Moone Boy: The Blunder Years by Chris O’Dowd & Nick V. Murphy

Author:Chris O’Dowd & Nick V. Murphy [Murphy, Chris O’Dowd & Nick V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan Children’s Books

16th October. Birthday of:

Oscar Wilde – poet, playwright, and snappy dresser.

Michael Collins – freedom-fighter and politician.

Martin Moone – local dopey-headed doodler.

The Glorious Sixteenth had arrived at last and the sun was streaming through Martin’s bedroom window – which was a strange way for the day to begin. The sun wasn’t in the habit of ‘streaming’ in Boyle. It tended to cower bashfully behind rain clouds, desperate to stay out of sight, like a naked nun. But here it was, blazing over the Moone home, as bold and brassy as a naked nun.

Clearly this day was going to be different.

The sunlight warmed Martin’s face as he lay sprawled across his bed, fast asleep, mouth agape, drooling a small pool of saliva on to his pillow. Eventually he gave a snort, stirred awake and slowly opened his eyes to see my handsome face right beside him, beaming at him excitedly. I was crouched by his bed in a state of cat-like readiness and now leaped to my feet.

‘Happy birthday!’ I hollered.

Martin seemed confused for a moment. ‘Birthday . . . ?’ he murmured sleepily – then suddenly sat up. ‘It’s my birthday!!’ he cried with glee.

He hopped to his feet and danced on his bed, singing tunelessly, ‘It’s my birthday! It’s my birthday!’

I tried to join him on the bed, but my legs weren’t working properly after all that cat-like crouching. ‘Argh! Cramp!’ I wailed, clutching my thigh.

He stopped dancing. ‘How long were you crouched there?’

‘I dunno. A few hours? Imaginary friends are supposed to be the first ones to wish their realsies a happy birthday, so I didn’t want to miss it.’

Martin smiled, touched. ‘Aww. Thanks, beard-face.’

He hopped to the floor. ‘Right, let’s get this party started. Bring forth my gifts!’

I grinned and called behind me in a Shakespearean voice. ‘Bring forth his gifts!’

After a pause, I turned back and saw that he was looking at me expectantly.

‘Oh. You mean me? You didn’t really expect me to buy you something, did you? You pay me in crisps, Martin. Imaginary crisps.’

‘Fair enough.’ Martin nodded. ‘To the gift-atorium!’ he cried.

‘Do you mean the kitchen?’

‘I mean wherever the gift-givers are! And yes, that’s probably the kitchen!’

Martin skipped out of his room and down the hallway, embracing his great new age with optimism and gay abandon. Which he abandoned very quickly.

His sisters were sitting at the kitchen table, but there was no mountain of presents before them. The only ‘gift’ to be seen was a cheap-looking pen lying in front of Sinead on an unwrapped square of wrapping paper.

‘A biro?’ frowned Martin.

‘Cool,’ said Sinead with relief, as she handed him the pen. ‘Don’t have to finish wrapping it now.’

Martin regarded the biro with dismay. Half the ink was gone and the lid was indented with Sinead’s tooth-marks. He sighed inwardly, then turned to his middle sister, Trisha, who was slouched beside Sinead.

‘I already gave you your present,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes, you . . . did,’ confirmed Martin, looking at the ragged piece of cloth she’d tied around his wrist the previous night.

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