'I don't want my life controlled by a fridge.' Humming in the kitchen of Bugg and Dilan's new home is a huge, mysterious fridge. Even when Bugg turns off the power, the light stays on. Plus, it's full of strange-looking yoghurts in glass jars with wax-paper lids. Should they? Shouldn't they? They do, but the yoghurts take them back to 1974. What follows is a desperate scramble across time and space, in which the siblings discover a 40-year-old time crime and become painfully aware that small changes they make in the past can have huge consequences for their future
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Fleur Hitchcock's books are always fun.
The Sunday Times||This is a completely hair-brained family-friendly adventure that 7+ year olds will love ... it will set off the readers' imagination into overdrive on life's possibilities - nothing will be considered impossible once you've read this book.
Lovereading4kids - Book of the Month
Bugg and Dilan have just moved to a house with a mysterious old fridge stacked with unusual yoghurts.
A few spoonfuls and they're back in a time when Granddad was young and dashing, just before the town's pier burned down.
Soon, their lives are swirling with questions: How can yoghurt be a time machine? What happens when you time-travel with gerbils? And is that fridge trying to tell them something?
I turn the yoghurt upright, hold my breath and peel back the corner of the foil.
Nothing happens. It doesn't explode - nothing climbs out of the pot.
We peer inside. 'It looks exactly like ordinary yoghurt,' says Dilan. 'There was no pft when you took off the top; it's fine.' He looks disappointed. 'It isn't even full of alien bacteria, unless alien bacteria don't act immediately and are in fact slow-release alien bacteria. Like one of those plug-in air fresheners.'
I ignore Dilan and stare into the pot.
'Dare you,' he says.
'Dare you back,' I say.
'Double dare,' he says.
So I take a spoon from the drawer and dip it into the yoghurt.
A yellowy blob trembles on the bowl of the spoon.
'Double double triple dare,' he says, his eyes wide and fixed on my mouth.
'OK,' I say, and drop the yoghurt onto my tongue.
Nothing happens. Nothing - except that, not to be outdone, Dilan rips the lid from his pot. His is a mild lilac colour. He plunges the spoon deep inside and takes almost half the contents in a single mouthful.
'That -' he says. 'That's delicious - best yoghurt I've ever tasted.'
I dip the spoon deeper into my pot. I can't work out the taste. Is it peach - or pear? Or maybe apricot? I peer at the outside of the pot. The label really doesn't tell me anything. There isn't even a company name, and the picture is so indistinct it might as well be a fried egg. And then I see faint numbers on the side. A one, a nine, a seven and a four.
'1974?' I say, pointing to the pot. 'It can't be that old.'
Dilan tilts his yoghurt and examines it. He stares for a long time, long enough for me to scrape the last smears from the inside of my pot and then run my tongue around the inside, just to make sure.
'It might say 1-9-7-4 - but it can't be a sell-by date. They hadn't invented them then. We studied that in food tech. Perhaps it's some sort of inspection code. You know, like clothes have numbers on them, to say who checked them.'
I shrug. I look towards the countertop, where the other six yoghurts are. Except they're not there. The countertop's not there either.
'Dilan,' I whisper.
'What?' he says, running his tongue around the inside of his yoghurt pot.
I gaze around at what ought to be our kitchen. 'Everything.'