01 - Pongwiffy a Witch of Dirty Habits Read Free Page A

Sharkadder
one week later. They were in the kitchen of Sharkadder’s small cottage in Witchway Wood at the time.
    “That’s all right, Pong,” lied Sharkadder with fingers crossed behind her
back. She had, of course, forgiven Pongwiffy for the disastrous supper party.
After all, it hadn’t been her fault, as Sharkadder had to admit when Pongwiffy
had grovelled long enough.
    However, there was a limit to friendship. Pongwiffy had been sleeping in Sharkadder’s spare room for over a week now, and was showing no signs of moving
out. Sharkadder was a houseproud Witch, as Witches go, and Pongwiffy was a
Witch of Dirty Habits.
    They were sitting at the breakfast table. Sharkadder, who was slimming, had
made do with a glass of fresh newt juice. Pongwiffy, who wasn’t, had worked her
way through two plates of lice crispies, three griffin eggs, a pile of toast
with jellyfish jam and thirteen cups of hot bogwater. She had also finished the
trifle from the night before.
    “I suppose I’ll have to start looking for a place of my own one day,” said
Pongwiffy, licking the trifle plate clean.
    “Oh, really? What a pity,” said Sharkadder insincerely. “I’ll just go and get
the paper, then. We’ll see if there’s anything suitable.” And without even
bothering to put on her lipstick, she ran out the door with what Pongwiffy
considered to be indecent haste.
    Pongwiffy finished up Sharkadder’s newt juice and went to the cupboard to
raid the biscuit tin, keeping a close eye on Dead Eye Dudley. Dudley was
Sharkadder’s Familiar—a huge, battered black tom cat with one yellow eye, a
crooked tail and a very, very bad temper.
    Rumour had it that Dudley spent one of his nine lives as ship’s cat on a
pirate ship. This would account for the eyepatch he wore, and his habit
of growling strange, piratical sayings. Everybody was terrified of Dudley, except
Sharkadder who loved him dearly. Right now he was asleep on the hearth rug,
claws flexing as he dreamed of chasing rats in the hold and wailing sea chanties
under a tropical moon.
    Pongwiffy hastily crammed the last three mustard creams into her mouth and
wondered whether Sharkadder would notice if she cut herself a piece of that
delicious looking fungus sponge hidden on the top shelf. Before she could
decide, she heard Sharkadder’s footsteps hurrying down the path. Hastily she
scuttled back to the table and re-positioned herself, humming a casual little
hum.
    In came Sharkadder with the Daily Miracle under her arm. She glanced
disapprovingly at the pool of spilt bogwater, crumbs, broken egg shells and
other assorted droppings at Pongwiffy’s feet, and signalled to her Broom. It
leaped to attention and briskly proceeded to sweep the mess under the rug,
giving Pongwiffy’s ankles several sharp raps in the process.
     

     
    Pongwiffy’s own Broom came hurrying up to join in. This cleaning business was
quite a novelty. Normally, it never did a thing between flights except sleep.
Pongwiffy briskly kicked it back into the corner. If there was one thing that
annoyed her, it was a domesticated Broom.
    Sharkadder tutted and opened the windows to let in some fresh air. Fond as
she was of her friend, there was no denying that Pongwiffy’s odour tended to get
a bit overpowering at times. She cleared a space in the breakfast debris and
spread out the newspaper, running a finger down the FOR SALE column.
    “Now then, let’s see. Here’s one: Igloo. North Pole. Apply Yeti,
Greenland.”
    “Too far,” said Pongwiffy firmly. “Too cold.”
    “Hm. All right, what about this? Pretty little cottage with roses round
door. All clean and spanky shiny. Lovely views.”
    “Yuck. Sounds awful,” shuddered Pongwiffy.
    “Here’s another one, then: Cave. Goblin territory. No ceiling. Otherwise
perfect.”
    “That’s where I’ve just come from! No thanks.”
    “Well, that’s all there is today. Oh, wait a minute, this sounds interesting.
Listen: Tree house for sale.