In the heart of a busy workshop by the river, the machines hummed, the saws sang, and the scent of fresh wood filled the air. It was morning at Timber Town Factory, and everyone was already hard at work.
Ply Bob, the cheerful little plywood plank, skipped through the factory gates with his lunchbox and toolbelt, whistling a tune. His eyes gleamed like varnish under the lights. Today, he was extra excited, but he wasn’t sure why.
As he passed the glue press, he noticed a familiar figure sitting by the workbench — tall, weathered, and smooth with age. It was Tassy the Oak, the oldest board in the factory, polished by time itself. His beard looked like curled shavings, and his voice creaked gently like an old workbench.
“G’day there, young Bob!” rumbled Tassy, tipping his sawdust-covered hat.
“G’day, Tassy!” said Bob. “Everyone’s smiling today - even the machines sound happier! What’s going on?”
Tassy chuckled, his grain glinting in the light.
“Hah! You mean you don’t know, lad?”
“No,” said Bob, scratching his edge. “What day is it?”
Tassy leaned in, eyes twinkling.
“It’s a Plyday, mate.”
