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snap, ‘Samantha Green, stand still!’
    Just as the last few students found their places, a panicked buzz spread through the crowd. ‘He’s coming! The photographer’s coming!’
    Samantha’s heart turned to ice. There was no escaping now.
    â€˜Zis is not good enough!’ called the photographer. ‘No no no. It will not do!’
    Samantha perked up. That fake Italian accent sounded familiar.
    â€˜All the blonde children must take their jumpers and wrap them on top of their heads!’ ordered the photographer. ‘There is too much glare off their hair.’
    Samantha looked up. The photographer was wearing a beret and he had a pointy little moustache. But underneath this cunning disguise he was clearly Boris.
    â€˜Hurray!’ cheered Samantha, making everyone turn and stare at her for reasons other than her ridiculous hair.
    â€˜But we can’t let the children put jumpers on their heads. The parents will complain,’ complained Headmaster Pimplestock.
    Boris sucked in a deep breath, puffed out his chest and loomed over the headmaster. ‘Who is zee photographer here, you or me?’
    Headmaster Pimplestock was unaccustomed to being questioned, let alone menacingly confronted, and being a big cowardy custard he immediately backed down. ‘I’m going to my office. If no parents want to pay for their photos it’s not my problem.’
    â€˜Excellent,’ said Boris. ‘I am an arteest. I do not need such a silly man criticising my artistic vision. All right children, I will be handing around permanent markers and I want you to draw fake moustaches on yourselves. It will make the boys look older and more sophisticated, and the girls look mysterious.’
    The young students gleefully followed all Boris’ instructions. No child likes the way they look in a traditional school photograph. Really, it is very cruel to force children to have a formal photograph taken in their ugliest outfit – their school uniform.
    Fortunately Boris brought enough feather boas and pirate hats for everyone, so the horrible green tartan and grey shirts were soon well hidden.
    â€˜Now children,’ said Boris. ‘In the past you have taken photographs where you stand and smile. This is true – yes?’
    The children all nodded.
    â€˜Well, I will have none of that!’ declared Boris. ‘Do you hear?!’
    The children again nodded.
    â€˜When I take my photograph I want it to be an action photograph,’ said Boris. ‘So think what you will do. How do you want to be remembered? Will you stick out your tongue? Will you poke your finger in your neighbour’s ear? Will you put your hand in front of your face because you have a particularly unpleasant pimple? The choice is yours. Is everybody ready?’
    â€˜Yes!’ cheered the children, now genuinely excited to have their school picture taken.
    â€˜Let’s do this ’ said Boris. ‘But before we take the photo I have to make one minor adjustment. You! The very nice-looking girl there.’
    Samantha was embarrassed because Boris was pointing at her.
    â€˜Yes?’ said Samantha in a small voice.
    â€˜I need you to stand behind this,’ said Boris.
    Boris climbed up into the bleachers carrying a great big board which he stood up in front of Samantha. When he uncovered it everyone could see it was one of those wooden outlines that you poke your face through to have your photograph taken.
    Boris had apparently ‘borrowed’ this one from the local zoo, because when Samantha stuck her face through it appeared in a kangaroo’s pouch, making her look like a cute little joey. But best of all her hair was entirely obscured by the board.
    â€˜Perfect!’ called Boris. ‘All right, on the count of three . . . Remember, don’t be boring. One two three – ACTION!’
    At that moment every child in the school launched into action. Some wet-willied,