hen we got back from the supermarket, it was already getting late. Mum was due back from work at six, so we had to crack on with the cooking right away.

‘It says we need to fry the mince first,’ Molly said.

‘Easy!’ I said cheerily. I had done that before when Mum let me help make Bolognese. I poured a small dollop of vegetable oil into a frying pan, carefully tipped the meat in and then stirred it with a wooden spoon.

‘Right, now we need to let it cool so we can mix it with the other stuff,’ I said. ‘Hang on, we need to boil the eggs. You do that, Molly, while I get those beans and carrots out and see what the recipe says to do with them.’

The recipe said the veg had to be chopped up ‘finely’. I did not know what ‘chopping veg finely’ meant. I thought it might mean that you had to do it like a chef would do; you know, the kind of chef who only cooks Fine Food, but seeing as I was not that sort of a cook and could only really manage things like toast and scrambled eggs on my own without Mum’s SUPERVISION (in other words without her helping me) I did not think I could do this ‘finely’. Molly was busy timing the eggs as apparently it was important to make sure they boiled for the exact amount of time that was correct for boiling eggs. I did not want to distractivate her, so instead of worrying about how to chop the veg, I decided to put the beans and carrots in the one saucepan to save washing up, and then get out the hand-whizzer-food-processory thing that I had seen Mum use. Using an APPLIANCE, in other words a machine, will be a super-speedy way of chopping and will be quite professionalist too, I thought.

I plugged it in, put the blade bit into the saucepan full of veg and pressed the ON button.

Unfortunately the result was not at all chef-like or professionalistic in any way. In fact, you could say that the carrots and the beans reacted very badly to the whole experience. They did a sort of a . They leaped out of the saucepan and flew into the air. And some of them got stuck to the ceiling and walls.

‘Waaah!’ I screamed, jumping back.

‘Summerwhadareyoudooooing?’ Molly screamed, dropping the eggs she was trying carefully to extractivate from the saucepan. At least they were hard boiled, so the yolks could not run all over the place.

‘I don’t know!’ I shouted. ‘Honey – don’t—!’

Honey had Taken Advantage of the Culinary Chaos (in other words, my disastrous cooking) to help herself to a litte pre-party tasting session.

Which means that she rushed over and gobbled up the eggs and any bits of veg that had fallen to the floor. Actually, she did not hoover up the veg with any particular enthusiasm.

‘Look at the time!’ Molly gasped. ‘We must hurry and clear this lot up and start again before your mum gets home and—’

‘Before I get home and what exactly?’

Mum had got home. And early too, I noticed, glancing at the clock.

Molly in mid-actual-sentence and I went into Full-On Quivering and Quaking Mode. In some ways we were quite lucky because Honey had finished clearing up the eggs (although she was not much use at dealing with the mess that had sprayed down on to the floor and the lower-level kitchen cupboards and the ceiling). But in other ways, we were not lucky at all.

‘SUMMER!’ Mum actually bellowed. I do not think I have seen her that angry ever. In my entire life. Not even the time that Honey got into the fridge and ate everything in it . . .

‘I – er – I’m – s-s-s-sorry,’ I whispered. I looked at Molly for support, but she was shaking her head furiously at me and backing away towards the door.

Mum had done a good job of Barring the Exit, though. In other words, she was standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips, her nostrils doing their thing they do when she is beside herself, in other words, furious. She was not going to let Molly escape in a million years.

‘WHAT kind of a dog’s breakfast is this?’ Mum said, in a low and dangerous tone which was actually more frightening than her bellowing voice. I was struck dumb by how she knew already that we were cooking for the dogs, even though it was not true to say it was for breakfast.

‘Please, sorry, er . . . sorry,’ said Molly in an un-Molly-like babbling fashion. ‘We were making some food for the party.’

‘Really,’ Mum said, with one eyebrow very much arched. ‘Well, I am sorry, but I think if there is going to be any food made for this party, I think I will be making it. Otherwise I doubt I shall be left with a house to live in.’

I gasped and stared at Molly with my eyes boggling out of their sockets. Mum could not do that! She could not take over!

‘NO!’ I cried. ‘I mean, you can’t do that, you are too vastly busy and Run Off Your Feet with work-type things and looking after me! Molly and I will clear up this mess and start again tomorrow.’

‘Well you’re right about one thing,’ Mum said, folding her arms in a Decisive manner. ‘You can certainly clear this lot up. Right now. But after that, you and Molly can be in charge of decorations, and I will be in charge of everything else.’

This was a total and utter Disaster Area. On a scale of one to a hundred of possible disasters, we had hit about two thousand.

‘I think we will have to talk to Nick,’ I told Molly once we had cleaned up and cleared off. ‘Custard was going to be our Decoy for getting April to the party in the first place, and now if we are not going to have pooches there at all, how is that going to work?’

‘Oooh no,’ said Molly, shaking her head. ‘There is no way we are giving up on the pooch party idea.’

‘But Molly—!’

‘Listen,’ said my Bestest Friend, looking the most determined I have ever seen her. ‘I never thought I would say this, but I am hatching a Masterly Plan which involves someone who I would not usually in a million trillion gazillion light years even CONSIDER asking to help us, but as you know, Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures, and this is about as desperate as we are ever likely to be . . .’ She paused for dramatical effect and then said with a big sigh: ‘Frank Gritter.’

‘What about him?’ I asked.

‘Frank Gritter,’ Molly repeated. ‘Though I do actually DETEST having to admit it, he was a huge help with the dog walking, and he does want to come to the party.’

I was utterly flabberboozled by this bonkers suggestion. Frank could be a good laugh and it Could Not Be Denied that he knew a lot about dogs, but . . .

‘BUT . . . ASK FRANK TO COOK??!!’ I shouted. ‘Are you INSANE?’

‘Possibly,’ said Molly. ‘But I am also desperate. Aren’t you?’

What could I say to that?

I had expected Frank to laugh in our faces and say something along the lines of the fact that he would prefer to dress in a tutu and pirouette across the football pitch in front of all his mates rather than help a couple of GIRLS do some cooking for a party. But, as has happened a few times in the past, now I come to think of it, Frank did in fact totally surprise me and , in other words he was utterly marvellous.

‘Cook dog food? Wicked!’ he said, when we had explained, quite sheepishly, about how everything had gone wrong. ‘We can do it at my place, no worries,’ he said.

‘But, er, won’t your mum mind?’ I asked. ‘I mean, it might be a bit messy.’

‘Nah,’ said Frank. ‘I love cooking. Mum lets me cook a load of stuff in the holidays when I’m a bit bored or whatever.’

‘A right little Masterchef,’ said Molly, but very very under her breath. She knew that Frank was our Only Hope, after all.

‘Bring the ingredients round this afternoon and we’ll sort it. And you can keep the food at mine until the party, so no one needs to find out,’ he added, giving me one of his huge and intensively annoying winks. I replied by giving him a smile that was more like a cringe-some wince and said, ‘Thank you, Frank.’

We walked most of the way back to our houses in silence.

As I said goodbye to Molly, I said, ‘I think I will be glad when this party is over.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. Then she said, ‘Well at least everything is now more or less sorted. All we have to do now is decorate the house, lay the tables with the food on the day and wait for the guests to arrive. Surely nothing else could possibly go wrong?’