Where is Wilbur?

by Angela Robb

An Iscot Short Story

WILBUR is my best friend. He’s lived in my bedroom since I was four years and three months old. Now I’m five years and four months old, which is a lot bigger. Wilbur does not get any bigger, but his scales are ex-cep-tion-ally shiny.

It’s time for me to get out of bed, and then I have to feed Wilbur, because I have to look after him. I’ve been awake for ages, because I always wake up when Mummy’s alarm clock rings. Mummy’s alarm clock rings very early, because Mummy’s extremely busy.

I always say good morning to Wilbur: ‘Good morning, Wilbur.’

Wilbur gets six flakes for breakfast, which is easy, because I can count to way higher than six. I asked Mummy should Wilbur get three square meals, and she said probably, so I always give him six flakes for his breakfast, and six for his lunch, and six for his dinner.

Wilbur’s at the top of his water. He must still be asleep, because he’s lying on his back. I’ll have to whisper so he doesn’t get a fright. ‘Wilbur.’

He didn’t hear me. I’m watching very, very closely, so I can tell he isn’t moving. I’ll have to give him a prod. Now Wilbur is bouncing around in his water. That doesn’t count as moving.

Mummy will know what to do.

She’s in the kitchen, talking on the phone.

The house smells of toast.

‘She’s your child too, Edward. I’m sorry to have to add her to your workload.’

I love when Mummy’s shoes click-click on the kitchen floor. Mummy loves high shoes. I love her jewellery and her red nails and I love when she puts her hair up and wee bits fall down at the back. I love when she bends her head over so that she can hold the phone on her shoulder and do lots of other things at the same time.