Well, we are back at school and the weekly creative writing homework is being set. This year I am in year 5 and this week's picture prompt is of a troll, carrying a boat under his arm and lifting the roof off a yellow house. People are running from him and cars are driving round his big feet, but let's let Lucien tell the tale ...

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"The troll lifted the roof of the yellow house while the tiny residents of the town of Seaham fled in fear."

"Ooh, Granddad," Amelia's eyes widened as she listened to him tell the story, "was he a nasty troll? what did he look like?"

"Well, darling girl," he kissed the top of her curls, nearly dry from her evening bath, "we shall see if he's nasty, but let's see to his appearance," he tipped his head upwards and thought. "He was tall ..."

"How tall?"

"He could rest his chin on a house roof, and that chin was bristly with hairs like branches, so were his eyebrows. His nose was a big blob in the centre of his face and he grinned a grin that split his face nearly in two, showing crooked teeth and gaps between them."

"Does he have hair, Granddad?"

"Patience, my child," he squeezed her gently, "he did have hair, though not like yours or mine, his was like a forest, that ran from his forehead down the centre of his back with trees and grasses sticking up in all directions. He wore a jacket that seemed to be made of grass, too, tight across his broad, but stooped, shoulders, his trousers were like the bark of a tree and his toes peeped out from his shoes, which were made of leaves."

"Lucien," Jean called from the kitchen, "this is supposed to be a bedtime story."

"Right, er ... yes, well," he looked at Amelia with a wicked grin, "ok Amelia?"

"Come on, I want to know what happens," she jiggled up and down next to him on the couch.

"Anyway," Lucien continued, a happy ending should dispel any worries about nightmares, he thought, "Ragwort ..."

"Was that his name, Granddad?" Amelia asked.

"It was, now, if you keep interrupting, Amelia, we will have to finish the story tomorrow night," he gently chided her, "now, where was I? Ah, yes ... Ragwort had been asleep for hundreds of years but a sudden burst of wild weather had woken him from his slumber. He had stretched in his underground chamber and split the ground. Folks around thought it was an earthquake, but they don't happen here, so ..."

"Does Ragwort live in Australia, Granddad?"

"Yes, now, hush please, " Lucien sighed. Amelia couldn't sit still for many minutes or keep quiet, "questions, questions," he muttered before returning to his story, "... so they poked with spades and hoes until he poked his bulbous nose out of the ground and they stood, stock still, before running away in fright. Ragwort, pushed himself out of the ground and looked around. Times must have changed, there were houses and streets, cars and bicycles where there had been green fields and trees. Bobbing up and down on the choppy water, little boats waited for their sailors to take them out fishing or on pleasure trips round the bay ..."

"Five minutes, then bedtime, Amelia," Jean stepped into the living room and sat down with her knitting and to hear what story her husband was weaving for their granddaughter.

"Come on, Granddad," the little girl urged him on, "what next?"

"Ragwort stood and shook the beetles and bugs out of his forest hair, brushed the soil from his jacket and decided he was acceptably attired to go for a walk into the town and see what was what.

He stood gazing out over the water and noticed a little boat drifting from its mooring. He strode into the water and scooped it up, tucking it under his arm like a toy; which is why he came to be lifting the roofs off houses, looking for the owner of the boat. He lifted the roof and put it to one side and showed the boat to each occupant of each building he came to. All he got in return was screams, shouts and people fainting. At the yellow house, however, he lifted the lid on a little girl's bedroom.

"Hello," she said, rubbing her eyes, "what're you doing?"

"Boat," he rumbled, "Got boat." Lucien's voice went deep and grumbley as he spoke the trolls words.

"The little girl ..."

"What was she called, Granddad?" Amelia held herself tight, "what was her name?"

"Well, I think her name might have been Amelia," he thought, "yes, come to think of it, she was called Amelia. Now Amelia was a brave little girl and anyway, the troll had her daddy's boat. She got out of bed and put on her dressing gown; it was blue and fluffy, lovely and cosy and went with the slippers that she slipped her feet into; and stood by the wall, looking out at the night sky.

"That's my daddy's boat," she said, "why've you got it?"

He held up the rope and grunted.

"Was it floating away?"

He nodded.

"Will you help me tie it up, again?" she asked.

He nodded again and held out his hand, which she clambered into.

"But Granddad," Amelia interrupted, again, "do you think she should've? you and Gran'ma said I wasn't to go with anyone I didn't know."

"You're quite right my dear," he patted her shoulder, "but this little Amelia wasn't really very obedient ..."

"Must take after her grandfather," Jean muttered.

Lucien harrumphed and gave a mock shrug.

"... so Ragwort carried her ever so carefully to the sandy shore and set her down gently. He put the boat in the water and held it there until he could place Amelia into it. And so began the night-time adventures.

Ragwort would collect Amelia from her bedroom after her parents went to bed and they would sail the seven seas, fighting pirates and defeating sea monsters. He would return her to her bed just before sunrise and she was never, ever tired. She told her parents all about the adventures and they listened then laughed at her imagination and her 'dreams'. Ragwort was careful not to be seen by the others in the town, and for Amelia he was her own special friend and she didn't want to share him, anymore than he wanted to be shared.

One night there was another fearful storm, with lightning and thunder, high winds and torrential rain. Ragwort sat on his earth mound and watched the spectacular light show, the way the bolts of lightning cut through the dark of the night sky.

Suddenly one of the lightning bolts hit something in the town and sparks flew up, then flames. He looked across and saw the houses alight and heard screaming. Loping from his mound he reached the town quickly where people were running and waving their arms around. Some were throwing buckets of water at the flames, though to Ragwort they were little more than thimbles. His eyes flicked over to where his friend Amelia lived and saw her waving from her bedroom window, the flames rising up the walls of her house. As he approached people started to scream even louder, some fired guns at him, but the bullets bounced off his thick hide and he never faltered in his steps. He reached over and lifted the roof off the yellow house and tenderly offered his hand to Amelia, who stepped onto the palm and sat down, perfectly calm and safe. He set her down by her terrified parents who could only stare open-mouthed. Until that moment they firmly believed Amelia just had a rather vivid imagination.

Ragwort stood up and looked around. He knew, from watching the townsfolk, that water was needed to quench the fires. He strode back to his mound and reached into where he slept hidden from the others in the town and pulled out his drinking pot. It was carved from wood but was as big as a garden shed. He scooped up water from the cove and threw it onto the flames.

Time and time again he drowned the flames until not a one was burning. The townsfolk cheered and clapped, danced and sang his praises. He grinned and looked around for Amelia. She was climbing onto his big toe, it tickled as she tried to climb his leg. He reached down and placed his hand for her to climb into. Lifting her to his face his eyes lit up with delight that she was safe and apparently unharmed. She opened her arms and hugged his nose, and kissed it.

"Thank you, Ragwort," she cried, "for saving all of us and our houses."

Ragwort grunted and grinned, and Amelia wasn't sure, but she thought she saw him blush with pride."

"So, he was a hero," Amelia yawned.

"... and the people loved him for it, and never ran or screamed again, when they saw him. In fact, each year, on the anniversary of the fire they declared it a public holiday - Ragwort Day - and nobody worked, the schools were closed and picnics and street parties were held to celebrate his goodness."

Lucien looked down at his step-granddaughter, almost asleep on his knee.

"Come on, little one," he whispered, "time for bed."

He lofted her into his arms and carried her up to her room, where he tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead.

"Honestly, Lucien," his wife hummed from behind, "I do wonder why she doesn't have nightmares. Where on earth do you get your ideas from?"

"They're just variations on a theme, Jean," he put his arm round her trim waist, "and as long as there is a happy ending she sleeps soundly."

"Care to tell me a bedtime story," she smiled, seductively.

"I think I can do better than that," he winked and kissed her firmly.