Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4 The moment Charlie saw the sign, stress and fear and anger hit him like a train. He felt like his stomach was falling out of his bum. A for-sale sign? So quickly? They were going to move? To where? To Aunt Brenda's and her stinky cats? His parents had said it would take ages! They'd lied to him. And now everybody would know they were having to move because they couldn't afford their house any more. Embarrassment and worry flooded his body. His thoughts raced away. His heart began to pound. And standing there, on the corner of his street where anybody could see him, Charlie started to change. He tried breathing slowly, imagining his happy place, but he was outside, and that heaped more stress on top of the first stress. What if someone sees me?

He tried thinking of happy, funny memories, but all he could picture was the uncertain future stretching out in front of him. There was no stopping the change this time. He had to get inside. He started running towards his house, but already he could feel the fire racing through him, every cell in his body being stretched and squeezed, bristly fur sprouting all over him. He couldn't ring the doorbell– his mum would drop dead of a heart attack if she opened the door to see her youngest son halfway into changing into a wombat or whatever it was he was turning into. No– Charlie couldn't go home, and that meant he had to find somewhere to hide, and fast. He dropped his bag on the doorstep and started running back the way he'd come, his mind a whirl of panic. He suddenly found it easier to run on all fours. His hands were turning into huge paws. His breath was coming out in snorts.

He was growing big– as big as one of the small cars he was running blindly past. Charlie forced himself to stop, desperately trying to think sensibly. He took stock of his situation. He was standing in the middle of the street where he lived and he had turned into– what had he turned into? He was huge, with enormous paws and knife-like claws, and when Charlie looked down he saw he was covered in white fur. That could only mean one thing. Charlie was a polar bear. And being a polar bear in a quiet residential street was far from ideal– in fact, it was pretty unbearable.fn1 Great, thought Charlie. Just great. I'm trying to hide but I can't because I'm an ENORMOUS polar bear. And Mum and Dad are selling our house. Things can't get any worse. But as anybody who has been following Charlie's adventures will know, just when Charlie thinks things can only get better, they tend to get much worse. And this time was no exception. Just as Polar-Charlie started thumping down the street again, desperately looking for a hiding place, Mrs Shufflebottom (the elderly childminder with a cloud of snow-white hair, who lived next door to Charlie and always picked up a gaggle of Reception kids from Charlie's school) rounded the corner, a crocodile line of five small children skipping behind her. They practically bumped into Charlie.

Now, I think we can all agree Charlie was having a bad day. He was worried about his dad and losing his home and he'd turned into a polar bear. Definitely a bad day. However, that was a walk in the park on a sunny day eating chocolate ice cream with sprinkles compared to the day Mrs Shufflebottom and the children she was looking after were having.

They were walking down the street, minding their own business, when they turned the corner and were suddenly faced with a massive three-metre-tall 400kilogram polar bear. Mrs Shufflebottom froze in terror, too scared to make a noise. The children, though, didn't have any such problem– they let out a scream so loud and so high it nearly burst Charlie's eardrums. Polar-Charlie reared up on his hind legs and roared in fright. This did not help matters– quite the opposite, in fact. From Mrs Shufflebottom and the children's perspective, a polar bear was now standing in front of them, rearing up to its full height and roaring at them at the top of its lungs. By this point, three of the five children had, understandably, weed in their pants in terror. It would be impolite to discuss whether Mrs Shufflebottom had weed in her pants. Some things are best left to the imagination. Let's just say there were some bloomers in soak that evening.

Mrs Shufflebottom finally found her feet, turned round and started running the opposite direction from Charlie, arms flailing. She had quite forgotten about the children. One by one, the children recovered