Timmy wasn't happy, because Timmy couldn't get to sleep. The moon glared through the curtains bright as a searchlight. His Mum came upstairs and from the hallway she called: "Put that book down and turn off the light, Timmy." "But Mum, it's not me, it's the moon." A little while later his dad came up and shouted through the door: "Turn off the light and get to sleep Timmy." "It's the moon." Timmy told him. When it was the middle of the night and even the owls had fallen asleep, Timmy was still awake. He opened the curtains and there, hanging between the rooftops and chimney stacks, the moon blazed with silvery light. Right. Timmy got out of bed, pulled his red dressing gown on over his pyjamas, stepped into his slippers and went outside. In the shed he found a wooden crate, a length of rope, the rusted handlebars from a long-forgotten bicycle. He brought these and more out onto the grass and set about building his rocket. It took him many hours – hammering planks of wood onto the crate, tying pots of paint underneath like stumpy legs. He tied a rubber band between the old pear and apple trees at the end of the garden. Eventually he was ready to launch. Nearly forgot! Timmy quickly ran back into the house, filled the kitchen sink with water and then slipped Harry the Goldfish out of his bowl and Timmy had his space helmet. Back in his spaceship, Timmy counted down. 3 …… 2 …… 1 …… Blast off. His rocket crashed through the trees. It cleared the rooftopsÌýof the houses on Repton Avenue and began to climb higher. Up into the air, breaking through the cloud line. He landed on the moon, a cloud of grey dust rose up around him. When Timmy looked down at the Earth it was now so small he could see all of it – like the globe in Year 3s classroom or the big poster of the Solar System that hung in the science room. He wasn't quite sure where he would find the light switch, so it took him a little while, bouncing across the moon in great leaps. The switch jutted out from a rock. Timmy grabbed it with both hands and at first it wouldn't budge. He pulled and pulled, until the inside of his fishbowl helmet fogged up and he had to stop to wipe it clean. It moved… slowly – swinging from 'on' to 'off'. As he bounced back to his rocket Timmy yawned. The journey back home was quicker – not so much flying as falling. The rocket crashed in his back garden, cutting a deep groove in the lawn. When Timmy got out and looked at the damage he knew his dad was going to be angry. He yawned again, too tired to worry about that. He walked upstairs, took off his slippers and hung the red dressing gown on the floor. He sat on his bed and looked out at the moon: Much better now, the glow much dimmer. Timmy yawned, fell to sleep almost immediately. He was woken by the sun, shining through the curtains. It was too bright. | 
