not asking for the moon,” I stormed. “I want to veg out in front of the TV, that’s all. But no! I’ve got to play Pass the blooming TV Parcel…”
Finally I’d peeled my way down to the last layer. Then I dragged our TV to the nearest electrical socket and plugged it in. But all the channels had gone completely skew-whiff!
Now I was really mad. I stomped back to the kitchen, glowering at everyone like the evil fairy in a panto. I generally go all starry-eyed when I hear pre-schoolers singing in their little off-key voices. But my heart had entirely turned to stone.
“Excuse ME for breaking up the party!” I yelled rudely. “But I’m still really ill, in case you’ve forgotten, Mum, and I need to watch TV, but Dad’s sabotaged the channels, hasn’t he?”
All the tinies gawped at me in pure astonishment.
I could tell Mum was silently counting to ten. “Why don’t you go and watch Stuart’s?” she suggested at last.
“THAT heap of junk!” I snarled. “I’d get a bigger buzz watching Grandma’s snowstorm paperweight!”
My brother’s ancient Sony recently went on the blink, which means you have to watch programmes through this permanent blizzard.
“I know,” said Mum, in her best playgroup leader’s voice. “Why don’t you help yourself to one of those lovely juicy peaches, curl up in a comfy chair and read a library book?”
“Yeah, right,” I sneered. “First find a chair, then –”
“I’m sure we can find you a chair,” Mum interrupted, laughing.
“But I’ve read those books heaps of times,” I moaned. “I can practically recite them from memory.”
My little brother, Ben, slipped a sticky hand into mine. “Don’t worry, I’ll lend you my library books if you like,” he whispered.
I’ll just explain that Ben’s favourite toddler fact-book explains exactly where your poo goes to, with v. colourful diagrams.
“That’s sweet, Ben,” I shuddered. “But I’d just want to lose myself in a good story. You know, escape.” My voice came out in a feeble little wail. To my horror I realised I was going to cry.
“Tell you what,” said my mum’s mate Teresa. “I’ve got some kids’ books in the car. I’m meant to be taking them to the charity shop. My dad’s been clearing out his attic.”
“Oh,” I said. “Erm…”
But before I could explain that this wasn’t exactly the reading I had in mind. Teresa had nipped out to her car. In no time, she was back with two bulging carrier bags.
Inside were the fogeyest, most depressing hard-backed books I have EVER seen. No doubt they looked incredibly hip when they came out in the 1940s or whatever. But over the years all the covers had faded to the colour of bogey slime (I’m sorry, but it’s true!).
It didn’t help that Mum and her mates were obviously expecting me to leap around with gratitude.
I pasted a fake smile on my face. “Oh wow,” I said politely. “Thanks, Teresa.”
And I lugged the awful things upstairs. I wasn’t planning to read them. I just didn’t want to hurt Teresa’s feelings. But after ten minutes or so, I’d had as much as I could take of scowling up at my ceiling.
So very grudgingly I took a book from the pile. I suppose it might be good for a laugh, I told myself
After an hour or so, I heard a polite cough. Mum was hovering in the doorway. “I reprogrammed the TV if you want to come back down” she said.
“Cheers,” I said vaguely. “Just got to finish this chapter.”
I was still reading when my brother Tom called me to have my tea!! I rushed downstairs, gulped a few mouthfuls of shepherd’s pie, then bolted back to my room and carried on reading feverishly. The characters were trapped in a disused mine, and frankly things weren’t looking good.
When Mum suddenly appeared with the phone, I almost jumped out of my skin. I’d never even heard it ring! I glanced at my alarm clock and was astonished to see it was practically bedtime! How had that happened?
“It’s Frankie!” said Mum.
I took the phone, still really out of it. “Hiya, Spaceman!” I said groggily. “How was Skegness?”
“Oh, fab and groovy. NOT. Emily Berryman was sick on the coach. All over my trainers, would you believe.” Frankie had obviously rung up for a good moan.
“Oh, poor old you,” I said vaguely, looking longingly at my book
Frankie sounded slightly huffy. “What are you up to, anyway?” she said. “You sound weird.”
I explained sheepishly about my new addiction.
Frankie snorted. “Oh, those! Those books are so lame.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s just that Dad –”
But Frankie was off on one of her rants. “Have you noticed how they all have samey titles? The Mystery of the blah, or The blah of Adventure, or The Secret blah? And it doesn’t matter which one you read, they’re all exactly the same.”
“Yeah, but once you get into them, they’re surprisingly –”
But Frankie wouldn’t let me get a word in. “Have you noticed how the grown-ups in those books always find some convenient excuse to pack all the kids off to stay with this like, long-lost relative?” she said in a scornful voice. “I mean, how many long-lost rellies have you come across recently, Lyndz?”
“Well, none really –” I began.
“Exactly!” said Frankie triumphantly. “And before you can say ‘gosh, golly and jolly good fun’, the little dears are running around in their big baggy shorts and seriously sad knitwear, on the trail of some totally daft mystery - smugglers, secret tunnels, messages in bottles and I don’t know what!”
Once Frankie gets on her high horse, it’s pointless arguing. You just have to let her run down like an old-fashioned record.
“The thing that REALLY annoys me,” she continued, “is how the girls always get so girly and upset. And the boy with the pet rat always finds disgusting old toffees in his pockets, and they’re all fluffy and icky and I’m like - ‘DON’T put it in your mouth, Betty-Ann or whatever your silly name is. It’s got rat germs!’”
I giggled. “He keeps the rat in his other pocket, you lamebrain!”
“But the dopey girl EATS it,” Frankie went on. “Not only that, but she like, cheers up INSTANTLY.! I mean what is IN these sweeties. Lyndz? I think we deserve to be told!”
That did crack me up. In fact I laughed so much, I started hiccuping. Ever had hiccups while you’re still recovering from earache?
It’s AGONY.
“Sorry, hie (ow!) hie, Frankie,” I whimpered. “Gotta, HIC (ow!) go!”
Snivelling with pain, I rushed to find Mum, who was helping Dad measure alcoves for shelves.
I hate being the middle child. My parents showed me absolutely NO sympathy.
“Oh, not again!” Dad groaned.
“Just hold your breath,” Mum said impatiently.
Now I am the world expert on hiccups, OK? And I’ve tried every hiccup cure going and that holding-the-breath thing never worked for me ONCE. I was getting genuinely hysterical, but then my brother Tom came up with the most ingenious hiccup remedy since hiccups began.
He put one arm around me and drew one of his lightning-fast cartoons with his free hand. And as I watched, hiccuping miserably,