Panda Panic. Jamie Rix

      “Because it was a dream, and boys who can’t fight are always brilliant fighters in their dreams.”

      What annoyed Ping about his sister was that she was such a know-all, who had a knack of knowing everything about everyone, even when she hadn’t been told a thing.

      “I jolly well can fight,” he said unconvincingly.

      “No, you can’t,” she laughed. “In real life, you couldn’t even fight a fly. Well, you could, but you’d lose.”

      “I could beat you!” he said, rising to the challenge.

      “No, you couldn’t,” she said, “because I am a lady and I wouldn’t let you fight me.”

      “And I am a man and wouldn’t listen to you,” he retorted.

      “If you were a man, you would do what a lady said,” she replied primly.

      “You’re not a lady,” he scoffed, “you’re my sister, so that doesn’t count.”

      “Actually, it counts more.”

      “No, it doesn’t. When have you ever said anything remotely interesting that I would want to listen to? Never! That’s when.”

      “What about this, then?” she said. “The rat that gnaws at the cat’s tail is asking for trouble. That’s interesting.”

      “That’s one of Mum’s sayings, not yours,” scoffed Ping. “And anyway, it’s not interesting because it’s obvious. Only a mad rat would chew on a cat’s tail.”

      “Exactly,” said An. “That is why Mummy and I forbid you to get into a fight with a snow leopard because you will NEVER, EVER win!”

      All of a sudden, the game was over and An was being serious.

      “All right,” said Ping. “Keep your fur on. You’ve made your point.”

      “Good,” she said. “Because I am telling you now that if you are bonkers enough ever to take on a snow leopard, don’t expect Mummy and me to scrape you off the forest floor.”

      Ping sighed. How could he ever expect to inject a little excitement into his life when his mother and sister were always warning him off danger and telling him to be sensible?

      “I’ve got a saying too,” he said glumly. “All food and no play makes Ping a dull panda!”

      “Food makes you healthy,” An said smugly.

      “Food makes me poo,” said Ping, standing up and disappearing into the bushes. “If anyone wants me, I’m contemplating.”

      And so started Ping’s day. It was just like every other day in the Wolagong Nature Reserve: eating bamboo, disappearing into the bushes, suffering the mocking jibes of the golden monkeys and posing for the clickety-clack cameras of the visitors.

      Ping’s only real friend in the reserve was an electric-blue grandala bird called Hui, who had glossy feathers that gleamed like polished metal.

      Just at that moment, Hui flew into the clearing and landed on the end of the bamboo stalk that Ping was slowly turning round in his mouth like a stick of seaside rock.

      “Hui!” Ping cried. “How lovely to see you!”

      Ping always liked talking to Hui. It was Ping’s belief that the brightly coloured grandala bird had a colourful life to match, whereas he, Ping, being only black and white, was condemned to a life without colour.

      “Exciting news!” tweeted the grandala bird.

      Ping pricked up his ears at the mention of excitement.

      “I have just overheard the fat ranger talking about a panda exchange programme.”

      Wolagong Nature Reserve was looked after by a team of friendly rangers. The fat ranger was the one in charge, not because he was fat, but because he had more buttons on his jacket than any of the others.

      “Oh,” said Ping, who had never heard of a panda exchange programme before. “Is that exciting?”

      “Well, I think it is,” said Hui. “I overheard the rangers discussing it last night. Admittedly, I was a little distance away, but from what I could make out, they are planning to send one lucky panda from Wolagong Nature Reserve to London Zoo in England.”

      “On holiday?” Ping said. “I love holidays!”

      “I suppose it is a sort of holiday,” replied Hui. “It will certainly be different. London’s not like Wolagong at all.”

      “That’s my kind of town,” declared Ping. “How do I get there?”

      “That’s simple,” Hui replied. “We just have to make sure that the rangers choose you!”

      Ping’s heart sank. Now that he thought about it, he was sure they’d choose Gao. Gao posed for more photographs than any other panda in the nature reserve. Like Ping, he was still a cub, but he had the cute factor. It didn’t seem fair to Ping that one cub should be cuter than another. He wanted to be cute too. But it was Gao who had the long eyelashes, fat cheeks and a way of looking up at the camera with his big black-and-white eyes that made grown-up visitors turn to jelly and lose their grasp of the English language.

      “Oh, Wilma, hurnney, doncha jurst lurrrve that cutesy ikkle-wikkle cubby-wubby!” they cried. It made Ping sick.

      But he refused to be downhearted.

      “So let’s assume it’s between me and Gao,” he said. “How do I give myself the edge over the pretty poser? How do I convince the rangers to pick me?”

      “There’s more to life than being pretty,” said Hui. “Once, when I was flying past a school assembly in New Orleans, I heard the most beautiful sound drifting out of a window. It was a little girl playing the violin. That was when I learned that being talented was far more important.”

      “So you think I should learn to play a musical instrument?”

      “Possibly,” said the bird.

      “Have you ever heard of an instrument called a piano?” asked the cub. “Do you think we could make one of those?”

      “Pianos are rather large,” said Hui practically. “If you’re going to learn an instrument, it’ll have to be one that we can make out of bamboo.”

      They sat in silence for the next ten minutes while they tried to think of one, but their combined minds drew a blank.

      “How are you at dancing?” asked Hui. “I think we should forget music and explore the possibility that dancing might give you the edge.”

      “Dancing’s a bit energetic for pandas,” admitted Ping. “Unless I could dance sitting down.”

      Hui shook his head.

      “I could recite some poetry.”

      “Do you know any?”

      “Not really, but I could write some.” Ping stood up and placed his paw across his chest in a strikingly theatrical pose.

      “There’s nothing I like more

      Than a stick of old bamboo.

      It gets the juices flowing

      More than chewing on a shoe.”

      He looked to Hui for approval.

      “What else can you do?” asked the wise bird.

      They spent the next hour trying to identify those talents Ping possessed that might capture the imagination of the people who ran London Zoo. Would they choose a panda who could scratch his own back, or fold bamboo leaves into interesting shapes, or