CA-RASH!
“OUCH! ‘Cor lummee!” cried Parker in a catastrophic - well, almost - amount of pain. He sat up, shook his head, groaned as it hurt so much, and then rubbed it. He looked around at his bedroom.
Ever since this whole Move & You’re Dead incident broadcast on Talking Pictures TV, this whole obsession with motor and race cars drove Parker up the wall - erm, no pun intended. He looked around at his room, decorated from walls to floors in F1 posters and red racing car shaped carpets.
In a display cabinet he bought with all his gambling money, there were model cars from Corgi of all different shapes and colours and sizes. Some fat, some thin, some square, some out of the ordinary, but all different, happy and in every colour.
“What a pleasant dream. Alan taught me loadsabout driving a car around ‘is track.” He coughed, upon feeling a dry sensation in his throat. His coughing got louder, as if the race car smog from his dream had stuffed itself like turkey stuffing into the old man’s gullet.
“I think I need to get meself a nice mug of milk. Tea won’t do me much for a smog-filled vocal chord.”
Clearing his throat, Parker brushed the dust off his blue and white striped pyjamas and slumped off down the hallway while everyone else was asleep - me, my mummy Lady Penelope, my mama Tin Tin and my dad, Alan.
As he marched sleepily along the large, calm hallways of the mansion, he heard quiet vrooming noises coming from dad and mama’s spare bedroom, which was right near the bedroom where ‘er ladyship and I slept together.
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