I Got Lost On My First Day At School!

The Parallel Four Book One Part Five Chapter Five

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

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• 22:42 (Cont.) I Got Lost On My First Day At School!

Transcript

Chapter Five

I’d only been to the Junior School the once before—end o’ last term—and already I was flounderin’ like a goldfish chucked into a new tank, all wide-eyed and wonderin’ where the walls went. I thought we was supposed to wait by a row of benches, but someone’d gone and shoved ’em up against the tennis court fence. Might as well have blindfolded me and spun me round. Felt like sabotage, if you ask me.

Everyone else looked just as lost, wanderin’ about like headless chickens—or maybe more like sheep tryin’ to remember what a shepherd smells like. Most faces I knew from Infants, but that didn’t help much. Now we was all back at the bottom, smallest fry in a much bigger pond. And we definitely weren’t the piranhas.

Then along comes Mr Forbes—tall as a lamppost, built like a cupboard, and swingin’ a whistle like it were some kind of deadly weapon. He didn’t so much walk as march, crossin’ the playground like he was on a parade ground and we was the rabble he had to whip into shape. One blast from that whistle and the world froze. His voice could’ve stopped a lorry mid-gear.

He barked us into register order, no arguments, and herded us lot through the east wing, straight into our new classroom. Smelt like chalk dust, damp plimsolls, and trouble. Four perfect rows of six desks, all lined up like soldiers waitin’ for orders. Johan and me didn’t waste a second—we legged it (with dignity, mind) to the front row and claimed a pair of desks like explorers plantin’ flags on the moon.

I chucked my satchel in the desk, pulled out me precious pencil box—wasn’t about to trust that in the dark—and sat meself up straight as a broomstick, tryin’ to look keen. Not sure if I was ready to learn, exactly… but I was ready to look like I might.

Mr Forbes turned to the blackboard and started scribblin’ out our timetable like he was paintin’ the Mona Lisa with chalk. He had a real flair for cursive, I’ll give him that—proper loops and swirls, like he was signallin’ aircraft. Only problem was, every time he did one o’ them fancy flicks, the chalk squealed like a pig in a pinch—high-pitched and bone-rattlin’. Pretty sure it could’ve shattered glass… or at the very least, everyone’s will to live. Whole room flinched like we’d been goosed with a cattle prod.

First up: Maths. That got a groan from the class louder than a foghorn in a storm—like a kennel full o’ injured puppies. Johan and me, we shot each other a quick thumbs-up under the desk. Maths was our thing. Numbers made sense, unlike adults.

But someone at the back let out a proper dramatic moan—one of them long, theatrical jobs. Mr Forbes stopped dead, spun on his heel like a guard at Buckingham Palace, and let fly the chalkboard wiper. I swear, if there’d been an Olympics for classroom discipline, he’d have brought home gold. The thing sailed clean across the room and smacked the culprit right on the knuckles. Made a red mark and possibly dented the lad’s soul, but it done the trick—the room went silent, proper church quiet. Everyone was impressed. Scared, but impressed.

The timetable was the usual mixed bag: English, Maths, History, Geography, Science, Music, Dancing (ugh), PE, and—curveball—German. Taught by none other than Mr Forbes himself, who insisted on speakin’ it with a Yorkshire accent thick enough to spread on toast. Sounded more like he were orderin’ a pint in Barnsley than speakin’ the language of Goethe.

Lucky for us, Johan and me were already well ahead o’ the game. Thanks to our summer in Sweden and hours spent chattin’ through tin-can telephones, we were practically language geniuses. Pickin’ up German felt like learnin’ a new secret code. Most of the others could barely count to zehn without sweatin’ bullets. Johan and I, though, we was flyin’—answerin’ questions before Forbes even finished askin’ ’em. In the end, he started directin’ everything at us just to fill the awkward silences. Felt a bit like bein’ teacher’s pet… only without the perks.

Then came the daily horror that stalked the classroom just before mornin’ break: the lukewarm milk. Each of us got handed a little quarter-pint bottle, sweatin’ like it knew its time was up. They came outta a splintery old crate that’d been lurkin’ in the corner since sunrise, probably longer. You could practically hear it hummin’ with bacteria.

Only one girl in the whole class was excused for “medical reasons.” Dunno what was wrong with her, but she was instantly my new hero. The rest of us had to suck it up—literally. We’d stab the foil lid with one o’ them sad little paper straws, which bent in half at the first sign of resistance, and try not to breathe through our noses. If you’ve never tasted school milk that’s on the turn—sort of cheesy, with a hint o’ sweaty sock—you ain’t lived… and good on ya. I didn’t care about stronger bones or whatever they reckoned it did. I’d risk a few brittle limbs if it meant avoidin’ that daily dairy assault. At least in winter it firmed up and chilled down a bit, like milk’s meant to. Summer was a different story. That stuff was a biological weapon.

Now, school dinners? Different kettle of questionable stew. Ingrid had drilled it into us: wastin’ food was up there with kickin’ puppies or disrespectin’ the Queen. So while most of the kids stared at their plates like they was defusin’ a bomb, pokin’ mash with their forks like it might fight back, Johan and me dived in like we’d been raised in castles.

Liver and onions? Go on then. Boiled cabbage? Don’t mind if I do. Even the spotted dick with its weird skin on the custard—we cleared our plates like we was tryin’ to earn a medal. And let me tell ya, it didn’t go unnoticed. Teachers looked at us like we was some kinda miracle, and the dinner ladies… well, we was their golden boys. Proof that at least someone appreciated their efforts and could survive both dodgy stews and curdled milk without throwin’ a wobbly.

That first afternoon back, Mr Forbes decides we’re all gonna stand up and share somethin’ from our summer holidays. “A highlight,” he says, like we’re auditionin’ for some fancy travel show—but instead of sunhats and sunglasses, we’re all rockin’ scabby knees and gaps where our front teeth used to be.

You could feel the buzz in the air. Kids practisin’ their stories under their breath like it were the West End. Most of ’em had the usual stuff—sunburn from the park, a day at the beach where seagulls nicked their sandwiches, or tales of paddlin’ pools that folded like a deckchair mid-splash. One lad said he went to Legoland, but I think he was fibbin’. His tan looked more back garden than Bavarian.

But me and Johan? We’d been abroad. Properly abroad. Passports, ferry crossings, funny money that didn’t have the Queen’s head on it—real international business. Sweden, no less. While they was arguin’ over who got the last ice lolly, we was climbin’ trees, speakin’ in code, and drinkin’ fizzy stuff with names we couldn’t pronounce. Whole glamorous shebang.

Even Mr Forbes looked a bit deflated. He tried to big up his own trip—somethin’ about visitin’ his aunt in Suffolk—but everyone knew that barely counted. County lines ain’t borders, sir.

When my turn finally came, I gave Johan the nod—the kind that said, Showtime, mate—and together we strutted up to the front like we was in some sort of Scandinavian boy band. The class went quiet, probably expectin’ more tales of dodgy sunburn and collapsing paddlin’ pools.

Instead, we kicked things off with a cheery “Hej allihopa!” in our best Swedish. Might not’ve been perfect, but after six weeks muckin’ about by the sea and tryin’ to translate biscuit packets, we was feelin’ pretty fluent(ish). The room froze—then erupted into a chorus of half-jealous, half-impressed boos. That was the sweet spot. Not too clever, not too smug—just enough to stir the pot.

Mr Forbes raised an eyebrow. Hard to tell if he was quietly impressed or quietly concerned we was summonin’ trolls. Still, rules were rules, and he’d set a strict three-minute limit per pupil. Lucky for everyone really, or we’d’ve launched into a full-blown bilingual epic—tales of Aikido flips on forest floors, sea-pirate games with pine cone treasure, and ferry singers who smiled far too much to be entirely human.

I walked back to my seat buzzin’. Not just ’cause we’d nailed it, but ’cause tomorrow’s handwriting lesson was gonna need a serious upgrade in paper. I had a whole Nordic novel to write under the title My Summer News, and it was gonna need margins.

Later that evening, I told Dad all about me new teacher. “Mr Forbes,” I said, tryin’ to sound casual, like he hadn’t just terrified half the class with a flying board rubber.

Dad nodded straight away. “Ah yes, Mr Forbes,” he said, in the same tone you might use for a war hero or that one uncle who talks too loud at weddings. Turns out Forbes was a bit of a local legend—captured by the Germans near the end of the war, apparently, and known for his no-nonsense attitude, sharp haircut, and deadly accuracy with chalkboard weaponry.

“He’s got a stare that could freeze soup,” I told Dad, which earned me a chuckle.

Dad leaned in a bit, all serious. “Don’t start askin’ him about the war,” he warned. “Best not poke that particular bear. Let him bring it up if he wants to.”

I nodded, all respectful like—but truth be told, I was gutted. I’d been picturin’ daring escapes, parachutes, and secret messages baked into jam sandwiches. The man had spy thriller written all over him. Still, I promised I’d keep my mouth shut… for now. But I couldn’t help hopin’ that one day, mid-maths lesson, he’d crack—and regale us with stories of sneakin’ past sentries and smuggling compasses inside fountain pens.

That evenin’ over tea, Dad told us the full scoop on Mr Forbes—and it was a belter.

Turns out he’d been held in Stalag Luft 3. Yeah, that one—the so-called five-star (for guards) holiday camp for captured Allied airmen, the one with the world’s most enthusiastic diggers. I mean, those lads didn’t muck about. Give ’em a tin of spam and half a shoelace and they’d be halfway to Switzerland by supper.

One of the breakouts, Dad said, ended up in a book called The Wooden Horse. Apparently, the prisoners built this dodgy-lookin’ gym horse outta wood and parked it near the wire. While a couple of blokes flung themselves over it like Olympic gymnasts, others were underneath it, diggin’ away like moles with a vengeance. Genius. They even had fellas walkin’ around camp with their trousers full of soil, just casually shakin’ it out their legs like they were scatterin’ seeds for the spring bloom.

Three of ’em—Eric Williams (he wrote the book), Michael Codner, and Oliver Philpot—actually made it out. Properly out. Got all the way to Sweden. Which, funnily enough, gave Johan a sudden burst of national pride and the urge to stand up straighter.

And if that weren’t enough, there was The Great Escape—which, let’s be honest, sounds like a made-up blockbuster… and then actually became one. Just minus Steve McQueen and the motorbike jumps.

This time, they dug three tunnels: Tom, Dick, and Harry. Tom and Dick got rumbled—probably some guard noticed spoons were vanishing at a suspicious rate—but Harry? Harry worked. Seventy-six men wriggled their way out under the wire like earthworms with a death wish.

But then Dad went quiet. Seventy-three of them got caught, he said. And fifty… fifty were shot by the Gestapo. Just like that. No trial, no mercy. A chill went round the table. War stories, no matter how clever or heroic, always seemed to carry a bit of sadness tucked in the middle—like jam in a doughnut, only bitter instead of sweet.

Mr Forbes never talked about it, Dad said. “Not the sort of thing you bring up over spelling tests.” And I got that. Still, I hoped—one day—he might. Just a little.

Naturally, Johan and me was desperate to get our mitts on them books. The Wooden Horse, The Great Escape—we needed those stories like a pirate needs a map. Only problem was, they lived behind the iron curtain of the Adult Section at the town library. No kids allowed unless you came with a fully-grown human, preferably one who didn’t mind lettin’ you poke about near the war shelves.

So come the weekend, we hatched our plan. We grabbed our library cards with all the pomp and ceremony of gettin’ passports stamped, and marched in with Harry—our official grown-up and keyholder to literary freedom. He didn’t even blink, bless him, just gave the nod and off we went, straight through the archway into forbidden territory.

We found the books, two copies of each, thick as house bricks and smellin’ faintly of must and mystery. The librarian raised an eyebrow so high I thought it might fall off. Her look said, “Shouldn’t you two be readin’ about rabbits in waistcoats?” But she stamped ’em anyway, probably just relieved we wasn’t askin’ for the pop-up dinosaur encyclopaedia again.

Back home, we made a pact—read in sync, chapter for chapter, like our own little war-themed book club. No spoilers. No skippin’. Just pure, synchronised escapism.

At night, we read under the covers by torchlight, like proper rebels. Every creak of the floorboards had us freezin’—could’ve been Harry checkin’ we wasn’t tunnellin’ out through the floorboards. Every flicker from the torch made us hold our breath, terrified we’d be left mid-chapter in the dark. The print was tiny—probably done by fleas—and there weren’t no colourful pictures, just the odd black-and-white doodle that looked like someone drew it on a moving train with their eyes shut. Didn’t matter. We were hooked.

Tales of forged documents, secret signals, and tunnels dug with table knives had us glued to the pages. We only stopped readin’ when our eyes gave up or the torch batteries died with a final flicker, like a soldier goin’ down in battle.

Returnin’ the books to the library felt less like droppin’ off a couple o’ paperbacks and more like debriefin’ after a top-secret mission. We walked in like seasoned operatives—serious faces, scuffed shoes, and the quiet satisfaction of two lads who’d just tunnelled under the wire and lived to tell the tale.

The librarian clocked us straight away, peered over her glasses with that look grown-ups save for kids claimin’ to have read somethin’ thicker than a cereal box. “Did you really read them?” she asked, like we’d just told her we’d built a rocket in the shed and were plannin’ a launch from the back garden.

But we were ready.

We rattled off the plotlines like little historians: who dug what, how they got out, who made it to Sweden. Johan even remembered what train stations they passed through. Then, just to clinch it, I pulled out one of those big reference atlases and pointed to the escape route—France, Denmark, all the way to Sweden. “I’ve got it mapped out on me bedroom wall,” I said. “Pins and string. Like a proper HQ.”

That did it. Her stern librarian mask cracked into a smile. She gave a nod like we’d passed some unspoken test and stamped our returns with an extra bit of gusto. “You’ve earned five more weeks,” she said, like she was handin’ out medals. We walked out grinnin’ like we’d just legged it from Colditz with forged papers in our socks.

Course, it wasn’t all books and bedtime espionage.

As soon as rugby season kicked off, I joined the under-eights at the local club—dead convenient, what with the pitch bein’ just a quick hop over the back fence. Every Sunday mornin’ we’d be out there in the mud, freezin’ our knees off and lovin’ every minute. Matches against nearby teams were meant to be touch rugby, but let’s be honest—“touch” sometimes meant flatten them before they even sniff the ball.

So between plannin’ POW escapes by torchlight and dodgin’ full-body tackles in the mud, I was basically livin’ the dream. Spy by night, scrum-half by day.

As I grew—in age, in stature, and in bruises—so did my love for rugby. The backyard fence at the end of our garden, the one that backed onto the Hitchin rugby pitch, seemed to grow gaps of its own accord. Especially on Saturdays, when the mighty Hitchin ‘A Team’ took to the field. By then, I’d mastered the delicate art of fence panel removal. Not breakin’ and enterin’, exactly—more like remove, observe, replace. Like a highly specialised burglar with a deckchair and a thermos.

I’d pop out a full section of fence like it was part of a magician’s act, slot me chair into the space, and voilà—front-row seats to the big match without ever leavin’ the garden. All I was missin’ was a pie, a pint, and a programme. Dad called it trespassin’ by proxy. I called it innovation.

Unfortunately, Junior School weren’t quite as mad for rugby as I was. PE usually meant football drills—running about after a round ball like confused spaniels. It felt like punishment, if I’m honest. Football just didn’t speak to me the way rugby did. There was somethin’ about the odd-shaped ball, the mud, the crunch of a tackle—it had soul.

Still, lunchtime was ours to command. Johan and me would leg it to our usual corner of the playground, rugby ball in hand, and chuck it around with enough force and enthusiasm to make the headmaster wince from behind his office curtains. Every now and then we’d hear the rattle of his window opening and a half-hearted “Not near the infants!” before it slammed shut again.

I gave football one chance. Just the once. They stuck me in goal. Fair enough, I thought. I’ll give it a go. Five minutes in, someone hoofed the ball straight at me like they were tryin’ to kill a pigeon. I went to catch it, but it didn’t so much land in my hands as smack me full in the face. Whole playground winced. I staggered backwards like I’d been hit by a cannonball. From that moment on, I decided round balls just weren’t my shape. Give me a muddy scrum and a mouthguard any day.

At the end of that first week back at school, I sat down to write me third letter to Vinka—couldn’t wait, especially after gettin’ her second one on Wednesday. As tradition now demanded, I opened with “Ålskling Vinka”—which, as far as I was concerned, was the most beautiful way of sayin’ “darling” ever invented. I had so much to tell her, I started scribblin’ right after school and only finished after dinner the next evening. By the end, me hand felt like it had gone ten rounds with a particularly aggressive scrum.

I told her all about Mr Forbes—how he marched like a general, taught German like a Yorkshire folk singer, and could take down a groaner with a flying chalkboard wiper. I described our lessons, our secret Swedish whispers behind our exercise books, and, of course, my undying loathing for football and its evil spherical ways.

I finished the letter with a flourish: “mycket kärlek, Stephen.” Loads of love, proper Swedish-style. Then I legged it to the postbox and got it in just before the school bell rang, heart hammerin’ like I’d just scored the match-winnin’ try.

The following Wednesday, her reply arrived. I knew it was hers the moment I saw the handwriting—neat, swirly, and just a bit exciting. It started with, “My darling Stephen,” which nearly made me fall off the back step. I read it three times before I even thought about showin’ Johan.

She wrote about how much she loved the summer—swimmin’, playin’ rugby, explorin’ the woods—and, best of all, chattin’ with me. Said she and Marlin were startin’ their new school and would send all the juicy gossip in her next letter. She signed off with a tidy little “Love, Vinka,” which I seriously considered fram­ing… or possibly havin’ tattooed somewhere discreet. Like me ankle. Or me heart.

My next letter to Vinka read: Ålskling Vinka,

How’s the new school? Have you and Marlin found your way around yet or are you still wanderin’ the halls like explorers with dodgy maps? I bet you’ve already charmed half the staff and got the boys tongue-tied with your Swedish sparkle.

Johan reckons Marlin’s already taken over the playground like a Viking queen. He says hello, by the way, and wants to know if your new headteacher’s got one of those terrifying whistles like Mr Forbes. Ours could probably summon storms.

Hope you’re both settling in alright—and don’t let anyone mess with you two. The Dynamic Duo of the Baltic’s got a reputation to uphold.

Mycket kärlek,

Stephen

Her letter arrived back on Wednesday.

My darling Stephen,

We’re slowly finding our way! Marlin and I managed to get lost twice on Monday—once trying to find the science lab and once trying to find the lunch queue. I blame poor signage and overenthusiastic corridor monitors.

Our teacher is nice, although she talks a lot about “self-expression,” which Marlin finds suspicious. So far, no whistles—just a bell that sounds like a cow sneezing. Marlin’s already convinced the art teacher to let her help decorate the windows for “Autumn Impressions.” She’s calling it warrior leaves. It’s a whole thing.

We both miss the summer (and you and Johan!) terribly. But don’t worry—we’re holding the fort. Just with more glue sticks and fewer pinecones.

Love,

Vinka

The autumn term flew by in a blur of soggy leaves and enough glitter to blind a teacher at ten paces. Soon as December rolled in, the lessons mysteriously turned into one big gluey mess—proper festive chaos. Cotton wool snowmen, angel stencils, paper chains longer than the hall, and glitter everywhere. I’m talkin’ down your socks, in your sarnies, even in places no glitter should ever go.

I never did get the hang of them round-ended scissors—red or blue handles, looked friendly enough but cut about as well as a boiled sausage. The green and yellow ones were even worse—until I found out they were for left-handers. No wonder they felt like they’d been designed by someone with a grudge against right-handed kids. Probably left over from the war.

And the glue—blimey, the glue. The watered-down stuff on our tables dried slower than Grandad climbin’ stairs. You’d finish your Christmas card and still be waitin’ for it to set by Easter. But the real stuff—the thick, undiluted gloop in the big tub by the teacher’s desk—that was gold.

If you nicked a blob, mixed it with a bit o’ powder paint, and gave it a good roll, it turned into a proper bouncy glue ball. We’re talkin’ magic. They bounced off the walls, the blackboard, and occasionally someone’s unsuspectin’ noggin. By lunchtime, me pockets were full of ’em—all fluffy, colourful, and slightly warm from body heat and mystery crumbs.

We called it science. The teachers called it detention.

Me least favourite lesson, hands down, was Music. Not ‘cause I didn’t like music—I loved the radio, especially when I didn’t have to join in—but sittin’ through a classroom full of squeaky voices tryin’ to hit high notes they had no business chasin’ was its own special kind of torture. Most of the squealin’ came from the girls, but there were a few lads in there whose voices hadn’t quite decided what they wanted to be when they grew up. Sounded like someone strugglin’ with a balloon animal.

Worst bit of all was rehearals for the end-of-term carol concert. We’d sit there in the freezin’ assembly hall, cross-legged on that hard wooden floor, legs goin’ numb, noses red, and spirits broken. We sang “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” so many times I started dreamin’ about them angels tellin’ us to shut up.

In a moment of what I thought was tactical genius, I volunteered to learn the descant recorder—figurin’ if I was playin’, I wouldn’t have to sing. Brilliant, I thought. No more caterwaulin’. But oh no. The plan backfired spectacularly. Turns out, bein’ on the recorder meant extra rehearsals—after school. I’d basically stitched meself up with bonus homework… but noisier.

With about five notes to our name (six if you counted shriek), our little school orchestra had a go at the classics. “Silent Night” got off to a strong start, then nosedived into chaos. Half the class puffed away like they was tryin’ to blow up a lilo. And every time someone got a bit carried away, it sounded like a goose bein’ strangled behind the nativity set. Honestly, it were tragic.

Most tunes ended the same: a slow wheezy fade-out followed by awkward silence, while the choir stood there mid-“Noel” lookin’ like they’d been abandoned in battle. One poor girl tried to rescue it with a tambourine shake, but it just made things worse. Sounded like someone droppin’ cutlery down a drain.

The grand finale of the term was the dreaded live-action nativity play. Every class got lumbered with a scene, which meant the whole school was roped in whether they liked it or not. Now apparently, the angel Gabriel was technically supposed to be a bloke, which had me crossin’ me fingers so hard I nearly gave meself arthritis. No way was I flappin’ around stage in wings and a halo.

But fate had other plans—for Johan. He only went and got cast as the angel himself. I nearly ruptured a lung tryin’ not to laugh when I saw him standin’ centre stage in a white sheet, glittery tissue wings flappin’ behind him, and a halo that kept slippin’ down over his eyes like a rebellious hula hoop. And the worst part? His big “Hail Mary” moment came right at the start—so he had to stand there in sparkly misery for the entire show. Angelic purgatory, that was.

As for me? I got cast as a sheephard. Not shepherd—sheephard. Silent, no lines, and apparently allergic to dignity. I was handed a giant clump of scratchy hay to cradle like it was precious treasure, and stood next to a cardboard donkey that looked like it’d survived three previous productions and possibly a minor flood. Things were goin’ alright—as in, I wasn’t fallin’ over or sneezin’ glitter—until the girl next to me, holdin’ a bowl of plastic corn for the papier-mâché chickens, started goin’ a bit… pink. Then red. Then sort of balloon-y.

Turns out she had hay fever. Serious hay fever. And someone had forgot the antihistamines.

In a moment of heroic panic, I tried to shuffle away—quietly, like I was just repositionin’ me hay. Trouble is, I ended up behind the donkey. From the audience’s point of view, let’s just say… it looked questionable. Like I was about to feed it in a very unscripted manner. Mum said later it was “bold staging.” Dad just choked on his programme.

The narration was handled by a brave girl from the year above who, despite a slight speech issue, marched through every line like a trooper. “Marwee widing the wittle donkey awong the wough woad” she declared, grinnin’ with pride. We all respected the effort, even if half of us were bitin’ our cheeks not to snort.

The big finale had everyone crammed around the manger like a nativity-themed mosh pit. Peace on Earth it weren’t. And just when we thought we’d made it out without incident, the girl playin’ the Star of Bethlehem—an older one with vague ballet ambitions—decided, completely unannounced, to pirouette her way centre stage. She spun once, twice, wobbled, then collapsed mid-dramatic twirl like a wounded pigeon in a tutu.

The heavens may’ve rejoiced—but the rest of us were tryin’ not to wet ourselves.

The parents in the audience seemed delighted—grinnin’ like Cheshire cats, clappin’ like we’d just cured somethin’. Some of ’em even had tears rollin’ down their cheeks—though whether it was from pride, raw emotion, or the questionable use of glitter spray floatin’ off the angel chorus like chemical warfare, it was hard to say. Grown-ups are a mystery like that. One minute they’re cryin’ at a three-legged donkey, next minute they’re takin’ photos of a papier-mâché chicken like it’s the Royal Ballet.

I spotted Mum in the third row, smilin’ like she’d just seen me win the World Cup, even though I was mostly just standin’ there holdin’ hay and avoidin’ eye contact with the donkey. Dad was tryin’ not to laugh, but the second the Star of Bethlehem took her tumble, he let out a snort loud enough to rattle the back row.

Still, we made it to the end. The lights came up, the final carol got warbled, and the crowd went wild—by which I mean polite applause and one dad who shouted “Bravo!” like he was at the opera. Not bad for a sheephard with straw in his armpits.

Good fortune finally smiled on me one crisp morning when, by divine intervention—or more likely dumb luck—I spotted the postman before me brother Tim did. Usually, he got to the doormat first and claimed post-opening rights like some kind of royal privilege. But not today. Today, I was the champion of the hallway. I shuffled through the usual sad pile of brown envelopes and bills addressed to people who hadn’t lived with us since the war, when—bam—there it was.

A letter.

With a proper exotic Swedish stamp in the corner and neat little handwriting addressed to me mum and dad. My detective senses tingled like a nose full of pepper. Something was up.

I legged it to the kitchen and slapped the letter into Mum’s hands like I was passin’ the Olympic torch. She took forever to open it—unfoldin’ the paper like it was a crown jewel wrapped in pastry. Then she read it in silence, with the same face she uses when Dad tells her he’s “fixed” the leaky tap with string and a biro. Totally unreadable. Like a poker player made of stone.

Finally, she looked up and said, all calm-like, “I think I’ll need to discuss this with your father.”

Then she slipped the letter back in the envelope like it was nothin’—nothing—like it were the gas bill or a leaflet about milk deliveries. Meanwhile I stood there flappin’ in the kitchen like a pigeon caught in a teapot, dying to know what it said. Was I bein’ adopted by a Swedish royal family? Was I gettin’ shipped back in a pine box of pickled herring? Were we movin’ to Stockholm to open a cinnamon bun shop?

Still reelin’, I marched straight over to Johan’s place and knocked like the house was on fire.

He opened the door lookin’ far too smug for someone wearin’ slippers. That face—that face—told me everything: he knew. And worse, he wasn’t tellin’. He grinned like a lad who’d just watched someone else step in something awful and was enjoyin’ every second.

Between chuckles, he confessed he’d been sworn to secrecy.

“Until the parents make a decision,” he said.

A decision?! About what?!

My inner drama queen went full Shakespeare. In a last-ditch act of desperation (and mild wrestling instinct), I threw him into a gentle arm lock, demandin’ answers. All I got out of his breathless laughter was one cryptic word: “Christmas.”

Before I could crank the pressure, Ingrid appeared out of nowhere like a referee with the power of ten headteachers. One look. Just one. Eyebrows raised, arms crossed, no nonsense.

She reminded us—calm but firm—that it was in our very best interest to behave. And wait.

I hate waitin’.

The rest of the day dragged slower than a snail on sticky toffee pudding. I paced the house like a prisoner waitin’ for parole, checkin’ the clock every five minutes and swearin’ it was goin’ backwards. Then, at long last, I heard it—the glorious chug of Dad’s car pullin’ up outside.

I sprinted to the window and pressed me face to the glass like a Victorian orphan starin’ into a bakery, heart poundin’. This was it. He was here. The mystery would finally be solved.

Only… he didn’t come in. Nope. He got out the car, stretched like he’d just returned from a mountaintop, then turned on his heel and wandered off towards the corner shop. For cigarettes, no doubt. Always the flaming cigarettes. I very nearly launched a full-scale search and rescue to drag him home—my sanity couldn’t take much more suspense.

When he finally did reappear—wanderin’ through the front door like a well-fed explorer returnin’ from the great unknown—my sisters pounced. Full-body hugs, squealin’ like they’d just met the Beatles. I swear, it felt personal. Like they’d planned it.

Feelin’ wounded and tragically overlooked, I stormed upstairs in dignified silence and found Tim, who was always up for a bit of quiet revenge. We held a quick war council on the bedroom floor—options included Barbie leg surgery or a surprise Cindy makeover involving blunt kitchen scissors and permanent marker eyeliner. Operation Doll Havoc was moments from launch.

Then came the voice.

Mum, shoutin’ us down for dinner. Not loud, not angry—just that certain tone laced with doom. The kind that made even Tim freeze like a rabbit under a lawnmower. No one disobeyed that tone.

We trudged down to the kitchen, bellies rumblin’ and moods unsettled. I took me seat and immediately locked eyes on the letter—still in its envelope—restin’ near Mum’s elbow like some secret weapon.

Then, casual as anything, she slid it across the table to Dad.

This was it. I held my breath, didn’t dare speak. Best strategy now was silence. Stillness. The quiet poise of a gladiator awaitin’ the Emperor’s thumbs up—or down.

Let the judgement begin.

Then came the moment.

Dad looked up from the letter, smiled that smile—the one that meant something good was comin’—and gave me a gentle punch on the arm. “So... you’re off to Sweden for Christmas, son.”

I exploded like a firework in a shoebox.

I whooped. I hollered. I attempted a celebratory cartwheel, which, due to limited lounge space and me tragically poor technique, came out more like a sideways somersault with flair. Still counts. I grabbed Tim and spun him round like he were on a fairground ride—his slippers flew off like missiles, one narrowly missin’ Mum’s poinsettia. Minor miracle it survived.

Then I was gone—out the front door, across the garden, and knockin’ on Johan’s door like a carrier pigeon on espresso. Soon as he opened it, I burst in, arms flappin’, grinnin’ like I’d won the lottery and found the golden ticket in the same week.

Hej Vinka,

I’m writin’ this like me pen’s on fire because I can’t wait to tell you — I’m comin’ for Christmas. Me, in the snow, in Sweden… with you. Can you believe it? I’ve been picturin’ it already: us walkin’ through the village with our breath foggin’ the air, snow crunchin’ under our boots, and me tryin’ not to slip over in front of you.

Tell Marlin to brace herself ‘cause I’m bringin’ my best snowball-throwin’ arm. And tell Petra I’ll bring her something from England… probably not Tim, but I’ll see what I can manage.

Jag saknar dig. A lot.

Stephen

Hej Stephen,

Your letter made me shout out loud — Marlin thought I’d seen a moose in the kitchen. I can’t believe you’re really coming for Christmas! I’m already thinkin’ of everything we can do — snowball fights, skating on the lake, and maybe a little walk to that island we talked about in the summer.

I told Papa and Mama and they smiled in that quiet way they do when they’re secretly pleased. Marlin’s already planning ambushes in the snow. Petra says she’ll save you a seat by the fire, and Greta says she’ll make extra cinnamon buns.

I can’t wait to see you again. I keep rememberin’ the way you waved at the gate in August, and now I get to see you in the snow instead. Hurry up and get here.

Lots of kärlek,

Vinka

I read her letter under the blankets that night, torch balanced on my shoulder, grinnin’ like an idiot. Couldn’t help it — every word felt like it’d been written just for me, right down to her talk of cinnamon buns and that walk to the island. I traced her name at the bottom with my thumb, folded the paper back along the creases, and tucked it under my pillow like it might keep the dream going till Christmas. Somewhere between thinkin’ about her smile and picturin’ snow on the lake, I fell asleep — still wearin’ that grin.

I sat cross-legged on my bed, quilt pulled tight around my shoulders, Stephen’s letter open in my lap. I’d already read it three times, but still I went through it again slowly, tracing the ink as if it might fade if I blinked too long. The part where he wrote about walking in the snow made me smile so wide my cheeks ached. I could almost hear his voice saying Jag saknar dig—awkward and careful, like he was afraid to get it wrong. When I finally folded the paper and tucked it under my pillow, I lay back and stared at the ceiling with a grin I just couldn’t shake. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, but all I felt was the warm fizz of knowing he was really coming.

Ingrid and Harry, ever the sensible adults in the background of our excitement-fuelled sitcom, reminded me that this wasn’t just a spontaneous holiday where you throw a jumper in a bag and hope for the best. This was an expedition.

Apparently, I’d been invited by Johan’s grandparents, Greta and Olaf, to spend Christmas at their winter wonderland retreat northeast of Ellios. Proper magical stuff. Stefan, Ingrid’s older brother—who looked like he could wrestle a moose and win—owned a log cabin near the ski slopes. Every year, the whole clan gathered there like snow-loving penguins, all scarves, ski gear, and hot chocolate.

As soon as I heard “log cabin” and “ski slopes,” me brain lit up like a Christmas tree. I mean sure, I’d miss Nan and Granddad and their annual pudding fireball performance—but Vinka, snow, and adventure?

This Christmas was shapin’ up to be legendary.

Dad had just been promoted at work, which sounded dead impressive at first—until we worked out it mainly meant more paperwork and fewer tea breaks. Still, bless him, he took on some extra overtime to help fund my second international escapade of the year. Me. Jet-settin’ again like a posh diplomat in scuffed shoes.

I did feel a tiny pang of guilt—barely a tickle—about swannin’ off to Sweden while the others were stuck in Blighty. But Mum and Dad were on it. The siblings were swiftly pacified with the promise of a trip to the pantomime (he’s behind you! etc.) and dinner at the Burney Inn, where they could feast on top-shelf delicacies like scampi served in a deep-fried potato basket. Real posh nosh, 1960s style. Nothing says festive cheer like golden breadcrumbs and decorative parsley. Crisis averted. Parental diplomacy: flawless.

Then came the chat. Mum sat me down in the kitchen and broke the news—very seriously—that Father Christmas had been in touch. Via elf-mail, obviously. Apparently, he was wonderin’ if it’d be alright to deliver my presents early this year.

She said his flight path over Sweden’s mountains wasn’t great for the reindeer—altitude issues, frostbite on the antlers, that sort of thing. She even started explainin’ the science behind it, but I waved her off gently, assured her the younger ones were out of earshot, and gave her a nod of understanding.

That’s when I saw it. Just a flicker—her face dropped slightly, like a balloon saggin’ after a party. And that’s when it hit me: parents love the magic of Christmas. All that effort—the winks, the notes, the half-eaten mince pies—it weren’t just for the little ones. It was for them, too.

Mental note: next year, act surprised. Big eyes, open mouth, the whole lot. Not just for the kids. For Mum.

And then it happened. The day. The one I’d been countin’ down to with the feverish hope of a lottery winner clutchin’ a ticket. Not only was it the day before me birthday and the start of the school holidays—it was also the day I was off to Sweden! A perfect storm of presents, parties, and passport stamps.

I practically launched meself out of bed, tore down the stairs, and glided along the banister like a festive penguin on a mission—only to crash-land at the bottom with all the elegance of a sack of spuds. A very excited sack of spuds, mind you.

In the dining room, a glorious mountain of presents awaited, stacked high like treasure in a cartoon pirate cave. Some were wrapped in birthday paper plastered with balloons and wide-eyed cartoon animals, while others wore classic Christmas colours, ribboned and streamered within an inch of their lives—some of it lookin’ suspiciously like it’d been nicked from the nativity props box.

I started with the two smallest ones—clearly shaped like books. Bit of a gamble for a kid, but I was feelin’ mature. Besides, I had a hunch.

And boom—there they were. The Wooden Horse and The Great Escape. My copies. I held ’em aloft like sacred scrolls, ready to be studied by torchlight under foreign duvets. Mission: accomplished.

Unfortunately, while I was havin’ my noble moment of literary glory, the sisters pounced. Like caffeinated elves on a glitter bender, they dove for the biggest box and started unwrappin’ it like wild animals discoverin’ snacks. Paper flew. Bows were flung. The cardboard got dismembered in record time.

The empty, shredded wreckage was dumped at my feet with all the grace of someone takin’ out the bins.

Cheers, girls. Lovely moment. Subtle, it weren’t.

Honestly, you’d think it was their party.

Tim, ever the loyal brother (and top-tier mischief enabler), clocked my wounded expression—the classic look of a boy robbed of his unwrapping rights—and leaned in close with a whisper full of menace and inspiration.

“Shall I fetch the Barbie and Cindy dolls? A little toast under the grill, just enough for a golden glow.”

A vengeful sunbed tan for plastic limbs? Tempting. Very tempting. The image of Barbie sportin’ a crispy caramel sheen had definite appeal. But before Operation Griddle Justice could commence, Mum appeared in the doorway with that look—the one that could freeze lava mid-eruption. Tim and I snapped upright like we’d just been drafted into the army.

Back at the crime scene, I gave the now half-exposed present a proper inspection. It was a suitcase. Not just any suitcase, mind—a sleek blue one, with shiny silver flick-up catches and a lock that actually worked, complete with two tiny silver keys. My initials—S.P.H.—were embossed in the corner like I was someone important. Like royalty. Or someone who packs his own socks and doesn’t mix up pants with pyjamas.

I tried to play it cool. Gave it the ol’ raised eyebrow and calm nod. Then turned to Mum with a twinkle in me eye and said, “Tell the elves they’ve outdone themselves this year. Spot on.”

She smiled in that quiet way mums do when they’re tryin’ not to cry over a suitcase and some cheeky elf banter.

Just when I thought the day couldn’t possibly get any better—what with the birthday buzz, travel hype, and a narrow escape from Cindy doll vengeance—Harry goes and drops an absolute bombshell of brilliance.

Real casual, like he’s talkin’ about the weather, he says, “Oh, by the way, the travel agent rang. There’s been a change.”

A change. I blinked.

Then came the news that nearly knocked me off me chair: a special deal on flights for families, cheaper than the ferry. Cheaper than the ferry! We weren’t chuggin’ across the North Sea in a tin can this time—we were flying. To Gothenburg. That very afternoon. From Luton.

I swear me heart did a little Irish jig, and me grin stretched so wide it nearly met at the back. But I tried to play it cool, real smooth. Couldn’t have spontaneous combustion before I got to the cake.

Mum, meanwhile, had already entered full diplomatic crisis mode. I caught her in the living room, flickin’ through the local paper like a Cold War spy tryin’ to decrypt enemy transmissions. Every page turned with purpose. She was huntin’ for bribes—pantomime vouchers, cinema deals, “kids eat free” offers—anything that’d stop the rest of the crew from startin’ a revolution once they realised I was about to jet off like some pint-sized international playboy.

I watched as a “2-for-1 at the lido” coupon floated to the floor, and I knew—negotiations were well underway.

Some mums cook dinner. Mine ran covert sibling operations with glitter, gravy, and discount theatre tickets.

Dad, meanwhile, was havin’ his own action hero moment. Freshly promoted from “bloke doin’ a few taxi shifts” to “actual taxi firm boss,” he strode through the front door like James Bond in a duffle coat—car keys in hand, collar turned up, and that smug glint in his eye that said I’ve got this.

“No cabs,” he announced. “I’m drivin’.”

That was it. Final word. No fuss, no waiting around for someone called Barry in a tatty Ford Granada. Just Dad behind the wheel, a boot full of luggage, and the kind of calm timing that made you wonder if he hadn’t orchestrated the entire trip in secret. M I 5 should’ve had him on the payroll.

We were off to Gothenburg. On a plane. A real, actual plane. Scandinavian Airlines, thank you very much. And at the other end? Olaf, waitin’ with his trusty Volvo, ready to whisk us away to a snow-covered lodge in the Swedish mountains. The kind of place you see in Christmas films and think, nah, no one actually lives like that. But they do. And we were goin’ there. I wasn’t just in a Christmas movie—I was starrin’ in it.

It was my first ever time flyin’, and I was vibratin’ with excitement like a shaken bottle of Tizer. Just waitin’ for someone to crack the lid and boom, I’d take off before the plane did. Johan, seasoned traveller and proud veteran of at least half a dozen international journeys, took it upon himself to be my personal airport guide. He was very serious about it. Had the tone of a museum curator mixed with a scout leader.

“That’s the check-in counter,” he said, pointin’ like David Attenborough narratin’ my life. “You give them your bag there. Then we go through passport control. And those screens? They tell us where the plane’s hidin’. It’s not magic, but it feels like it.”

And he was right. It did. The whole airport buzzed like King’s Cross at rush hour—only without the pigeons and with way more polished shoes. Everything gleamed. There was carpet, actual carpet, soft under your feet instead of scuffed lino or cold, metal grating. Even the chairs were posh, covered in real fabric. Not a spine-snappin’ metal bench in sight.

I sat back, clutchin’ my passport like it was made of gold, grinnin’ so hard my cheeks hurt. This was it. I was off to Sweden for Christmas—with snow, skis, and Vinka waitin’ on the other side.

And I hadn’t even got to the plane snacks yet.

We found our departure gate and had about half an hour to kill before the tannoy croaked to life with that robotic monotone that somehow managed to sound both bored and slightly threatening: “Flight S-A-S to Gothenburg now boarding through Gate Five…”

Luckily, we were already loiterin’ like pros—bags at the ready, boarding passes clutched, snacks pre-positioned—so the second that announcement wheezed through the speaker, we sprang into action like it was a race. Straight to the front of the queue. No messin’.

I’d been rehearsin’ all week for this moment—literally in the mirror. My best “I-am-absolutely-not-a-suspicious-person” face, just in case they pulled me aside for lookin’ like a very small international criminal. Clearly, it worked. I sailed through passport control like I was born for it. Not so much as a squint from the security bloke.

All those books on escape and evasion? Finally payin’ off. I felt like a junior secret agent—if MI6 ever issued their recruits a Thermos and a packed lunch.

I’d imagined the big plane moment all week: marchin’ across the tarmac, wind in my hair, coat flappin’ behind me, climbin’ the steps like a film star or a rock band about to go on tour. But no. Real airports aren’t that glamorous. We got funneled into a long grey tunnel that looked like it was designed by someone who hated joy, and the next thing I knew, we were poppin’ out the side of the plane like toast from a very expensive toaster.

And there they were.

The stewardesses.

Impossibly elegant. Navy blue uniforms sharper than a maths teacher’s glare. Lipstick so shiny it could redirect runway traffic. And the hats—tiny works of engineering, like someone had hired a Swiss watchmaker to sit on their heads and sculpt perfection. I was gobsmacked. Proper mesmerised. Like I’d walked into a glamour magazine by accident.

So was Harry, apparently—until Ingrid jabbed him in the ribs with the universal language of behave yourself. He blinked, coughed, and immediately started talkin’ about seat belts like he’d been hypnotised.

We handed over our boarding passes, nodded like seasoned travellers, and stepped onto the plane.

This was it. Wheels up. Sweden-bound. International agent S.P.H. reporting for duty—with a window seat, a squashy neck pillow, and a head full of snow-covered dreams.

I bagged the window seat—prime real estate, the penthouse suite of air travel. Johan slid in beside me like a seasoned flyer, calm as you like, while Ingrid took the aisle seat with the steely focus of someone who took the phrase seatbelt fastened as a personal mission. Official Seatbelt Enforcer. No wrigglin’, no slouchin’, no excuses.

Each row had three seats, which meant poor Harry got banished directly behind me. Probably hopin’—prayin’—that I’d forget how to kick. I didn’t. But I did remember that he’d threatened me with lifelong earache if I so much as grazed his shin. So I reined it in. Sort of.

The seats were upholstered in slippery blue leather, the kind that made you feel like you were sittin’ on a bouncy castle while wearin’ your Sunday best. Every time I shifted, I slid about an inch sideways, like I was slowly meltin’ into the aisle.

Me feet didn’t reach the floor, so I let ’em dangle like a bored marionette on a tea break. The tray table was right in front of me—flat, shiny, and full of temptation. So was the armrest button, which made the seat lean back just a bit, like a noddin’ dog. And don’t get me started on the twisty little air nozzle overhead. You could spin that thing for hours.

But most dangerous of all… was the call button. Glowy. Mysterious. Just asking for trouble.

In a rare act of maturity—probably triggered by the weight of international travel and Ingrid’s silent death stare—I sat on me hands. Quite literally. Wedged ’em under me legs and refused to budge. I would not be that kid. Not today.

Not until after snacks, anyway.

Then came the safety demonstration—a kind of in-flight charades performed by the stewardesses, who acted out the art of life jacket inflation with such elegance you half expected jazz hands at the end. One of them pointed to the exits like she was auditionin’ for a West End musical titled Brace for Impact. It was all very serious and polite and slightly hypnotisin’. I gave Johan a sideways glance. He just raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “Watch the bit with the whistle.” It was the best part.

The plane began to taxi, rolling slowly along like it was sneakin’ out for a cheeky cigarette behind the airport. I held my breath

Then—vroooom—we were off like a startled greyhound.

The engines roared, the world blurred, and I was pinned back into me seat like someone had hit the “flatten small child” button. For a moment, I genuinely thought me eyebrows might’ve been left behind on the tarmac. My ears popped like cheap popcorn and my belly fizzed like I’d swallowed a whole sherbet bomb. When the plane banked left, I slid slightly sideways, all squirmy on the shiny blue leather, like a bar of soap on a bathroom floor. I clung to the armrest like a nervous pensioner on a rollercoaster, tryin’ to play it cool while silently sayin goodbye to gravity.

But oh, the view.

Out the window, everything looked miniature. Little blinking traffic lights, tiny buildings that could’ve come from a Monopoly board, and roads that looped and swirled like someone had let a toddler loose with a crayon. We flew over neat little farms, twisty rivers, laser-straight railway lines—and then, through gaps in the cloud, I spotted the edge of the coast. It was faint and ghostly, like a dream someone half-remembered.

Out over the sea, I pressed my nose to the glass, hopin’ to spot a ferry… or maybe, if the universe was feelin’ generous, a Viking longship with billowy sails and proper drama. No luck. Just clouds. But not just any clouds—massive cottony puffballs, floatin’ beneath us like someone had ripped open the world’s softest duvet.

And above? Pure sunshine. Blazin’ gold, like we’d flown straight into a heavenly lampshade.

I was buzzin’. My very first flight, and it was already the best thing ever. Planes were amazing. Sky was amazing. Clouds? Also amazing.

And somewhere beneath that fluffy blanket, waitin’ in the snow, was Sweden—and me first ever Christmas away from home.