The Aylesbury Dragon with a Foggy View

The first thing I saw on the Aylesbury round was a dragon reversing out of a front door. The second was its tail knocking over my spare bucket. Fortunately, I had another spare bucket. I’m beginning to suspect that carrying too many is less a mistake and more a specialist skill.

‘Terribly sorry,’ said the dragon, in the voice of a woman who might offer you a biscuit after accidentally setting fire to your shed. ‘I haven’t mastered going backwards.’

Inside the costume was Mrs Fenella Poot, who lived on a little close with cherry trees and remarkably tidy wheelie bins. Her dragon had green felt scales, gold wings and enormous slippers for feet. There was also a noticeable gap where its head ought to have been.

‘The head won’t fit through the doorway while I’m wearing it,’ she explained. ‘A minor design oversight.’

I righted my bucket and said I’d had several of those myself before breakfast.

Mrs Poot was due at a neighbourhood story morning in the little community room across the green. She had made the costume herself, and her grandson, Kit, had been telling everyone that his granny was going to be a proper dragon. Not a frightening one. A dragon who ran a lost-property office for knights.

Then she fetched the head from the hallway.

It was magnificent: curling horns, wonky eyebrows and a broad, friendly snout. But when she put it on, took three steps and gently walked into her own hedge, I realised something wasn’t quite right.

‘Are the eyeholes in the wrong place?’ I asked.

‘No. Everything just goes cloudy.’

She lifted it off. Behind the dragon’s eyes were two clear plastic panels, both thoroughly steamed up. She polished them with a tissue, tried again and managed four steps before stopping.

‘You’ve disappeared,’ she said. ‘Unless you’ve gone home.’

I was standing directly in front of her, holding a bucket in each hand.

The story morning started in twenty minutes. Kit appeared at the gate wearing a cardboard shield and the expression of someone trying very hard not to worry.

‘I could just carry the head,’ Mrs Poot said quietly.

He nodded, but his shield drooped.

Now, I’m still learning plenty about cleaning windows. Mostly how not to splash my own trousers. But I do know that polishing a pane won’t stop it misting if the warm, damp air has nowhere to go.

‘Does your dragon have any ventilation?’ I asked.

Mrs Poot considered this. ‘He has excellent eyebrows.’

We took the head into her kitchen. With it safely on the table, she showed me how the plastic panels were held in little fabric pockets. They slid straight out. Behind them was soft black netting: from outside, the eyes still looked dark and shiny, but from inside she could see perfectly well.

She tried it on and marched the length of the garden without touching a single shrub.

Kit punched his shield into the air. I nearly applauded with a bucket still in my hand.

On my way to the next house, I helped carry her bag of story props across the green. Mrs Poot walked beside me, fully assembled now, waving one claw at passing neighbours. At the community-room door, Kit announced, ‘The dragon can see everybody!’

‘Especially anyone with unreturned library books,’ she added, and a row of waiting children dissolved into giggles.

Later, as I finished the last window overlooking the green, I spotted her through the open doorway, solemnly returning a wooden spoon to a tiny knight. Kit was beside her, sorting the lost property.

I headed back to the van with wet cuffs, three buckets and a paper badge he’d made me. It said DRAGON HELPER. I left it pinned to my fleece for the rest of the round.