“Nope. No way. Absolutely not. Not over my dead body, matey.”

Negotiations with Dad about my summer holiday plans have hit an all-time low. In fact, unless I’m much mistaken, Dad’s turned his back on me and shuffled halfway across the saloon bar in the Fantastic Voyage.

He’s fiddling with beer mats and urgently rearranging slices of lemon, almost as if my fate is decided. Now, my friends, this is NOT the air of a man “carefully mulling his daughter’s future.” No. It’s the look of a man ignoring me. Someone hoping I’ll vanish. Or at least “cease being so flippin’ cheeky and squeaky” in his general direction.

I, Veronica Ripperton, am, in fact, a full fourteen years and two months old, for crying out loud. Not “squeaky” at all. More “husky” and “womanly.” What does he know anyway? He can’t even pick his nose privately.

So here are me and Dad, hovering around each other, in a deadlock. This must be how UN negotiators feel just before bombs begin getting lobbed. Eventually, the great fun-stopping ogre speaks:

“Look, Ronnie. There is no way whatsoever you and your little posse of clowns . . .” (bit harsh, I thought) . . . “are getting tickets for Astlebury Music Festival. It’s far too dangerous, what with all those hairy lads sniffing about. And different trains you’d need to catch . . . and drug dealers injecting you with acid or stealing your tent . . . and, well, trouble like that. You’re just not going. No way! Nicky nacky nada way.”

Dad’s sandy sideburns virtually bristle at the thought of his offspring having such pure, unadulterated fun. Pah. If Dad thinks dressing up the word “no” by saying it amusingly will earn him forgiveness for being “the man who killed summer,” he’s soooo wrong.

“And while we’re at it, Ronnie. Go and put a bigger T-shirt on! I can almost see your boobs.” (Heaven forbid! I must be the only girl in England with a pair. Call the nipple police.)

“And I can see your belly button too! And your knickers! No wonder my profits on bar meals are down. All that flesh. It’s just not right. . . .” Dad gazes at the fifteen-centimeter gap between my T-shirt and jeans with utter disdain, then slumps his shoulders woefully, as if the weight of the Western World rests upon them.

Fine, so Dad isn’t loving the crop-top, low-slung hipsters look, I can live with that, but by this stage, I’m so seething about the whole Astlebury thing that I’m fantasizing about strangling the furry-faced loser with a beer towel.

Dad’s not a happy man either; as I begin to huff and puff around the bar, slamming chairs around rather insolently, his eyes are bulging with rage . . . something is going to blow.

“It’s a thong, actually. Not knickers,” I announce, yanking the offending lacy garment up even farther, out of the back of my trousers, proving my point nicely. Very bad idea.

“It’s a WHAT??!” shrieks Dad, his lips thinning into two pale lavender strips.

Ooops, time for a sharp exit, I think, hotfooting toward the pub’s back doors. (Okay, hotfooting as quickly as a girl can with a knickers-up-bum-crack situation going on.)

But before I can hobble out the door, making a rather undignified exit, suddenly Dad is in front of me. He places a big hand upon my shoulder, his face quite calm again.

“No. Stop, Ronnie . . . wait a minute . . . ,” he says, obviously wanting to make things up.

Lawrence “Loz” Ripperton (aka “Dad” or “Keeper of the Wallet”) doesn’t like arguing. He’s all about peace and love, is my old man. It’s a good job really, as in our household: 1) I quite enjoy a good row and 2) Mum positively relishes a proper bust-up. While Dad is a bit of a mellow soul, my mother, Magda Ripperton, the female face of the Fantastic Voyage, is like a Tasmanian devil with lipstick. As the Fantastic Voyage’s chef, Magda’s at her happiest churning out dinner for two hundred, with a flaming griddle pan in one hand, a pan of boiling salted water in the other, holding a blazing row with the sous-chef at the same time. No wonder I go to Dad with all of my far-fetched requests, such as today’s “being let loose at a music festival with my best mates for the weekend.” Dad is far more likely to simply mishear me, get a bit mixed up and think I’m asking to go and see a band at the local town hall. Magda, on the other hand (or “that bloody woman,” as she’s known to the postman, the gasman, the meat suppliers, her accountant and various family members), would have sussed my game right away. She’d have hidden my shoes and put me on round-the-clock watch for even thinking about Astlebury.

Thank God my dad is a pushover.

“I’m sorry, love, if I’m spoiling your fun,” he mutters with a reproachful half smile. “I’ll make it up to you, eh, chooch?” He runs a hand over my hair, which makes me feel about five again. “Why don’t you ask Mum about the festival? If she says yes, I’ll have another think. . . .” Dad has obviously banged his head on a beam and forgotten ever meeting his wife, Magda; I’d have more chance asking if I could fritter the petty cash float on sparkly lip gloss and Belgian truffles.

This for Ronnie Ripperton is a D.I.S.A.S.T.E.R. In fact, it’s a big, fat, flatulent sack of poo-flavored mess.

Game over.

My cunning-as-a-fox plan—get the green light for Astlebury from Dad, then get straight onto that premium-rate ticket hotline before word on the street reaches the basement kitchen—is scuppered. By the time Empress Venger was supposed to find out about Astlebury, me, Claudette and Fleur (aka Les Bambinos Dangereuses or the LBD, as we’re known universally) would be well on our way to forty-eight hours of watching all our favorite bands play live, camping out under the stars . . . oh, and, like, meeting up with just about a million totally lush festival-going boys. The LBD have seen and noted the sort of lads that go to music festivals on MTV. Meow! It’s like Snogfest Central, with a lot of loud music, dancing, crowd-surfing, staying up all night and eating veggie burgers chucked in. We want to go so so much, we talked about it for the whole week after seeing the ads on MTV. Astlebury Festival sounds like the natural habitation for an LBD member.

“Hang on! I’ve got an idea!” chirps Dad. “Why don’t I take you girls to Walrus World in Penge instead!?” he says.

My heart sinks. I’d rather jam my head in the tumble dryer, then switch it on.

“You used to love those walruses, Ronnie. . . . Remember the one that juggles the balls!? . . .” Dad’s voice fades to a well-meaning whisper as I trudge into the early-evening air.

In a previous life, I was obviously Vlad the Impaler.

I’m paying big time for something.

my manor

The Fantastic Voyage: The pub on the high street where we live, in reality, isn’t all that “fantastic.” Well, it maybe was at one point (in medieval times when most of our regulars first started drinking here, back when people were thrilled just to be inside a pub and not being mauled by wolves or ransacked by high- waymen). Nowadays, it’s a bit sucky.

The Voyage punters are a lost cause: All they want is comfy sofas, cold beer, local tittle-tattle and darts. Which is just hunky dory as that’s the Fantastic Voyage in a sentence. So here I am, storming down the high street in a really bad mood. Past the funny beardie-weirdie bloke who dances for spare change outside the bakery, almost getting flattened in my haste by a spotty geek pushing the bins out of McDonald’s. What a way to die! Squished into a big human Filet-O-Fish. I’m checking my reflection in the shop windows. (Hairs are a bit wonky, skin’s a bit shiny, but overall not bad, considering my trauma. I think I’m at my best when I’m fuming, just like Mum.) It feels good battering out my aggression on the pavement, covering ground quicker than anyone else on the street. Right now, I’m on my way to Fleur’s house. Fleur Swan lives just along the street here and around the corner, halfway down Disraeli Road. If I’d turned left out of the pub instead of right and walked the same distance, I’d be at Claude Cassiera’s flat. That is one of the most marvelous aspects of being in the LBD; we all live so close, we can summon an emergency meeting in minutes, which comes in handy as there are a lot of emergencies. Like today for example. I love this high street; the clothes shops, the cafes, the makeup counters, the alleyways, all of these are the LBD’s territory. It’s a good thing this street gives me a kick, really. If my parents have their way, I’m not going anywhere for a very long time.

Blip. Blip. Bleeeeeep. Text!

MAY KILL SELF B4 U GET HERE. HATE THEM.—FLEUR 6:46 P.M.

evil paddy and the chocolate stain

In the front bedroom bay window of the Swan family residence stands the lovely yet extremely angry Fleur Swan, her dainty snub nose pressed against the glass, awaiting my arrival. On spotting me turn the corner into Disraeli Road, Fleur disappears from view, leaving a chocolaty smudge on Mrs. Saskia Swan’s otherwise pristine windows. Fleur must be hopping mad if she’s scoffing sweets; normally she’s a highly saintly, plenty of fruit and veg, three liters of mineral water daily, glossy-haired, peachy-skinned kinda chick. Oh, and she’s five foot seven too, with honey-blond highlights. If she wasn’t one of my best friends, I’d definitely hate her.

“Get this!” Fleur shouts, opening the door. “Apparently the loud music will damage my eardrums. Huh!” she says with a little false laugh of disbelief. “So I’m barred from going to Astlebury Festival? Can you belieeeeve that?! God, I hate them both!” she snarls, beckoning me in. I half expect to find Mr. and Mrs. Swan chopped up into small bite-size pieces on the den floor, but thankfully they’re both in full working order. Patrick “Paddy” Swan, Fleur’s dad, is reclining in a deep leather La-Z-Boy chair in their lavish cream den, while Fleur’s mother, Saskia, is fiddling about with a bonsai tree and some mini-clippers. Neither of them seem very concerned about their imminent murder. (Fleur’s house is a bit like one in a glossy mag. Except that in magazines people are rarely photographed yelling with chocolate all over their faces. Or enjoying a large post-work gin and tonic and the Racing Times like Mr. Swan was at this precise moment.)

“Ah, Miss Ripperton, we’ve been expecting you,” Fleur’s dad announces. (He’s a big James Bond fan.) “So you’ll be in on this little fandango too, I suppose?” He sniggers. “Ha ha. If you two girls imagine that I’m letting you run riot in a field for an entire weekend, you’re obviously dippier than you both look,” he says, pausing briefly to tickle Larry, the Swan family’s excessively smug-faced pure white Persian cat, under his chin. Larry purrs contentedly, like a furry road drill. Mr. Swan, in his navy pin-striped suit, with smirking sidekick Larry perched beside him, looks every inch the dastardly Bond villain. I’m far too scared to begin my “but it’s a reeeeally good life experience” argument in case he flicks a switch on the arm on the leather chair, depositing both Fleur and me into the cellar, where we’d have to survive by eating earwigs.

do you like my dancin’?

There’s a somber mood up in LBD headquarters (Fleur’s bedroom, which is split-level with a walk-in wardrobe. Can you believe it? My room’s like a cigarette packet compared to hers . . . sheesh).

“The air is ripe with the remnants of dashed dreams,” I announce morbidly.

“Oh, flipping shut up,” Fleur says. “It’s not over yet. The fat lady’s not sung. That’s what they say, isn’t it? We might make it.”

I picture Magda, only a hundred pounds heavier, discovering I’d nipped off to Astlebury without permission. “Singing” would not be her first response. She’d fricassee my ass and serve it with dauphinoise potatoes.

“Hey, you wanna hear this,” Fleur says, cheering up. Fleur flips on Classic Deep Ibiza House: Volume 20 and whacks on the parent irritation button, aka the Mega Surround Blast switch that makes CDs more echoey, intense and altogether fabulouso.

Bumph! Bumph! Bumph! Bumph!

The bass line kicks in at 132 beats per minute, loud enough to make Paddy Swan’s back teeth rattle downstairs in the den.

Bumph! Bumph! Bumph! Bumph!

A flurry of activity breaks out in the Swan household. Doors are slammed, footsteps race upstairs, then what sounds like:

“Turnghghhh thaaaaaaat muuuusssiccc dooooowwwnn!!! Cannn yooooou heeeeear me???!!! Dowwwwn! Noooooow!!!”

He’s loud, Mr. S, but not as loud, however, as the bone-shaking cymbals, synths and the track’s wicked vocal:

“Gotta move yer body
Gotta make yer mine
Gotta move yer body
In the house tonight . . .”

If this tune doesn’t get you dancing, well, you’re either dead or deaf. Quickly, we’re both up on our feet, me and Fleur, wiggling our hips, pointing our fingers, kicking our feet, giggling like nutjobs, ignoring Mr. Swan (one of the dead/deaf contingent) and his loud door-thumping.

“Turn it down!!! Or I’m turning the electricity off at the mains!” he snarls. Fleur does a little hop and skip over to her bedroom door, throwing the bolt across, locking her dad out. Silly Paddy; he should know the LBD rule by now. If we can’t SEE him shouting, then we can’t HEAR him shouting, and if he can’t get in to begin shaking us warmly by the throats, he’ll have to wait to be heard during the gap between songs.

Brilliantly, what grumbly-mumblies like Mr. S never realize is: There are NO gaps between songs in dance music compilations! Hee hee! That’s the best bit.

“If we keep this up, he’ll drive us to Astlebury himself!” yells Fleur, doing a very rude uppy, downy, shake-it-all-abouty motion with her behind.

Not if he saw you doing that, I think.

From where I’m standing, Fleur looks every inch the disco queen. You could just imagine her really going for it, up on a podium at a cool London warehouse party, wowing the crowds, shaking her tushy in a furry bra and neon hot pants.

I’d probably be the one giving the DJ a hand carrying his record box.

“So, tell me the latest with Jimi,” says Fleur, swapping Ibiza grooves for a more mellow Ultimate Chilldown compilation. We’re sprawled on Fleur’s double bed, scouring Bliss and More! for pics of “blond babe” haircuts for Fleur to show Dimitri at Streets Ahead (our favorite hairdresser).

“Pggghhh . . . nothing to tell,” I say bleakly. “I’m not entirely convinced he knows that I exist.” And this is true, I’m not sure Jimi Steele does know who I am.

In case you don’t know Jimi Steele (which I find very very hard to believe, cos he’s just about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life), I’d better explain:

Deep breath.

Jimi Fact Number 1. He’s beautiful. (Have I said that?) No, he’s more than that, he’s totally gorgeous with pale blue eyes, long eyelashes and lovely plump lips. If he lived in America he’d probably star in his own prime-time show called simply: Jimi: Season

One.

Jimi Fact Number 2. He’s got amazing arms which are all toned on the tops. He’s also always tanned from being outdoors doing rugged laddish stuff like frittering entire days with a football or mountain biking . . . or being . . .

Jimi Fact Number 3. . . . on his skateboard! Yep, he’s one of those skatey boys. And he does, like, really dangerous stunts such as skating down flights of twenty stairs and jumping off really high curbs. Sometimes Jimi even has to limp to Blackwell School on crutches with a sprained ankle and get called “a blithering idiot” and “a lesson in stupidity” in assembly by Mr. McGraw, our headmaster. But Mr. McGraw is so wrong. Jimi Steele rrrrocks.

Jimi Sort-of Fact Number 4. He once held open the door to the chemistry department for me and smiled!!! “Conclusive proof that he’s hot for you,” according to Fleur.

Jimi Sort-of Fact Number 4a. Other LBD members (me and Claudette) are not entirely one hundred percent sure whether Jimi smiled at me. He might have been burping or remembering a funny bit from last night’s TV or something.

Jimi Fact Number 5. He’s almost sixteen years old and is in Year 11. That’s why he’s so manly and mature, in absolute contrast with the high-pitched, football-sticker-swapping morons that make up

Blackwell School’s Year 9 boy zone. Thus, I’ve got zilcho chance of turning Jimi from “boy who is a friend” into “boyfriend.” (And that’s if you can count burping at me in the chemistry department as being “a friend.”)

Let’s face it, he probably thinks I’m a bit kiddified. He probably wants a woman in his life that can at least mention going to Astlebury Festival without her dad’s eyes exploding, or her being forced to put on a polo shirt and a pair of big, frumpy, Victorian-era granny-knickers that cover her kneecaps and nipples.

When I’m older and require expensive therapy and rehabilitation in Arizona like all the A-List celebs do, Loz and Magda Rippertons’ ears will BURN.

So, in essence, I love Jimi Steele. He just creeps into my head and messes about with it all day and sometimes during the night. He, on the other hand, doesn’t really know I exist, which is sort of depressing, especially when I spend much of my free time with Fleur Swan, who needs a stick smeared with animal poo to keep boys away. Very often I feel like an insignificant speck of space dust orbiting around Planet Fleur. Fleur is just plain gorgeous, everyone can see it. She’s plainly charismatic and fresh-skinned. I have a deep-rooted fear that I’m simply “plain.” Being plain, to my reckoning, is far worse than being pig-ugly. Being plain means being invisible to lads like Jimi. I get depressed when I look in the mirror and think, Well, so this is my lot. And I’m really nothing special.

Every boy knows Fleur exists. Fleur’s the sort of girl who lads honk their car horns at, or that Year 7 brats send aftershave-scented love letters to. Fleur once sashayed into the dinner hall in her tightest-fitting school blouse (the one that looks like she’s smuggling M&M’s under) and I watched a Year 11 lad pour orange juice into his left ear. And yes, friends, I would switch the oven on and slow-roast my own head right now, if it wasn’t for the fact that Fleur is habitually just as stressed about boys as I am.

“I hate boys,” says Fleur, lying back on her bed. “I’ve had enough of them. I’m not going to fancy them anymore,” she announces. Considering Fleur is only fourteen and is in love with almost half of Year 13, I can’t help doubting her word.

You’d think Fleur would be happy, but she’s not. Her frantic love life causes her as many tears, sleepless nights and bitten nails as my shambolic, laughable excuse for one does me. Fleur’s men, you see, usually vanish off the LBD scene just as quickly as they appear. Er . . . funnily enough, usually just after meeting Mr. Swan, when he greets them with one of his famous “I will strangle you and turn your corpse into a novelty lamp shade if you even touch my daughter” stares.

“And you’re never going to get anywhere with Jimi if you don’t start making it a bit more obvious either,” Fleur tells me, shaking her head.

“I know,” I mutter, changing the subject. “Anyhow, what about you and Dion? I’ve not heard the latest.”

“Oh, yeah, well, you know he walked me home last Thursday?” Fleur says tragically. “And we had a proper snog outside the garden gate, you know, tongue in and swirly about sorta thing?” Fleur waggles her cocoa-stained tongue to illustrate. “Well, then he said he’d text me on Friday, after football,” she continues. “But he, er, didn’t. I don’t know what happened to him.”

“Vanished?”

“Vamoosh,” she says.

“Have you checked the cellar?” I mutter.

“What?” says Fleur.

“Oh, nothing,” I say, passing her another magazine.

Poor Dion, I think, imagining him captured, shackled and starving in Evil Paddy’s cellar prison. Everybody knows there’s not enough protein to survive on in an earwig.

Then something earth-shattering happens.

my life changed forever

Blip. Blip. Bleeeeeep. Another text! It’s Claudette.

Oh, by the way, that’s not the exciting bit. This is:

WHY IS JIMI STEELE CHATTIN TO YR DAD OUTSIDE THE VOYAGE?!!! TEXT ME BACK NOW!!! SCREEEEAM!!—CLAUDE 8:21 P.M.

Scccreeeeeam!!

The following five heart-thumping minutes are a bit of a blur. First, me and Fleur leap up and down for a bit, waving our hands in the air and squawking. I’m opening and closing my mouth, trying to express the wonderfulness of the news, but nothing comes out. (I look like a pleased cod.) Fleur is shouting repetitively, “Ooooh my Gawd!” and “What does he want?” with the occassional “This is it, Ronnie! This is it!” sprinkled in for hysterical effect. Eventually I catch my breath.

“WHAT IS IT?” I ask Fleur. “Why would Jimi Steele possibly be chatting with my dad?” (And please, God, say Dad didn’t tell Jimi to get a “proper well-fitting pair of jeans” on too? I’ll implode with shame.)

“Ooh, can you not see!?” squeals Fleur. “He’s come to ask your dad if it’s cool to ask you out! He’s SUCH a gentleman. That is soooo sweet! Oh my God, what are you going to do?”

Life rarely gets more exhilarating, joyous or utterly scrummy than the past three hundred seconds. I sit on Fleur’s bed, conscious that Ronnie Ripperton, the schoolgirl, the legend, the foxy strumpet, will never be the same again.

“Er, excuse me,” shouts Fleur, disturbing me from an awesome fantasy involving Jimi, myself and our twenty-bedroom Las Vegas love palace (paid for with Jimi’s “World’s Number-One Skateboard Champion” zillion-dollar sponsorships). “What exactly are you waiting for? Go home and find out what’s going on NOW!” yells Fleur, throwing my left shoe just past my head.

Ahhh, I love life!! On my way out, I even give Paddy a big toothy grin and cheery wave.

“Until next time, Miss Ripperton,” says Paddy eerily as I stride up the garden path. “And believe me, Veronica . . . there WILL be a next time,” he shouts after me, accompanied by a booming theatrical evil laugh: “Boo hoo haa haa haa!!”

Mr. Swan really does watch far too much television.

shoot me now, it’s the kindest way

One A.M.: I’m not going to school tomorrow.

I’m waiting until the coast’s clear, then I’m running away with the nearest circus. (Almost any circus or traveling fair will do. Well, except for the Chinese State Circus. They don’t even have any lions or tigers or dancing elephants or anything, just jugglers and acrobats—zzzSnorezz. Who the heck exactly WANTS to see jugglers? Grown-ups mystify me. When I rule the world, anyone caught balancing spinning plates on canes and encouraging people to applaud them will be placed under house arrest and have their crockery confiscated.)

I can’t face Blackwell School, Jimi or the LBD ever again, not after tonight. I’m humiliated, utterly. In fact, it’s 1:00 A.M. now and I can just about talk about it without hurling.

Deep sigh.

Right, so I scurried home, hoping to catch Dad at a quiet moment to grill him for every second of Jiminess. Every juicy word and sentence, every arch of eyebrow or hand gesture.

Okay, it’s worth a shot, even if Dad is typically worse than useless at this sort of thing. Mum once left Dad for three whole days following a row over a new deep freezer; Dad only noticed she’d gone when some customers pointed out they’d waited four and a half hours for a Sunday roast.

So, I wasn’t expecting Dad and Jimi to be STILL talking outside the pub. Jimi was wearing extra-baggy dark green combats with quite raggedy bottoms and a Final Warning sleeveless T-shirt. (Jimi always knows about cool bands BEFORE everyone else in the whole school, he’s so now.) His hair was spiked up and he was nursing Bess, his skateboard, under one arm.

(Oh my God. I know Jimi’s nickname for his skateboard. I’m turning into a stalker, I’ll have to buy a stained anorak and binoculars soon.)

My first mistake was that I flounced up with a “guys, I know you’re talking about me” smug expression plastered across my face.

Because both Jimi and Dad completely ignored me.

Or at least didn’t notice I was there. They just carried on talking.

“Ah, the Fender Stratocaster. What a guitar,” Loz was droning on.

Noooo! Dad’s on a “when I used to be in the music business” rant.

Run now, Jimi! I thought. Run like the wind! Man has evolved extra fingers listening to these stories! Brush the cobwebs from your spiky hair and flee! Save yourself. It’s too late for me!

But, no. Jimi seemed fascinated.

He was even joining in with comments about amps, acoustics and guitar strings. So I stood there, grinning like a spare Barbie at a tea party, for, ooh, just under a year, until they both clicked I was with them.

“Oh, hi, er, ooh . . . Bonny?” Jimi said. (His eyes sort of glazed over for a bit while he groped around for my name. Then he got it wrong. Not a good start.)

“Ooh, hello, love!” said Dad. “This young man’s just inquiring about using the pub’s function room for a rehearsal space for his band.”

Ouch. So, that’s Las Vegas canceled, is it? I thought.

Then, just as I crashed, burned and imploded into a toxic ball of shame, Dad sealed the deal as only a dad can:

“And I was just saying, Ronnie, well, it’ll give you and yer little pals something to watch, as you’ll not be going to Astlebury, eh? Hee hee!”

Congratulations, Father, you’ve finally killed me. That’s saved me a messy job. Dad could only have bettered this by es corting Jimi up to my laundry basket and showing him my period-knickers. You could have fried bacon on my cheeks, they were so hot.

But, don’t worry, with a bit of quick thinking, plus a large helping of style and finesse, I turned this dire situation right around. Coolly, I licked my lips, looked straight at my father and purred:

“Mmmm, well, Daddio, we’ll see about that. The fat lady hasn’t sung yet.”

Then I turned to Jimi and whispered firmly, but sexily:

“Babe. It’s Ronnie, NOT Bonny. You better learn that name, sweetcakes, cos you’ll be using it a whole lot more someday soon,” before wiggling off, triumphantly, into the Fantastic Voyage.

Oh, no. Hang on. I’m getting confused, that’s NOT what happened.

What ACTUALLY happened was this:

It’s all true—up until the “little pals not going to Astlebury” bit—to which I then pursed my lips like a dog’s bum and grunted, “Gnnnnnn pghhhhh gblaghhh,” before skulking off to my room.

I’ve edited from my memory the part where I attempted to push the pub’s “Pull” door for almost a minute while Jimi watched me pitifully.

(NOTE TO SELF: As far as I know, neither gnnnnnn, pghhhhh or gblaghhh are actual words. Well, not ones you would use in front of someone you really fancy, anyhow.)

Two A.M.: Something freaky-disco is going on. Loz and Magda are having a loud conversation in the den. I’m almost sure I heard Mum crying, which is totally illogical. Mum doesn’t cry, not even when making French onion soup. But I’m pretty sure I heard Mum sniffling and Dad almost shouting, “But it’s far too late for this, Magda—”

And Mum yell back, “It’s never too late!”

Then some doors were slammed.

Then Dad followed into the bedroom where Mum had stormed and the bickering continued.

“Pah! You would say it’s too late,” shouted my mum. “That’s you all over. Selfish! You only think about how you feel.”

That’s not really true, I thought, but I decided, sensibly, to stay under my duvet and not make it a three-way debate.

“But I’m thinking about you! Not just me. And all of us. It doesn’t feel right, this happening so late . . . ,” my dad persisted.

Blooming right it’s too late. It’s two in the morning. Small wonder I’ve got under-eye bags the size of Peru, living with Freak o’ Nature and his missus. I can’t put my finger on why, but that little squabble I heard has made me feel a bit weird. It’s okay for me to fight with both of them—that’s normal—but I don’t like it when they do it.