Nanny Piggins and the Race to Power 8

by R. A. Spratt

  ‘Good morning, Nanny Piggins.’

  They all looked up to see Nanny Piggins’ greatest arch nemesis – Nanny Anne (well, her third greatest after the Ringmaster and Eduardo the Flying Armadillo). She was wearing lycra leggings, $400 running shoes and a baby-pink singlet – which all suggested that she was out running, and yet there was not a hair out of place on her head and not a molecule of sweat on her face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ grumbled Nanny Piggins. ‘If you’re thinking of breaking into the cake factory, there’s no point. I’ve already cleaned them out of all the easy-to-grab supplies.’

  Nanny Anne laughed her fake laugh, which sounded like a computer generated approximation of a normal human laugh. ‘Oh dear me no, I haven’t had a slice of cake for four months now,’ said Nanny Anne.

  ‘You poor thing,’ said Nanny Piggins. Much as she disliked Nanny Anne as a person, she could not help but be touched by such a sad story.

  ‘I’m in training for the big run on Saturday,’ said Nanny Anne smugly.

  ‘You mean the Town to Tip?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nanny Anne. ‘I have written several letters to the organisers asking them to change the name to something more inspiring.’

  ‘Typical,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I should have known you of all people would be a jogger. It takes a certain type of depraved character to stoop so low.’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’ asked Nanny Anne, with her sickly sweet smile. ‘Are you waiting for the police to pick you up? Or perhaps a mental health professional?’

  It shows how strongly Nanny Piggins disliked Nanny Anne that she seriously considered hurling the chunk of chocolate cake in her hand at Nanny Anne’s perfectly laundered pink singlet. Fortunately, good sense prevailed and she stuffed it in her mouth instead. ‘I’m training for the fun run too,’ she muttered, spraying cake crumbs because she ate as she talked (one of her favourite types of multi-tasking).

  At this point Nanny Anne really did burst out laughing. She laughed and laughed for a full two minutes, which is a very long time to sit in the gutter watching someone delight at your expense.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ demanded Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Nanny Anne (although she was not). ‘I thought you were joking.’

  ‘Why would I be joking?’ demanded Nanny Piggins. ‘I am one of the greatest, if not the greatest athlete in the entire world. No-one has ever bested me in the field of being blasted out of a cannon.’

  Nanny Anne burst out laughing again.

  ‘Why is that funny?’ asked Derrick.

  Nanny Anne was dabbing away tears now because she was laughing so hard her eyes had started to water. ‘Well, being blasted out of a cannon is hardly a real sport, is it?’

  THWACK!

  The sound of a slice of mud cake hitting Nanny Anne’s clothes was a distinctive one. Normally a stain on her outfit would drive Nanny Anne apoplectic with rage, but on this occasion it only made her burst out laughing again.

  ‘Take that back!’ demanded Nanny Piggins. ‘How dare you insult the art and science of being a flying pig!’ Nanny Piggins lunged for Nanny Anne but the children and Boris grabbed her. And Nanny Anne had the good sense to take off jogging down the road.

  ‘Let me at her,’ insisted Nanny Piggins.

  ‘If you bite her she’ll call the police,’ urged Derrick.

  ‘At least let me chase her down and get my slice of cake back,’ pleaded Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Let her go,’ said Samantha, ‘just let her go.’

  ‘But the chocolate filling had real cream,’ sobbed Nanny Piggins.

  Boris wrapped his sister in a big bear hug. ‘Don’t worry, if we go back to the factory and knock politely on the door I’m sure they’ll give you another slice.’

  ‘That was the last slice,’ wept Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Really?’ asked Derrick. ‘They only had one slice in the entire factory?’

  ‘No, they had sixty slices,’ admitted Nanny Piggins, ‘but I had to munch on something while I was running away from the guards.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Boris, patting her hand.

  ‘Well, there is nothing for it,’ declared Nanny Piggins, standing up and brushing off her skirt. ‘I shall have to beat Nanny Anne on Saturday, and I shall have to run faster than her in the race too.’

  From that point on no-one needed to coach Nanny Piggins anymore. She was up before dawn every day, carrying out her own brutal training regimen. Admittedly it did not involve much running. A quick jog down to Hans’ bakery, a three-hour session of carbo loading, and then home to rest. But she did it all with such impressive focus and dedication, the children began to believe that perhaps being only four foot tall would not stop their nanny from winning the Town to Tip.

  The big day arrived. Nanny Piggins came downstairs, dressed ready for the race.

  ‘Why are you wearing your hot-pink wrestling leotard?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘Just in case,’ said Nanny Piggins cryptically.

  ‘You’re planning to wrestle Nanny Anne, aren’t you?’ guessed Samantha.

  ‘I’d like to be prepared should the eventuality occur,’ said Nanny Piggins as she tucked into a hearty breakfast of chocolate croissants.

  ‘But you’ve got to wear your campaign t-shirt,’ said Tyler, pulling out a fluorescent green t-shirt featuring a picture of Nanny Piggins jogging and the slogan, ‘A Vote for Piggins is a Vote for Good Health.’

  ‘That is the ugliest t-shirt I’ve ever seen,’ denounced Nanny Piggins. ‘Which designer made this for you? Let me know and I shall call Paris immediately to tear strips off them!’

  ‘It wasn’t made by a European designer,’ said Tyler. ‘It was made by Larry from the Copy Shack.’

  ‘But I don’t wear clothes made by Larry,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘unless you count Yves Saint Laurent. But he prefers it if I only call him Larry when none of his designer friends is around.’

  ‘Wearing a simple t-shirt will make you look like one of the people,’ urged Tyler. ‘The voters will like it.’

  And so with great reluctance Nanny Piggins was driven to the starting line wearing the hideous green t-shirt. As soon as she got out of the car Nanny Piggins started being difficult.

  ‘Ew, I can’t go through with it!’ proclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘I can’t run!’

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ sighed Tyler.

  ‘The smell!’ complained Nanny Piggins. ‘It’s dreadful. I’ve never smelt so much menthol rub in the air.’

  Even the children had to admit the other runners were a bit pongy. You did not need a super sensitive pig snout to be able to sniff them a mile away.

  ‘Come on, Sarah,’ urged Boris as he tried dragging her towards the marshalling area. ‘You’ve got to do it. We all got up at 5.30 this morning to get you here on time. And there’s nowhere else to go because the sweet shop doesn’t open for another three hours.’

  ‘I won’t do it!’ screamed Nanny Piggins, opening her mouth wide to chomp on her brother’s shin.

  ‘Good morning, Nanny Piggins,’ said Nanny Anne. ‘Are you being attacked by that bear? Would you like me to call Animal Control?’

  ‘I’ll call Human Control and have you taken away in a van if you don’t watch out,’ cried Nanny Piggins.

  ‘There’s no such thing as Human Control,’ whispered Michael.

  ‘Well, there should be,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Some people shouldn’t be allowed to roam the streets without wearing a leash.’

  ‘Good morning, Piggins,’ said Mr Green.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Nanny Piggins. ‘Is this what all unpleasant people do? Get up first thing in the morning and go jogging?’

  ‘I’ve come to watch,’ said Mr Green smugly. ‘As the future mayor I must be seen to participate in community events.’

  ‘By participate you mean sit on the sidelines doing nothing, don’t you,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘I believe
in small government,’ said Mr Green. ‘Doing nothing is my policy platform.’

  ‘Come on, Nanny Piggins,’ urged Derrick. ‘You’d better make your way over to the starting line. They’re about to begin.’

  So Nanny Piggins went and lined up with all the health and fitness fanatics of Dulsford, as well as the people taking part in the race ‘just for a laugh’. They made Nanny Piggins feel saddest of all. Anyone who finds running ten kilometres funny clearly is a troubled soul. Nanny Piggins made a mental note to send cake to all these people as soon as she became mayor.

  BANG!

  The race began and everyone took off. Nanny Anne started at a brisk pace at the front of the pack. But Nanny Piggins sprinted away at lightning speed.

  ‘She’ll never be able to keep up that pace,’ said Derrick.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Boris. ‘It’s not like she didn’t do enough carbo-loading.’

  ‘But it’s ten kilometres,’ said Michael. ‘That’s a long way.’

  ‘Pish!’ said Boris (quoting his sister). ‘Once, during a twenty-minute interval at the circus, Nanny Piggins decided she fancied a cupcake, so she ran sixteen kilometres to the nearest supermarket for a bag of flour, ran back, whipped up a batch of cupcakes and ate them.’

  ‘In under twenty minutes?!’ marvelled Michael.

  ‘Well it did take her a little longer,’ admitted Boris, ‘but the Ringmaster was very understanding about it. He held up the show to wait for her.’

  The children and Boris were able to follow the race on a huge jumbotron TV screen that had been set up in the town square.

  ‘She’s coming up to the cake factory,’ worried Samantha.

  They watched Nanny Piggins start rifling in the pockets of her hot-pink wrestling leotard (she had pockets sewn into it so that she would never be without a chocolate bar when wrestling).

  ‘What’s she doing?’ wondered Derrick.

  They soon found out. Nanny Piggins produced two marshmallows and snuffed them up her nose.

  ‘Brilliant!’ exclaimed Boris. ‘She’s blocking the smell of the cake.’

  Nanny Piggins ran on, widening the gap between her and the rest of the field. She made it to the tip in record time before turning around and heading back to town. From there on, the only thing that slowed her down was stopping to blow a raspberry at Nanny Anne as she passed her going the other way, and telling off the volunteers at the drinks station for only providing water and no chocolate milk.

  In a few short minutes Nanny Piggins was running back into central Dulsford.

  ‘Here she comes!’ cried Samantha as they spotted Nanny Piggins at the far end of the High Street on the last straight stretch into town.

  The crowd burst into cheers and applause.

  ‘She’s going to win!’ exclaimed Boris delightedly.

  ‘She’s going to win by a mile!’ said Derrick.

  Indeed, it was only as Nanny Piggins sprinted down the last hundred metres that they saw Nanny Anne appear in the distance at the far end of the street.

  ‘You can do it, Nanny Piggins!’ cried Samantha.

  The official announcer’s voice crackled over the public address system: ‘And here comes Sarah Matahari Lorelai Piggins in the lead.’

  The crowd roared their approval.

  ‘It is the first time we’ve had a woman, and a pig, come in first place,’ continued the announcer. ‘What a wonderful tribute to the power of exercise and healthy living.’

  At that exact moment Nanny Piggins’ legs stopped and she skidded to a halt just five metres short of the line.

  ‘Did he just say I was a tribute to the power of exercise and healthy living?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Yes,’ said Derrick.

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ urged Tyler. ‘To win over the healthy vote.’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Yes you can!’ yelled Tyler. ‘You just need to take a few more steps.’

  ‘Nanny Anne is getting closer,’ cried Samantha.

  ‘I can’t win this race,’ said Nanny Piggins as though awaking from a stupor. ‘To do so would betray everything I believe in. I don’t believe in unnecessary sweating, jogging or organised sport in any of its forms. I certainly don’t believe in role models, health messages or setting a good example.’

  ‘But you’ll never become mayor on that platform,’ wailed Tyler.

  ‘I don’t care. Some things are more important than politics,’ declared Nanny Piggins. ‘Like principles and beliefs. And I believe in cake, fun and more cake!’

  The crowd roared their approval, then swept forward and lifted Nanny Piggins onto their shoulders, chanting ‘We want Piggins! We want Piggins!’

  Nanny Piggins was carried over to the winner’s podium where she took the microphone and broke into an impromptu loser’s acceptance speech.

  ‘I am Nanny Piggins and I am running for mayor,’ declared Nanny Piggins, ‘but I will not go against my principles by jogging to do so.’

  ‘She did run 9.995 kilometres of the 10 km run,’ whispered Derrick.

  ‘A slight technicality,’ dismissed Boris.

  ‘In fact,’ continued Nanny Piggins, ‘the only reason I am here today is because I was tricked by my campaign advisor.’ Nanny Piggins pointed dramatically at Tyler.

  ‘I didn’t trick you,’ said Tyler. ‘I persuaded you using reasoned argument and polling data.’

  ‘The most dangerous type of political trick of all,’ condemned Nanny Piggins, ‘which leads me to wonder, why would a self-proclaimed “professional campaign strategist” try to lure me into a life of deceit and lies?’

  ‘You’re talking about jogging, innocent jogging,’ protested Tyler.

  ‘There is nothing innocent about that much sweating and bouncing up and down,’ condemned Nanny Piggins. ‘You have systematically made me turn my back on everything I believe in. And I know of only one political mastermind morally bankrupt enough to do that – my identical twin sister, Abigail!’

  Everyone in the crowd gasped.

  Tyler (aka Abigail) tried to make a run for it but unfortunately she slammed into Nanny Anne just as she crossed the line. So Abigail fell over and her wig and glasses fell off, revealing herself to be an exact replica of Nanny Piggins (except that she had long red hair and green eyes).

  The crowd gasped again.

  ‘This is as good as The Young and the Irritable,’ whispered Boris. ‘I wish I’d brought a bowl of popcorn.’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ admitted Abigail (formerly known as Tyler), ‘but you had it coming. Remember when we were children and you borrowed my pink cardigan without asking, then got a toffee stain all down the front. I told you I’d get you back and now I have.’

  ‘But that cardigan didn’t suit you at all,’ argued Nanny Piggins. ‘It clashed with your hair.’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ yelled Abigail. ‘It’s the principle of the matter.’

  ‘You see, everyone,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘This is how dangerous principles are. It allows one impossibly beautiful pig to carry a grudge against another impossibly beautiful pig for all these years. Which is why, if you elect me mayor, I promise to be unprincipled at all times.’

  The crowd cheered again.

  ‘What about my medal?’ panted Nanny Anne.

  ‘You can have it,’ said Nanny Piggins, handing the large winner’s gold medal to her, ‘although I don’t see how you can enjoy it. It’s not made of chocolate at all. I know because I bit it to be sure.’

  Nanny Anne took the medal, then collapsed under the weight of it due to inadequate carbo-loading.

  ‘Only one question remains,’ continued Nanny Piggins. ‘Why? Abigail is usually in far flung, not terribly democratic countries influencing national elections one way or another. Why would she come to a small town like Dulsford and get involved with a mayoral election?’

  ‘I told you,’ sulked Abigail. ‘The pink cardigan.’

  ‘That might have been part of
it, but there had to be more,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘How did you find out? Who got in touch with you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ lied Abigail.

  ‘Then perhaps you do – Mr Green!’ accused Nanny Piggins, dramatically pointing at him.

  Mr Green flinched, then looked scared as the whole crowd turned and glared at him.

  ‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything. You can’t prove it,’ he babbled.

  ‘Do I have to come down there and stomp on your foot?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  Mr Green’s shoulders slumped. ‘All right, everything she says is true.’

  ‘I knew it!’ declared Nanny Piggins.

  Nanny Piggins spent the rest of the afternoon shaking hands, signing autographs and refusing to kiss babies (they are terribly unhygienic) for the crowd.

  When they finally made it home she certainly needed the tall glass of chocolate milk that Boris poured for her.

  ‘What a day,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Are you hurt that your sister turned up and tried to ruin your fledging political career?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’d be hurt if she hadn’t. It’s always nice to know that family cares. Even if they only care about thwarting you.’

  ‘Are you cross with Father?’ asked Samantha.

  ‘A little,’ admitted Nanny Piggins, ‘but I’ll forgive him as soon as I shake a bag of itching powder into his underpants drawer. Then it will be like this whole incident never happened.’

  ‘So, no jogging for you?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Goodness no!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ve promised the organisers I’ll enter again next year.’

  ‘You have?!’ exclaimed the children.

  ‘Yes, but only if they adopt my brilliant suggestion,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I told them to run the race from the town to the cake factory. If the cake factory is the finish line, everyone will run much faster. They’re going to call it “The Cake Run”.’