Ha. Yo-yo had known the kitchen sink would come in useful. What a great piece of packing! He wrestles free of the fallen fatty and prises himself out of the hedge leaving a Yo-yo-shaped impression behind. Painted in yellow on the bricks of a house-side in Lord Mayor's Walk is the legendary advert
nightly
BILE BEANS
keep you
HEALTHY, BRIGHT-EYED AND SLIM
''Ha!'' declares Yo-yo.
Mister Vanilla lifts his head from the grass. ''That was a nasty trick, my little puppykin. Do you want to play some more?''
''Hello, Mister Vanilla,'' says Yo-yo. ''Would you like a bile-bean?'' An old-fashioned tin appears in his hand. ''One every night will keep you healthy.…''
Mister Vanilla's chins quiver.
''….Bright-eyed …''
Mister Vanilla's jowls shiver.
''…And slim!''
Mister Vanilla's stomachs protest. Yo-yo bashes him over the head once again, then scatters a handful of bile-beans over his head. Mister Vanilla sinks to his knees, completely disarmed. ''Healthy,'' he mutters, ''Slim!'' He tries to imagine himself slim, and can't. It's quite overwhelming. The bile-beans bounce off his shoulders onto the road. A chocolate Labrador in a passing, purple Ford Focus yelps as he sees this food going to waste. Mister Vanilla lies on the pavement and squirms into a foetal position. Slim. He sobs. Hamish barks. The car cruises past. Yo-yo dashes back up the road past the Brigadier Gerard, the Homebase roundabout and a small triangular park by the River Foss facing the neat, terraced houses of Huntington Road. A dozen Canada geese hunkered down in the bushes screech ''Run, Yo-yo, run!'' while a stone and a weed on the flat river-bed reflect on his progress.
Weed: Blimey. Bile-beans. What a great idea.
Pebble: Aye. He's no waster, that Vanilla.
Weed: Your Uncle Bob was a bit of a tubby, wasn't he?
Pebble: Aye, but that wasn't greed. Us Stones don't overeat. That was a thyroid condition. He couldn't help it. He was fat because of genetics, his glands, not his appetite or lack of exercise. Unless he was American….
Weed: Does it run in the family?
Pebble: I hope not. I don't want to be a huge hulking Porkster.
They both laugh again.
Weed: How was your evening?
Pebble: Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Settled down to watch some fish.
Weed: Anything interesting?
Pebble: Couple of perch came by. Had a nice chat, then some bastard dog jumped in and unsettled the riverbed. Churned up a load of mud and crap. Some hairy brown bastard. Bastard dogs. What about you?
Weed: I didn't meet any dogs.
Pebble: No. Your evening. What did you get up to?
Weed: Well (looks over his shoulder) you know that Mandy from the staithe? She drifted by. Haven't seen her for a while. My God, she's looking good. Eight kids and hardly a frond out of place. Don't know how she does it.
Pebble: Maybe it's plastic.
Weed: Bloody hell, don't let her hear you say that. She'll choke the life out of you. Anyway, how do you like the Foss? Nice to get out. Bit of change.
Pebble: Aye, it's canny, like.
Goose: Squawk!
Yo-yo jumps over the low wire fence. He has to make his final escape. A sturdy grey goose catches his eye.
''Swim me to the town!'' he cries, and leaps on to the bird, which paddles away down the Foss bearing the triumphant boy like a latter-day Lohengrin riding his swan. Wagner's Prelude swells out of the trees.
Mister Vanilla staggers to the bank of the river. He is rubbing his head and feeling sore. He too spies a bird, a rather weedy brown and black waddler.
Goose: (Pleading) No. No. You can't be serious.
Weed: Oh God, it's Vanilla.
Pebble: Oh no!
Goose: Please, please… don’t pick me
Vanilla: Here, Goosey goosey goosey.
Goose: Hide me, Pebble. Hide me.
Vanilla: Come to Vanilla.
Pebble: Get behind me.
Weed: Hold on to my frond.
Goose: Don’t pick……
''Follow that goose!'' orders Mister Vanilla, springing over the fence.