‘Well, with all respect to your mother, that’s a load of absolute twaddle, luv,’ said Bessie. ‘You’re no sourpuss. And believe me, I’ve met a few. In fact, I believe quite the opposite to be true. I think you’re wonderful company. I knew we’d get along from the very first moment we met.’
‘You did?’
‘I did. Broken funny bones are one thing, and a golden heart is another. And you, my luv, have a golden heart. Trust me. I have a nose for them. It practically shines through your skin. Now, help me out with this Chinese Sweet-and-Sour Choc Delight here, and if you’re all right, we’ll get this show on the road again.’
Blue had no idea what a golden heart was, but she very much liked the sound of it. Blue had only known Bessie for a few hours, but already she adored her. She was just like the favourite aunt Blue had always dreamt of having.
Blue wiped her eyes with Bessie’s hanky and smiled. ‘I’m ready.’
Bessie gave the men in the control booth a signal to resume testing. They watched blooper reels and funny movies. Not a snigger. YouTube videos of people walking into glass doors, epic bike stacks and people being pranked. Nothing. Dogs with their heads out car windows, their slobbering jowls inflated like balloons and flapping like wings. Zilch, nada, not a titter. Not even laughing babies, strange animal farts or newsreaders with the giggles could coax a laugh out of Blue.
A serious young man in a doctor’s white coat appeared. ‘Ahem, we call this our inappropriate humour section. Can I just say, Blue, could you not tell your mother or father what you’re about to see?’
Blue nodded.
‘I’m sorry we have to go here,’ the man apologised, ‘but it’s necessary for an accurate diagnosis, I’m afraid.’
The man in the white coat disappeared. Moments later an immaculately dressed, posh-looking man came on stage.
‘Hello ladeez, I’m Gus. Now, don’t try this at home. A life-saving skill like this one takes years of practice.’
Gus pulled out a balloon. He bent over and politely stuck his bottom high in the air. He put balloon to bottom and slipped into a state of deep concentration. Suddenly, his face scrunched up like an old paper bag and he let out a tiny sound:
Paaarp.
Then another.
Paaaarp.
And another, a little louder this time.
PAAAARP.
And then another, each one a little louder, a little bigger and a little ruder than the one before it. Ever so slowly, the balloon began to inflate. On it was a cheeky, winking face and a hand that flapped and waved with each and every parp.
Well, poor Bessie, her body heaved with laughter. She laughed so hard she could barely breathe! It seemed Bessie was more than a little partial to a bit of inappropriate humour. After blowing up balloons in the shape of sausage dogs and other such creatures, gassy Gus put the microphone to his bottom and farted the national anthem. He ended with an encore performance of ‘Gangnam Style’. (A very difficult rhythm to fart, apparently. Particularly the chorus that requires farting at machine-gun speed. Not easy!)
But still no laughter from Blue.
After a number of acts so inappropriate they can’t be spoken of or written down, the show ended. The diagnosis was official and everyone’s worst fears were confirmed: Blue’s funny bone was broken, all right, and she was suffering from a serious case of No Laughing Syndrome.
On Monday she would commence treatment with Dr Boogaloo.
CHAPTER 6
Skype Calls and Fried Grass
Blue had fifteen minutes before the Skype call from her father was scheduled to begin. She set her laptop up on the table in the backyard and took six paces back. She checked and double-checked that her whole gymnastics routine would fit within the frame. Blue then got some masking tape and stuck a large X on the spot where she needed to start. She didn’t want her dad to miss a move. When she was sure everything was perfect, Blue pulled her long, crazy hair into a tight bun, sat down and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
She ran through the routine one more time and waited some more.
It was five o’clock. Her dad was an hour late. Blue started to worry it would soon be too dark. She lay on the grass, watching squiggles of smoke rise from the Taylors’ yard into the late afternoon sky.
‘I think the barbie’s ready for the snags now, hon,’ called Mr Taylor from over the fence.
Just as Blue was about to give up and pack away her laptop, she heard the aquatic ringtone of an incoming Skype call. She leapt up and ran to her computer.
‘Daddy!’ cried Blue.
‘Maggie, sweet pea! My, how you’ve grown!’
‘It’s Blue now, Dad, remember? Mum can’t stand pinks and purples anymore. How was Namibia?’
‘Oh yes, marvellous, marvellous. Did you love the coat I sent you? I could have gone with the zebra or the leopard, but I knew you’d prefer the ostrich – I know how much you love birds, Maggie.’
‘I did. Thank you, Daddy.’ Blue was no good at fibbing. She quickly changed the subject. ‘I’ve got so much to tell you, Daddy, but first I want to show you my new gymnastics routine. I’ve been practising for weeks. Stay right there while I get into position.’
Blue ran back to the X on the grass. She pointed the toe of her right foot and raised her arms above her head, just like they did in the Olympics. And off she went. A perfect back-walkover, handstand, into the splits, before a cartwheel, front flip, an improvised somersault into an elbow stand – just because things were going so well – before ending on a backflip, then into her landing position without so much as a wobble!
Blue’s hands shot into the air, triumphant. She bowed to her laptop and waited for applause.
Nothing.
Blue bowed again.
Still nothing.
The
