The World of Poo

and shops that lined both sides of its crowded carriageway. Some had small rooms sticking out over the river and as Geoffrey watched he saw something fall from one into the river with a splat.
    He and Emma squeezed between two buildings and looked down on to the sluggish River Ankh as it crawled its way to the sea. ‘It’s a bit smelly,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and why are those people in the boats holding up umbrellas? It’s not rain— Oh, I see,’ he nodded, as another splash and splatter reached their ears and the river was further enriched in its passage under the busy bridge. 1

    ‘Some people are too mean to pay Sir Harry King to collect their privy buckets and it just goes in the river,’ explained Emma, ‘which makes it very smelly and extremely unpleasant for anyone going under a bridge.’ She added, ‘I think they’re making a law about it.’
    ‘Does Sir Harry collect people poo as well as dog poo?’ asked Geoffrey.
    ‘Sir Harry collects everything; they don’t call him the King of the Golden River for nothing,’ she added. ‘Come along. Let’s go and buy those sweets.’
    They entered a funny little shop with advertisements in the window for Jolly Sailor Tobacco and Gumption’s Snuff and a large sign above the door saying SWEETS. Behind the counter was the fattest man Geoffrey had ever seen. He had a stubbly grey moustache, and was wearing a hat with a tassel, and a brightly coloured woollen shawl. What really caught Geoffrey’s attention was the magnificent parrot sitting on his shoulder.
     
    ‘Hello, Mister Thwaite,’ said Emma. ‘May I have some Klatchian Delight, please? And what sweets do you like, Geoffrey?’
    Geoffrey cast his eye around the shop, which had shelves of sweet jars from floor to ceiling.
    ‘How about some nutty slack or dragon drops or, if you like, chocolate?’ said Mister Thwaite. ‘I’ve just had a delivery of pig pellets for Hogswatch.’
    ‘Wonderful!’ said Geoffrey. ‘And if I don’t eat them all I can put some in my poo collection.’
    ‘Your what collection?’
    ‘I have a poo museum,’ replied Geoffrey proudly.
    ‘Well, I never did,’ said Mister Thwaite. ‘You can have this packet of gnoll berries. Goodness knows what’s in them but I can’t shift them for love nor money.’ He turned and reached up to a high shelf. The parrot squawked but continued to watch Geoffrey with a beady eye.
    As Mister Thwaite turned, Geoffrey noticed that the back of his shawl was encrusted with bird poo. ‘You must be a very lucky man,’ said Geoffrey, ‘to have all that bird poo on you. Could I have a bit of that parrot poo for my museum, please?’
    ‘Of course. I like to help a young man with his hobby,’ said Mister Thwaite. And, holding an empty tobacco packet, he let Geoffrey scrape the well-dried encrustation from the fringes of the shawl. Geoffrey put the bags of sweets and lucky parrot poo into his pockets and, having thanked Mister Thwaite, turned to leave. As he opened the door the parrot suddenly sprang into life, flew to its perch and did one of those little dances that parrots are wont to do and then shouted very loudly, ‘NOW PISS OFF.’ Mister Thwaite smiled. ‘Don’t worry. He only says that if he really likes you,’ he said.

    Geoffrey and Emma continued on their journey and before long they found themselves looking up at the most impressive gates Geoffrey had ever seen. As they stood there a change in the wind brought a smell of burning and fireworks that hit the back of his throat and made his eyes water. A shower of small sooty particles floated down around them.
    ‘That can’t be good,’ said Emma. She pushed the gate open in the manner of someone who knew she would always be welcomed, and they made their way into a yard surrounded by a collection of sheds and bigger stone buildings with thick, fortress-like walls. The roofs, however, looked very insubstantial and, in some cases, very new.
     
    ‘Those are the dragon sheds,’ explained Emma. ‘If one of the little dears explodes, the blast is channelled upwards. If we’re lucky we only lose a bit of roof.’
    ‘What happens if we’re not so lucky?’ asked Geoffrey, looking anxious.
    ‘Oh, you’ll be all right,’ she assured him. ‘We’ve got good protective clothing. It’s only the people who forget to wear it who lose their hair and eyebrows, and sometimes their fingers.’
    They went into one of the smaller sheds where they met a girl who seemed to be wearing