Back-cover blurbs & read-aloud lines

Some ideas are brilliant, some are just a bit wobbly. Building a tower out of milk crates in the back garden feels like the best idea in the world.

The problem is not getting to the top. The problem is staying there.

Luckily, with grown-ups, you just have to look innocent and hope they don't notice the hedge is moving.

There is a perfect division of labour. One boy provides the pedal power. The other boy sits on the handlebars and blocks the view.

What could possibly go wrong? Other than the steering, the brakes, and the large metal object getting closer by the second.

Even if they crash, the parents will never know who was really to blame.

Shortcuts are rarely as short as you think. Especially when they involve a running jump over a ditch full of things that sting.

One boy must brave the nettles to get home for his tea. His legs are about to become a map of just how many there are.

Good thing Mum just bought a big tube of soothing cream.

An upstairs window, a bag full of water and a summer afternoon. It's the perfect recipe for a bit of mischief.

Down below, a neighbour is proudly polishing his brand-new car. He hasn't spotted the boys watching from above, or the bulging Hovis bag they're about to drop.

Whatever happens next, the grown-ups will just blame the dodgy sunroof.

Two dads, chatting away. Two boys, nine feet up a tree with a saw. What could possibly go wrong?

The treehouse has seen better days, and it is time for it to go. But waiting for grown-ups is boring. We decide to get the job started ourselves, very, very quietly.

As long as nobody looks up, nobody will ever know.

In a field of overgrown grass lies the discovery of a lifetime: a forgotten moped. It's rusty, it's missing a few bits, but it just might work.

After a bit of poking and a lot of kicking, the engine finally starts. The only problem is, nobody checked for brakes first.

They'll be home in time for tea, just as long as they don't mention the oil stains.

An abandoned porters cabin, a book of matches, and a mountain of old newspapers. What could possibly go wrong?

A small, contained fire is the goal. But in a cabin built from matchwood, 'small' is a very relative term. And as the smoke begins to thicken, it is clear that something is about to go very, very wrong.

The grown-ups will talk about it for years. If they ever find out who did it.

There are days when trouble finds you, and days when you go looking for it in a borrowed hatchback. On the soggy turf of the rec, we become artists of the handbrake turn, painting the grass with mud. But just when our masterpiece is complete, a sound from the engine suggests our fun is over. The grown-ups remain blissfully unaware.

In Bramblewick, fads move fast. Every week brings a new must-have toy to master, from pogo sticks to rollerblades. The problem is, each new craze also brings a new kind of injury.

Soon, the village clinic is overflowing with children sporting casts, slings and impressive bandages. The grown-ups just think it is clumsy kids being clumsy. They have no idea what is really going on.

When Barry moves to the village, he brings with him a truly spectacular vocabulary. We meet him by the old tennis court, where a competition begins: who knows the most colourful insults? Who can string together the longest, rudest sentence? It’s a masterclass in bad language. Luckily for everyone involved, the grown-ups are all inside, watching television and thinking what a polite young man that Barry is.

Some things are just asking for trouble. A brand new air rifle, for instance. A pocketful of pellets. And a back garden greenhouse, shimmering in the heat.

The rule is simple: only shoot at tin cans. But on a quiet summer afternoon, with not a tin can in sight, the glint of glass is just too tempting. What is the worst that could happen?

The grown-ups will find a mystery. But they will never find the culprits.

A good shortcut is a work of art. This one, through Mr Hall's prize-winning petunias, is a masterpiece. It saves a crucial eleven seconds on the journey home.

Today, those eleven seconds are going to matter. Because Mr Hall is in his kitchen. And he has seen everything. And he is surprisingly quick on his feet.

The grown-ups will hear a story about a very cross man. They will never know why.

Who needs snow for sledging? On a baking summer's day on Vicarage Hill, a plastic sledge and a lot of nerve is all it takes.

It turns out that dry grass offers almost no friction at all. The speed is incredible. The only thing we have not quite worked out is how to stop. Or where we might land.

The grown-ups will scratch their heads. And they will never, ever know.

Summer days by the brook are what childhood is for. Especially when you find the perfect rope swing. It is a masterpiece of engineering, a perfect arc of flight, a moment of pure joy.

The only problem is the landing. The water beneath the swing is not quite as deep as it looks. And the muddy bottom is a lot closer than anyone realised.

The grown-ups will wash the clothes. But they will never get the story out.

Scrumping apples is a delicate art. It requires stealth, speed, and a way to carry the goods. Jumpers, with their sleeves tied, make surprisingly good bags.

With our jumpers full and heavy, it feels like the perfect crime. But there is a flaw in the plan. The farmer has been watching the whole time. And he has a very good memory for faces.

The grown-ups will eat the pies. They will never ask where the apples came from.

It is a night of high stakes and low-quality drinks. At our very first teenage party, the entire stash of contraband is nestled in the privet hedge. Everything is going swimmingly, until a pair of headlights illuminates our secret hoard. A parent has arrived for pickup, parking right next to our boozy bursary. They have no idea what lies inches from their door.

Some kids run home from the chip shop. Other kids fly. All it takes is a clean set of bedsheets from a neighbour's washing line, and suddenly you're a superhero.

But even superheroes have enemies. And this one is standing right by his front door, wondering where his laundry's gone. As for the grown-ups, they're none the wiser.

There's a new menace in Bramblewick: Dale's BB gun. He's swaggering down the road like he owns the place, until a police car appears. A quick stash in a hedge should do the trick.

But this policeman seems unusually interested in Dale's gardening skills. The grown-ups never did find out why their prize-winning hedge looked so ruffled.

It was the shot heard all around the pavement. One minute, Dale is fine. The next, he's clutching his leg, performing a tragic opera of pain for the whole street. A tiny plastic BB pellet has found its mark.

As Dale gives the performance of a lifetime, a front door opens. The grown-ups never understand why Dale has a mysterious limp for the rest of the day.

Down the back lane, a farmer has made a terrible mistake. He has left his polytunnel unguarded, and it is full to bursting with the most delicious strawberries we have ever tasted. We eat as many as we can stomach.

But what to do with the leftovers? That is when we spot the pristine, white wall of his barn. The grown-ups will just see a very messy wall. They will never know how it got that way.

We are not stealing. We are just... gathering. The plums on Mrs Higgins's tree are practically falling onto the street, so it feels rude not to pick them. But then we have an even better idea: what if we sell them back to her?

Our little stall at her gate is a huge success. Business is booming. The grown-ups driving past just see some enterprising young children. They have no idea we are selling stolen goods.

In the quiet village of Bramblewick, a wheelie bin is not just for rubbish. To a ten-year-old boy, it's a homemade go-kart with a lid. All it needs is a steep hill, a bit of a run-up and a willing volunteer to climb inside.

But as the bin picks up speed down Vicarage Hill, one question remains. How do you stop?

Luckily for the crew, the grown-ups are too busy to notice a thing.

Bonfire Night in Bramblewick is a serious business. The fire is huge, the toffee apples are sticky, and our prize rocket is the biggest one in the box. We've set it up perfectly. Almost.

When the fuse is lit, our masterpiece decides to take the scenic route. At head height. Through the assembled spectators.

Good job the grown-ups are all looking at the big fire, really.

Every boy dreams of building a raft. We make it happen with nothing but barrels, a pallet, and misplaced confidence. It looks like it should float, which is half the battle. We clamber on and set sail, pioneers on the mighty pond.

But our calculations on 'how many boys a homemade raft can hold' turn out to be slightly optimistic.

And not a single parent ever knew how wet we got.

In 1996, a bottle of strong white cider feels like a ticket to another world. We're probably too young, but we have it, and we're going to drink it. In the bus shelter, we unscrew the cap and take our first swig of forbidden apple nectar.

It tastes like magic and bad choices. Mostly bad choices.

Thank goodness our parents think we're just out playing.

You don't expect a milk float to be a getaway vehicle. They're slow, quiet, and full of milk. But at 5am, with the street to ourselves, we find the start button and discover its secret: a milk float can really move.

The silent streets of Bramblewick become our personal racetrack. For about thirty seconds.

Our parents slept through the whole thing, of course.

A shopping trolley is a terrible mode of transport. The wheels have a mind of their own and the brakes don't exist. Which is why it's the most fun you can have on a Tuesday afternoon. We 'borrow' one from the Co-op for a quick spin.

Our journey ends in a field, with a missing wheel, and a very cross duck.

And the grown-ups? Not a clue. As usual.

It is the game of champions, the ultimate test of nerve. Knock on every door on the street, and run away. Simple.

But as the doors slam behind them, the kids of Bramblewick are getting bolder and faster. Only one door remains. What they do not know is that this time, someone is waiting on the other side. And their parents will be none the wiser.

Some summers have a soundtrack. This one has exactly ten songs on a tape, played over and over again from a bedroom window.

Down in the garden, Mum thinks the music is just the lawnmower doing its thing. The neighbours think she's mowing the lawn ninety times a day. And the kids? The kids just keep pressing rewind, blissfully unaware that grown-ups have ears.

In Bramblewick, if you want a bike jump, you have to build it yourself. A couple of paving slabs for support. A sturdy plank for the ramp. What could possibly go wrong?

The first jump is perfect. The second is... not. As the bike leaves the ground, a sudden CRACK echoes across the ditch. Luckily for our hero, the grown-ups are too busy indoors to notice a thing.

Some kids have swings in their garden. The kids of Bramblewick have a farmer's five-bar gate, which is much better.

Three of them pile on, kicking off for the ride of their lives. Higher and higher they go, a perfect pendulum of mischief. They just haven't quite worked out what happens when an unstoppable force meets a very immoveable gatepost. Good job Mum and Dad are having a cup of tea.

The village hall disco is, frankly, a bit boring. It needs atmosphere. It needs drama. What it gets is a thick cloud of dry powder from a very enthusiastically deployed fire extinguisher. Suddenly, nobody can see the DJ, the tuck shop, or their own feet. The grown-ups thought it was just a power cut. They never found out.

Behind the sea wall at Brightlingsea sits a shed. To us, it's a palace. We have a sofa, a gas ring for tea, and total privacy. Or do we? Strange things keep happening – mysterious visitors, missing custard creams. It seems our secret den isn't so secret after all. The parents just thought we liked the sea air.

Every kid knows the legend of the humpback bridge. They say if you hit it fast enough, your car will actually take off. Neil is about to find out if it's true.

He floors the accelerator. The bridge gets closer. The car lifts. And for a moment, it's magic. Then comes the crash back to earth. The grown-ups can't figure out the funny noise for weeks.

Dale is having a lovely nap. He's floating down the river in a big rubber ring, dreaming sweet dreams. What he doesn't know is that the river has other ideas.

The current is pulling him towards the one part of the river you're supposed to avoid: the weir. The grown-ups just think he's gone for a long walk. They'd never guess how long.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. But the man whose prize-winning petunias are now soaked in tap water does not agree. He is chasing us. And he is alarmingly fast.

He leaps over Mrs Higgins's fence like an athlete. He dodges Mr Gable's garden gnome like a dancer. Who is this man? We're not stopping to find out. The grown-ups just hear a bit of a commotion outside.

A trip to the McDonald's at the retail park takes a desperate turn. Chubb really, really needs the toilet, but the queue is a mile long. He decides to take matters into his own hands, and finds a quiet wall round the back.

He is halfway through when we see it: a sleek, modern security camera, and it is recording his every move. His parents would be mortified. Good job they are never, ever going to see that footage.

The cracked court on the rec is our court. Every afternoon in the summer of '96, we are there, playing basketball until our legs ache and our throats are hoarse from shouting.

We never actually finish a single game. Just as things get exciting, someone always disputes the score, and the whole thing descends into a massive argument. The grown-ups think we are just playing. They do not realise it is war.

Some Saturdays, there’s nothing to do. On other Saturdays, you find three pristine golf balls by the fence and a brand-new slingshot in your pocket. From the top of the hill, a greenhouse roof seems to be calling your name. It looks a long way away. Then again, these are very bouncy-looking golf balls. The grown-ups are busy indoors, completely unaware that three small white asteroids are about to be launched into the sky.

Bedtime is for little kids. For bigger kids, bedtime is just the beginning. A tiny bathroom window is the only thing standing between our hero and a secret night-time mission.

Getting out is a success. But the real challenge is getting back in, past a dozing dad and the loudest floorboard in the world. Shhh. Whatever you do, don't wake him up.

From the top of the neighbour's shed, you can see the whole world. Or at least, the whole of Bramblewick. It seems like the perfect secret hideout.

There's just one problem: it's an old shed, with an old roof. And old roofs are not trampolines. One small, hopeful bounce is all it takes to find that out. Best of all, the grown-ups never even look up.

Some bets you make, some you eat. Two quid says a whole battered sausage can't be swallowed in one. That's a challenge, that is. But as the fluorescent lights of the chip shop bear down, and the final greasy mouthful begins its journey, a terrible gurgle echoes from below. The grown-ups hear nothing, of course. They never do.

The millennium is coming, and Bramblewick is holding its breath. For us, it means the end of our childhood reign. We have to go out with a bang, one last adventure that will write our names into village history. This time, we might have gone too far. And yet, the parents suspect nothing.

There are three rules to borrowing your dad's van. One: do not ask permission. Two: do not drive it without a licence. Three: try to return it in one piece. We are about to break all three.

A quick joyride around the yard turns into a lesson in reversing when we meet a solid concrete post. The bumper is hanging off, but Dad will not be home for hours. The grown-ups will notice the damage, of course. But they will never find out who did it.