Free Nanny Piggins and the Daring Rescue 7 by R. A. Spratt

suppose you could try winging it,’ said Michael. (He wanted to watch The Young and the Irritable too.) ‘If chess is based on warfare then I’m sure you’ll be a natural. You’re better at attacking people than anyone I know.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Nanny Piggins, giving Michael an affectionate hug. ‘The trick is to attack them brutally when they don’t deserve it.’
    â€˜Don’t you mean when they least expect it?’ asked Samantha.
    â€˜Exactly,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘And they least expect it when they don’t deserve it.’
    And so Nanny Piggins and the children watched television, then ate cake, then went down to the supermarket dressed as bullfighters. (The supermarket manager was not fooled by the outfits or the moustaches, but who was he to turn away such a loyal customer?) Then they did absolutely no preparation for the chess tournament. Except for carbo-loading. If eating lots of carbohydrates was good for marathon runners, Nanny Piggins felt sure it must be good for chess players too.
    When they arrived at the community centre the next day, Nanny Piggins and the children were surprised. They expected the regional championships to have some grandeur – after all it was regional, and chess was a noble game. But nothing could be further from the truth. The folding picnic tables, plastic chess pieces and refreshments served in styrofoam cups could not be less impressive. The only thing less impressive than the surrounds was the players themselves.
    â€˜I’ve never seen so many grown men wearing anoraks before,’ marvelled Nanny Piggins.
    â€˜It isn’t even a cold day,’ observed Derrick.
    â€˜Do you think they are smuggling in something under their jackets?’ guessed Nanny Piggins.
    â€˜What? Like bombs?’ asked Michael.
    â€˜I was thinking better refreshments,’ said Nanny Piggins, eyeing the stale pastries on the trestle table. It was rare for her to come across a baked product that even she could not get excited about.
    â€˜Are you here to register for the competition?’ asked a frumpy-looking man in a grey anorak and carrying a clipboard.
    â€˜Yes, I am,’ declared Nanny Piggins. ‘My name is Sarah Matahari Lorelai Piggins and I have come here to trounce you all and take home the year’s supply of cheesecake.’
    â€˜What’s your rating?’ asked the clipboard carrier, not looking up because he was too busy spelling Matahari.
    â€˜Rating?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘What do you mean? I was given 11 out of 10 stars by Cannon Blaster’s Monthly when they judged me to be the World’s Greatest Flying Pig ever. Which is quite an accomplishment because in the fourth century the ancient Celts had an impressive pig called Boudica Piggins who once flew 800 metres out of a catapult in the siege of Camulodunum.’
    â€˜I mean your chess ranking,’ said the clipboard man. ‘Everyone who plays competitive chess gets a ranking.’
    â€˜Do I look boring enough to have entered a chess tournament before?’ asked Nanny Piggins, bristling.
    The man looked Nanny Piggins up and down. He was not an observant man, but even he could see she was not wearing an anorak. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Well, you’ll have to go in the qualifying tournament then, to prove you’re good enough to play in the main competition.’
    â€˜Very well,’ said Nanny Piggins, resisting the urge to teach this man some manners with a short sharp nip to his shins (not out of generosity but because he did not look like he washed his clothes very often). ‘Lead me to the chess player you would like me to trounce.’
    Nanny Piggins was assigned a player number, a table number and a start time. When she sat down to play her first game she was not a happy pig. For a start she had been told (rudely) that she was not allowed to take refreshments to the chess