Uncle Osbert gazed quizzically along the cluttered workbench,
“I can’t seem to find my specs anywhere.”
I glanced up at his hawkish face, “Try looking on the top of your head.” I suggested. He grinned sheepishly as he settled them on the bridge of his nose.
“ I’m so glad you’re staying Luke,” he said, “we’ll get along famously. You can help me with tomorrow’s orders.”
That’s what I like about him. He treats me like an adult; not many people do that with boys when they’re ten.
Perhaps it’s because the rest of Dad’s family think Uncle Osbert’s a bit dotty.
From what I can understand, apparently he was a super clever nuclear physicist until he broke down a few years ago. Don’t know if that’s like a car breaking down, but anyhow, now he’s got a business growing herbs and seems perfectly happy.
And it’s making him quite rich too. He spotted a market for growing herbs in wide trays for restaurants. Better than those tiny pots for sale in the supermarkets. He uses the old greenhouse in his back garden. He gets orders now from all the top places.
All the other old houses on his road here in West London have been done up or pulled down, but his house is brilliant. It’s old and big, and messy. I think my grandparents used to live here and their parents moved in when it was new, so that makes it quite ancient.
I’m staying for two days whilst Mum and Dad go away - conference or something. While I’m here I can help him with his plants. Great.
Uncle Osbert’s set up this spraying and plant feeding thing over the benches where the plants grow. The plant trays move along on a conveyor and the sprays above deliver a fine mist overnight. He mixes his own potions for the best results, so the potting shed at the back of the greenhouse is packed with shelves of bottles and jars of interesting things. Some of them even have a skull and crossbones on the labels. Others have writing in Uncle Osbert’s spidery writing.
Uncle looked at his watch.
“Almost time to get some supper I think.” He said. “Those trays are going out first thing in the morning to a Sushi restaurant in the West End. I just need to put the mixture into the tank for tonight’s spraying.”
Earlier he’d explained to me how he did this.
“I’ll do it Uncle.”
“Are you sure Luke? It’ll save me climbing that confounded ladder.”
“Yes, of course.”
“It just needs some Phostrogen – two scoops in the tank, spelt with a PH. Can you manage that?”

“Sure, where is it?”
“On the second shelf, white plastic container, white granules, the scoop’s hanging on a string attached to the side of the tank.”
“OK, leave me to it, I’ll manage.” I said proudly.
So off he went to prepare our supper of beans on toast.
In the shed, I’m looking at the rows of containers on the shelves. They all have complicated names on the front. Don’t want to tell Uncle about my dyslexia. Just find a label with a big P at the beginning.
Ah, here’s one. Smaller than I thought, lurking at the back. It’s granules, so it must be the right one. Right, up the ladder and grab the scoop. Don’t need to measure it out, there’s only about two scoops worth in here. Reckon I can just tip the lot in. That’s it. Off to supper now.

I’ve been really sick in the night. Overslept this morning. Just in time to hear the van going out with the orders.

Uncle came rushing in.
“What’s this empty jar doing on the bench?”
“It’s the one I emptied into the tank last night. Sorry I should have put it in the bin.”
This isn’t Phostrogen – it says Polonium 2.10.” said Uncle Osbert, then he collapsed on the floor.