‘Names, names, names,’ Dixie demands that afternoon.
‘Grape Expectations?’ I suggest, pleased that I have invoked literature there with a nod to Dickens.
‘Nice,’ says Dixie, scribbling it down. ‘What other varieties might we offer our customers?’
‘A Hippy Dippy, using patchouli?’ Uggs suggests. ‘And the Great Calm, using lavender?’
‘Good, good,’ Dixie says, writing those down too.
‘And a Flower Power using rose oil?’ I suggest. ‘Mums and Grans seem to like that.’
‘I think we should keep our menu short and concentrate on quality,’ Dixie says, and that makes sense.
‘Overall the product could be called Da Bomb?’ I suggest.
We all agree on that.
We’re knitting and knattering in my room, though only myself and Uggs are working on tangible projects. I’m click-clacking away like a mad thing on Dad’s skinny tie because it needs to be v v long. Uggs is working his lovely deep-red wool and looking worried. Dixie and Gypsy are just up for mischief.
‘Do you think it’ll spoil the surprise if I let Gyp see what I’m knitting?’ Uggs asks.
‘No,’ I say. I’d love to add something acid and pithy on the end of this but that might be as sad as the fact that he has asked that question.
‘She’s a dog,’ Dixie says, with a frown.
‘Exactly,’ Uggs says, as if he has proved a point.
I’m not getting involved in this discussion.
‘Dix, I hate to bring this up but you don’t seem to have a plan for presents.’
She sighs. ‘I know. I’m not motivated on that yet.’
‘Are we going to have a major panic and crisis week before Christmas?’ I ask, leadingly.
‘Nah, it’ll come: the inspiration. Always does, you know.’
‘Yes, but what about sheer time scale?’ I say, with mild doom in my voice.
‘I can always buy Bombs,’ she says.
‘Lazy, Dixiegal.’
‘But brilliant, Jenpal. It’s what I’m hoping everyone else in the school does. Then we’ll be in the money and all will be eurotastic in our world.’
‘Or yoyotastic,’ Uggs says, because he likes to call euros yoyos, and Gypsy barks at the sound of his voice.*
‘You know the rule, you can’t sit in this craft circle without something on needles,’ I say.
‘OK, OK.’ She rummages in her (huge) bag – all but disappears into it – then emerges with a hairy yarn† that has a variety of turquoises in it. It’s lovely. It will knit up into waves of colour and be, well, hairy.
‘Cushion cover for Mum,’ she tells us, ‘with big buttons in a contrasting colour on the back.’
‘Genius,’ I say.
‘Yup, told you the inspiration would strike.’
She did, it has.
‘What do we know about Mike Hussy?’ I ask, still bugged by the (_I_).
‘He’s a pain,’ Dixie says.
‘A jerk,’ Uggs adds.
‘A bully,’ I say. ‘But why?’
‘How do you mean, why?’ Uggs asks. ‘Why what?’
‘Why is he a bully?’
‘Some people just are,’ Dixie says, with a shrug.
‘Mum thinks he may have issues we don’t know about.’
‘Whatever they are I wish he’d sort them out,’ Uggs says.
‘No excuse for being so mean,’ Dixie says.
‘That’s what I think too,’ I say.
‘Great minds think alike,’ Dixie tells me, with a smile.
‘So, we kick Operation Charm Mike into proper action tomorrow?’ Uggs says.
‘Yup,’ Dixie says.
‘I have a bad feeling about it,’ I say.
‘I don’t think we have any alternative, unless we go to war with him, with actual fighting,’ Uggs says. ‘I’m so not into that.’
Dixie confirms. ‘We’re lovers not fighters.’
We mull over the Mike Situation for a while in near silence, with just the hushed clack of needles making stitches.
