‘This is Sophie Trotter of the UKBC,’ announced the reporter, ‘speaking live from the Maltcassion Dragonlands, here in the Black Mountains. A wave of premonitions about the death of the last Dragon has given rise to a gathering in the Marcher Kingdom of Hereford. No one can say for sure when this event will happen, but as soon as the repulsive old lizard kicks the bucket you can be sure that there will be a wild race to claim as much land as possible. When he dies, the good people of the Ununited Kingdoms can finally sleep easily in their beds, secure in the knowledge that the last of these loathsome worms has been eradicated from the world. The question that is on everyone’s lips is: when? An answer that we, as yet, do not know. But when the Dragon finally croaks you can be sure that UKBC will be in with the first wave of new claimants. Next up, an exclusive interview with leading Herefordian knight Sir Matt Crifflon, who explains why the dragon needs to die, and plays his latest hit song: “A Horse, a Sword, and Me”.’

‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ said a voice from the door. It was Wizard Moobin, none the worse for the explosion that morning.

‘Sir Matt Grifflon’s new song?’ I asked. ‘No, I thought it was quite good – if you like that kind of thing.’

‘The Dragonlands. If I had my way I’d make them a national park, a safe haven for wild Quarkbeasts. Isn’t that right, lad?’

‘Quark,’ said the Quarkbeast happily. I gave him two unopened tins of dog food. He crunched them up happily, can and all.

‘We agree on that,’ I replied, ‘but if you’re going to play jokes on the new boy, can you please not ask Patrick of Ludlow to help out? He’s very impressionable.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. Watch this.’

And so saying, he put out his hand and narrowed his eyes. There was a crackle in the air and a vase displaced itself from my dresser and flew across the room to his outstretched hand. The Quarkbeast Quarked excitedly; there was now a bunch of flowers in the vase as well.

‘These are for you,’ said the Wizard gallantly, presenting the roses with a flourish.

I took the flowers carefully, for they were not real in any sense of the word, just images conjured up by the wizard. They twinkled with small sparks of electricity in the dimness of the room, and changed colour slowly, like the setting sun. They were beautiful, but wholly out of Moobin’s league.

‘They’re fantastic!’ I muttered, adding: ‘Don’t think me rude, but . . . ?’