The firefighters had been lovely guests. They’d let Michael climb the ladder on their truck and use the fire hose to water Mrs Roncoli’s daffodils. Admittedly, her daffodils were now embedded a foot deep in the soil from the force of the high-pressure water blast, but Michael had tried to do something neighbourly and that was the main thing.

  ‘Why don’t you tell us a story?’ suggested Derrick.

  ‘All right,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But which one? My stories are so exciting they may wake you up even more.’

  ‘Perhaps it will wake us up so much that we become tired again,’ said Michael.

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Okay, I will tell you a story about my great-great-great-times-eighty-seven-greats cousin Arthur.’

  ‘You don’t often tell us stories about your boy relatives,’ said Samantha.

  ‘Arthur wasn’t a boy,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘What on earth would make you think that?’

  ‘Arthur is a boy’s name,’ said Derrick.

  ‘Pish,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It is now, because Arthur Piggins was so wonderful, parents wanted to name their sons after her.’

  ‘What did she do?’ asked Michael. He assumed that, being a Piggins, she had invented a fabulous dessert. Perhaps the first crème brûlée. He’d seriously consider naming his future children after her if she had.

  ‘She accidentally became king of Britain,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘What?!’ said Derrick.

  ‘You’d better snuggle around and get comfy,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It is quite a story.’ The children pulled up their doonas and snuggled around. ‘It all started when my dear cousin Arthur was walking home after a long day squiring.’

  ‘She was a squire?’ asked Samantha.

  ‘Yes, in the ancient Celtic story days, being a squire was not a bad job,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘All you had to do was follow a knight around, carrying things for him, then hand him the things when he asked for it.’

  ‘Why didn’t she become a knight?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘Because that is a dreadful job,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘I thought knights were brave and glamorous,’ said Michael.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They did get to dress up in fancy outfits and people had to bow to them all the time. And that bit was nice. But the majority of what knights had to do was very tedious. You see, knights had to be chivalrous and honourable at all times. Which meant they were forever having to challenge people to duels.’

  If someone spoke ill of the king, if someone disrespected a lady, if someone forgot to indicate when they were turning right – anything like that – and the knight would be honour-bound to challenge them to a duel. And duelling meant jousting, which was galloping your horse at another person, while you had a great long spear in your arm, which you used to knock them off their horse. That’s where my cousin Arthur came in – knights had to have a squire following them around carrying this great long spear, just in case they had to be in a duel.

  Anyway, enough of the technical details. Let’s get on with the story. Arthur was walking home after a long day squiring. She’d picked up some dinner on the way. She’d treated herself to a double extra-large chocolate cake from the bakery, but she was so hungry she couldn’t wait to get home. She didn’t want to faint from exhaustion, so she sat down on a rock in the churchyard and took out her cake. But there was a problem – the cake was so double extra-large, she couldn’t actually fit the whole thing in her mouth at once!

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Boris.

  ‘It was quite distressing,’ agreed Nanny Piggins.

  How Arthur wished she could have been a snake and dislocated her jaw so she could shove the whole thing in. But she was a practical pig. She soon realised she would have to cut the cake in half so she could get it into her mouth cleanly in two bites. But squires don’t carry swords themselves, so she had nothing to cut with. Arthur looked to see if there was a sword lying around nearby and as luck would have it, there was one right behind her.

  Someone had stuck a sword into the stone she was sitting on. So, Arthur grabbed the hilt of the sword, pulled it out of the stone and chopped her cake in half. She was just about to pop the sword back in the stone and gobble up her cake when things exploded. People started rushing out from everywhere and yelling at her. Naturally, she reacted instinctively. The first thing she did was shove both pieces of cake in her mouth before anyone could stop her. Then she was too busy enjoying the divine taste to pay attention to all the yelling and commotion. But, eventually, she opened her eyes and she was horrified to discover hundreds of people kneeling before her.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ demanded Arthur. ‘You can kneel all you like, but I’ve already swallowed my cake, so if you want some, it’s too late.’

  ‘Long live the King!’ exclaimed a man in the crowd.

  Then the whole rest of the crowd started chanting the same thing. ‘Long live the King! Long live the King!’

  Arthur looked over her shoulder to see if there was a monarch standing behind her that she hadn’t noticed before she sat down. But there wasn’t.

  ‘What are you going on about?’ she demanded. ‘Can’t a pig sit down to enjoy a nice slice of cake without being bothered by worshipful crowds?

  ‘Your most-revered, highest majesty,’ said a man close to the front. ‘We kneel before you as your loyal subjects.’

  ‘What?’ said Arthur.

  ‘You hold the sword,’ said the man. ‘Whosoever draws the sword from the stone is the one true king of Britain.’

  ‘This sword?’ asked Arthur. ‘Why on earth do you leave it lying about in the middle of a public square if it’s so important?’

  ‘No one but you has been able to draw it from the stone,’ explained the man. ‘Knights from across the realm have travelled here to try and draw it forth, but none have been able to. None until you.’

  ‘Really?’ said Arthur. ‘They should consider including more cake in their diets. Perhaps they don’t have enough upper-body strength because they aren’t eating enough healthy food. Cake is full of all sorts of vital ingredients like butter and sugar and eggs. I know if I don’t get to eat eight or nine cakes a day, I can feel a little weak myself.’

  ‘You are now our leader,’ said the man.

  ‘That’s just ridiculous,’ said Arthur. ‘I’d really prefer not to take on the responsibility. I have things to do. Cakes to bake, cakes to eat, cakes to think about eating. I’ll just pop this sword back and you can get somebody else to pull it out.’

  Arthur shoved the sword back in the stone.

  A great big man lunged forward. ‘I am Sir Galbraith. And now that this pig has loosened the sword, I’ll have a go.’ He grabbed the hilt and pulled hard. But the sword did not budge.

  ‘Let me try,’ cried an athletic young knight. But it wouldn’t budge for him either.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Arthur. ‘I never realised humans were so puny.’ She grabbed the hilt of the sword and pulled it out of the stone again. Everyone gasped. ‘It’s not hard at all.’

  Just then, an old man with a long white beard, a walking staff and wizard’s robes started making his way through the crowd. People drew aside to let him through.

  ‘’Tis Merlin the magician!’ cried a voice from the crowd.

  Arthur groaned. ‘Not a magician,’ she complained. ‘You’re not going to do party tricks are you? Because if you pull a coin out of my ear, I absolutely refuse to be impressed. If you found a pavlova in there, that might make me revise my opinion. I did enjoy that cake, but I could squeeze in something creamy and meringuey.’

  ‘It was I, Merlin, who set the sword in the stone,’ continued Merlin. ‘I cast powerful magic over the stone, so only the one true king could draw it forth.’

  ‘Really?’ said Arthur Piggins. ‘That sounds like a very silly way of choosing a king. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have a job interview? Sword-pulling ability isn’t really a good measure of leadership.’

  ‘You are the one true king,’ said Merlin. ‘When you were born, many, many moons ago . . .’

  ‘Hey, less with the many, many, thank you,’ snapped Arthur. ‘It’s rude to talk about a lady’s age. I’ll have you know I’m twenty-one and have been for several years now.’

  ‘Your father entrusted you to my safe keeping,’ said Merlin. ‘I gave you to a loyal knight to raise in secrecy.’

  ‘You gave away somebody else’s baby?!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘You probably shouldn’t tell people about it. It doesn’t reflect well on your character. In fact, you could get in a lot of trouble with the police.’

  ‘Your true father was Uther Pendragon, King of the Britons,’ said Merlin. ‘You are the true heir to his crown. It is your duty to lead your people.’

  ‘Urgh,’ groaned Arthur Piggins. ‘Very well, I shall be your king. But I’m not going to go around fighting all your battles for you – that seems unnecessarily violent. I’m going to agree to be your king only because you’re all obviously suffering from terrible vitamin deficiencies if you can’t even pull a sword out of a stone.’

  And that is exactly what she did. Arthur saw to it that all the children of Britain ate cake three times a day. Four times a day on weekends and public holidays.

  ‘What a wonderful woman,’ admired Boris.

  ‘She actually did end up having to fight many battles and wars,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Because these horrible Saxons kept invading the country, trying to steal all the delicious cake in the land. Which was understandable. When you have a king who ensures the highest standard of baking, of course you’re going to get international armies invading if for no other reason than because they are hungry. But Arthur Piggins and her cake-strong army saw them all off. The people loved her for it. She established many great traditions such as the round table for her knights to sit around.’

  ‘I’ve heard about that,’ said Derrick. ‘King Arthur built a round table so there would be no head or foot to the table and all the knights would meet as equals.’

  ‘That’s not the reason at all,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Arthur had the table built because the cakes she made were so good, all the knights would fight over who got the biggest first slice. So she got them to sit about a round table. That way, when she put a cake in the middle, they would all be an equal distance from it. And when she shouted, ‘Three, two, one – EAT!’, they would all have a fair chance of grabbing the biggest piece.’

  ‘What a wise monarch,’ admired Boris.

  ‘And so Arthur ruled over a time of great prosperity and happiness and cake baking, and she has been remembered throughout history as the greatest king to rule Britain.’

  ‘It’s funny that the history books never mention that she is a woman,’ said Derrick.

  ‘Or a pig,’ added Michael.

  ‘I know,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘Historians never do pay any attention to detail. If they did, they’d get a proper job – like a pastry chef – where attention to detail is important. All right, the end, time for bed.’

  Although she didn’t really need to say so, because Samantha and Michael were fast asleep and Derrick was halfway there too.

  The end.

  Fun Fact

  King Arthur lived in Wales. In stories he’s described as being King of the Britons, but these were the ancient Celtic Britons, back in the time before all the waves of invaders from France, Germany and Scandinavia (but after the invaders from Rome). King Arthur ruled Briton from his castle, called ‘Camelot’, which was in North Wales. He didn’t live anywhere near London, Windsor or Balmoral (Scotland), where the British royal family lives today.

  It was late. Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children were sitting on the couch. They had just finished off their fifth helpings of second dessert, so none of them had the energy to do anything. Not even get up and switch the TV on, which wouldn’t have been hard because the remote control was sitting on the coffee table. They certainly were too sugar-laden to be able to face the walk upstairs to bed yet, so Derrick came up with a brilliant diversionary tactic. ‘Nanny Piggins, why don’t you tell us a story?’

  Nanny Piggins didn’t want to walk upstairs either, and talking seemed a lot easier than walking, so she announced, ‘Very well. Children, I am about to tell you a story that will shock you.’

  ‘Not the one about the talking parrot and the Romanian tax inspector?’ asked Boris.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘There are children present. Some things are not suitable for youthful ears.’

  ‘Or bear ears,’ said Boris. ‘I didn’t sleep for a week after hearing about that. But I knew the parrot personally, so I knew for a fact she only spoke the truth.’

  ‘I was going to tell the story of . . . Chicken Little,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Is it about a little chicken?’ asked Michael.

  This may seem a strange question, but Nanny Piggins’ stories often involved revelations that it was in fact her fabulously glamorous distant pig relatives who were really the stars of the famous fairytales or historical events we all know today.

  ‘No, it’s a story about a chicken who was a perfectly normal-sized chicken,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It was her brain that was little. But people thought it would be rude to call her Chicken Little-Brain, which was her full name, so they abbreviated that to Chicken Little.’

  ‘Hang about,’ said Derrick. ‘I’ve heard the story of Chicken Little. Isn’t it about a boy chicken?’

  Nanny Piggins looked at Derrick, trying to figure out if he was joking. ‘My dear boy,’ she said. ‘If the story were about a boy it would be called “Rooster Little”. Chickens are all girls.’

  The children thought about this. They realised it was true, but they also reflected that every version of ‘Chicken Little’ they had ever heard had Chicken Little as a boy. Life could be very confusing.

  ‘Was this chicken a cousin of yours?’ asked Samantha.

  ‘Again,’ said Nanny Piggins slowly, because she was beginning to fear for the size of the children’s brains, ‘she was a chicken. I am a pig.’

  ‘Yes, but Boris is a bear and he is your brother,’ argued Michael. ‘So it seems possible that you could have a cousin who is a chicken.’

  ‘Fair point,’ conceded Nanny Piggins. ‘But no, in this case, she was not a relative. At least, not to my knowledge. It is a Germanic folktale and it’s always hard to know about the Bavarian branch of the Piggins family. It’s a mystery what they get up to in the depths of the Black Forest . . . other than eating Black Forest Cherry Cake. Although I’m pretty sure that does take up the majority of their time.’

  ‘Anyway, she was walking through the forest, looking for something to eat,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Probably optimistically hoping to find a nice slice of Black Forest Cherry Cake when KAPOW! She was knocked to the ground by a violent blow.’

  ‘Oh gosh,’ said Boris. ‘Woods are so dangerous. If it isn’t the wolves, it’s the wood cutters with their axes! Once the wolves start carrying axes, we’ll all be doomed.’

  ‘Calm yourself, Boris,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It was neither an axe nor a wolf that had struck her. She had been hit on the head by a falling acorn.’

  ‘Just an acorn?’ asked Derrick.

  Barry Nichols (the school bully) threw acorns, liquid amber seed pods and even gravel at Derrick all the time, which was deeply unpleasant, but it never knocked him to the ground. Except the one time Barry had found a bunya bunya pine seed pod, which was the size and weight of a watermelon. That had hurt. Fortunately it had been too heavy for Barry to actually throw, so he had only hurt himself when he dropped it onto his own toe.

  ‘You have to remember,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘That Chicken Little was a chicken, and like most chickens, her diet was sadly lacking in chocolate, therefore she suffered from terrible calcium deficiency, which meant that her skull was tremendously thin and weak.

  ‘That is why it is essential, as a flying pig, for me to maintain such a high chocolate diet. In case I forget to put my helmet on before being blasted out of a cannon. I can land headfirst onto concrete at three hundred kilometres per hour and barely feel it.’

  Chicken Little was not so lucky. One acorn gave her a terrible headache and a mild concussion. Actually, in hindsight, it probably wasn’t that mild. It may well have been severe – that would certainly explain the ridiculous conclusion she leapt to.

  You see, Chicken Little looked up and somehow failed to notice the enormous oak tree towering over her. Instead, she looked through the branches and saw the sky, then leapt to the deluded assumption that a piece of sky must have dropped onto her head.

  ‘The sky is falling! The sky is falling!’ cried Chicken Little, before immediately falling over again because the concussion had compromised her balance.

  Now Chicken Little was no rocket scientist, but she did realise that having discovered that a serious meteorological disaster was taking place she must do something – she must tell the King. So she jumped up again and started running towards the palace. Along the way she ran past a sheep.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the sheep.

  ‘The sky is falling! The sky is falling!’ cried Chicken Little.

  The sheep looked up. The sky was a beautiful blue with a few clouds moving slowly across it on the wind. There was no sign any part of it was dropping anywhere.

  ‘Really?’ asked the sheep.

  ‘Oh yes,’ cried Chicken Little. ‘The sky is falling! I must rush and tell the King!’

  The sheep thought to herself, ‘I’ve got to see this.’ So she trotted along behind Chicken Little to see it all play out.

  Along the way, Chicken Little continued to cry out ‘The sky was falling! The sky is falling’ as they passed a cow, a turkey, a saltwater crocodile . . .

  ‘A saltwater crocodile?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Yes, it was a very ethnically diverse rural community,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Also a giraffe, a mountain lion and a quokka. And, like the sheep, they all followed along to see Chicken Little make a ninnyhammer of herself in front of the King.’