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  They all laughed. “It suits him to a T,” said Jilly.

  “T for Troll,” laughed Kurt and everyone laughed with him.

  The next day, the day of the race, dawned bright and sunny again. The windsurfers jockeyed for position not to cross too soon the imaginary line between two buoys about 100 metres apart on the lake. They had to sail to another buoy about half a kilometre away, go round it and recross the starting line between the two buoys, which then became the finishing line. A crowd of people lined the shore to watch the race. Jilly noticed Signor Trelloni, dressed as always in baggy trousers and braces. Today he was wearing a flat cap to protect his bald head from the hot sunshine. He was still scowling, as he looked at the beautiful scene.

  A klaxon sounded for the race to start.

  Jilly, Billy and Auntie Flo were amazed. A group of about six windsurfers were in the lead. In this group were Guido Trelloni and Kurt. Standing on the back of Kurt’s board was M! He seemed to be loving it. As the leaders approached the buoy to turn and race for home, Kurt saw Guido give a sharp tug on the bar of the sail of the nearest racer.

  “Oh, scusi,” said Guido, as if it had been an accident. Then he tried it on Kurt, who had been expecting it and managed to avoid Guido altogether. Guido just laughed. A moment or two later he was no longer laughing. He had completely lost control of his board. He did not know that M had hopped onto it and with his powerful beak had twisted the sail-bar out of his hands. Now they were heading up the lake in completely the wrong direction. Guido tried desperately to regain control of his sail, but he was not strong enough. Suddenly M gave a huge push and the sail crashed sideways into the water. Guido followed immediately and resurfaced spluttering, wild-eyed and unable to speak, as he had swallowed a lot of water. He swam angrily to his board, knowing that for the first time he had lost the race.

  Auntie Flo, Jilly and Billy watched, as M nimbly hopped off Guido’s board as it fell. He landed neatly on the next board. Then he proceeded to hop from board to board until he was back with Kurt, who was now the race leader. Everyone cheered, as Kurt crossed the finishing line – everyone that is except Signor Trelloni, who was seen to dash his cap on the ground and jump up and down on it angrily, shouting what sounded like a lot of rather naughty-sounding Italian words.

  “Look at the Troll!” laughed Billy.

  “Look at M!” said Auntie Flo. They would have sworn that M was smiling.

  “Congratulations, Kurt,” said Auntie Flo.

  “Well done, Kurt,” said Jilly and Billy.

  “Thank you. And can I invite you and your family to share this bottle of champagne, which I have just won? My family are arriving tomorrow.”

  “That’s great. Thank you, Kurt. And we look forward to meeting them,” said Auntie Flo. She also glanced at M with a slight shake of her head, meaning ‘Not for you, boy’, and then she winked at him, meaning ‘Well, perhaps, but only a little’.

  As they were going back into the hotel, they heard raised voices.

  “It’s Mr. Grumpy and Guido,” said Mr. B. Uncle and nephew were both glaring and shouting at the same time, pointing at each other and waving their arms.

  “Oh dear!” said Billy, grinning.

  “Something seems to have upset them,” said Auntie Flo. “I wonder what it could be?” And she winked again at M.

  The last few days of the holiday passed very pleasantly, especially as the Burtons became friends with Kurt’s parents too, but on the very last morning a problem arose. The family had packed their cases ready for loading them on the coach that was to take them to the airport. Mr. Burton had carried them down the back stairs, which were nearer to their rooms rather than using the main stairs, which also were quite narrow. When he reached the ground floor, he found that the two large glass doors, which opened onto the bar opposite where the coach was parked, were locked. Signor Trelloni was sitting in the bar, calmly eating a huge bowl of steaming spaghetti smothered in tomato sauce. Mr. B tapped on the glass doors to gain the Troll’s attention. The Troll ignored him. He tapped again. The Troll looked up, shook his head and carried on eating. Furious now, Mr. B hammered on the doors with his fists. Still the Troll took no notice. After hammering again on the doors, Mr. B turned and stormed off up the back stairs. He went the long way round, down the main stairs and marched into the bar. The Troll had meanwhile helped himself to another huge pile of spaghetti and was still busily eating. He saw Mr. B, but he did not see M following him.

  “Open that door, you idiot!” roared Mr. B.

  “Why? This is bar,” replied the Troll.

  “Because I want to take my luggage straight to the coach. I don’t want to carry it all the way up those stairs there and down the others. Just unlock the door!”

  “Why? Is bar,” repeated the Troll, shrugging his shoulders.

  “What does it matter? There’s nobody else there. No customers,” snarled Mr. B.

  “I too busy,” said the Troll and went on eating his spaghetti.

  “What’s happening? What’s the matter?” It was the Troll’s wife.

  “I just want those doors unlocked so that I can bring my luggage through to the coach,” said Mr. B through gritted teeth.

  “O.K. No problem. I’ll do it now.” Glaring at her husband, Signora Trelloni quickly unlocked the glass doors and launched a spate of angry Italian words at him. He ignored her and carried on eating.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. B to Signora Trelloni, as he started moving his suitcases out to the coach.

  The Troll made no move to help him. He remained quite unconcerned, stuffing spaghetti into his mouth. Angrily his wife strode out of the bar. She did not see what happened next. Nor did Mr. B, who was outside.

  The Troll was just about to cram another forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. Suddenly he saw the steaming bowl of food rise up above his head. With a quick twist of his beak M turned the bowl upside-down and brought it down sharply on the Troll’s head.

  “Yaaargh!” screamed Trelloni. The hot spaghetti was scalding his bald head and he could not see, as strands of it were dangling in front of his eyes.

  Crash! The bowl fell to the floor and broke in two. People came running in to see what was happening. Trelloni was dancing about in a blind rage. He lurched into some of his bottles of overpriced drinks on the bar counter. They too crashed to the floor and broke.

  The spaghetti piled on top of Trelloni’s head looked like some large, strange, orange wig.

  Flash! Flash! Out had come the digital cameras. Some of the guests, who were about to go home, had started taking photographs of the unfortunate Trelloni Troll. One later appeared in the local newspaper with the joke caption ‘Loch Ness Monster Taking Its Holidays at Lake Garda’. Only the photos taken by Auntie Flo, Jilly and Billy showed M prancing about delightedly in the background. Only Auntie Flo, Jilly and Billy could see him in these pictures and Auntie Flo gave Jilly and Billy a video clip of M and the Troll doing the spaghetti dance in the bar in Italy. Of course they also saw M sucking in some of the spaghetti as well. As for the Troll, it served him right, didn’t it? Even M thought it was achingly funny. For him it was one of his funniest adventures, if not the funniest. But that’s another story.

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