Chapter Five – Sequins and Secrets
The family cottage was buzzing with excitement.
With the chutney scroll safely back in their cheeseboard, all thoughts now turned to the Nationals. The walls seemed to hum with it, every cupboard rattling as if the whole house knew a storm of sequins was on the way.
Sir Blue Vein stood proudly in the garden, squinting at the twins’ footwork. Monterey Jack spun with glitter spraying from his bell-bottoms, while Halloumi Belle practiced her triple twirl until even the garden gnomes applauded.
“Back in my day, we’d spin so fast we grated ourselves!” Sir Blue Vein chuckled, attempting a twirl before clutching his hip with a wince.
Lady Brie rolled her eyes with regal poise. “That’s because you always forgot to stretch, dear. You’ve never listened to a warm-up in your life.”
Inside, the cottage was a hive of preparation. Clarabelle sat at the sewing machine, sequins spilling across the table like a glittering river. She threaded each one with care onto the twins’ new costumes, stitching extra sparkle into the hems.
Eddie, meanwhile, had taken over the corner with his latest experiment: the glitter cannon.
“Safety first,” he muttered, fiddling with knobs and wires.
A button clicked. A sudden BOOM! shook the rafters. A puff of dazzling cheese dust erupted, showering the kitchen in shimmering flakes.
Wensley, who had been sniffing hopefully around the snack cupboard, got the worst of it. He stood blinking, his wedge-shaped body now dusted head-to-tail in golden sparkles. His soft Wensleydale curls glittered stubbornly as though he had decided to wear them with pride. With a sigh, he flopped into his favourite cheese box bed, tail wagging gently, glitter trailing like fairy dust.
Clarabelle shot Eddie a look. “Safety first, you said?”
Eddie coughed, sheepish. “Well, it works…”
Meanwhile, Mini Mozzarella and Babybel were up to their usual mischief.
For days they’d been imitating the judges they’d seen on telly, strutting through the cottage in homemade wigs and flour-dusted robes. Today they burst into the rehearsal room, stomping across the boards with exaggerated flair.
Mini swirled dramatically, one hand on his hip. “You’re lacking emotional bite!” he declared, imitating Judge Pearée.
Babybel shook a wooden spoon like a maraca, shouting, “And spice!” in a pitch-perfect copy of El Pimento Diablo.
The family roared with laughter. Even Sir Blue Vein wiped a tear from his eye, though he muttered, “Cheeky little roundlings.”
The laughter faded when Clarabelle’s eyes narrowed as she noticed something unusual near the stage platform. A torn piece of sequinned fabric lay on the floor — and it wasn’t from any of her costumes.
She bent to pick it up. Next to it, crumpled and smudged, was a note.
You may have won the village, but the Nationals belong to us. Watch your step. – S.S.
The room fell silent.
Lady Brie’s expression hardened. “The Stilton Sisters,” she whispered.
Monterey Jack crumpled the note in his fist. “Let them try. We’ll dance them into the floor.”
Later that evening, as the family gathered to pack their bags, a nervous excitement filled the air.
Clarabelle folded costumes into neat bundles.
Eddie loaded props, triple-checking the glitter cannon (with Wensley keeping a wary eye).
Lady Brie polished Sir Blue Vein’s golden shoes, their shine carrying memories of past glories.
Mini Mozzarella and Babybel sneaked sequins into their satchels “just in case,” whispering plans to form their own junior dance duo.
The whole village turned out to wave them off. Neighbours cheered and threw flower petals — some even launched a giant cheese-shaped balloon that bobbed above the cottage rooftops, its string trailing like a comet of cheddar.
“Do you think we’ll get to dance at the Nationals?” Mini whispered to Babybel as the cottage faded behind them.
“Only if we sneak in again,” Babybel grinned.
Sir Blue Vein leaned back in the travel wedge, gazing down the moonlit road. “Let’s show them what real cheese can do.”
Far behind them, in the shadows of a mouldy alleyway, the Stilton Sisters plotted. Their feathered shawls swished as they leaned close, voices low and venomous.
“The Cheese Family think they’ve beaten us,” hissed the elder Stilton.
Her sister snorted. “They’ve no idea what the Nationals mean to us.”
A bitter smile curled across her lips. “We were there once — on that stage. Do you remember? The judges nearly crowned us champions. But one slip, one scandal, and they turned their backs.”
“They called it the Fondue Flamenco Fiasco,” the younger growled. “We should have had the Golden Crumb. We deserved it.”
“And now,” the elder said, clutching the sequin torn from the Cheese Family’s floor, “we’ll take it. If we can’t win with style, we’ll win with sabotage.
Their laughter oozed into the night, leaving a trail of mouldy blue glitter in the cobbles.
That night, as the Cheese Family settled into their hotel room made entirely of crackers and cushions, the television flickered on.
“Live from the Biscuit Ballroom,” a sparkly voice rang out, “welcome to The Nationals!”
There they were again: the presenters, Melba Toast in her golden heels, Cherry Bakewell in her ruby gown. They shimmered and twirled on screen, the lights catching every glimmer.
“To all our contestants,” Melba declared, “bring your best moves and your ripest confidence!”
Cherry winked dramatically. “And don’t forget, only one can take home the Golden Crumb!”
In the hotel room, the Cheese Family leaned forward in silence. Their eyes sparkled with hope and nerves alike.
It was time.
Blind Man Makes 