Just Annoying! by Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton

beside his knee. The box is almost full. I can see a Jaffa poking out of the top.
    I could just reach up and take it. Just one. It’s not my lost one, but it would do. The kid won’t mind. He won’t even know. He’s staring at the screen. It’s a low thing to steal lollies off children. Very low. James Bond would never do that. I would never do that.

    I’m just going to borrow it.
    I raise my hand towards the Jaffa. My thumb and forefinger are poised, like a cobra about to strike. The Jaffa is almost mine.
    â€˜Mummy,’ says the kid in a loud voice, ‘why is there a boy under my seat?’
    I pull my hand back and wriggle back under cover. Bigmouth strikes again!
    â€˜Shhh!’ says his mother. ‘Don’t be so silly.’

    â€˜But, Mum,’ he says, ‘there’s a boy under my seat.’
    â€˜I’ve told you before,’ she says, ‘stop telling stories.’
    My cover’s been blown! I have to get out of the danger zone. Fast.
    I take off down the aisle, elbows pumping. I bump my head. I burn my knees. I knock my shoulders. But I keep going until I can’t go any further. I’m caught on a strap. It’s pulled tight under my arm. At the end of the strap I can see a handbag. And that’s not all. The strap is looped around a woman’s ankle.

    â€˜Hey!’ says a voice. A hand with long fingernails reaches down and starts tugging on the strap. ‘Help! Someone’s trying to steal my handbag. Usher!’
    But the harder she pulls the strap, the harder it is to unhook it from my shoulder.
    I flop onto my back and push myself out from under the seat to help slip the strap off my arm.
    It works. My arm is free.
    But now I have an even bigger problem.
    Someone is screaming.
    â€˜Pervert!’
    It takes me a moment to realise that I’m looking up the dress of the woman in the next seat.
    Not that I am looking. I’m not. I’m just trying to get rid of the handbag strap. But it’s going to be hard to explain the difference. James Bond would know how to do it, but when it comes to the crunch I’m no James Bond. It’s safer and easier just to scram.
    I pull my head back under the seat and start the long journey back to where I started. Operation find-the-lost-Jaffa has been aborted. I’ll be happy just to find my seat.
    Too late.
    I can see a white torch beam sweeping across the carpet.
    The usher!
    I can’t go forward and I can’t go back.
    He stops at the end of my aisle.
    He is wearing black leather shoes. The shoelaces are tied in big floppy bows. The toes are scuffed. Probably from kicking trouble-makers like me out of the cinema.
    â€˜What’s the problem?’ calls the usher.
    â€˜Thief!’ gasps the handbag woman.
    â€˜Pervert!’ says the woman sitting next to her.
    â€˜Who me?’ says the usher.
    â€˜No, under the seat!’ says the handbag woman.
    â€˜Which one?’ says the usher.
    I’m breathing hard. Heart thudding.
    Any minute now he’s going to shine the torch under the seat.
    Unless . . .
    Brainwave!
    Now don’t get me wrong. Tying somebody’s shoelaces together is on a par with stealing lollies from children. It’s not an activity that I would normally have any part of or recommend to others. But this is an emergency. After all, a field operative must use every means at his disposal to achieve his objective.

    I reach out and pluck the end of the usher’s shoelace from its loose knot. It unties easily. The lace of his other shoe comes undone just as easily. I tie the two laces together in a simple slip knot. I brace myself. This is it. I spread my fingers apart like I’m steadying myself for the start of a one-hundred-metre sprint.
    That’s weird.
    I can feel something underneath my right hand.
    It’s small and hard. And round.
    Hang on!
    I don’t believe it.
    My Jaffa! I’ve found it.
    Against