Claire decided to annoy her schoolteacher by swallowing a shoe,
then admitted afterwards that she’d felt a right heel,
’cos Miss Bluemantwit started to panic when Claire’s face turned blue.

However, she was reassured by the naughty pupil,
who, in a muffled voice, said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s only a trick!’

But before the other kids could call for help, out came the undigestable item
which turned into a magical carpet, upon which sat a little dog.

Claire then jumped on the carpet and flew away to Lanzarote,
to be met by the island’s chief of police, who demanded to know,

‘Why did you come here without obtaining a flying permit?

You nearly caused an upset with a jumbo jet by sneaking in under the fog,
and your animal should have a pet passport.’

She replied, ‘Please Mr Policeman, I have fond memories of this island,
it’s where I was endowed with volcanic velocity.

My dad took me up an extinct volcano, of which this island has many,
and being a curious child I collected a strange dust.

‘Ever since then I’ve been able to do amazing feats.

However, my powers are fading. So can you let me go? Please, you really must!’
 

Unused to dealing with charming infants, the inspector found himself agreeing to her request.
That morning a portly Englishman, Bulstrode Botheringman, was conducting a naked mindfulness session, when a carpet appeared in the sky.

‘Watch out, hippies!’ Came the cry, as Claire landed, shielding her eyes, saying, ‘I won’t look!’

‘Oh, don’t worry luv, we’re all respectable folk,’  Mr Botheringman assured her,

‘I for instance am a retired school inspector.’

What happened next is unclear, but a story emerged about strange
events on the far side of the island. It appeared to stem from a group of elderly new age people,
who chanted, ‘Where is our little Miss and her tiny dog, who flew in one day
then left us forlorn, watching as she sped off on her rug?’

Eager for a story, journalist Miles McMuttermuck
tracked down a bitter, drink-addled retired inspector of schools.
However, he soon decided the chap was fooling,
after he ranted about being ostracised by his fellow spiritualists,
over exaggerated stories of a carpet that was seen flying.

He asked, ‘You’re sure you were a schools inspector?’

‘Yes, I taught in London, but grew tired of the kids’ antics.

I think they saw themselves as future Banksies. 
Always painting ‘Up the ’Ammers’, that’s West Ham Football Club,
don’t you know, on the toilet wall, instead of doing their arithmetic.’

Sensing he was losing the initiative, Miles asked, ‘How did you get on with the girl?’

‘Great, I encouraged her to go back to school, and take me with her on the carpet.’

The reporter nearly spilled his beer at this. ‘You’ve seen it?’

‘Of course, gave us all a right good scare, I don’t mind telling you.
And...’ he leaned closer, exhuming lager fumes.

… ‘I know she’s become the focus for those weak-minded,
so-called spiritualists who see her as some sort of deity.’

‘Really, do you know where she is, and will you take me there?’

‘Indeed, for a small fee.’

‘Of course, but you need to be sober.’

‘Oh,’ he answered defiantly, ‘I’ll be the model of sobriety.’

The next day the pair climbed an extinct volcano, of which the island boasted many.
As Miles followed his guide, he wondered what he’d let himself in for,
but consoled himself that it would make a good piece to sell to a tabloid.

Then below he saw an assortment of naked people, practising yoga.
At which Bulstrode said, ‘We’re here.’

‘I can see that,’ his companion replied. ‘What a weird sight. But I don’t see a carpet.’

But jumped as a shrill voice piped up, ‘No, it’s not weird, it’s cool.
As for the magical flying thing, I’m sitting on it.’

The startled pair looked round to see the rapscallion who started all this,
floating on something that one should really have been standing on.

‘I didn’t believe it when this chap told me about you.’ Miles commented.

‘How’s it fly, does it have an engine?’

‘No, it’s magic,’ Claire giggled, ‘Do you want a lift?’

‘What about the dog?’

‘Oh, just tell him to shift.’

Botheringman shuffled back to town and his barstool. ‘That was a nice little earner,’
he said to himself, ‘I’ll just wait for the next idiot reporter to turn up.’

Then off that very coast a new island was discovered,
that was then visited by an American scientific team.

But when the expedition leader, Max Middlepile, got out his atmospherical testing machine,
he cried, ‘The sky is full of combustible sulphur. All it needs is one spark.’

Then up piped a shrill voice, ‘Don’t worry. We can fly away on my carpet.’

Startled, Max and his fellow eggheads were amazed to see Claire.

‘Am I seeing things!’ He cried in panic.

‘Don’t worry, boss!’ his assistant reassured him.
‘It’s the sulphur, it must be hallucinogenic.’ As they stared at a girl in mid air.

‘Look, clever clogs,’ she cried, ‘I’m real and so are the flames below us.
And Fido’s tail is wagging up and down.’

Max looked sceptical. ‘What’s odd about that?’

‘It normally goes sideways. The inner core is upsetting her balance.’

Max sniffed, ‘And her rear end.’

‘No, that’s the sulphuric acid, not flatulence.’

Max finally shook himself and said, ‘You mean this island is volcanical?’

‘Well, I don’t think our geology teacher used that word in our class.
She talked about the earth’s crust and teutonic plates.’

He laughed, ‘Don’t you mean tectonic?’

‘Anyway, as you Americans say, we’re between a rock and a hard place.
So, to use another Americanism, move your ass!’

Seconds later they were soaring above the waves which were now swamping
their previous, albeit only temporary residence.

‘Heck,’ lamented Max, ‘I was about to name it Middlepile’s Isle.’

‘That’s a good name, my English teacher, Miss Honora Hunstanton,
would be impressed, she likes names that alliterate.’

‘Ah, I can see it’s easy to impress you, but alas, not so my fiancée,

Miss Happensteate, of Washington Watermeadows, Wisconsin.

She challenged me to do something incredible, or she wouldn’t wed me.’

‘Doesn’t sound a nice girl.’

‘She’s lovely, but like many of the privileged fairer sex needs something to show off about. ’

‘You’re old fashioned, Max. Like my teacher, Miss Bluemantwit. You two would make a good fit.’

At this point a storm blew in from the Sahara desert,
and my Central Intelligence Agency tracker device went on the blink.

You see, dear reader, I Hank Hunter, secret agent, had been following the adventures
of this remarkable girl (I know this must have come a surprise, but I am a spy after all)
hoping to harness the power of her amazing carpet.

I contacted agents throughout the Mediterranean, and was briefly sidetracked
by a report of an unidentifiable flying object over the Balearics,
those islands like Lanzarote, that are dominions of Spain.

My colleague, Horace Horselicks, then followed up a lead gained in a

Majorcan nightclub from a Señorita Fernandez.

However, being rather piddled, his CIA accent-locating antennae

failed to notice that she dropped her aitches,
as in ‘Up the ’Ammers’, a sign that her accent originated from the London district of Westham.

Her tip off led him to a mountain village in the belief he’d found
what the US government was looking for, only to be set upon by several roustabouts.

On overcoming them with karate punches and kicks,
they told him, ‘Calm down, señor, you have a mighty fist.
We were sent to rob you by a Señor Botheringham.

'That woman you met in the Pensive Parrot club is his daughter.’

But despite staking out the aforementioned club, the trail had gone cold,
and we could find no trace of little Claire and her airborne carpet.
Then a strange article appeared in The Times.

WEIRD EVENTS ON SPANISH ISLAND
Reports of levitation in Lanzarote and disappearing
scientists have been linked to an English girls school,
writes MILES McMUTTERMUCK

‘Miss Darcy-Dropstool, Headmistress of the Montmorency College For Young Ladies,
in the English village of Much-Swithinthwaite,

told police that one of her most reliable teachers, Miss Bluemantwit,
had claimed that one of her pupils had flown away on a carpet.

The lady, a known spinster, then announced her engagement to someone
whom she laughingly said ‘possessed an equally daft name!’

The two disappeared after the service, and it is believed that their sudden departure
is linked to the arrival of an irate American woman, Miss Happensteate.

Research revealed that the newly-weds set up a scientific establishment on the island of Lanzarote,
where they are are attempting to harness the power of an extinct volcano.

Following information gained from a Mr Bulstrode Botheringman,
I penetrated the inner region of the aforementioned island,
then, climbing a rocky slope, was knocked over by a little dog.

I got up, dazed, to hear a shrill English voice calling, ‘Come back Fido!’
then out of an impenetrable fog there appeared a young girl,
who announced, ‘We’ll take him to meet Miss Bluemantwit.
She likes meeting the curious who visit our little isle.’ 

Alas, patient readers of my column, I don’t remember what happened
after my encounter with the mist-shrouded canine.

All I’ll say is that I was found wandering, apparently drunk,
and taken into police custody, pending payment of a fine.

I’m now waiting for my editor to contact the embassy and arrange my release.’

         ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

So the mystery continues. You may wonder what happened to me,
Hank Hunter, once regarded as the Central Intelligence Agency’s sharpest operator.

Well, after my failed mission and subsequent disgrace, I retired to Lanzarote to run a bookshop.
You never know, that elusive Little Claire might fly in, on the carpet!