A Girl Called Shameless. Laura Steven

A Girl Called Shameless - Laura Steven


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Sunday 8 January

       Monday 9 January

       Tuesday 10 January

       Wednesday 11 January

       Thursday 12 January

       Friday 13 January

       Saturday 14 January

       Sunday 15 January

       Monday 16 January

       Tuesday 17 January

       Wednesday 18 January

       Thursday 19 January

       Friday 20 January

       Monday 23 January

       Wednesday 25 January

       Friday 27 January

       Monday 30 January

       Tuesday 31 January

       Wednesday 1 February

       Thursday 2 February

       Friday 3 February

       Monday 6 February

       Tuesday 7 February

       Thursday 9 February

       Saturday 11 February

       Sunday 12 February

       Monday 13 February

       Tuesday 14 February

       Wednesday 15 February

       Friday 17 February

       Sunday 19 February

       Wednesday 22 February

       Friday 24 February

       Monday 27 February

       Friday 14 April

       Epilogue

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Back series promotional page

       7.14 a.m.

      The thing about sex scandals is that you never quite get used to your grandmother having seen you naked.

      I mean, obviously she’s seen me naked before. She used to bathe me and clothe me and rub baby oil on my butt. But that was a whole year ago! [I did tell you my jokes may have gone downhill.]

      You know what I mean, though. Once adolescence strikes, your parents/legal guardians are highly unlikely to see you au naturel, especially if your nipples are of the pierced variety. Unless of course you have a nude picture leaked to the nation, à la Izzy O’Neill, in which case your bare tits and foofer are sort of on display to millions of people, forever and ever until death do us part.

      It’s been a month or two since the media got over the whole fandango, and Betty has never ceased to be a supportive angel, but every single morning, without fail, I sit down to breakfast and immediately picture her picturing me. You know. Me. As in, a euphemism for my genitalia.

      Which is ludicrous, because if I were Betty I would have immediately poured hydrochloric acid into my eyes had I seen my teenage granddaughter naked. Or as a less extreme solution, just tried to scrub the image from my memory as best I could. [And I’m in luck, because Betty’s memory is not all that great these days. I still remind her of the time she left her keys in the toaster and nearly murdered us all.]

      The usual smell of waffle batter – just about to burn around the edges – and the sound of an upbeat pop song fill the kitchen. Betty and I perform our usual routine: she cooks, I make coffee. She sings along to the radio incorrectly. Dumbledore the dachshund loiters without shame. I can almost hear him praying Betty drops some sausage on the ground, but for once he’s outta luck.

      It’s see-your-breath cold in here, because we can only afford to have the heating on for a couple hours a day, and it doesn’t make sense to waste our allowance in the morning when Betty’s about to head to work and I’m returning to school for the first day back


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