Spotty

Spotty has spots. Big ones, small ones, one enormous one right on the nose.

Usually Spotty loves them. Spotty has a whole speech about them, and has given it to at least four fluffs who were sad about how they looked.

On Tuesday, somebody said, "Why have you got all those?"

They probably did not mean it horribly. It landed horribly all the same, in front of other fluffs, and Spotty laughed and went and sat behind the shed and felt something new and awful.

For one whole afternoon, Spotty wanted to be plain.

Just plain. One colour, no spots, nothing for anybody to ask about. Spotty imagined it in detail: walking into a room and having nobody's eyes stop anywhere, ever again.

Lovey found Spotty behind the shed.

"They asked about my spots," said Spotty.

"Do you want to be plain?"

"Yes." Spotty's voice went small. "Just for a bit."

Lovey sat down on the grass. "Can I tell you something a bit annoying?"

"Go on."

"When Newby arrived, Newby could not remember anybody's name for about a fortnight. Not Buddy's, not Mendy's, not mine." Lovey paused. "Newby knew yours on the first day."

Spotty sniffed. "Because of the spots."

"Because of the spots," Lovey agreed. "The thing you want to get rid of is the thing that means people know you're there."

They sat behind the shed a while longer, because a thing like that does not fix an afternoon straight away.

But at teatime Spotty did the trick Spotty has taught to half of Candyfloss Land, and which is much harder to do for yourself.

Name one thing that makes you, you.

"My spots make me, me," said Spotty, to a shed, in a not-very-convincing voice.