Blues for Monkey

   ‘Bong.’
   …
   ‘BONG.’
   …
   ‘BONNN-’
   ‘What are you doing?’ asked Mr Bojangles.
   ‘BONNGG! I’m being the news at ten,’ replied Sebastian, ears oscillating.
   ‘How many are you up to?’
   ‘Forty-seven.’
   Mr Bojangles returned to the book-keeping. Sebastian began to tap dance softly on the tiles, his paws padding on the porcelain. He stopped and looked for a moment at the pencils on the table.
   ‘Do you think Sir Trevor McDonald would come to my party?’
   ‘He’s very busy.’
   ‘Yes, but I have to be in bed by eight and the telly-screen is only in the corner so he wouldn’t have to go very far and maybe I could help him with the news and stay up late like that one time when I fell off the clownhorse.’
   ‘Why don’t you write to him.’
   ‘Yes, I might, if I can find some more paints, because the other ones are in the soup.’
   Mr Bojangles crossed a line through a row of sums.
   ‘Is bear minimum going to come?’
   ‘Yes.’
   ‘What’s he going to dress up as?’
   ‘A bear.’
   ‘Oh. I sort of hoped he might come as a parrot.’
   ‘You’re going as a parrot.’
   ‘Yes, but they’re my favourite animals cos they can talk.’
   Mr Bojangles looked at Sebastian.
   ‘So can you.’
   ‘Yes, but if he was a parrot I could talk to him in parrot language rather than regular boring english language.’
   Sebastian sniffed and stood for a moment, looking at the floor, then he went to his room.
   As the door clicked shut Mr Bojangles looked up, paused, let out his breath, and put down his pen.