Chapter Seven – Sequins and Showdowns
The Biscuit Ballroom buzzed like a carbonated cranberry.
The air was thick with sugar-dusted anticipation, alive with the murmur of voices and the shuffling of sequined shoes.
The Nationals had reached their second day, the heats were in full swing, and every spotlight felt hot enough to melt a fondue.
Wensley trotted along the edge of the polished fudge floor, his nose twitching. He sniffed corners, stage props, even the glitter cannon Eddie had checked for the fifth time. Nothing suspicious — not yet. The wedge-shaped dog gave a low huff and settled by the wings, eyes sharp, tail gently thumping against the boards.
Backstage, Monterey Jack Flash and Halloumi Belle stretched with precision. Sequins glittered across their jumpsuits like constellations. Monterey’s golden bell-bottoms shimmered with each kick, while Halloumi Belle’s star-patterned boots twinkled under the dressing-room lightbulbs.
Clarabelle fussed with their collars, brushing away invisible crumbs, while Eddie nervously tightened the glitter cannon’s nozzle again.
“You’re ready,” Clarabelle said firmly, patting her daughter’s shoulder.
“We were born to boogie,” Halloumi whispered back, flashing a grin at her brother.
Mini Mozzarella and Babybel peered out from behind the curtain, eyes wide at the dazzling sight.
The arena beyond stretched like a galaxy of glitter. Thousands of food-folk filled the stands — peas bouncing in unison, custard creams jiggling nervously, popcorn kernels popping from excitement. Banners fluttered with slogans like “Go Root Veg Rebels!”and “Fungi Forever!” The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed. A drumroll of biscuit tins rattled across the hall. Through a shower of edible glitter confetti, the presenters appeared.
Melba Toast shimmered in a sleek, golden trouser suit, her crisp edges outlined with sparkle. She twirled her crystal microphone with the ease of someone born to command a stage.
Cherry Bakewell swept beside her in a red-and-pink cocktail dress, jam centre glowing under the lights, a perfect cherry perched proudly on her head like a crown.
“Welcome, darlings, to the next round of the Dairy District Dance Nationals!” Melba cried, her voice ringing like a bell.
“And remember,” Cherry added, winking at the cameras, “no throwing salad unless it’s in time with the music!”
The crowd roared with laughter and applause as the first competitors took their marks.
The Funky Fungi bounded onto the floor. Two wild mushrooms in disco headbands, they spun with dazzling footwork, releasing faint puffs of glittering spores that drifted like starlight. Each stomp landed perfectly in rhythm, each leap punctuated by a cheeky wink.
Dame Bina Pavlova dabbed delicately at her eyes. “So much drama. So many carbs. I adored them. Eight!”
Crispy Tempura bounced in his chair. “CRUNCHY! Delicious! Nine!”
El Pimento Diablo flicked his cape. “Needed more fire. Six.”
Judge Pearée pursed his lips, unmoved. “Five.”
The scoreboard flashed: 28 points.
Next up, The Tropical Fruit Twisters. A pineapple and mango on roller-skates zoomed across the floor in a whirlwind samba. Their smoothie-slick precision left trails of juice that sparkled under the lights.
Bina Pavlova sniffled happily. “A delight! Eight.”
Tempura slapped his claws together. “Juicy! Nine!”
El Pimento fanned himself. “Still not spicy. Seven.”
Judge Pearée raised a brow. “Overripe. Five.”
29 points.
Then came Team Salad Slay. Romaine and Rocket strutted out in sharp green costumes, crunching dramatically with every tango step. They clashed swords of celery, dipping and swirling like warriors of lettuce.
“Crisp! Fresh! Vibrant!” Tempura shouted. “Nine!”
Bina Pavlova dabbed again. “Tragic! So crunchy! Eight!”
El Pimento fanned furiously. “Needs chilli. Six.”
Judge Pearée sniffed. “Underdressed. Four.”
27 points.
The Root Veg Rebels thundered next. A beetroot breakdancer span on his head, leaving a purple smear across the stage, while his sweet potato partner spun like a fiery wheel. Their beats shook the floor with earthy power.
Tempura leapt up. “Veggie VIBES! Nine!”
Pavlova fanned herself. “My poor pavlova heart! Eight!”
El Pimento finally smiled. “Spice potential. Seven.”
Pearée simply said: “Heavy. Five.”
29 points.
Finally, the crowd hushed as The Stilton Sisters appeared. Tall, dramatic, and faintly pungent, they wore midnight blue gowns streaked with mouldy glitter. They sneered as they drifted onto the stage, arms locked, faces carved with theatrical tragedy. Their performance was moody, ominous — a contemporary cheese-piece full of brooding stares and toe-taps that echoed like thunder.
Gasps filled the hall. Even the Disco Twins, watching from the wings, felt a chill.
Bina Pavlova clutched her tissues. “Too much drama, even for me. Six.”
Tempura winced. “Too chewy. Six.”
El Pimento grinned. “Dark. Bold. Biting. Eight.”
Pearée leaned forward, eyes cold. “Seven.”
27 points.
Backstage, Clarabelle held the twins close. “Remember, children. It’s not about tricks or sabotage. It’s about rhythm. Heart. Family.”
Sir Blue Vein gripped his cane. “And pride. Don’t forget pride.”
Eddie checked the glitter cannon one last time, his brow furrowed. Wensley prowled at his side, ears pricked, nose working the air for that oily stink. He found nothing, but his tail didn’t stop twitching.
Mini Mozzarella and Babybel huddled in the corner, mimicking the judges’ comments in hushed voices. “Too crunchy!” Mini declared. “Underdressed!” Babybel squeaked, sending them both into giggles.
The Stilton Sisters slunk past, their gowns trailing mouldy sparkles. “Enjoy your moment,” one hissed to Monterey Jack. “It won’t last.”
Halloumi Belle narrowed her eyes. “We’ll see who shines when the lights hit.”
The tannoy crackled again. Melba Toast’s voice filled the hall.
“And now, darlings… the final act of this heat… please welcome the Cheese Family’s own Disco Twins — Monterey Jack Flash and Halloumi Belle!”
The crowd erupted. Lights swept across the stage. The glitter ball began to turn.
Backstage, the Cheese Family held their breath.
Clarabelle clutched Eddie’s hand. Mini and Babybel bounced on their toes. Wensley growled low, his eyes darting once more to the glitter cannon.
Monterey Jack and Halloumi Belle stepped forward, sequins blazing, ready to face the Biscuit Ballroom.
And as the music swelled, the curtain rose.
Blind Man Makes 