‘But he didn’t have it,’ said Michael.

  ‘Not the real head, no,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But he made a copy of Medusa’s head out of papier-mâché and lolly snakes. The king loved eating lolly snakes, and as he grabbed up the head and started scoffing them, Perseus was able to sneak away with his mother and they lived happily ever after – or at least until he got into his next dreadful pickle. As all heroes do in the ancient Greek story days.

  ‘I don’t think that’s the version my teacher has heard of,’ said Samantha.

  ‘No, the problem is, the story was originally written down by Perseus and he edited it to make himself look better,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Never trust an editor, children. But don’t worry, if your teacher gives you a bad mark, I can ring cousin Medusa and get her to drop by his classroom if you like.’

  The end.

  Fun Fact

  Medusa’s image is featured on the flag of Sicily. Her head is in the centre of three rotating, naked legs. It might look a bit weird to anyone not from Sicily, but it’s a combination of ancient symbols. It might be that they thought Medusa protected their island.

  Michael was not a happy boy when he got off the bus after school.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘Did the wind change direction when you were thinking about brussels sprouts and now your facial expression is permanently stuck that way? I know that is the way my face looks when I think about vegetables, which is why I try to never walk past a greengrocer on a windy day.’

  ‘He’s upset because he got in trouble at school,’ said Samantha sympathetically.

  ‘No!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Do you need me to go down there and give the Headmaster a piece of my mind? Because you know I quite enjoy doing that, so it would be no trouble at all.’

  ‘You’d better not,’ said Derrick. ‘The Headmaster got a panic button installed in his office after the last time you gave him a piece of your mind, about the brutality of cross country running.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘All I was suggesting was that if there was an ice-cream van parked at the finish line, the children would run much more quickly because they’d actually want to get there. If you had an ice-cream van at the start line as well, they would be properly fuelled. Really, the most sensible thing to do would be to park ice-cream vans at one-kilometre intervals around the entire course. If he had stayed long enough for me to explain, he would have realised that my suggestions were deeply sensible and would have led to happier children as well as improved running results. But no, he leapt out the window and ran away from me – ironically showing impressive foot speed for a forty-seven-year-old.’

  ‘It was nothing like that,’ said Michael. ‘I got in trouble for arguing with a teacher.’

  ‘How can you get in trouble for arguing?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘I thought schools like arguing. They call it “debating”, apply lots of rules and suck all the fun out of it.’

  ‘I don’t think teachers like it when you argue with them,’ said Derrick.

  ‘What did you argue about?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Well, my teacher said he was going to teach us about the greatest storyteller of all time,’ said Michael. ‘So I thought that he meant we were going to have a lesson about you. I was expecting you to come and give us all a slice of cake and tell us a story. But no, he said the greatest storyteller of all time was someone called . . . Scheherazade.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It is lovely of you to champion my cause. But in your teacher’s defence, and as you know I don’t normally defend teachers, I can see why he might think that Scheherazade was so good.’

  ‘You can?’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Because, you see, Scheherazade was a distant relative of mine.’

  ‘She was?’ said Michael.

  ‘Of course,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Scheherazade was so brilliant and so beautiful she tricked a king into not killing one thousand and one women. So, of course, she was a Piggins!’

  ‘And Scheherazade was a pig?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said – she was brilliant and beautiful,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Do try and listen.’

  ‘Sorry, Nanny Piggins,’ said Derrick.

  ‘But I thought they didn’t have pigs in the Middle East,’ said Michael.

  ‘They don’t eat pigs in the Middle East,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Which is one of the many reasons theirs is such a wonderful society.’

  ‘So how did Scheherazade come to trick the king?’ asked Samantha.

  ‘If I’m going to tell the story properly,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’d better whip up a Persian love cake with cardamom, rose water and almond flour so we can have the appropriate snack food.’

  Once Nanny Piggins had baked this deliciously aromatic cake, they all settled around on the sofa so she could tell the children and Boris the tale of her distant relative.

  A long time ago, in the ancient Persian story days, there was a great king. He was so great, in fact, that he was king of all the other kings. He ruled all the land from India to Persia and his name was King Schah-riar. He was married to a beautiful queen. He worked hard to be a good king. And everything was going along splendidly. At least that’s what he thought . . .

  But no matter how good you are a being a king, there is always someone who’s unhappy. Usually quite a lot of people who are unhappy. If for no other reason than they are jealous of just how well everything is going for you. You see, it is a sorry fact of human nature that everyone always looks at a successful person and thinks they could do a better job than them.

  So the King thought everything was great but it wasn’t, really. That’s the other thing about being a king, people are always reluctant to tell you that things aren’t tickety-boo, especially in the ancient story days when kings had the power to chop people’s heads off. When you have the power to chop anyone’s head off, it’s amazing how agreeable people will go out of their way to be.

  ‘How could he be a good king if he was cutting people’s heads off?’ asked Michael. ‘That sounds bad.’

  ‘If you’re going round cutting people’s heads off,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘then everyone is going to tell you that’s a super fantastic thing to do, simply because they like their head attached to their body. It’s just common sense when your ruler has no common sense.’

  So anyway, the king thought everything was going perfectly, so he decided to have a day off and go hunting.

  ‘Because he didn’t get to kill enough things at his palace,’ said Samantha.

  ‘We mustn’t judge him by our modern standards,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  A king has to eat. And Uber Eats had not been invented yet, so in the ancient story days, hunting was a necessity. Also galloping around the countryside on horseback was fun, so the King was looking forward to it. Unfortunately, he’d only gone a short distance from the castle when he realised he’d forgotten something important.

  ‘What had he forgotten?’ asked Michael.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  It must have been something very important, because he went back for it. He was hunting in the desert, so perhaps he went back for a sun hat, or a water bottle, or some lip balm. Desert winds can chap your lips dreadfully if you don’t moisturise properly. So he told his hunting party to wait for him while he nipped back to the palace for the lip balm. He promised to be as quick as he could.

  The King galloped back, hurried in the back door and nipped up the servant’s stairs to his royal suite. But as he drew close to the room, he heard voices. He heard his wife plotting with his chief advisor.

  ‘If you cut the King’s head off,’ said the Queen. ‘I’ll pretend to be really sad for a couple of weeks. Then I’ll marry you. You’ll become King and we can rule the whole kingdom together!’

  The King was really cross about this. He burst into the room, denounced them both for their treachery and chopped their heads off.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Samantha.

  ‘It must have made a lot of mess in his bedroom,’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But he was the king, so I doubt he had to clean it up himself.’

  After that day, the King was a changed man. He realised that no one really liked him – they were just nice because he was the king, which meant he couldn’t trust anyone, no matter what they might say. He vowed he would never trust a woman again. But a king has to be married –

  ‘Why?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I think it’s in the rules. Anyway . . .’

  The King came up with a plan. From that day forth, every day he would marry a new woman. Then the next morning he would chop her head off.

  ‘That’s a really horrible plan,’ said Derrick.

  Yes, but no-one was going to point that out to a sword-wielding king in the middle of a temper tantrum. So, it fell to his chief advisor to find the King his next wife.

  ‘This story is awful,’ said Samantha.

  ‘Yes, dear, I know,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘Stories so often are. But please do remember, all this took place in the ancient fictional past, so you don’t have to worry too much about the people involved.’

  Samantha nodded. She didn’t really understand, but she would try to.

  So, the King ordered his chief advisor, or Vizier as he was called in the ancient Persian story days, to find him a wife.

  The Vizier went home from work that night a very unhappy man. The following day, he would have to find a young woman to marry the King, and the day after that, he would be the one who would have to chop her head off. Being Vizier to the king of kings was not a fun job.

  Now, it just so happened, that this Vizier had two daughters himself and the eldest one’s name was . . . Scheherazade. When her father came in and explained his awful dilemma, Scheherazade said she knew the solution. He must present her as a wife for the King.

  The Vizier wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t want to lose his precious daughter. Especially as he would be the one who’d have to cut her head off himself.

  But Scheherazade was brave and determined. ‘Never fear, father. No one will be decapitating me.’

  ‘But we cannot defy the King,’ worried the Vizier.

  ‘Of course not,’ agreed Scheherazade. ‘But we can trick him a little bit. I will get my sister to help.’

  ‘I don’t want to help!’ protested the younger sister. ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with a king who wants to cut girls’ heads off.’

  ‘The younger sister was a deeply sensible girl,’ explained Nanny Piggins.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Scheherazade assured her. ‘No harm will come to you. All I request is that on my wedding night, you come and knock at the door of the royal suite. I will answer the door and give you a slice of cake. Then you can go away and eat it. I shall take care of the rest.’

  ‘Will it be a slice of cake made by you?’ asked the sister.

  ‘Of course,’ said Scheherazade.

  ‘Then I’ll do it!’ said the sister. She knew Scheherazade was brilliant at baking, so it was worth risking having her head sliced off for a chance at eating a slice of her cake.

  The next morning, the Vizier took his beautiful, clever daughter – Scheherazade – to the King and offered her up to marry him. The King was impressed. Scheherazade was a Piggins, so she was, of course, staggeringly beautiful and magnetically charismatic. He would have been a fool to refuse. And he was not a fool. Well, actually, he was, but not that foolish.

  The King and Scheherazade were married that afternoon. That night, they retired to their bed chamber. They were just settling down to bed, when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Who could that be?’ asked the King.

  ‘Oh, that’s just my little sister,’ said Scheherazade. ‘She can never sleep at night until I’ve given her a slice of cake. I made one earlier. You won’t mind if I give her a slice quickly, will you?’

  This seemed like an odd request, but the King was planning to cut Scheherazade’s head off the next day, so he didn’t want her to think he was a total ogre. ‘I suppose not,’ he said begrudgingly.

  ‘Thank you, husband,’ said Scheherazade, with which she reached under the bed and pulled out a box. When she took off the lid, the most amazing smell wafted out into the room. The smell of sugar, butter, more sugar, more butter and chocolate.

  ‘What on earth is that wonderful smell?’ asked the King.

  ‘What, this?’ asked Scheherazade. ‘Oh, this is just my octo-choc-chocolate cake made with eight different types of chocolate. Chocolate frosting, chocolate sprinkles, chocolate cream filling, chocolate chips, chocolate sauce, chocolate ice-cream, chocolate reinforcement logs and a block of chocolate on the top and bottom.’

  The King was agog.

  You have to understand that solid chocolate was not invented by humans until 1847. And ice was not common in the deserts of Persia. So, this one cake incorporated so many deliciousness-technologies that were, prior to this point, unknown to man. They were secrets closely guarded by the pig community. As such, the cake blew his mind. Not literally, because even pigs didn’t have access to gun powder, but his mind could not cope with comprehending the wonder of the cake before him.

  Before the King could speak, Scheherazade hopped up from the bed and hurried over to the door with the cake.

  ‘Hello, my dear sister, have you come for your nightly slice of cake?’ asked Scheherazade Piggins.

  ‘Um . . . yes,’ said the sister.

  ‘Good, here you go,’ said Scheherazade. She deftly cut her sister a generous slice, handed it over and closed the door. Then went back to the box and started putting the cake away.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded the King.

  ‘Just putting the cake away so we can go to bed,’ said Scheherazade. ‘I want to get a good night’s sleep if I’m having my head chopped off tomorrow.’

  ‘There’s no rush,’ said the King. ‘Um . . . perhaps I could try a slice of that cake.’

  ‘You?’ said Scheherazade. ‘Oh no, you’re just being polite. I know you don’t want a slice. Look at you, you’re an elite athlete with your rippling muscles and swarthy good looks. You don’t want to eat something with so many calories.’

  ‘Yes, I do!’ said the King. ‘I mean . . . in the interest of open-mindedness, I would like to try a small bite.’

  ‘Oh, all right, that’s very sweet of you to say,’ said Scheherazade. ‘I’ll give you a slice. But don’t feel you have to eat it. If it’s utterly revolting, just spit it out on the floor. I won’t mind at all.’

  So Scheherazade cut the King a slice, put it on a solid gold plate – because Kings only eat off the very best – handed him a cake fork and sat back while he tried it.

  As soon as the cake touched the King’s taste buds, his brain was overwhelmed with joy. It was the most delicious cake ever made in all history until that point. The chocolate sponge was perfectly spongy, the cream was perfectly creamy, the sprinkles perfectly sprinkly. It was divine. The King loved every morsel.

  ‘Mmmmm-mmmm-mmm,’ said the King.

  ‘You like it?’ asked Scheherazade.

  The King wanted to say yes, oh yes, that was spectacular, delicious, joyous and rewarding. But only one word could emerge from his lips. ‘More,’ he begged.

  ‘You’d like another slice?’ asked Scheherazade.

  ‘Yes please, pretty please, please, please,’ said the King.

  And since he had asked so nicely, Scheherazade cut him another. The king soon gobbled that up too. So Scheherazade cut him another and another. Soon the whole cake was gone.

  ‘That was magnificent,’ said the King. ‘The most wonderful thing I’ve ever eaten.’

  ‘Really?’ said Scheherazade. ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘What’s a shame?’ asked the King.

  ‘Well, if you like my octo-choc-chocolate cake, you’d adore my sticky date cake with extra stickiness,’ said Scheherazade.

  ‘I would?’ asked the King

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Scheherazade Piggins. ‘The trick is to use so much sugar it sucks all the moisture out of your tongue when you eat it, so all the taste from the cake floods directly into your taste buds.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful,’ said the King, starting to feel hungry again.

  ‘But you’ll never get to try it,’ said Scheherazade, as she snuggled down under her doona. ‘Because I’m being executed in the morning. Nighty-night.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ said the King. ‘If I postponed the execution by just one day, would you make me this cake?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Scheherazade. ‘You’re my husband. I’d love to make you a cake.’

  So, the following day, Scheherazade was not executed. The King went about his kingly duties. And that night they retired to the royal suite.

  Scheherazade climbed into bed and snuggled down under the covers. ‘Nighty-night. It’s been lovely being married to you today,’ she said. ‘Don’t feel you have to get up early to witness my execution.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said the King. ‘What about my cake?’

  ‘What cake?’ asked Scheherazade.

  ‘You promised to bake me a sticky date cake with extra stickiness,’ said the King.

  ‘Oh yes, so I did,’ said Scheherazade. ‘Do you still want that?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the King.

  ‘I’ll just nip downstairs and whip one up for you,’ said Scheherazade.

  Scheherazade bustled down to the kitchen. The King could hear her banging about with pots and pans and mixing bowls. A couple of hours later, she re-entered with a piping-hot sticky date cake with extra sticky sauce.

  The King didn’t ever bother cutting a slice or putting it on a plate, he just fell on the cake and shovelled it straight into his mouth with his hands. ‘Mmm-mmmmm-mmmm,’ said the King.

  ‘Oh, you like it?’ said Scheherazade.