The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'Where's ibb and obb?' I asked.

'Out, I think,' replied Gran. 'Would you make us both a cup of tea while you're up?'

'Sure. I still can't remember Landen's second name, Gran – I've been trying all day.'

Gran came into the galley and sat on a kitchen stool, which happened to be right in the way of everything. She smelt of sherry, but for the life of me I didn't know where she hid it.

'But you remember what he looks like?'

I stopped what I was doing and stared out of the kitchen porthole.

'Yes,' I replied slowly, 'every line, every mole, every expression – but I still remember him dying in the Crimea.'

'That never happened, my dear,' she exclaimed. 'But the fact – I should use a bigger bowl if I were you – that you can remember his features proves he's not gone any more than yesterday. I should use butter and not oil; and if you have any mushrooms you could chop them up with a bit of onion and bacon – do you have any bacon?'

'Probably. You still haven't told me how you managed to find your way here, Gran.'

'That's easily explained,' she said. 'Tell me, did you manage to get a list of the most dull books you could find?'

Granny Next was one hundred and eight years old and was convinced that she couldn't die until she had read the ten most boring classics. On an earlier occasion I had suggested The Faerie Queene, Paradise Lost, Ivanhoe, Moby-Dick, A la recherche du temps perdu, Pamela and A Pilgrim's Progress. She had read them all and many others but was still with us. Trouble is, 'boring' is about as hard to quantify as 'pretty', so I really had to think of the ten books that she would find most boring.

'What about Silas Marner?'

'Only boring in parts – like Hard Times. You're going to have to do a little better than that – and if I were you I'd use a bigger pan, but on a lower heat.'

'Right,' I said, beginning to get annoyed, 'perhaps you'd like to cook? You've done most of the work so far.'

'No, no,' replied Gran, completely unfazed, 'you're doing fine.'

There was a commotion at the door and Ibb came in, followed closely by Obb.

'Congratulations!' I called out.

'What for?' asked Ibb, who was looking surprisingly different to Obb. For a start, Obb was at least four inches taller and its hair was darker than Ibb's, who was beginning to go blond.

'For becoming capitalised.'

'Oh, yes,' enthused Ibb, 'it's amazing what a day at St Tabularasa's will do for one. Tomorrow we'll finish our gender training and by the end of the week we'll be streamed into character groups.'

'I want to be a male mentor figure,' said Obb. 'Our tutor said that sometimes we can have a choice of what we do and where we go. Are you making supper?'

'No,' I replied, testing their sarcasm response, 'I'm giving my pet egg heat therapy.'

Ibb laughed – which was a good sign, I thought – and went off with Obb to practise whimsical retorts in case either of them was given a posting as a humorous sidekick.

'Teenagers,' said Granny Next, 'tch. I'd better make it a bigger omelette. Take over, would you? I'm going to have a rest.'

We all sat down to eat twenty minutes later. Obb had brushed its hair into a parting and Ibb was wearing one of Gran's gingham dresses.

'Hoping to be female?' I asked, passing Ibb a plate.

'Yes,' replied Ibb, 'but not one like you. I'd like to be more feminine and a bit hopeless – the sort that screams a lot when they get into trouble and have to be rescued.'

'Really?' I asked, handing Gran the salad. 'Why?'

Ibb shrugged. 'I don't know. I just like the idea of being rescued a lot, that's all – being carried off in big strong arms sort of … appeals. I thought I could have the plot explained to me a lot, too – but I should have a few good lines of my own, be quite vulnerable, yet end up saving the day owing to a sudden flash of idiot savant brilliance.'

'I think you'll have no trouble getting a placement.' I sighed. 'But you seem quite specific – have you used someone in particular as a model?'