“Don’t let the fog in,” Mum said. It came in through the door, long pale wisps of cloud, like ghost fingers. Dad sat watching the rugby on TV and Mum called us to help fold laundry. No thanks. I grabbed my book and nipped upstairs, then slipped out the window onto the roof and up to my hideout between the chimneys. I sat looking over the fog. It stretched out like a sea of. . . well, like a sea of fog. As I watched, it made shapes; clowns, aeroplanes, dogs. It coiled up and unravelled, weaving into one form and then another. I saw whirlpools and houses, people.
It seemed so real I started giving the fogmen names; Woolly-head, Tall-smoke, Little-puff. They were having a great time. They were having a fog-ball fight. Then they danced around a fog tree, and then they went swimming in a fog fountain. I shouted at them, and they turned and waved. They came right over to me.
“Who are you?” they asked.
“I’m Bobby,” I said
“What are you doing?” they asked.
“Just reading,” I said
“Would you like to play football?” asked Little-puff.
“Please play with us?” asked Tall-smoke.
I love football. So, Woolly-head made a ball of fog and Little-puff, and Tall-smoke piled up clouds to make goal posts.
“Ready?” asked Tall-smoke and kicked the fogball high into the air.
“Ready,” I shouted, charging onto the fog field.
Then I saw a worried look on the fog-boys’ faces. I started to sink into the cloud. It was like trying to walk through deep mud. Soon it was up to my waist and then up to my neck. Then I was tumbling over and over.
“I’m flying,” I thought. Except I wasn’t flying, I was falling. I seemed to fall forever, but it must have been only seconds before I landed with a thump in the rose garden.
Mum had been ironing by the window and let out a scream.
“What’s that?” asked Dad, a bit annoyed that Mum had interrupted the rugby on TV.
“It’s Bobby; he’s just fallen from upstairs.”
Out ran Mum, Dad, my sisters and brothers. I sat up, a little sore, but otherwise fine. Maybe the fog broke my fall, or the rosebushes.
Dad drove me to the hospital for x-rays and things. But I had no broken bones, no concussion, no bruising; I was in good shape.
“What were you doing up there?” asked Dad.
“Just reading,” I said.
“Reading, on the roof. Why would you do that?”
I shrugged, I didn’t want to tell him about the fogboys; I knew he wouldn’t believe me.
Mum told me that I was irresponsible and reckless, and I told her I was sorry, and she gave me a hug.
Later that day, Dad took a hammer and some nails and nailed my window shut. I’ll need to find another hideout, and I think I left my book up there.