Picture Perfect. Holly Smale

      Not even the fact that it’s the single most important day of your life and nobody has remembered.

      Nope. I am a paradigm of calmness and maturity.

      Like Gandalf. Or Father Christmas.

      “Good morning,” I say as I float into the kitchen. That’s how I travel these days, by the way: in a magical, joy-filled bubble. “What an auspiciously lovely day, don’t you think? Almost propitiously sunny, you could say. A day for great things to happen.”

      Then I stare optimistically at my snoring parents.

      It looks like somebody tried to destroy the house overnight and then gave up and filled it with sleeping gas instead. The room is dark except for the glow from the open fridge door, and cups and plates are everywhere. Dad’s leaning back in a chair with a tea towel over his head, and my stepmother Annabel is slumped over the breakfast table with her cheek resting gently on a piece of buttered toast.

      Tabitha is lying in her cot, making cute snuffling sounds as if she’s not the bomb that keeps going off.

      I clear my throat.

      “Did you know that it’s actually called August after the first Emperor of Rome, Augustus? It was his most successful month. How significant is that?”

      Silence.

      It’s a good thing I am newly shiny and happy on a permanent basis, or I’d be throwing a hissy-fit round about now. Instead, I abruptly pull the curtains open so my parents can see the epic day in its full glory.

      “FIRE!” Dad yells, whipping the tea towel off his head and peering at me through his fingers. “Ugh, worse. What have we told you about daylight, sweetheart?”

      “It’s 9.21am,” I point out. “You’re not vampires.”

      I don’t say that with a lot of conviction. My parents have grey skin and red eyes, they’re up all night, rarely eat and seem to communicate without actually talking. The signs aren’t looking good.

      “Mnneurgh,” Annabel mumbles, propping herself up slightly. The toast is still stuck to her face. “How long were we asleep?”

      Dad sticks a finger in the cup in front of him. “Not long enough –” he sighs and waves a hand in front of his face – “nope, Elizabeth Hurley is gone.”

      “Oh, God,” Annabel sighs and squints slightly. Her normally perfect fringe is sticking up like the crest of a blonde cockatoo, and there are crumbs stuck in her eyebrow. “I need to get the laundry on, the bathroom cleaned …” She slumps down again. “This toast is surprisingly comfortable.”

      Yup.

      It’s been exactly seven weeks since you last saw us, and anything resembling domestic order has totally disappeared.

      At an average of 125 decibels, it turns out my new sibling is slightly louder than a rock concert (120dB) and only very slightly less loud – and painful – than being shot repeatedly by a machine gun at point-blank range (130dB). Apparently the word ‘infant’ comes from the Latin word infans, which means ‘unable to speak’, but all I can say is: the Ancient Romans obviously never met Tabitha Manners.

      Much like somebody with a fully automated firearm, my tiny sister is capable of expressing exactly how she feels.

      I pick Tabby out of her cot and she opens her eyes and beams back at me. That’s just one of the plethora of things I love about my sister: we’re like peas in a pod. Except luckily her pod is in my parents’ room, on the other side of the house.

      Plus I have very high quality ear-plugs.

      “Does anyone happen to remember what day it is?” I prompt. Maybe I should show them today’s pie chart. I can’t stop the anxious butterflies, but I can at least put them in the right ten-minute time slot.

      “Tuesday?” Dad attempts. “Friday? 1967? Could you give us a ball-park figure?”

      “Lift the green towel on your right, Harriet,” Annabel murmurs, eyes still shut. “And the dishcloth next to it. We’ll be awake in a second.”

      I step over a couple of large boxes and suitcases lying open on the kitchen floor.

      Then I tentatively move the towel with my fingers. Underneath is a brand-new red leather satchel with a sale sticker still attached and the letters HM engraved on the flap. When I open it, it’s packed to the brim with new pencils and pens and rulers and books.

      Under the dishcloth is a home-made chocolate cake shaped vaguely like a robot that reads ‘GOOD LUCK HARRIET’ in white buttons down the front, and ‘(NOT THAT WE BELIEVE IN LUCK – YOU ARE THE MASTER OF YOUR DESTINY)’ in almost illegible blue icing on the feet.

      I beam at them.

      See what I mean? My life is going exactly to plan. Even my parents are following my cake-and-gift related schedule, despite being asleep when I told them about it.

      “Awww,” I say happily, zooming Tabby over as if she’s a wriggly aeroplane and giving them both a kiss. “Thank you so much, sleepyheads. You’re the best.”

      “I’m just going to go tell Liz Hurley that,” Dad murmurs, closing his eyes. “Be back in a minute.”

      “Say hi to her from me,” Annabel says, yawning and rubbing a bit of butter off her face. “If she wants to come over and do some washing-up, tell her to knock herself out.”

      And my parents go straight back to sleep.

      Right.

      According to today’s schedule, I now have six and a half minutes left. Just six and a half minutes to put my purple flip-flops on, pick a couple of chocolate buttons off the cake, smudge the icing so my parents don’t notice and get to the bench on the corner of the road where my best friend will be waiting for me: eager, bright-eyed and ready to confront our mutual destinies.

      I have it timed to absolute perfection.

      Unfortunately, I obviously forgot to show the plan to my little sister. Because as I kiss her tiny nose she gives me one bright, adorable smile.

      And vomits all over my head.