Blurs

There was once a boy named Donald who owned the finest football in the neighbourhood. It wasn't just any football. It gleamed in the sunshine, its white panels almost too bright to look at, and the black pentagons were still crisp and clean. It smelled of new leather, bounced perfectly, and made a satisfying thump every time it met a foot. Every afternoon, when school was over and homework had been forgotten for just a little while, Donald would walk proudly to the green at the end of the street with the ball tucked tightly under his arm. The other boys would spot him from their gardens or bedroom windows. "Donald's got the ball!" Within minutes they would come running. John Doe arrived first, as he usually did. Then Ben Dover raced over still wearing his school jumper. Soon there were eight or nine boys standing together, laughing, joking and eager to play. Yet, without Donald's ball there could be no match. And Donald knew it. "Right," he said, placing...