The World of David Walliams 4 Book Collection. David Walliams

photograph he’d kept. He just had to buy it, even though the magazine was £3.80, and he only got £5 a week pocket money.

      ONLY 17 SCHOOLCHILDREN ALLOWED IN AT ONE TIME read the sign in the newsagent’s shop window. The shop was run by a very jolly man called Raj, who laughed even when nothing funny was happening. He laughed when he said your name as you walked through the door—and that was just what he did when Dennis went into the shop.

      “Dennis! Ha ha!”

      Seeing Raj laugh it was impossible not to laugh too. Dennis visited Raj’s shop most days on his way to or from school, sometimes just to chat to Raj, and after he picked up the copy of Vogue he felt a twinge of embarrassment. He knew it was usually women who bought it, so he also picked up a copy of Shoot on the way to the counter, hoping to hide the Vogue underneath it. But after ringing up the Shoot magazine on the till, Raj paused.

      He looked at the Vogue magazine, then at Dennis.

      Dennis gulped.

      “Are you sure you want this, Dennis?” asked Raj. “Vogue is mainly read by ladies, and your drama teacher Mr Howerd.”

      “Umm…” Dennis hesitated. “It’s a present for a friend, Raj. It’s her birthday.”

      “Oh, I see! Maybe you’d like some wrapping paper to go with it?”

      “Um, OK.” Dennis smiled. Raj was a wonderful businessman and very skilled at getting you to buy things you didn’t really want.

      “All the wrapping paper is over there by the greetings cards.”

      Dennis reluctantly wandered over.

      “Oh!” said Raj, excited. “Maybe you need a card to go with it too! Let me help.”

      Raj bounded out from behind the counter and began to proudly show Dennis his range of cards. “These are very popular with the ladies. Flowers. Ladies love flowers.” He pointed out another. “Kittens! Look at these lovely kittens. And PUPPIES!” Raj was really excited now. “Look at those lovely puppies! They’re so beautiful, Dennis, that they make me want to cry.”

      “Er…” said Dennis, looking at the card with puppies on it, trying to understand why it might make someone shed actual tears.

      “Does this lady friend of yours prefer kittens or puppies?” Raj asked.

      “I’m not sure,” said Dennis, unable to think what this “lady friend” of his might like, if she existed. “Puppies, I think, Raj.”

      “Puppies it is! These puppies are so beautiful I want to kiss them all over!”

      Dennis tried to nod his head in agreement, but his head wouldn’t move.

      “Is this wrapping paper OK?” asked Raj, as he pulled out a roll of what looked suspiciously like unsold Christmas wrapping paper.

      “It’s got Father Christmas on it, Raj.”

      “Yes, Dennis, and he’s wishing you a very happy birthday!” said Raj confidently.

      “I think I’ll just leave it, thanks.”

      “Buy one extra roll, I’ll give you a third free,” said Raj.

      “No, thanks.”

      “Three rolls for the price of two! That’s a very good offer!”

      “No, thanks,” said Dennis again.

      “Seven rolls for the price of five?”

      Dennis only got Ds in maths, so wasn’t sure if that was a better offer or not. But he didn’t want seven rolls of Father Christmas wrapping paper, especially in March, so again he said, “No, thanks.”

      “Eleven rolls for the price of eight?”

      “No, thanks.”

      “You’re a madman, Dennis! That’s three rolls free!”

      “But I really don’t need eleven rolls of wrapping paper,” said Dennis.

      “OK, OK,” said Raj. “Let me just put these through the till for you.”

      Dennis followed Raj to the till. He glanced briefly at the sweets on the counter.

      “Vogue magazine, Shoot magazine, card, and now you’re eyeing up my Yorkie bars, aren’t you?” said Raj, laughing.

      “Well, I was just…”

      “Take one.”

      “No, thanks.”

      “Take one,” insisted Raj.

      “It’s OK.”

      “Please, Dennis, I want you to have a Yorkie bar.”

      “I don’t really like Yorkie bars…”

      “Everyone likes Yorkie bars! Please take one.”

      Dennis smiled and picked up a Yorkie.

      “One Yorkie bar, sixty pence,” said Raj.

      Dennis’s face dropped.

      “So that’s five pounds in total please,” continued the shopkeeper.

      Dennis rummaged in his pocket and pulled out some coins.

      “As my favourite customer,” said Raj, “I give you a discount.”

      “Oh, thank you,” said Dennis.

      “Four pounds and ninety-nine pence, please.”

      Dennis had walked halfway up the street before he heard a voice shout, “Sellotape!”

      He looked round. Raj was holding a large box of Sellotape. “You need Sellotape to wrap the present!”

      “No, thanks,” said Dennis politely. “We’ve got some at home.”

      “Fifteen rolls for the price of thirteen!” Raj shouted.

      Dennis smiled and carried on walking. He felt a sudden surge of excitement. He couldn’t wait to get home and open the magazine, and gaze at its hundreds of glossy, colourful pages. He walked faster, then started jogging, and when he really couldn’t contain his excitement any more he started running.

      When he got home, Dennis bounded upstairs. He closed the bedroom door, lay down on his bed and turned the first page.

      Like a treasure box from an old film, the magazine seemed to shine a golden light on his face. The first hundred pages were all adverts, but in a way they were the best bit–pages and pages of glorious photographs of beautiful women in beautiful clothes and make-up and jewellery and shoes and bags and sunglasses. Names like Yves Saint-Laurent, Christian Dior, Tom Ford, Alexander McQueen, Louis Vuitton, Marc Jacobs, and Stella McCartney ran underneath the images. Dennis didn’t know who any of them were, but he loved the way their names looked on the page.

      The adverts were followed by a few pages of writing–they looked boring so he didn’t read them–then pages and pages of fashion shoots. These were not very different from the adverts, featuring more beautiful women in photographs that were moody and fabulous. The magazine even smelled exotic, as it had special pages where you pulled open a flap to have a sniff of the newest perfume. Dennis pored over every page, mesmerised by the dresses–their colour, their length, their cut. He could lose himself in the pages forever.

      The glamour.

      The beauty.

      The perfection.

      Suddenly he heard a key in the door. “Dennis? Oi, bro? Where are you?”

      It was John.

      Dennis quickly hid the magazine under his mattress. He knew somehow that he didn’t want his brother