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      “And where do I tell my parents we’re going?”

      “Oh, that’s all arranged. Don’t worry!”

      I think up to that point I hadn’t really taken William’s plans that seriously. I’d thought he was just fooling around. He was quite good at inventing games. He had even invented his own set of chess rules which always made him win.

      He trotted off and returned with a neatly typed letter. At the top was my school’s letterhead. “Where did you find that?” I asked, bewildered.

      “Easy! I downloaded an old email from your headmaster, Mr Paterson, from the computer. I kept the letterhead and signature and just added my own text. Then I clicked ‘print’. Simple, right?”

      William certainly was no ordinary dog!

      The letter went like this:

      Dear Mr and Mrs Simpson,

      Many congratulations! Alex has been chosen for our U13 soccer A-team. We have some exciting news! The team will be touring Argentina during the forthcoming winter holi­day. I am sure they will win all their matches.

      The school bus will collect Alex from your home at 8 a.m. on Thursday. Please make sure that he has packed all his soccer gear and has his passport ready. The tour will be paid for, but you may want to give him some extra spending money.

      Kind regards,

      Mr Angus Paterson, Headmaster

      “This will never work, William!” I moaned. “My parents know what a terrible soccer player I am.”

      “Rubbish,” came his curt reply. “They have no clue. They think everything you do is fantastic. That’s the advantage of being an only child – your parents have no one to compare you to! And your mom always goes to the gym for her 8 o’clock yoga class on Thursdays, and your dad will be stuck in traffic on his way to work. They won’t be here, so we can go ahead as planned.”

      “Which involves what exactly?” I asked, feeling nervous.

      “Tomorrow you must call this phone number and read out this message,” said William, ignoring my question and handing me a note. It was the neatly typed number of an international freight transport company with a friendly request to collect a crate from our home address for overnight air-freight to Turkey. My father’s credit card number was listed to cover the transport costs.

      Only then did I realise what his grand plan was.

      Fast Mail to Turkey

      “You can’t be serious, William!” I cried out. “Do you honestly believe you and I can shut ourselves in that crate and get posted off all the way to Turkey?”

      “Absolutely,” he grinned. He looked so confident that I was almost convinced that the plan would work. Maybe he was right after all … except:

      “Uh, how long will the journey take? I mean, what do we do when we need the toilet?”

      William looked unconcerned. “About a day. I have a very strong bladder. I’ll be fine. And I’m sure you can come up with a plan – just spare me the details!”

      I could see it wasn’t going to help to argue. William always had an answer for everything. All I could do was go along with his plan and do as he said.

      * * *

      That Thursday morning I said goodbye to my parents, who were thrilled that I had turned into such a star soccer player – if only they knew the truth. “Son, I am so proud of you. Try and score some goals, okay?” my father said, beaming.

      “And don’t forget to write!” my mom said, wagging a finger, her eyes glistening with tears.

      As soon as they had left, William and I scurried around the house getting a few last-minute things together. I made our sandwiches, grabbed some extra underwear, a warm hat and a jacket. My mom had put my wallet with some overseas money and my passport into a side pocket of my backpack. At the last minute, I also stuffed my harmonica into my jeans pocket. I couldn’t really kick a ball to save my life, but I was rather good at playing some lively tunes on the little instrument.

      William had also packed a small, dog-sized backpack. I didn’t have time to ask what he’d stuffed into it, but I saw an ear of his beloved teddy bear peeping out.

      What a softy!

      At five to eight I dragged our wooden crate onto the front porch. We quickly hopped inside and closed the lid.

      Barely a minute later we heard a van pull up, and I heard a man’s voice reading out the delivery address which I had neatly written in black marker on the lid of our crate.

      “Mr Achmat Marhammat, Shop 62, Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, Turkey.

      Okay, John. Let’s load it up and get going. We have to be at the airport in forty minutes.” I heard the men grunt as they lifted the heavy crate and placed us into their van.

      We were on our way.

      * * *

      I was pleased that William had convinced me to line the inside of the crate with blankets and to pack my warmest winter jacket, since the hold of the aeroplane was absolutely freezing. It’s not a travel experience I would recommend. For the whole journey I sat shivering under some extra blankets, woolly hat pulled tightly over my head and ears. To cheer us up, I tried to play a few tunes on my harmonica, but my lips were stiff with cold.