John was just about ready to return to St Birinus’ Middle School for the
Autumn Term. His mother, Gisela, was sewing name tapes on to his
various items of uniform. A casserole was simmering nicely in the oven,
so he was allowed to watch one of his favourite DVDs while they were
Mum! he shouted, waving the box. Don’t you think Po is like that
Scottish guy who was on the telly the other night?
No, the other one. The one that kept talking about best interests.
Don’t be rude, John. She couldn’t help smiling, though.
Yeah, mum. Po is always going on about how he is the chosen one
who will fulfil an ancient prophecy. It says on the lid that he puts his
heart and his girth into the task. He tries to get over the wall into
the Palace grounds. The Soothsayer tells him that it is not the past
that shapes a person, but they are in awe of a previous hero who has
ascended into the heavens and whose ghost is watching them from
Maybe that was William Wallace, or Robert the Bruce? speculated
Before she knew it, Gisela was drawn into the plot, if you could call it
Shifa seemed to be for some kind of union. He cautioned that there
would have to be a lot of cleaning up afterwards.
Then there was a lot of empty philosophy about simply believing in things.
Mr Ping revealed that the secret ingredient- a kind of Plan B?- was nothing.
Nothing at all! ‘To make something special, you just have to believe it’s
special.’ (Where had she heard that logic before?)
The tigress seemed more disgruntled: And now (we’re) stuck with you, a
big fat panda..who treats (us) like a joke. She didn’t seem to believe that
Po was fit to be in The Jade Palace. She told Po that if he had any respect
for the others he’d be gone by morning. Yet, when he achieved a victory,
Master Tigress rewarded him with a hug and they employed tandem combat
The sceptical no voter, Tai Long, challenges the would-be Master: What
are you gonna do, big guy? Sit on me?
Po replies in characteristic fashion: I’m not a big fat panda. I’m THE big
Gisela went into the kitchen to check the potatoes. Supper’s ready!
You’ve just got to believe, Mum, said John, coming into the kitchen
with his arms flailing like the sails of a demented windmill.
No, replied his mother firmly, draining the spuds. Po is too concerned
with what was yesterday and that is history. I’m more interested in