I chop a cabbage, then another, then another. I look to my left – more cabbages, hundreds of cabbages, all rolling towards me. Rolling, rolling on a conveyor belt full of cabbages on an endless production line.

‘Six slices of bacon, two onions, and cabbage, lots of cabbage. Chop, Felix. Chop!’

‘No, Granddad. No. No more cabbage.’

‘Felix . . . Felix!’

‘No, Granddad. No more!’

‘Felix!’

‘No—’

I open my eyes. Granddad’s standing over me in his striped pyjamas, shaking me awake.

I look around for the cabbages, but all I see is the wardrobe, curtains and the clock on the table.

‘I think you have been dreaming.’

‘Yes, Granddad.’ I smile with relief.

*

It wasn’t a dream, it was a cabbage-chopping nightmare, repeating over and over again what me and Granddad did last night. I didn’t want to make Rouladen, but after spending hours cleaning the patio I was so hungry I’d have eaten sprouts! We stood in the kitchen for hours and made stacks of it to go in the freezer. I can still smell it stinking up the whole house.

I rest my head back on the pillow, but my head is still ringing with the ping of the notes of the glockenspiel, because somehow he got me playing ‘Hoppe, Hoppe, Reiter’ last thing before I went to bed. But at least now I’ve done it I won’t have to do it again.

Granddad puts a cup of tea down on my bedside table.

‘Drink this,’ he says. ‘Then we will decide what we will do next.’

‘Next, Granddad? Don’t I get a rest?’

‘Rest? We haven’t got time to rest; we’ve still got seven things to do.’ He holds up his list. ‘There is too much dew on the grass to cut the lawn, but we could do number one or two. I am not fussy, you choose.’

‘Later, Granddad.’ I pull the duvet up to my chin. ‘I’m going back to sleep.’

‘No, you can’t,’ says Granddad. ‘You will be back at school tomorrow. I want to teach you all these things this weekend. Tell you what, we can choose something quiet and inside. Number one or two?’

‘Remind me what was number one, Granddad?’ I peer over the duvet.

‘How to clean brass!’

‘No, Granddad.’ I shake my head. ‘My arms are still aching from the slabs. What’s number two?’

‘To teach you the Bavarian Schuhplatter Knee Dance.’

I wince. ‘Granddad, I’m not wearing those funny trousers and frilly shirts like I saw on YouTube.’

‘Umm . . .’ Granddad taps his index finger on his lip. ‘Of course, we could always play ch—’

‘No.’ I put my hands on my head. ‘Granddad, I’m not playing chess!’

‘Okay,’ says Granddad, ‘just look at my list and you decide while I make breakfast.’

‘Argh!’ I slump back on my bed.