Free Paddington Races Ahead by Michael Bond Page A

peace.
    “Everything in moderation,” he said. “That’s my motto. Not too little; and not too much. That being so, what is this life if you can’t enjoy your elevenses undisturbed?”
    There was no answer to that so, having considered the matter carefully, Paddington helped himself to another bun.
    “Perhaps I might leave cutting down and having one less until tomorrow, Mr Gruber,” he said.
    “That sounds a very good idea,” said Mr Gruber. “I think I will join you.”

Chapter Six
    P ADDINGTON F LIES A K ITE
    I F IT HADN’T been for the fact that apart from a slight breeze it was a particularly warm July morning, Paddington might not have stopped on his way to the market in order to bathe his feet. But the plastic padding pool of crystal clear water with chunks of ice floating in it was hard to resist. It seemed a very good start to the day. So when a man behind a makeshift counter invited him to make use of it he accepted the invitation without so much as a second thought.
    Time passes very quickly when you are having fun, but it felt like only a moment or two before he heard a voice calling out to him.
    He stared at the man behind the counter. “I owe you ten pounds!” he repeated hotly. “But I’ve only just got here.”
    “You’ve ’ad your feet in the water for a good ten minutes,” said the man. “And it’s a pound a minute.”
    “A pound a minute?” uttered Paddington. He could hardly believe his ears.
    “It’s coming up to eleven now,” said the man.
    “Eleven!” repeated Paddington in alarm.
    “You ’eard,” said the man crossly. “What are you? Some kind of tame parrot… repeating everything I say?”
    “But I’ve only got ten pence,” said Paddington. “And that has to last me until the end of the week.”
    “Ten pence!” echoed the man. “Did I ’ear you say you’ve only got ten pence?”
    “Now you’re doing it,” said Paddington.
    “Doing what?” said the man.
    “Repeating what I just said,” exclaimed Paddington.
    He raised his hat politely. “I think it must be catching. I was on my way to see Mr Gruber when you asked me if I would like to bathe my feet. It’s a hot day, so it felt like a good idea, and…”
    “Thirteen and counting,” broke in the man, looking at his watch. “I was assuming,” he continued, choosing his words with care, “that you’d read the sign over the pool before you took the plunge. It’s all there in black and white. Now I’ve got a good idea. I suggest you take your feet out of that water in double-quick time and ’op it. My fish are ’aving enough trouble as it is – threshing to and fro like they don’t know if they’re coming or going.”
    Hearing the word ‘fish’, Paddington scrambled out of the blue plastic paddling pool as fast as he could and peered down at the water for the first time. Sure enough, a shoal of tiny black creatures were circling round and round in the very spot where he had just been standing.
    “I wish I’d brought my fishing net with me,” he said.
    “That would have been all I need,” said the man. “I’ve only just taken delivery of them garra rufas. Very valuable, they are. They’re from the other side of the world and they’ve got no teeth.”
    “Oh dear,” said Paddington. “I should ask for your money back if I were you.”
    “But that’s the whole point,” said the man. “They don’t bite, they suck. It’s the latest thing in what is known as the world of fish pedicure. Which is a fancy name for what is the same as manicuring fingers only it ’as to do with the feet. Them fish remove the dead skin from between people’s toes without damaging the ’ealthy skin underneath it like there’s no tomorrow. If you ask me they must have been ’aving trouble with your follicles.”
    “My follicles!” repeated Paddington. “I’d better tell Mrs Bird.”
    “Oh dear,” said the man. “’Ere we go again. Follicles,” he explained, “are the sunken bits you ’as