The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman, Julietta Henderson [best novels to read for students .TXT] 📗

in between, but then suddenly out of nowhere Jax’s face popped into my head, coughing and wheezing and turning a funny shade of blue. So then I had to stop singing.

Mum and Leonard stopped too, and I don’t know what they were thinking about, but while I was looking out the window at all the cows and trees and paddocks whizzing past I was thinking, well, how weird was that, that I’d actually forgotten to be sad for a few minutes. But then I started to feel really bad because I didn’t want that to mean I was forgetting about Jax, so I closed my eyes and thought about being happy and being sad and how sometimes there’s a million miles between them and other times there’s none at all. And then Mum was shaking me awake and we were in Bude, which was a whole seventy-five miles away. Or maybe a million.

Leonard said he had to run a short errand so Mum said she’d go and get us all some sandwiches, but I decided I should start going through my jokes to get ready for the first open mic, which was at a pub not quite in Barnstaple but not too far away. Because even though I had a shoebox full up with all the loads of jokes me and Jax had written down on Post-it notes and other bits of paper, I still didn’t have half a clue how to put them all together to make a show that was anything like funny.

Me and Jax called the shoebox the Comedy Pot because ideas go in and then we’d stir them around and throw in a few more things, like cool outfits and timing and strategic pauses, and then a serving of funny comes out. At least it did when Jax was around.

I’d been using the Comedy Pot as a footrest ever since we left Penzance, not just because I wanted a footrest but also so it wouldn’t get lost in the boot with all our other stuff. But when I opened it up and spread all the Post-it notes and paper and crumpled-up brown sandwich bags out on the back seat of Leonard’s car it just looked like someone had tipped over the bins. And then I started worrying because what if all our jokes were actually rubbish? Then the scabs on my arms and legs and forehead all started itching at the same time and just when I was thinking that I better start concentrating on not scratching, Jax popped up.

First things first, Normie boy. Get all your ducks in a row is what he said. Jax reckons that getting all your ducks in a row is the first rule of comedy because it’s when you figure out the order of how you tell your jokes. The first joke is the most important one, because if you don’t get people laughing from the start it’s like pushing dog poo uphill from there, he says. And the last joke is the second most important one because that’s probably the only one anyone will actually remember. Then you’ve just got to make all the ones in between fit in and be as funny as you can along the way.

I guess I kind of knew Jax wasn’t really talking to me and it was probably just my brain playing a not too funny joke on me, but I did have a quick look over my shoulder anyway. Because I couldn’t help it and also, one never knows. Anyhow he wasn’t there so I started sorting out all the bits of paper and Post-its from the Comedy Pot so I could get all my ducks in a row. Some of them just had one word on, like doughnut or chicken, and I had to think really hard to try and remember what they meant. But some of them were so good I didn’t need to try at all. Like the back of a bus ticket that said, Land’s End, asthma puffer, old guy with sausage roll, fart. That one was easy because me and Jax had both agreed on the bus home that it had been one of the coolest and funniest days of our whole school holidays.

After a while of unfolding and sorting the notes I had piles of funny, really funny, extra funny and maybe not so funny after all and it was getting quite hard to keep them all separate. Every time there was a bit of wind a few pieces of paper blew on to another pile or on to the floor of the car and I’d have to sort them again. Which was pretty annoying, and also the itching was getting quite bad so what I really wanted to do more than anything else was just sit there and scratch my skin to smithereens.

I knew I was what Jax calls getting my Y-fronts in a tangle and I was concentrating so hard on trying not to let them that I didn’t even notice that Leonard had come back. He was leaning against the side of the next car that was parked beside the Austin and he goes, what you need are some bulldog clips, young man, and then he started rummaging around in his coat pocket. He pulled out a notepad, his iPhone, heaps of pencils, some paracetamol, a few plasters, a manky packet of Mentos and then just when I thought, well, the next thing coming out of there’s going to be a kitten, or a ham sandwich, would you believe it, out came six mini bulldog clips attached to each other in a little chain.

Leonard didn’t even look surprised. Like he knew they were in there all the time, just waiting for the day when he finally needed them, which was today. Then he opened the car door, gave me the bulldog clips and just goes, there you are, sir, now budge over and let’s get these piles sorted before we head off.