There is a pocket in my purple jumper: it's a magic door. Mother says I should stop telling lies. But it's true, although I'm sure I don't know how. The other end must come out near the ocean, for my handkerchiefs always smell of salt and seaweed. And things I put in it for safekeeping often go missing, only to reappear in my pocket sometime later, damp and sandy. Mother says I need to learn to take better care of my things. This morning a small crab, green as bottle, crawled out. It hid itself in the potted begonia. Mother won't be happy.