eGG CarNaGe

And now I’ve got a third reason for slashing my work into two parts. And it’s surely got to be the most crucial reason of all.

I’ve left home.

A lot has happened since I last did any writing.

A LOT.

So much that it actually makes my brain boggle when I try to get my head round it all.

But I’ll start by saying that I am no longer an official resident of 62 Springfield Place, Whitchurch, Cardiff, Wales, United Kingdom, Europe, Planet Earth, The Universe.

Because I’ve walked out.

Everything I wrote before was written in a vibrant young city awash with opportunities to immerse oneself in fun, food and Welsh culture18 and everything from here onward is being typed in the hum-drum industrial border town of Wrexham – where I’m now living with my dad. It’s a long and traumatic story and it all starts with a conversation I had with my mum over breakfast on Sunday morning. That was only two days ago and yet it feels like an entire millennium has passed me by since then.

We’d got on OK after Stevie’s lunch visit the day before. He’d left our house some time in the middle of the afternoon, and me and my mum had gone out for a drive to the Shopping Village to have a mosey around and to check out the special offers.

By the time we got there, it was snowing a bit and freezing cold. Even so, it was quite nice because the Fron Male Voice Choir had swung down all the way from North Wales and were giving a free carol concert in the main arcade. Although I don’t normally like listening to that kind of thing, I have to admit that it was definitely helluva festive. At one point, I had a nasty shock though. In the window of one of the shops was a massive poster, and on that massive poster were massive letters which said, ONLY FOURTEEN SHOPPING DAYS LEFT UNTIL CHRISTMAS! For a moment, this completely freaked me out. For one thing, I hadn’t actually bought any presents¹⁹ and for another thing, I still had no clue where I was going to be on Christmas Day. I’d spoken to my dad on the phone once or twice but, even though I’d tried to steer the subject in a Christmassy direction, he still hadn’t mentioned it.

And then afterwards we drove over to Goose’s house and picked her up and took her back to our house where we ordered a Chinese takeaway and watched Free Willy 4 on DVD. Me and Goose had both seen it five times already and could speak all the lines before the actors did but my mum hadn’t seen it. She’s not a very good person to watch a film with, to be honest. She constantly looks confused and says stuff like ‘Shhhhh, we’re missing what they’re saying’ every three seconds.

And then Goose went home and I went to bed and then it was Sunday so I got up again and my mum made me fried eggs and bacon for my breakfast – which is one of my all-time favourite things to eat in the whole wide world – and I kissed my mum on her cheek and got myself some orange juice and everything was going all hunky-dory and hokey-cokey and A-OK until she said . . .

‘I’ve been thinking about what we might do on Christmas Day this year.’

I froze, my fists clenching tightly around my knife and fork. And then I put my cutlery down, nervously sipped a little orange juice to buy myself a few seconds, and then, eventually, said, ‘But I’m not sure yet what I’m doing this Christmas.’

My mum looked surprised. And then her face clouded over and she looked very obviously rather hurt. I felt terrible.

My mum said, ‘Have you got some other plans?’

I started fiddling with the end of my fork. ‘Well . . . yes,’ I said. And then, ‘No . . . not yet. But it’s dad’s turn to see me this year, isn’t it?’

My mum’s face darkened a little more. ‘So he’s asked you up there and nobody’s bothered to inform me. Thank you very much.’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘You know I’d always tell you what’s going on. I’m just not sure myself yet.’

‘So he hasn’t asked you?’ said my mum.

‘No,’ I replied uncomfortably. ‘I think he’s definitely going to though because it’s his turn.’

My mum frowned and looked me right in the eye. I don’t like it when people look me right in the eye. Except for Gareth. It makes me feel all agitated and harassed. Thumping my elbows on to the table, I rested my jaw in my hand and scowled down at my untouched bacon and eggs.

My mum said, ‘Go and ring him now and find out what’s going on.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Well, why not? You want to know what you’re doing, don’t you?’

My bacon was still steaming but less than it had been at the start of this conversation. It needed eating up. My two egg yolks were yellow and round and perfect.

‘I don’t want to ring him,’ I said. I was starting to feel a bit panicky. It was a very bizarre situation to be in. I did want to know what was going on, but I totally did not want to ring him and ask. I’m not really sure why.

My mum sighed and then, after a very long pause, she said, ‘Do you want me to ring him?’

‘No,’ I said quickly. I hate it when my mum and dad speak to each other. It usually results in a total communication breakdown followed by urgent peace talks.

There was another long silence. Then, very gently, my mum said, ‘If he hasn’t said anything to you about going up there and you won’t phone and ask him and you won’t let me phone and ask him, then I suppose you’ll just have to stay here with me. But that’s not really so bad, is it?’

Still staring at my eggs and bacon, I shook my head. I wasn’t lying. It wasn’t that bad at all. Me and my mum and Ruthie always have an excellent time at Christmas. But I just thought I’d be seeing my dad.

My mum said, ‘And you could always see if Gareth wants to join us for tea.’

I started to smile a bit.

My mum said, ‘Anyway, I was hoping there’d be quite a crowd of us this year. Ruthie is going to be bringing Michel. And maybe if you’re staying, Gareth will come over. And you know I just couldn’t do without you, Lottie. It’s never the same when you’re not here.’

I smiled a lot then.

And then my mum said, ‘And I’m also thinking of asking Steve and Lois over.’

I stopped smiling. ‘WHAT?’

My mum looked worried. ‘Don’t be like that, Lottie. I thought you and Steve got on really well yesterday. And you loved playing that Kick-boxing Queen game with him. Don’t say you didn’t because I could see it on your face.’

My fist had clenched around my fork again. I was applying so much pressure to it that I’m surprised the thing didn’t snap.

Trying really hard to keep my voice at a normal volume level, but failing, I said, ‘Yeah, but I didn’t think he’d be gatecrashing Christmas, did I?’

My mum said, ‘He won’t be gatecrashing anything. I’m inviting him. Just like I’m inviting Gareth and Michel.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but why have you got to go and invite her?’

‘Do you mean Lois?’ asked my mum. Pointlessly.

‘Yeah. Why does she have to come with him?’

My mum gave me a long, hard look. I’d say it was pretty much a Grade One Stare of Death, to be honest. And then she said, ‘Because she’s got nowhere else to go. If I invite Steve over – and I plan to – then of course I’ll invite Lois to come with him. Because her mum’s dead, Lottie.’

I hadn’t expected her to say this.

I opened my mouth to say something and then – because I couldn’t think of anything to say, I started to cry. But it wasn’t a good let-it-all-out, head-clearing cry – it was an absolutely pig-awful, rotten-as-rotting-rhubarb cry. Tears were streaming down my face and I knew that they were selfish and stupid and terrible tears. But also, they were angry and trapped tears too because if my dad had invited me up to Wrexham like he should have done in the first place, then none of this would have mattered anyway. A big fat tear ran straight down my cheek and plopped on to one of my untouched egg yolks. My head felt a bit funny. As I stared at the egg yolk, it sneered at me through a pair of yellow-tinted cyber-goggles and said, ‘Deal with it!’

I said, ‘Yeah, but it’s not my fault her mum’s dead, is it?’ And then I slammed my fork down on to both my egg yolks and made them explode all over the tablecloth.

I only caught a tiny glimpse of my mum’s face as I stormed out of the kitchen. She looked shocked by my behaviour and – what was worse – she looked disgusted.

I don’t blame her. Somewhere, underneath this massive rage which had completely hijacked my head, I was feeling totally and utterly shocked and disgusted by my behaviour too.