About the Book
DR BOOGALOO was no ordinary doctor. Not at all like the one you might visit if you had a sore tummy. No, Dr Boogaloo was a very different type of doctor. He treated folks who suffered from rather unusual complaints. And how did he treat them? Why, with the most powerful medicine known to mankind … Music!
BLUE was no ordinary girl. For starters, her name was Blue. But what was truly extraordinary about Blue was the fact that she hadn’t laughed for 712 days. Not a hee hee, a ho ho or even a tiny tee hee.
Can Dr Boogaloo compose a cure before Blue loses her laughter forever?
CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT THE BOOK
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
CHAPTER 1: The Waiting Room
CHAPTER 2: No Laughing Matter
CHAPTER 3: Blue
CHAPTER 4: Bessie
CHAPTER 5: The Snorkel Porkel Crumpety Worpel Laughter Clinic
CHAPTER 6: Skype Calls and Fried Grass
CHAPTER 7: Monday
CHAPTER 8: Treatment Begins
CHAPTER 9: A Horse
CHAPTER 10: Leonard
CHAPTER 11: An Ultimatum
CHAPTER 12: A Hum
CHAPTER 13: The Reel-to-Reel Room
CHAPTER 14: Jane Bond
CHAPTER 15: A Hole in the Family Drum
CHAPTER 16: Closed for Business
CHAPTER 17: The Biggest Instrument Sale on Earth
CHAPTER 18: A Dash of Red Castanets
POSTSCRIPT: (What Happens After)
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
For Atticus, Franny and Levon.
With thanks to
Rhona and David Nicol,
who gave me my first
musical cure – a loud blast of
swing jazz administered before
breakfast each and every Saturday.
And for Finley Wright-Curnow,
a master of musical medicine and
laughter-maker extraordinaire.
CHAPTER 1
The Waiting Room
As always, the waiting room at Dr Boogaloo’s was full. A boy wearing just a pair of underpants wriggled in his chair like a chopped-off lizard’s tail, spraying the room with a machine-gun laugh.
HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA … HA-HA-HA-HA … HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!
Next to him sat a boy holding a phone to his nose, blabbering some sort of weird gobbledygook. Stuffed in his left ear was a banana; in his right, a cheese sandwich.
Around the room, five small children popped and fizzed like lemonade bubbles while their mother – goldfish eyes bulging, hair electric – twitched and grimaced in her chair. Near the door, hidden behind huge orange sunglasses, was a green-haired girl eating the stuffing from inside a pillow. Cross-country skis swung from her feet.
The door to Dr Boogaloo’s room opened.
The sound of flamenco guitars and tubas rolled out into the waiting room.
‘Sam Petry?’ said Dr Boogaloo, looking smart as always in his trademark shiny silver suit. Apart from his round-rimmed glasses that magnified the kindest of eyes, his tall and thin frame with milk-chocolate skin, Dr Boogaloo looked not unlike a brand-new pencil.
The boy with nothing but a lethal laugh and un-die-dundies got up and convulsed his way into Dr Boogaloo’s room.
‘Ah, Sam,’ said Dr Boogaloo, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘I’ve got – HA-HA – a –HA-A-HA-HA – terrible case of – HA-HA-HA – the tickles, doctor,’ said Sam. ‘I feel EXTREMELY tickly, HA-HA-HA – from the top – HA-HA-HA – of my head to the tip of my toes. I can’t even – HA-HA – put on socks the tickling’s so bad. I’m scared my teeth – HA-HA – are gonna – HA-HA – fall out from all this laughing.’
‘Mmm!’ said Dr Boogaloo. ‘Blasted tickles, eh? Terrible nuisance but easily fixed, I’m glad to say. What you need is forty-three blasts of a vuvuzela to be taken with breakfast – your mother won’t thank me for that – trumpet and wobble board before lunch, and some salsa played on a diddley bow just before bed. Now, here’s a vuvuzela.’
The Doctor handed Sam a long, colourfully striped horn.
‘Remember that’s forty-three blows with breakfast. The trumpet, wobble board and diddley bow are on this CD. Tracks one and two. That ought to get rid of the tickles for you.’
(And sure enough, it did.)
Next up was Rocket Morrison Salt, the boy with half a lunch box dangling out of his ears.
‘Hello Rocket. What can I do for you?’ asked Dr Boogaloo.
‘Well, everythinx all mixthed up, Doctha Boogaloo,’ said Rocket, his tongue hanging out like that of a thirsty dog. ‘It all tharted when I thell oth my sthkate-board latht week and now I hear through my nosth, I thmell with my eyeth, tasth with my earth and thee with my tongue!’
‘Mmm, that is a problem, Rocket. And touch – is your touch working okay?’
‘Yeth.’
‘Okay, I won’t be needing the didgeridoo then. But I will need a wurlitzer, a harp, a hurdy-gurdy and a kazoo. Now, if we play them all backwards at half-speed, your senses will go back to where they came from. Doesn’t seem to matter what song, but it does all sound rather strange! Mind you, so is hearing through your nose, I imagine.’
From the shelves above his desk, Dr Boogaloo pulled down a round silver can the size of a dinner plate. He removed the lid and took out a large old-fashioned reel of tape, which he then threaded through the metal machine crouching behind him.
‘Discombobulation of the senses,’ Dr Boogaloo continued, ‘very common with skateboarding accidents. You’re the third case this month. Had a boy in last week, could only see through his ears. He had to walk sideways everywhere. Like a crab. Ahem, I guess you weren’t wearing a helmet. Would I be right, Master Rocket?’
Rocket nodded.
‘Okay, now we’ll use the headphones, if you don’t mind. Don’t want to discombobulate myself. You only make that mistake once, and believe me, I’ve used up my go already!’
Dr Boogaloo plugged a cord into the machine, placed the headphones carefully on Rocket’s nose and pressed the Play button. After about five minutes, Rocket complained the music had stopped.
‘Well, you’re done then,’ said Dr Boogaloo.
(And sure enough, he was.)
Now, you’ve probably already twigged that Dr Boogaloo is no ordinary doctor. And not at all like the
