Monty loved chocolate. He loved it in bars, in buttons, in cakes and in hot milk. If you asked Monty what he wanted for dinner, he would say "chocolate." If you asked what he wanted with it, he would say "more chocolate." That was Monty.
One night, just as he was drifting off to sleep, something glittery tickled his nose — and when he opened his eyes, he wasn't in his bedroom anymore.
He was standing on a street paved with rainbow sherbet, in front of a sign that read:
WELCOME TO LOLLIVILLE — where all the world's sweets are made. Please don't lick the lampposts.
(Monty had been about to lick a lamppost. He stopped.)
The houses were gingerbread with icing-sugar roofs. The rivers ran with chocolate. Somewhere in the distance, a mountain of honeycomb glowed in the sun. Monty's tummy made a noise like a small, hopeful bear.
His first stop was Marshmallow Meadow, where marshmallows grew on stalks like fat white flowers, and a cheerful farmer in fluffy overalls was picking them into a basket. She sang while she worked:
"Pick one, pick two, then close the gate — A meadow doesn't fit on a plate!"
She tossed Monty two marshmallows, warm from the sun. They were the softest, sweetest things he had ever eaten. He looked at the whole meadow, and thought about eating all of it — and then, surprising himself, he put one marshmallow in his pocket for later.
"Ohhh," said the farmer, impressed. "A saver. We don't get many of those."
Next came the Gumdrop Hills, where the ground sparkled in every colour, and a gardener with a watering can full of lemonade waved him over.
"Try the red! Try the green! But hear me, chum — Try them ALL, and you'll ache in the tum."
Monty tried exactly three: a red one (strawberry), a green one (apple), and a blue one (mystery — it's always mystery). Each one fizzed on his tongue like tiny fireworks. Three, he decided, was precisely enough. The gardener tipped his hat.
Last of all, Monty came to the Chocolate Cascade — a waterfall of warm, glossy chocolate tumbling down the rocks into a slow brown river. The chocolatier who tended it had a voice as smooth as the chocolate itself.
"Go on," she said, handing him a little golden cup. "One cup. The first cup is the best one anyway. It's the cup you actually taste."
Monty dipped his cup and drank. And she was right — it was the best chocolate of his whole life, and he tasted every single drop.
"Why is the first one the best?" he asked.
"Because after that," she said, "you're not tasting anymore. You're just having." She winked. "The trick with sweet things, Monty, is to taste them."
Monty was thinking about this very hard when the world went glittery again, and soft, and dark…
…and he woke up in his own bed, with morning light coming through the curtains. Just a dream, he thought. What a dream, though.
Then he reached into his pyjama pocket — and pulled out one slightly squashed marshmallow, still warm from a faraway sun.
From that day on, Monty still loved chocolate — that never changed. But he ate his sweets the Lolliville way: not the most, just the best. One at a time, tasting every bit.
And some nights, if he fell asleep quickly enough, he could just hear it — far, far away — the soft, sweet sound of a chocolate waterfall, pouring on and on into dreams.