Cheezer had a problem. His wheelbarrow needed oil. It shrieked and groaned, advertising his whereabouts to every predator that stalked the night garden. He looked in the potting shed, but the oil can was as dry as his throat when a tawny owl all but landed on his head. The squeal of his traitorous barrow seemed scornful to him and he was about to cry when Bertha’s big hand proffered a tube.
He squeezed a dollop onto the axle and tried a tentative push, to be rewarded with silence.
“Woss KY Jelly?” he asked.
“Never you mind, boy.”