 Piccadilly Press presents The Boy Who Grew Dragons, written by Andy Shepherd and read by Ewan Goddard. Introduction When people ask me what we grow in Grandad's garden, I think they expect the answer to be cucumbers, tomatoes or runner beans. I don't think they expect the answer to be dragons. But there it is. We grow dragons. And I can tell you this, they're a lot more trouble than cucumbers. Things cucumbers do not do. Who in your dad's porridge? Singe your eyebrows. Make a really cozy nest by shredding all your mum's alphabetically ordered recipes. Leave your pants, the embarrassing ones covered in diggers, hanging from the TV aerial. Chase your cat. Drop cabbages on your cat. Try and ride your cat like a rodeo bull. Wake you up at 4am every morning by digging razor sharp claws into your forehead. Light your toothbrush while it's still in your mouth. Of course, they also don't have scales that ripple and shimmer like sunlight on the sea. Or have glittering eyes that can see right into the heart of you. Or settle on your shoulder with their tail curled round, warming your neck and their hot breath tickling your ear. Nope. None of these things are things you can expect from a cucumber. Well, not any cucumbers I've ever come across. Maybe a mutant radioactive space cucumber, but not your average garden variety. But dragons? Well, they're a whole other story. So, who wants to grow dragons? Daft question, yeah? I mean, seriously, who in their right mind would say no? Not me, that's for sure. And not you, by the looks of it. But if you want to grow dragons, you need to know what you're getting into. Sure, they're fiery, fantastical and dazzling, but dragons are not all fun and games, not by a long shot. And it's not just the fire and the flammable poo I'm talking about. Oh, no. Which is why, my dragon-seeking desperados, I'm writing all this down so at least you can go into it with your eyes open. Because, believe me, you'll need them to stay wide, wide open. Chapter 1. Battle of the Bungle It started about a year ago, and it was all Grandad's fault. Well, his and the Jam Tarts. I was just licking the last of it off my fingers when he said, We should grow our own chipstick. Jam Tarts, I asked. Raspberry's, he grinned. And then we could make our own jam for Nanna's Tarts. We could mix them up too, strawberry and blackberry, gooseberry and raspberry. Just think of the possibilities. Delicious. It did make a pretty good picture in my head, a vast plate-sized jam tart with different coloured sections like a multi-topping pizza. And more, too. Grandad went on, before I could dive further into the jammy dream. Radishes, beans, onions, cauliflower. You name it, we could grow it. Suddenly I wasn't so sure it was a great idea. Strawberry and cauliflower jam. Ew. I had enough fruit and vegetables to deal with, what with mum shoveling in my five a day. I mean she even sneaked dried fruit into perfectly good flapjacks, as if I wouldn't notice. But Grandad wasn't one to let go of an idea once it had fluttered down and settled. So on Saturday morning there we were at the end of his garden, up to our ears in mud, digging away at what looked to me like a monster jungle. In fact, I was beginning to realise why mum had offered me provisions for my trip to the Amazon. Sample complete. Ready to continue?