Jim Smith - Barry Loser and the trouble with pets

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Then on Thursday at break time when I headed over to the corner of the playground to peer through the fence into the back garden of the old lady me and Bunky spy on while she talks to her plants.

‘What in the name of unkeelness is SHE doing here?’ I gasped, spotting Fay Snoggles’s bum next to my best friend’s. Both of them were bent in half, looking through the fence and sniggling.

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Fay turned round and grinned her annoying grin. ‘Hi Barry,’ she said. ‘Afraid there’s only room for two.’

‘Yeah I know,’ I said, walking off. ‘Me and Bunky.’

And don’t even get me started about Friday, when we were walking home from school and I pointed out a ginormous dog poo on the pavement right in front of Bunky’s foot.

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‘Hey Bunky, why don’t you tread in that great big stinking old pile of dog poo!’ I giggled.

Me and Bunky are always telling each

other to tread in dog poos like that on our walks home - it’s part of what makes us so hilarikeel.

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Bunky zig-zagged round the poo and was just about to do a sniggle about what I’d said when Fay walk-leaned against him. ‘Yuck, I hate treading in dog poos,’ she said. ‘They stink.’

Bunky nodded all seriously. ‘Yeah, they are pretty disgusting,’ he agreed, and because of the way

I was staring at him in disbelief while gasping at the same time, I almost trod in the dog poo myself.

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‘Oh yeah, because I was really being

serious about Bunky treading in it,’

I said, hearing a squelching noise

behind me. I twizzled round and

spotted Anton’s foot, squidged right

in the middle of the poo I was just

talking about.

‘Well that’s blinking brilliant isn’t it,’

said Anton in his non-robot voice.

He hobbled over to the kerb and

scraped his shoe against it. ‘Just

my flipping luck.’

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Nancy chuckled, the way she used to when I trod in dog poos back in the good old days. ‘You’re funny, Mr Mildew,’ she smiled, which is what she’d started calling him.

‘Thank you, Mrs V,’ he said. ‘But that’s not going to stop my blooming trainer from smelling of poo, is it.’

We carried on walking and I noticed a gooseberry bush sticking its branches through a fence, trying

to grab passers-by.

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I picked one of its prickly green fruits. ‘A gooseberry for a gooseBarry,’ I mumbled to myself, because ‘gooseberries’ are what people call other people who haven’t been paired up with someone else.

A lamp post was standing next to me and I spotted a sign stuck to it, telling people not to let their dogs do poos on the pavement.

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