For my very own Fruit & Nut Case … and for Sydenham High School who gave me such a warm welcome

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Also by Jean Ure

Copyright

About the Publisher

My dad’s an Elvis Presley look-alike. He’s got a white suit just like Elvis had, and a guitar, and he sings all the songs that Elvis sang. Blue Suede Shoes, Hound Dog, Love me Tender, Love me True. He knows them all!

I’ve drawn a picture of my dad being Elvis on my bedroom wall. I’ll draw it again, now.

I’m always drawing on my bedroom wall. When I’ve filled up all the space I’m going to start on the ceiling. I’ll be taller by then. I’ll stand on a stepladder and I’ll be able to reach.

This is how one bit of my bedroom wall looks.

It’s instead of having a garden. As a matter of fact there is a garden at the back of this house, but it belongs to old Misery Guts that lives downstairs and she won’t let me play in it. It’s only a bit of moth-eaten grass and dustbins, anyhow. If I had a garden I would grow all flowers in it.

My garden wall is right opposite my bed where I can see it when I wake up in the morning. My people wall is by the windows.

Unfortunately, that is all the wall there is as the room is not very big and there is a huge great enormous old-fashioned wardrobe just inside the door, taking up loads of valuable space.

The wardrobe used to belong to my nan. I hate it! When I was little, like four or five, I used to think fierce monsters lived in it. I don’t now, of course; now that I’m older. But I still hate it because it is ugly. I hate things that are ugly!

Dad is always promising that he will chop it up and make me a shelf out of it, but so far he hasn’t. He’s better at being Elvis than at D.I.Y.

Sometimes, like if we’re having a bit of a party, Dad will put on his Elvis suit and sing Love me Tender specially for Mum. Love me Tender is her favourite. She goes really gooey over that one!

In case there is anybody who has just dropped by from another planet and is thinking “Who is this Elvis person?” I maybe ought to explain that Elvis Presley was a very famous singer way back in my nan’s time. Mum says he was called Elvis-the-Pelvis because he used to wiggle his hips around as he sang, but Dad says he was the King of Rock, and that is what some people still call him, “the King”.

My dad is a dead ringer for the King! He looks really great when he brushes his hair back and puts gel on it so that it puffs up in front, the way the King’s did. And he wears his white suit and his high-heeled boots and he sings all these old songs. OK, and Mum loves it.

They get all moony and swoony the pair of them. It’s like they’re teenagers again, before I was born.

Once upon a time, Dad used to do Elvis gigs in the local clubs but he hasn’t done one for a while now. Last time he did one he had a bit of an accident. He tripped over his guitar lead and fell off the stage and busted his ankle.

astrophe!

Dad’s always doing things to himself.

He’s a real disaster area!

My mum’s not much better. She does the daftest things!

Honestly, my parents! They’re going to turn me into a right fruit and nut case, I know they are.

I try to look after them, but I can’t have my eye on them all of the time.

Dad gets ever so impatient when Mum messes up the dinner or burns his shirts. But she can’t help it! It’s just the way she is.

Like Dad flying off the handle. He can’t help it, either; he’s just a live wire. He doesn’t mean anything by it. But it gets Mum all flustered and nervous and I have to go jumping in really fast and make them laugh. I can always make them laugh! Usually.

When we’re having fun together, like when Dad’s being Elvis singing his songs, and Mum’s dancing along to them, life’s absolutely brilliant. I think they’re the best mum and dad in the world and I don’t care a row of pins that we haven’t any money and have to live in the upstairs part of a rotten crumbly old house with Misery Guts lurking like some horrible evil spider waiting to catch us in her web. It just doesn’t bother me in the slightest little bit. It doesn’t bother me where I live so long as I’m with my mum and dad.

It’s when Mum does something daft and Dad flies off the handle and makes her cry that I get a bit fussed. What scares me is in case they stop loving each other and Dad goes off to live somewhere else, so that we’re not a family any more. That is the ONLY THING in the universe that I am scared of. I’m not scared of climbing trees right to the very top, I’m not scared of big fierce dogs that run barking at you, I’m not scared of Tracey Bigg and her gang of stupid bullies, no way! I could bash Tracey Bigg to a pulp any time I want. But I don’t think I could bear it if my mum and dad split up.

Every night before I go to sleep I say this special prayer. I haven’t ever let on to anyone about my prayer before, not a single living soul, but Cat told me I’d got to be honest.

Cat’s the one who said I ought to write a book. She said, “I just know that you can do it, Mandy!” I said, “You mean, like … a book about me?” and Cat said, “Well, and why not?” So then I didn’t know what I would have to write about, or what sort of things she’d want me to put, and she said, “It’ll be a true story, right? Your story. So just tell it like it really is.”

All this stuff about myself. I dunno! It seems weird. But if it’s what Cat wants.

So, all right! I’m being honest. I AM BEING HONEST! Watch my lips.

I don’t know—honestly—whether I really believe in God, but that doesn’t stop me saying my prayer. This is what I pray:

Actually, I don’t do that. Kneel, I mean. I sort of put my hands together, but I do it under the duvet when I’m lying in bed. I’ve been doing it for almost two years, now.

Two years is a long time to keep on saying the same prayer. But it’s worked, so far! Even if Dad does sometimes fly off the handle. Even if Mum does do the daftest things. We’re still all together! I wouldn’t ever dream of going to sleep without saying my prayer.

“Please, God, don’t let Mum and Dad get divorced. Please, God! Let them be together for ever and ever, and ever and ever, and ever and ever, and ever and ever, and ever and ever, amen.”

I have to say it ten times, to match my age. The older I get, the more difficult it will be to keep count of all the for evers! But I will still do it. I will always do it.

My life is quite uneventful, really, and I cannot think there is going to be very much to record, but Cat says, “Go for it! Just put whatever occurs to you. Whatever’s important.”

But now that I’ve said about my prayer, and about Mum and Dad, I can’t think of anything else! Just being together as a family is all that is important.

Maybe I should describe “A Day in the Life of Mandy Small”. It is not what I would call very interesting, but I expect Cat would like it.

OK. Well. I always set my special Mickey Mouse alarm clock so’s to be sure of waking up on time in the morning. As soon as it rings I leap madly out of bed and hurriedly rush into my clothes.

If it’s summer I do it more slowly, but in the winter I have to rush or I would freeze to an icicle before I got through dressing. This is because we don’t have any central heating in this crumbly old house. Sometimes it is so cold that when I wake up there are frost patterns on my window, all swirly and beautiful.

Once I am into my clothes I go racing to Mum’s room to make sure that she is awake. Dad has to leave home at six o’clock to go and clean windows with his friend Garry, and sometimes after he’s gone Mum falls asleep again. If I don’t wake her she would be late for work and then she would be threatened with the sack, which is what happened once before.

My nan says, “Oh, really, Sandra!” (Sandra is my mum’s name.) “Fancy having to rely on a child to get you up! Why on earth don’t you set your alarm?”

But the one time Mum set the alarm for seven, after Dad had gone off, she forgot to put it back again to 5.30 and Dad didn’t wake up next morning, so then he was late and that made him fly off the handle, and that is why I have taken charge. It is easier for me to do it. I don’t mind waking up.

After I have shaken Mum, I go into the kitchen and make some tea and toast. I then go back to Mum’s room to check that she is still awake. Sometimes she is, but more often she has gone and nodded off again. It isn’t Mum’s fault that she can’t wake up in the mornings. She’s just not very good at it. Some people are and some people aren’t, and Mum is one of the ones that aren’t. But it’s all right, because she’s got me. She says, “What I’d do without my Mand, I don’t know.”

Mum is Sand and I am Mand. I think that’s really neat!

Dad is Barry. It occurs to me that if they had another baby and it was a boy, they could call it Harry and then we would have Barry and Harry, and that would be neat, as well. I’d quite like a baby brother, but Nan says, “Heaven forbid! They can’t even cope with one of you.” So I don’t think, alas, that they will have another baby. Apart from anything else, where would it sleep?

All we have in this upstairs part of the house is one bedroom for Mum and Dad, one (tiny little) bedroom for me, one room for sitting in, one which is a kitchen, and one which is the bathroom, though that is just a measly bit of room shaped like a wedge of cheese, half-way down the stairs, that we have to share with old Misery Guts, who moans like crazy about tide marks round the bath and hairs in the wash basin. She also used to moan about us using her loo paper, so now she carries her own roll with her whenever she goes there.

Now I’ve forgotten where I was.

I know! Telling about my day.

So. Right. As soon as I’ve eaten a bit of toast, and Mum’s had her cup of tea, we go down the stairs, on tiptoe because of Misery Guts, and close the front door behind us really quietly, and run up the road together, laughing, as it is always a relief to know that a) Mum is not late and won’t be threatened with the sack and b) we have not disturbed old Misery Guts and been yelled at.

Poor Mum! She hates being yelled at. She’s quite a timid person, really. I am more like Dad. I am FIERCE. What my nan calls “aggressive and up-front”. But she can talk! We both take after her. Dad’s dad, my grandy, is well under her thumb. That’s what Mum says, anyway.

Mum hasn’t got a mum and dad. She was dumped when she was just a little kid. I think it must be so terrible to feel that you’re not wanted. That is something I have never felt. I know I was a mistake, because Nan has often told me so. She says that Mum and Dad were “no more than children themselves” and “far too young to go having babies”. But once they’d got over their surprise they were really pleased. Mum says I’m the cleverest thing she’s ever done. She says, “Your dad was so excited! He even came to the hospital to see you arrive!”

So I know that I am loved and wanted. I just wish I could be certain that Mum and Dad love and want each other. I think they do, ’cos they always kiss and make up and Dad is always buying Mum little presents to show how much she means to him. But it just would be nice to be certain sure.

Now I’ve gone and lost track again. Miss Foster – she’s our teacher at school – she’d say I’m not concentrating. She’s always accusing me of not concentrating.

OK. So now I am! This is what happens after me and Mum have left the house.

We walk as far as the tube station together, then Mum kisses me goodbye and I go on to school. I always turn at the corner and wave, and Mum waves back. For the rest of the day, I can’t wait for school to end so that I can go back home again.

I can’t stand school. There’s this girl in my class called Tracey Bigg who really bugs me. She’s really got it in for me. This is because one time when Oliver Pratt was blubbing and Tracey Bigg and her mates were making fun of him, I went to his rescue. Like Tracey was jeering at him and calling him a crybaby so I told her to stop it and she said, “Who do you think you are?” and I said I knew who I was and if she didn’t shut her mouth I’d shut it for her and she goes, “Oh, yeah?” and I go, “Yeah,” and we have this huge big fight and Oliver just stands there with his finger in his mouth, gorming. I mean, he is a total nerd but he can’t help it. I don’t expect he can. It isn’t any reason to be horrid to him. But lots of people are, like Billy Murdo and his gang. Bully Murdo, I call him.

See, if you’re not the same as all the rest, you get picked on. Oliver’s not the same ‘cos he’s a bit, well, sort of slow; and I’m not the same ‘cos—I don’t really know why I’m not the same. But Miss Foster’s always getting at me and making me feel like I’m useless. I wish I could go to an acting school! One of those places where sometimes the kids get picked to be on telly. I bet I’d be good at that! But probably, I expect, you need lots of money, like you do for most things. So until some big pot film person catches sight of me and goes “Hey! Wow!” and instantly offers me a Lead Part in his next production, it looks like I am stuck. Worse luck.

The minute school is over I go scooting off just as fast as I can to collect Mum from her baker’s shop, where she works, and we go round the supermarket together and buy stuff for tea and carry it home and hope old Misery isn’t waiting to pounce on us the minute the front door opens, which all too often she is.

After we’ve listened politely to old Misery and meekly promised to mend our ways, we go upstairs and have a cup of something and a giggle before getting the tea ready for Dad. Me and Mum do a lot of giggling. We’re like sisters, sometimes, the two of us.

Dad comes in at five o’clock and I always go rushing to meet him. Sometimes, if old Misery’s caught him, he’ll be in a right grumpy mood. And when Dad’s in a grumpy mood, BEWARE! Mum gets flustered, and that’s when things start to go wrong – specially if she’s done something daft and ruined his tea.

But if he’s in a good mood, then whoopee! We have fun. Maybe he’ll sing some Elvis, or we’ll play a game of cards, or just settle down to watch the telly like any other family. If it’s summer I might perhaps go into my room to do some more wall-painting. I aim to get the walls filled up by the time I’m eleven! Then it’s the ceiling. After that, who knows? The floor???

Nan thinks it’s terrible I’m allowed to paint on the walls, but Dad says it’s my room, so why shouldn’t I? He says, “Other kids get to play with their computers: Mandy gets to paint her bedroom.”

That is one of the very best things about my dad. He always, always sticks up for me!

I’m not really actually writing this. I am saying it into a tape machine!

It was Cat’s idea. Cat is the person who comes into school every week to help people like me and Oliver with our reading. She is my friend. And it’s all right for me to call her Cat and not Miss Daley; she said that I could. She didn’t say that Oliver could. Just me. Because we’re friends.

Cat knows I’m not very good at writing. But I’m ace at talking! Usually. It all depends who I’m with; I don’t just talk to anyone. My nan complains I never stop but that’s not true. Sometimes I don’t say a word for minutes on end. And when I’m at school I don’t hardly talk at all, except just sometimes to Oliver, ’cos of feeling sorry for him. If I didn’t talk to him, nobody would. So we talk about a few things, but nothing important.

Cat is the only person I really talk to. I can talk about anything to Cat! What I usually do, I tell her the latest joke I’ve heard or something funny about old Misery Guts and we have a bit of a laugh. I don’t tell her about hating school or Miss Foster having a go at me or anything like that. That would be whingeing and I hate people that whinge. But I could tell her. If I wanted. And I know that she’d listen ’cos she’s that sort of person. She’s not just my friend, she’s my special friend; and that’s why I’m doing this book. Because she asked me.

When I’ve filled up the tape, or done as much as I can, Cat’s mum is going to type it out on her word processor and then Cat is going to get it printed. It will all be spelt right, with lots of commas and full stops and little squiggly bits like: and; and ! so that it looks like a real book.

I am going to do the drawings! Lots of them. I like books with drawings. Sometimes I think it would be better if books didn’t have anything but drawings. No words. Cat doesn’t agree; she says you need both. I don’t see why but, anyway I am going to do drawings instead of draggy descriptions that go on for ever and make you lose interest.

Like, for instance, I could say that Cat is …

Very tall and thin with lots of bony bits and that she has:

a round jolly face

a wide mouth

sticky-out teeth

a blobby nose – and that she wears:

eee-normous glasses

tight sweaters

short skirts

black tights

and long boots.

But I think that would make people go “Yawn!” and not read any more. It’s ever so much more fun to draw!

I hope she doesn’t mind me drawing her! I can only do funny drawings. Even when I draw me I make me look funny. This is me:

All the drawings that I do, I’m putting with the tape so that Cat’s mum knows where to leave a space when she does the typing. Then I will stick them on!

I still can’t really understand why Cat wants me to record all this stuff. All about me and my boring life. When I asked her she said, “Well, look at it this way. It’s not everyone can say they’ve written a book. Think what an achievement it would be!”

I said, “But nothing’s ever happened to me.” Meaning, I’ve never been kidnapped,

or lost at sea

or rescued anyone from drowning

or been in a plane that’s been hijacked.

I have never been on a plane full stop. A BIG full stop.

I’ve never been abroad, I’ve never been on a boat, I’ve only been to the seaside once and that was two years ago when Nan gave us the money to go to Clacton and stay in a bed-and-breakfast. Even then it rained all the time. And Mum put some clothes to dry on the heater and the clothes caught fire while we were out and set light to the curtains and Dad got in a hump and spent all our money playing the fruit machines down the pub which meant we had to come home three days early and the bed-and-breakfast lady kept sending threatening letters about her curtains!

Nan and Crandy had to pay her in the end, to buy some new ones. Nan was ever so horrid about it. She said that Mum was like a child and that Dad was irresponsible and we didn’t deserve to have holidays. So we’ve never had one since and now I don’t suppose we’ll ever have one again. See if I care!

That Tracey Bigg, she goes off all over the place. Places like Florida and Gran Canaria (wherever that is). She’s always boasting about it. I haven’t got anything to boast about. I just don’t see what Cat wants me to say into this tape machine she’s given me.

I said this to Cat and she chirruped, “Oh, Mandy, you’ve got all sorts of things!” Cat’s always chirruping and chirping. She’s ever such a cheerful person. So am I, I suppose, really. On the whole. Maybe that’s why we’re friends. She told me that things didn’t have to be big and dramatic to be put into books.

“Just ordinary everyday happenings. That’s what interests people.”

Does she mean that other people are going to read about me???

I could be famous! I could be rich! They could make a film about me!

Yes, and if they do I know one person that’s not going to be in it, and that’s Tracey Bigg. If anyone gets to play her it’ll be some ugly, cross-eyed, po-faced tub.

Serve her right! I can’t stand that girl.

This is her.

Tracey Bigg. She’s always picking on me, just because she’s Bigg and I’m Small. Which we really are. Unfortunately.

She’s horrible! I hate her. She says these really mean and spiteful things just to try and hurt people. Like at the beginning of term when Miss Foster said we’d all got to read as many books as we could and get people to sponsor us, and the money we raised was going to go to charity, and Tracey Bigg sniggered and said, “What happens if we can’t read, Miss?” and everyone knew she was talking about me.

Me and Oliver Pratt. Not that I cared, I don’t care what anyone says, but Oliver went red as radishes and I felt really sorry for him. I mean, for all Tracey Bigg knows we’ve got that thing where you muddle your letters, * which is a sort of illness and nothing to do with being lazy or stupid. It’s like being handicapped and people mocking at you.

Tracey Bigg is the sort of person that would mock at anyone that was handicapped. She’d kick a blind man’s stick away from him just for fun, she would.

Tracey Bigg is garbage.

Miss Foster said that anyone that found reading difficult could choose books with pictures, but it didn’t make any difference, I couldn’t have found anyone to sponsor me anyway. I knew I couldn’t ask Mum and Dad ’cos they were already worried about money, where is the next penny going to come from? and how are we going to pay all the bills? And I couldn’t ask the neighbours ’cos Mum doesn’t like me to do that. She says if I ask them, their kids will ask her, and then she’ll feel embarrassed when she has to say no. And I could just imagine what would happen if I tried asking old Misery Guts!

When it was time to give the forms back I had to pretend I’d lost mine. Miss Foster got really ratty with me. She said, “Mandy Small, what is the matter with you? You are the most careless, thoughtless child I have ever met!” And Tracey Bigg was there and she didn’t half sneer. ’Cos she’d read more books than anyone, hadn’t she? And made a load more money.

When we went into the playground at break she kept going on with this rhyme she’d made up.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the dumbest girl of all? Mandee! Mandy Small!”

She taught it to Aimee Wilcox and Leanne Trimble that are her best friends and they went round chanting it all through break and doing this stupid dance that made everyone laugh.

I just took no notice. I mean, my skin is really tough. It’s like I’m wearing body armour. You could shoot arrows at it and they’d just bounce off. You could shoot bullets. You could hurl dead elephants.

Tracey Bigg can’t hurt me. But all the same, it does get on my nerves. You get to feeling like you’re on the point of exploding. Like a bottle of fizzy pop that’s been all shaken up and the cork is just about to b … low!

That’s what happened back at half term. My cork just blew, and I bopped her one. Actually, I bashed her. Right on the conk.

She bled gallons! She bled everywhere. All down her chin, drip-drip-drip. All down the front of her dress, drip-drop, drip-drop, splodge. What a mess! But it was her own fault. She asked for it. See, what happened, Miss Foster gave us these forms to take home. More forms. She’s always giving us forms. Usually I just chuck mine away. I mean, I can’t keep bothering Mum all the time. She’d only get fussed.

This lot was forms for going to summer camp. Down in Devon, on a farm.

“I don’t expect most of you have ever been on a farm, have you?”

Tracey Bigg had. Of course. She’s been everywhere. She’s been to America. She’s been to Australia. She’s been to Switzerland and gone sking in the mountains. She would!

I haven’t ever been anywhere except to Clacton where it rained and Dad spent all our money. Oh, and to my nan’s, but that’s only a tube ride away. I would quite like to have seen a farm but I didn’t think I could leave Mum and Dad for a whole fortnight even if Nan and Grandy offered to pay, which they might have done as on the whole they are quite generous. But I am always frightened that if I’m not there something disastrous will happen. Like I’ll get back and find that Mum has burnt the house down or Dad’s gone through the roof. Or even worse, that one of them has run away.

So I told Miss Foster I couldn’t go and she seemed disappointed and said, “Oh, Mandy, that’s a pity! I feel a change of scene would do you good.”

I don’t know what she meant by that. I don’t need any change of scene! I’m quite happy where I am.

Anyway, out in the playground afterwards Tracey Bigg made up another of her stupid rhymes.

That was when I bashed her. And she yelled, and grabbed my hair, and tried to scratch my eyes out so I kicked her, really hard, on the ankle and she tore at my sleeve and that was when Miss Foster and another teacher came running across and separated us.

’Course, I got into dead trouble for that. Dead trouble. Tracey said it was all my fault, and so did Aimee and Leanne. They said, “She attacked her, Miss.”

Nobody ever asked me why I’d attacked her, and I wouldn’t have told them even if they had. Not any of their business. But they didn’t ever ask.

It’s like I’ve got this reputation for being aggressive and Tracey’s got this reputation for being good and that’s all anyone cares. But sometimes I think you have to be a bit aggressive or people just stamp all over you. Like with Oliver, and Billy Murdo’s gang. They bully him something rotten and no one ever does a thing about it. That’s because they do it where the teachers can’t see. And Oliver, he’s such a sad, weedy little guy, he never sticks up for himself.

I bet if he did, Miss Foster would say it was all his fault, even though Billy Murdo’s about ten times bigger.

Sometimes you just can’t win. But on the other hand, you can’t just sit back and do nothing. I don’t think you can.

Half-past three is when school ends. I can’t wait to get out! I never stay behind for anything; not if I can help it. I run like a whirlwind to Bunjy’s to pick Mum up and go shopping with her.

Bunjy’s is the name of the baker’s where Mum works. But the lady who owns it, the one who keeps threatening to give her the sack, isn’t called Mrs Bunjy but Mrs Sowerbutts. Mum calls her old Sourpuss. She’s not quite as bad as Misery Guts, but they both give Mum a lot of hassle.

Sometimes when I get there I’m a few minutes early. If old Sourpuss is around Mum pulls this face at me through the window and I know that I will have to wait.

Old Sourpuss wasn’t there that day, the day I bashed Tracey Bigg and made her nose bleed. Mum came waltzing out looking all happy and giggly ‘cos she’d left a few minutes before she ought!

I love it when Mum behaves like that. It means we’re going to have fun!

Before we went home we called at the supermarket to buy some food for Dad’s tea. Mum wanted to do him something different, something a bit posh. She started talking about making pastry and putting things inside it, but I managed to talk her out of that idea. Last time Mum tried making pastry it was an absolute disaster. It came out all hard, like a layer of cement. Dad said, “Blimey O’Reilly, you’d need a hammer and chisel to make any headway with this!”

I don’t know why Dad says Blimey O’Reilly, but he only does it when he thinks something is funny. Sometimes he just doubles up laughing at Mum and her cooking. Once she put the sugar in the oven to dry and it melted all over the place, and Dad said she was daft as a brush. He said, “Oh, what a yum yum!” And we all fell about, including Mum.

But other times, like if he’s had a bad day or old Misery’s had a go at him, he doesn’t say Blimey O’Reilly he says things that are cross and unkind and Mum gets all upset. So it seemed to me it was silly to take chances. I reckoned Mum ought to get him something he liked. Food is terribly important to men. They get really upset if they come home and their dinner isn’t ready or it’s not what they want. Women don’t care quite so much. Well, that’s how it seems to me.

So in the end we bought his favourite pie, which I reckoned even Mum couldn’t ruin as all you have to do is just put it in the oven. Mum said, “We’ll have toast fingers and a bit of paté to start with,” ’cos she still wanted to be posh.

Well, we got in and first thing we know is old Misery Guts is there waiting for us, hiding behind the door. All in one breath she says, “Mrs-Small-I-really-must-complain-about-the-state-of-the-bathroom-it-looks-as-if-a-bomb-has-hit-it.” To which Mum chirps, “We should be so lucky!” and goes racing up the stairs two at a time with me giggling behind her.

The reason the bathroom looked as if a bomb had hit it was that the hot water thingie had blown up when Dad was running his bath. The hot water thingie looks like an ancient monument.

Before you can get any hot water out of it you have to move lots of little levers and turn on lots of taps and then light a match. I’m not allowed to touch it in case I blow myself up. Half the wall is down, now.

“That Misery Guts,” panted Mum, as we pounded up the stairs to our own floor. “A pity it couldn’t have blown up when she was in there!”

“In the bath,” I said. “All naked.”

Sometimes old Misery Guts makes Mum’s life a real pain, but we just laughed about her that day. Mum was in a really giggly sort of mood. She turned the oven on, to heat it up for Dad’s pie, and we had a cup of tea and watched a bit of telly, and then Mum put the pie in and I laid the table and we got the bread out for toasting.

“Let’s do some thing special,” said Mum. “Let’s cut the toast into funny shapes. We’ll cut one into a Misery Guts shape and see if your dad can guess who it is!”

So that was what we did. We made a Misery Guts shape and an old Sourpuss shape, and Mum made Nan and Grandy shapes, and I made Tracey Bigg and Miss Foster shapes, and then we just went mad and made any old shapes that took our fancy. Shapes with big heads, and shapes with big feet, and shapes with big bums. Fat shapes, skinny shapes. Tall shapes, short shapes. Shapes of all kinds!

We ended up with way too much toast!

“We’ve used up the whole loaf!” said Mum.

But we just giggled about it, ‘cos that was the sort of mood we were in.

Dad got in at five o’clock. He swung me up in his arms and said, “And how’s our Mand?”

“We’ve been making toasted teachers,” I said.

“That sounds a bit dodgy,” said Dad. “I hope they’re not for my tea?”

“Only for starters,” said Mum, proudly. She was really chuffed with her posh starters. Paté and toast! That’s what the nobs have.

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