Herman was an ordinary eight year old. He had brown hair, a best friend called Errol and he wanted to be an astronaut. He was perfectly ordinary, but extraordinary things were always happening to him. Extraordinarily often and for as long as he could remember. So often and for so long that Herman didn’t realise that they were extraordinary. He was used to it. He didn’t know any differently.
If Herman was walking along the street, he would be surprised if a bank robber didn’t suddenly race past. He would feel a little scared if at bedtime the sockgoblins didn’t try to get him to open the sock drawer. If he looked in the mirror and only saw his reflection, he would wonder what had happened to the people of Mirrorworld. Rarely did a Christmas go by when Santa Claus wouldn’t need Herman’s help with something.
His parents and his class teacher Mrs Wales thought he was a very imaginative little boy who made up all sorts of unbelievable stories. His class thought he was a bit strange, even his best friend Errol didn’t always believe him. And Mr Zetland, the headmaster, thought he was a horrible little monster, but then he thought that all children were little monsters. (Unlike Herman, he had never met any real monsters.)