’t there.
Jim was so upset that he actually burst into tears. His Mum and Dad were very calm and comfortable about it. They said things like: ‘Don’t worry, love, he’s bound to turn up sooner or later,’ and ‘Come on, Jimjam, it’s not the end of the world’.
But it was easy for them to be calm and comfortable. It was easy for them not to think it was the end of the world. They didn’t love the Scrobbler.
‘You’re glad I lost him!’ Jim cried.
‘Well…’ said his Mum and Dad. ‘Well… maybe, possibly, perhaps. Yes.’
‘I knew it!’ yelled Jim. ‘You hate my Scrobbler. But I love him! I want him back. Where is he? Where’s my Scrobbler?’
Down on the railway line, with a train rushing towards him, if you must know, Jim.