Cranky carrots 

It was a crisp spring morning in SnoozyTown.

The sun shone brightly, and M and T had thrown open every window in their little house.

Humming and singing as they worked, they flicked dusters, set the vacuum roaring, and polished every pane of glass until they sparkled.

“Oh, working is fun, isn’t it,” T declared, whisking a cobweb into his bucket. “A tidy room is good for the soul.”

“Isn’t it brilliant,” M replied. “We’ll have this place spotless in no…”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

T lowered the vacuum. “Or maybe not.”

They opened the door.

Gerald, their friend from the SnoozyTown council, shifted from foot to foot, eyes wide.

Gerald was the youngest person ever voted onto the council, younger even than M and T, serious at meetings but playful at heart.

“Come inside,” M said. “Chamomile tea?”

Gerald nodded. “Something’s wrong. The council lines have been jammed since dawn, calls from all over town.”

He sipped his tea and shook his head.

He still couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say next.

“Their carrots are shouting.”

T blinked. He was trying to make his mind understand what he had just heard. “Their chimneys are blocked, you say?”

“No.”

“Their clocks have been stolen?”

“No… Their carrots are shouting at them,” Gerald repeated. “People open their fridges and the carrots inside scream and roar.”

Even though this mystery sounded even stranger than usual, M and T knew the Fixers must act.

They slipped on their Fixer T-shirts. And Gerald did the same. Off they went, ready to open some fridges.

They didn’t have far to walk.

Just a few steps away, rough voices shouted at Mrs. Housebeside’s place.

The Fixers poked in their heads. “Can we help?”

Mrs. Housebeside’s kitchen smelled of cinnamon bread and pure panic.

Her face grey with concern, she pointed to the refrigerator.

M opened the door a crack.

“Close that door! How dare you turn on the light!”

M slammed it shut and whispered, “There are some very cranky carrots in there.”

House after house told the exact same tale.

The moment the fridge light flicked on, carrots roared insults.

“Mind your own business!”

“Whose fridge do you think this is?!”

People all over SnoozyTown couldn’t fetch milk, or butter, or leftover pie.

SnoozyTown ran on breakfast, and breakfast was blocked by pure carrot fury.

“We must find out what is going on,” said T.

Back home, the Fixers gathered every gardening, cookery, and vegetable book they owned.

“Knowledge is power,” said M.

They read about carrot seeds, carrot crowns, carrot cake, and even carrot folklore. But nothing about shouting vegetables.

Eyes gritty, brains carrot-coloured, they conceded defeat.

“We need an expert,” T said.

They hiked to the farm on the edge of town, where Mrs. Plateful’s neat fields glowed under the spring sun.

Rows of soil lay empty; the carrot beds had been harvested.

Mrs. Plateful met them with a warm smile.

As they shared their carrot concerns, her cheeks reddened, and she rubbed her face nervously.

“Harvest was only recently, right?” asked Gerald, his notebook ready. “Did anything unusual happen?”

Mrs. Plateful exhaled. “Oh no! You see, I pulled them three days early... I wanted a seaside break before the next planting.”

Her shoulders sagged down. “They were beautiful, so orange, so I sold them. I just didn’t think…”

The Fixers sat in silence. Together they thought, and then T murmured, “They weren’t ready to wake up. They are just like me when someone yanks my blanket or duvet before sunrise.”

M nodded. “They’re tired. Cranky from lost sleep.”

Gerald leaned in, agreeing. “Is there any way we can help them rest?”

Still feeling terrible because of what had happened, Mrs. Plateful’s eyes brightened. Just a little. “Well, we could use fresh soil,” she said, obviously mapping out an idea in her mind. “If every household rested their carrots back into a little bed of earth, they might settle.”

The Fixers clicked into gear.

Calls were made. Favours asked. Plans hatched.

Dreyo the crane-truck driver arrived with a spare dump truck.

Together they filled it with soft, warm topsoil and rolled into the town square.

M handled coordination and communications. Soon, a town-wide notice boomed from Officer Petty’s loudspeaker.

As ever, Officer Petty was happy to help, though the Fixer escapades never stopped surprising her.

“We can un-cranky the carrots. Come to city hall and bring a cup!”

In orderly queues, slightly befuddled residents gathered.

Neighbours arrived with mugs, bowls, even their finest teacups.

“Take some soil. Soothe your carrots. Go gently,” M urged. She was standing on top of a giant mound in the dump truck, directing traffic.

People scooped earth. They hurried home. They donned earmuffs, and a tad nervously, they cracked open their fridge doors.

Kitchens erupted with noise, but everyone held firm.

With care, each family lifted the furious vegetables, laid them on a soil-lined plate, and whispered, “Snooze now, friends.”

Fridge doors closed. Darkness. Silence. Rest.

Mrs. Plateful told everyone to wait three hours, and then she rang the town bell.

And again, the fridges opened across SnoozyTown.

But there was not a peep. Only peaceful orange root vegetables asleep on tiny muddy beds.

What had been scary was now cute; jangling nerves were now calm.

“I feel much better about the world,” said Gerald, as he sipped on his evening chamomile tea. “Carrots should be crunchy, not cranky.”

M and T smiled, proud of their friend.

They all settled in comfy chairs by the window and watched the evening light fade to dusk.

Soft street lamps across the town popped into life.

Books for bedtime were taken from the shelf.

And for M, T, and Gerald, the lesson was clear: even the best vegetables need proper rest.

And the same is true for kiddies.

SnoozyTown settled once more into sleep.

The End.