Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre
just dumped (boom boom) the dog poo from their yard over our fence. Most of it landed by the car on the driver’s side. Dad nipped out to get some fags and, well, the upshot is he’s had to throw his best trainers in the bin. Not good: wars have started for less.
JANUARY 28TH
Themnextdoor are driving Dad to new – heights? depths? – of grumpiness because their YAP ratty YAP little YAP dog YAP never stops YAPPING.
I guess it’s worse for Dad because at least the rest of us are out during the day. He went round after tea to complain about dog/rat and they just laughed in his face. He got straight in the car and he’s still not back now and it’s half ten. Mum’s rung his mobile about twenty times, but it’s switched off.
Better news! There are some exciting potential developments on the Hellbus front in that I have had a Eureka moment. (Except not in the bath and I didn’t run down the road starkers. Ha ha.)
Humanity’s past glitters with such moments. Ideas so simple yet so revolutionary they’ve changed the world: How about if I rub these two sticks together? Is it me, or do we all look a bit like monkeys? Chips AND cheese?
And here’s my own modest contribution. If I ask Mr Patel for an evening paper round as well as the morning shift, beg Mum for a loan (maybe) and use up all my savings, I should be able to buy myself a BIKE.
I know, it’s genius. Cycling is cool AND I’ll get the papers done loads quicker AND it’ll pay for itself in a term as it’ll save me forking out for a bus pass AND I’ll get fitter AND help the environment, plus (and this is the best bit) I won’t need to face the boys’ school knobs on the Hellbus ever again.
Go me!
PS 11.35. Still no sign of Dad.
FEBRUARY 5TH
Did Mum and Dad win the lottery? No. Has Simon become human? No. Have aliens abducted Molly? Unfortunately not.
Nonetheless, it’s been a fantastic day because I got an A* from Hell High’s newest and finest member of staff, Mr ‘I am so hot I may spontaneously combust’ Jagger!
We’ve been doing some warm-ups for the creative writing coursework. As he’s still ‘getting to know us as a group’, the task to write an essay about the Christmas hols was a bit Year 7, but he is box-fresh teaching-wise (he told us we’re his first job), so I’ll let him off. Here goes:
My Christmas
As is the tradition in our house, Gran is glued to Noel Edmonds while Mum feeds the stress volcano until she erupts, kicking the oven door. I go in, get some frozen peas to put on her foot and finish dinner off, while Dad sits drinking Baileys (which he doesn’t even like) in front of the telly.
By the time The Sound of Music comes on, our house is alive with the sound of mayhem. Simon’s broken his new toys already, Mum’s burnt herself as well as all the food, Gran is comatose and Dad’s slurring his words. And poor Paddington, our highly-strung golden retriever, is cowering under the dining-room table.
This year, Dad got even drunker than usual. As we can’t afford real Baileys since he lost his job, he was drinking a bargain-bucket liqueur (possibly) called ‘Piss’. Anyway, he was plastered and the food was on the table. Mum called everyone into the dining room. When she shouted, ‘Lunch is ready,’ Gran groaned and Dad, who’d forgotten she was there, jumped up with a scream.
It frightened the dog so much she shot out from under the table to protect him. And by ‘protect him’ I mean ‘leapt up and sank her teeth in his butt cheek’.
Dad screamed again, fell over backwards and went straight through our glass-topped coffee table. Mum went ballistic. Dad went to A & E. Gran went back to sleep.
Peace on earth and goodwill to all men? Definitely not in our house.
Mum hasn’t stopped fuming about that coffee table, especially since she keeps going to put her tea on it, so the carpet’s ruined as well. She’s mega-moody now too because Dad didn’t get home from the pub till after twelve last night. He had to leave the car there so he couldn’t take Simon to school. Mum was livid, especially when Dad said Simon should change to the local primary which tangented off into yet another row.
I am starting to really worry about them. Seems the only time they stop arguing is when they’re giving each other the silent treatment. Classic example tonight: Mum said, ‘Lara, remind your father to put the bins out, will you?’ While she was sitting next to him on the sofa! Honestly, they’re worse than kids.
Anyhow, back to my happy place. Mr J handed the work out, saying, ‘I loved reading these; really entertaining stuff. It’d be great to share a few with the rest of the class.’ Then when he got to me, he went, ‘Lara, nothing less than an A* for your heartfelt piece. Would you like to start?’
I turned it over: Highly imaginative and detailed work, Lara. Well done!
Wahey!
Then . . .
‘Er, no, Sir. I don’t want to read it out.’
He smiled. ‘OK, that’s no problem. Thanks anyway, I loved it. Chloe? An excellent B. How about you?’
My Former BFF didn’t need to be asked twice to thrill us with the Fabulous Tale of her Fabulous Trip to Molly’s Fabulous Alpine Ski Lodge. Drone drone drone. I drifted off into a very pleasant daydream about the Fabulous Mr J.
Refusing to read mine out still didn’t prevent the slurpy ass-kissing noises I got after the lesson (not from him obviously). Molly and Mikaela carried on looking Jagger Daggers at me all afternoon, which was as unpleasant as it sounds, but still definitely worth it for an A*. It’s about time we had some decent teachers to make the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES worthwhile.
Later . . . Mr J ‘loved’ my essay. Yay!
FEBRUARY 10TH
Now, no one’s ever going to call me an expert on the male species, but it seems to me there are two kinds of boy in the world:
1. The ones who say, ‘But she’s got beautiful hair. And anyway, so what? It’s only a name.’
and
2. The kind who go, ‘The lanky ginger freak’s called what???!!! Ha ha ha . . . oh no, I’ve wet my trousers.’
Boys I have met in category 1: None.
Boys I have met in category 2: All the rest.
Whenever a new boy starts on the bus, sooner or later they put him through the ‘guess the name of the beanpole’ routine. Today it was the ‘kick a ginger’ lad from the other day. Someone pointed at me and whispered in his ear. He laughed like a jet engine till everyone was staring, then came over to where I was sitting, picking moss off the churchyard wall, myiPodismygod blocking out their stupid voices like the truly lifesaving invention it is.
Him: Oy.
Me: What?
Him: Is it true . . . (splutters with laughter) . . . is it true (going purple in the face) . . . is it true (nearly choking) . . . your name’s (doubled over, almost wetting trousers) . . . TITLESS? (collapses in heap)
Me: No. It’s ‘Titliss’. Lara TitLISS.
Him: TITLESS!!!!!! (rolling around, clutching stomach)
Did I go all Ginger Ninja on his ass? Did I heck. I walked off,