On Thursday morning, London was covered in bunting.
Tiny Union Jack flags fluttered across shop windows. Paper decorations hung in school halls. Even the bakery near Barry’s preschool had iced little red, white and blue stars onto cupcakes that cost roughly the same as a small mortgage.
Today was the preschool VE Day celebration.
There would be music.
There would be games.
There would be a “traditional street-party tea.”
Most importantly to Barry, there would be biscuits.
Barry believed most world events could be improved with snacks. He was curious, fearless, and possessed the remarkable ability to become sticky within thirty seconds of entering any room.
His best friend Marmaduke had the personality of an enthusiastic golden retriever in human form.
If Barry said, “Let’s investigate that mysterious noise,” Marmaduke would already be climbing through a hedge.
Alfie, Barry’s brother, attended the primary school next door and took life extremely seriously. He believed in rules, sensible behaviour, and using coasters.
He also believed Barry was going to shorten their parents’ lives considerably.
At breakfast, Mum balanced her laptop beside her cereal while typing emails with terrifying speed.
Dad was on a work call saying things like, “Circle back,” and, “Let’s action that,” which seemed to mean absolutely nothing but apparently earned money.
Alfie sat neatly eating toast.
Barry was attempting to balance a grape on his forehead.
Marmaduke arrived wearing a tiny paper Union Jack hat already bent in three places.
“My mum says there’ll be jam tarts,” he announced.
Barry froze mid-grape.
“Today,” he whispered, “is the greatest day in British history.”
“Technically—” Alfie began.
“No,” said Barry firmly. “Jam.”
At preschool, the playground had been transformed into a little street party.
Long tables were covered with checked tablecloths. Strings of flags fluttered overhead. Teachers wore 1940s-style outfits, though several looked deeply uncomfortable in suspenders.
Mrs Patterson, the preschool manager, smiled brightly.
“Good morning, everyone!”
A kazoo immediately sounded somewhere behind her.
Mrs Patterson closed her eyes briefly.
“That’ll be Barry.”
It was.
Barry and Marmaduke had discovered a basket of toy instruments intended for later.
Barry held a kazoo like a jazz musician in a tiny bomber jacket.
Marmaduke had a drum.
This combination should have required government approval.
“BZZZZZZZZZT!” went Barry.
BANG BANG BANG! went Marmaduke.
One child began crying instantly.
Mrs Patterson confiscated the instruments before international relations were damaged.
“Those are for the concert later.”
Barry looked thoughtful.
“So there are MORE instruments?”
Mrs Patterson suddenly realised her mistake.
The morning began with singing practice.
Children sat cross-legged while teachers played cheerful wartime songs on a piano that had definitely seen things.
Alfie’s class sang beautifully next door.
Barry’s preschool class sounded like several ducks being surprised simultaneously.
Still, everyone clapped enthusiastically because they were four and mostly facing the correct direction.
Marmaduke sang every word at maximum volume despite knowing only about half of them.
Barry improvised the rest.
“We’ll meet again…” sang the children.
“…after biscuits…” Barry added confidently.
Then came crafting time.
This was where events took a darker turn.
The children were given glue, glitter, paper flags, and safety scissors.
Teachers often described Barry as “creative,” which was a polite educational term meaning Please pray for us.
At first, things went reasonably well.
Marmaduke glued one sleeve to the table accidentally.
Barry created what he called “a war helicopter.”
“It’s a Spitfire,” corrected Miss Patel, the boys preschool teacher.
“No,” said Barry. “This one shoots lasers.”
“You can’t just add lasers to history.”
Barry looked astonished.
Five minutes later, Barry discovered glitter could be blown through a straw.
The classroom briefly resembled a low-budget disco explosion.
Glitter covered the floor.
Glitter covered the tables.
Glitter covered Mrs Patterson.
One small child looked like a festive vampire.
“BARRY!” shouted three teachers at once.
“I’m making atmosphere,” Barry explained.
Marmaduke inhaled glitter accidentally and sneezed sparkles across a tray of digestive biscuits.
Somehow this made the biscuits more popular.
By lunchtime, parents began arriving for the party tea.
Mum appeared while still wearing her work badge and talking into wireless headphones.
“Yes, send me the spreadsheet—” she said, before spotting Barry hanging upside down from a bench.
“Sorry,” she told her colleague. “I have to deal with a situation.”
Dad arrived moments later, still typing on his phone.
Alfie greeted them properly. Years 3 down had been allowed to join the chaos that was the street party.
Barry attempted to salute using a breadstick.
The party tables looked lovely.
There were little sandwiches, sausage rolls, cupcakes, jelly, fruit skewers nobody wanted, and towers of biscuits.
Barry stared at the biscuit table the way explorers once stared at newly discovered treasure islands.
Marmaduke stared too.
“Barry,” whispered Marmaduke, “that’s loads.”
Barry nodded solemnly.
“Today,” he said, “we become men.”
“You’re four,” said Alfie.
“Exactly.”
The headteacher tapped a microphone.
“Welcome, everyone, to our VE Day celebration!”
Parents applauded politely while trying to stop toddlers drinking squash directly from jugs.
“First,” announced the headteacher, “the children will perform a musical tribute.”
A teacher handed instruments around.
This was the second catastrophic mistake of the day.
Barry received a tambourine.
Marmaduke got maracas.
One unfortunate child was handed a recorder and immediately weaponised it.
The music began.
At least, something began.
Alfie’s class played carefully and beautifully.
Barry’s group performed with the energy of pirates celebrating tax fraud.
Tambourines crashed wildly. Maracas rattled with terrifying enthusiasm.
Barry shook his tambourine so hard it flew out of his hand halfway through the song.
It struck the piano.
The pianist screamed softly.
Marmaduke, inspired by the chaos, began shaking his maracas above his head while spinning in circles.
Marmaduke caught one mid-air and ate it.
Two children copied him immediately.
Today was the preschool VE Day celebration.
Miss Patel lunged forward just before somebody lost an eye.
The audience applauded anyway because British parents will applaud absolutely anything involving children and moderate survival.
Then came the tea.
This was the moment Barry had trained for his entire life.
“Remember your manners,” Mum warned.
“Yes,” said Barry automatically while already holding three biscuits.
Marmaduke carried four because Barry had three.
Alfie selected one neatly and used a napkin like a civilised human being.
Barry stacked jam tarts into a tower.
“Don’t do that,” said Alfie.
“It’s architecture.”
“It’s unstable.”
Barry ignored him.
Alfie was proved correct.
Nearby, the preschool staff had organised a “1940s dancing corner” with music and bubbles.
Parents chatted while children ran in every direction like escaped zoo animals.
Barry noticed the bubbles first.
“Marmaduke,” he whispered, “operation disco.”
No good sentence has ever begun with those words.
The boys charged into the dancing area carrying biscuits.
Barry attempted a dramatic spin.
His elbow hit the jam tart tower.
The entire stack launched sideways in slow motion.
Jam tarts flew majestically through the air like tiny patriotic frisbees.
His elbow hit the jam tart tower.
One landed in Dad’s coffee.
Another attached itself directly to a businessman’s suit jacket.
A third hit the trombone belonging to Mr Jenkins, the music teacher.
There was a horrible wet HONK.
The entire room went silent.
Mr Jenkins slowly lowered the trombone.
Jam dripped from the mouthpiece.
Barry stared.
“Marmaduke,” he whispered, impressed, “that was brilliant.”
“You did it,” Marmaduke pointed out.
“Yes,” Barry agreed. “But emotionally we both did it.”
Mum arrived immediately.
“How,” she asked carefully, “have you managed to attack a trombone with pastry?”
“It was an accident,” Barry said.
Mr Jenkins sighed the sigh of a man reconsidering every career decision he had ever made.
“It’s alright,” he said weakly.
Then the trombone made another sad squelching noise.
Even Alfie looked embarrassed.
“I would like to formally apologise on behalf of the family,” he told Mr Jenkins.
Mr Jenkins blinked.
“You’re seven.”
“I know,” Alfie replied grimly.
Things became worse.
Because while the adults dealt with Trombone Jam Incident, Barry and Marmaduke wandered toward the preschool kitchen area.
This was where the emergency biscuit supplies were kept.
To Barry, it looked like destiny.
“Look,” breathed Marmaduke.
There, on a trolley, sat three enormous tins of custard creams.
Barry looked around dramatically.
No teachers.
No parents.
No Alfie.
History was about to happen.
“We take one tin,” Barry said. “For Britain.”
Marmaduke nodded immediately because critical thinking was not his strongest area.
The boys attempted to carry the biscuit tin together.
Unfortunately, it was large.
Unfortunately, they were small.
Unfortunately, Barry was steering.
The tin slipped.
Hundreds of custard creams exploded across the floor.
Children screamed with delight.
Several immediately began collecting them like tiny carb-hungry squirrels.
One teacher shouted, “Five second rule!”
Another teacher shouted, “NO!”
Barry stared at the chaos proudly.
“It’s raining biscuits.”
Then came the dog.
Nobody knew where the dog came from.
One moment there were biscuits.
The next moment a small terrier wearing a Union Jack bandana charged into the hall like a furry guided missile.
Children shrieked happily.
The dog skidded through crumbs, stole three biscuits, and vanished under a table.
Barry laughed so hard he fell over.
Marmaduke fell over laughing at Barry.
Soon half the preschool class lay on the floor giggling while adults attempted to restore order and rescue remaining biscuits from tiny sticky hands.
Dad finally pocketed his phone.
“I think,” he said slowly, “we may need to focus entirely on parenting now.”
“Excellent timing,” said Mum.
Alfie stood nearby holding a dustpan.
“I’ve separated the salvageable biscuits from the floor biscuits,” he announced.
“Thank you, Alfie,” sighed three exhausted teachers simultaneously.
At last, after what felt like several years, the party began calming down.
Parents drank tea.
Children sat eating cake.
The music resumed, minus one traumatised trombone.
Barry and Marmaduke sat together under a tablecloth fort they had built from spare decorations.
“Best party ever,” Marmaduke declared.
Barry nodded.
“We brought joy.”
“You brought property damage,” said Alfie, appearing beside them.
Barry considered this.
“Both.”
As the afternoon ended, the children gathered for one final singalong.
This time Barry was not allowed near percussion instruments.
A wise decision.
The children sang softly while parents watched, smiling.
Even Barry joined in properly for almost the entire song.
Mum looked down at him.
“Tired?”
Barry leaned sleepily against her arm.
“A bit.”
His Santa-level energy reserves were finally running low.
Marmaduke yawned so hugely he nearly swallowed a paper flag.
Alfie adjusted Barry’s crooked little hat.
“You know,” Alfie admitted quietly, “you did make it exciting.”
Barry smiled proudly.
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t entirely a compliment.”
Outside, London buses rumbled past fluttering flags while the evening sun glowed across the playground.
Teachers waved goodbye.
Parents collected artwork covered in approximately twelve kilograms of glitter.
Mr Jenkins carried his trombone carefully at arm’s length.
As they walked home, Barry held Mum’s hand and chattered happily.
“Can we have another street party tomorrow?”
“No,” said Mum instantly.
“What about a biscuit parade?”
“No.”
“What about—”
“No,” said Dad too.
Barry thought for a moment.
Then he grinned.
“What if we just invite the dog?”
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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