Fing. David Walliams

doesn’t mean there is no such thing as a ‘FING’. There are thousands and thousands of books in the LIBRARY. Surely one of them must mention a ‘FING’.”

      “But what books should we look at next, Father?”

      “Well, let’s think, Mother. What does a ‘FING’ sound like to you?”

      Both went into deep concentration.

      “A rude-shaped vegetable?” guessed Mother, reaching for

      “An annoying board game?” suggested Father as he took down

      “A very distant planet?” said Mother as she found

      Books, books and more books tumbled off the shelves. Books about the human body. Books about motor cars. Books about flowers. Books about antiques. Books about books.

      “Could a ‘FING’ be that thing that’s left in your plughole after a bath?” suggested Father.

      “An unidentifiable item of clothing you find in the tumble dryer?” guessed Mother.

      Guesses were volleyed back and forth like tennis balls.

      “Something sticky you find up your nose that isn’t a bogey?”

      “A mysterious stain?”

      “The gangly bit of a jellyfish?”

      “A prize from a Christmas cracker that you never actually work out what it is?”

      “Something you find stuck to a dog?”

      “That dangly bit of your belly button that looks like the end of a balloon?”

      “The fluffy stuff you find between your toes?”

      “The opposite of a ‘FONG’?” exclaimed Mrs Meek.

      “What’s a ‘FONG’?” asked Mr Meek.

      “I don’t know,” she replied, downcast.

      Hours passed until the exhausted pair had searched through every single book in the LIBRARY.*

      Just as they were about to admit defeat and brace themselves for the wrath of their daughter, Mrs Meek had a thought.

      “There is one last place we haven’t looked,” she said.

      “Where? Where? Where?” he asked eagerly.

      “The ancient vaults of the LIBRARY. That’s where all the old books are kept. We might find a clue down there.”

      Mr Meek gulped. “But, Mrs Meek, we librarians are strictly forbidden to go down to the vaults.”

      “Everybody is forbidden.

      Nobody has been down there for a hundred years…”

      Well then, we can’t go down into the vaults,” said Mr Meek. “And that’s that.”

      Mrs Meek was not taking no for an answer. “But what about our darling daughter? If we don’t get her a FING, there will be tears before bedtime.”

      “Oh yes.” The man turned deathly pale at the thought. His eyes rolled back and he wobbled.

      “Are you quite all right, Mr Meek?”

      But, before he could reply, Mr Meek fainted. Mrs Meek went to catch him, but they both tumbled backwards and landed on the floor.

      THUD!

      “OOF!” she exclaimed as her husband landed on top of her.

      An old man stepped over them to reach a gardening book. The pair smiled politely up at him.

      “Good morning,” they said.

      “Are you all right under there, Mrs Meek?” enquired Mr Meek.

      “Yes. Are you all right?”

      “Me?”

      “Yes. You fainted.”

      “Did I?”

      “Yes.”

      “Oh dear.”

      “Oh dear indeed.”

      “Let me help you up.”

      “No, let me help you up!”

      This went on for quite a while until finally both of them were on their feet. Now the pair had to choose between two evils. Either they went down to the spooky vaults of the LIBRARY or they faced the wrath of their daughter.

      The lesser of the two seemed to be the vaults.

      “I don’t think we have a choice,” said Father.

      “Then follow me,” replied Mother.

      Mrs Meek led her husband to a battered old door in the far corner of the LIBRARY. Cobwebs covered the cracks, and a sign over it read “DO NOT ENTER".

      “Will it be dark down in the vaults?” he asked, his voice wavering.

      “Oh yes. Pitch black. To protect all the old books,” she replied.

      “Well then, ladies first…”

      “Me?” protested Mrs Meek.

      They were both scared of the dark.

      “I insist,” he pressed.

      “I insist.”

      “I am a gentleman. I have to let a lady go first.”

      “No, no, no, that’s very old-fashioned these days, Mr Meek. You should definitely go first.”

      “No, you.”

      “You.”

      “YOU!”

      The pair had reached something of a stand-off.

      “I know! Let’s both go together,” announced Mother.

      “Good plan,” replied Father. He took down the rusty old key that was sitting on top of the doorframe. Looking around to check no one was watching, he unlocked the door.

      C L I C K.

      He fumbled for his wife’s hand, and together they slowly descended the steps.

      “It’s not too bad, is it?” asked Mrs Meek.

      stammered Mr Meek.