Yogi pulled his earpiece out and glared at me.

‘I have NEVER been pulled on a live programme before, Miss Strange! Who do you think you’re talking to? This is my show and I like to keep it light. You want to get on a soapbox? Go on Tonight with Clifford Serious.’

‘But—’

He hadn’t finished.

‘I’ve been on TV for twenty years so I think my opinions count for something. Let me give you some advice: act a bit more responsibly in front of thirty million people. The bosses at Yummy-Flakes are not going to be pleased. If I knew you were a troublemaker I would have interviewed Sir Matt Grifflon instead. At least he has a song he’s promoting—!’

‘Yogi, darling!’ yelled his producer, holding a telephone. ‘I’ve got the Zebra Society on the phone; they think we’re negatively portraying zebras as passive victims. Will you have a word? They’re a bit upset.’

Baird glared at me.

‘And I’ve got the Vulture Foundation on line two. They think your programme is spreading unfair stereotypes about a noble bird.’

‘See what you’ve done? A few badly placed words in this business and it’s curtains. Ratings are everything – how could you be so selfish?’

He turned, glared at me and took the phone from his producer.

‘No, sir,’ I heard him say. ‘I simply adore zebras . . .’

Foundling Trouble

Foundling Trouble

I walked back to Zambini Towers. There seemed to be a buzz in the city. The influx of people eager to stake a claim had been huge, and all the shopkeepers had been doing a roaring trade, keeping those in constant vigil up by the Dragonlands well supplied with food, bedding and drink. Stocks of string had long ago run out, and a consignment of ten thousand claim forms had sold out in thirteen minutes.

Lady Mawgon was sitting in the lobby and looked as though she had been waiting to see me.

‘Miss Strange,’ she said, rising to meet me, ‘don’t think that becoming a Dragonslayer has in any way altered the low opinion that I hold of you and Master Prawns. Despite that frightful hag Zenobia refusing to supply us with any alternative foundlings, I have negotiated with the King of Pembroke to send us replacements. They arrive on Monday, so I will expect you to be packed and back at the Blessed Ladies of the Lobster by Monday lunchtime.’

She glared at me with a triumphant grin.

‘With the greatest of respect, my Lady,’ I replied, ‘I believe only Mr Zambini can sign our release papers.’

‘On the contrary,’ sneered Lady Mawgon, who had obviously been doing her homework, ‘the Minister for Foundling Affairs is King Snodd’s useless brother, and he owes me a favour. He will sign your papers.’

She smiled.

‘There. Until Monday, then. And don’t try to steal any cutlery – I’ll be searching you both as you leave.’