he first thing any good metamorphosis needs is a plan. A nice, well thought out, structured, considered and firm plan.

And if that plan happens to be in a bullet-pointed list, typed out and then printed from the computer in Dad’s ‘office’ (the spare room) then so much the better.

It goes like this:

 

Plan for Today

• Wake up at 7am, and press the snooze button precisely three times.
• Don’t think about Nat.
• Find an outfit from my wardrobe suitable for a visit to a modelling agency.
• Go downstairs wearing said outfit. My calm and supportive parents say things like ooh and aah and tell me they didn’t realise I had so much inherent style.
• Blush prettily and agree because I probably do have inherent style.
• Don’t think about Nat.
• Leave the house at 8.34am on the dot, to catch the 9.02am train to London.
• Arrive just in time to eat a pain au chocolat and drink a cappuccino in the local café because this is what models do every morning.
• Get transformed into something amazing.

Admittedly, the last point on the list is a bit vague – because I’m not quite sure what they’re going to do, or how they’re going to do it – but it’s fine. As long as I have control over the rest of my plan, everything should go exactly as it’s supposed to.

Unfortunately, nobody else appears to have read it.

“Richard Manners,” Annabel is shouting as I come down the stairs. It’s already not going well: I pressed snooze fifteen times, and finally got out of bed to the calming, dulcet sounds of my parents trying to scratch each other’s eyes out. “I cannot believe you ate the last of the strawberry jam!”

“I didn’t!” Dad is shouting back. “Look! There’s some here!”

“What use is that much strawberry jam to anyone? Do I look like a fairy to you? With little tiny fairy pieces of toast? I’m five foot ten!”

“How do I answer that without accidentally calling you fat?”

“Be very careful what you say next, Richard Manners. Your life depends on the next sentence.”

“Well… I… Harriet?” and Dad turns to me. I’m not sure how the argument’s turned to me when I’m barely in the room, but apparently it has. “What the hell are you wearing?”

I look down indignantly. “It’s a black all-in-one,” I say with my nose as high as I can get it. “I don’t expect you to understand because you’re old. It’s called fashion. Fash-ion.”

Now it’s Annabel’s turn to look confused. “Is that last year’s Halloween outfit, Harriet?” she says, scraping some of the jam off Dad’s toast and putting it on her own. “Are you dressed as a spider?”

I cough. “No.”

“Then why do you have a leg hanging off your shoulder?”

“It’s a special kind of bow.”

“And why are there seven remaining circles of Velcro down your back?”

“Style statement.”

“And the cobweb stuck to your bottom?”

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Fine,” I snap. It’s not that I’m unnecessarily emotional or worked up, but why won’t anyone just stick to the plan? “It’s my Halloween Spider outfit, OK? Happy now?”

“I’m not sure that’s the best choice for today,” Dad says dubiously as he starts stealing his jam back, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “I mean, there are other trendier insects. Bees, I hear, are very big this season.”

“Well, tough,” I bark again. “Because it’s all I have, OK?”

“What about a wasp?” Dad offers, voice breaking.

“Everything else I own has a cartoon on the front.”

“Or a grasshopper?” Annabel suggests, winking at Dad. “I like grasshoppers.”

At which point I lose it completely. They’re not being calm or supportive at all. “Why are you such terrible parents?” I yell.

“I don’t know,” Dad yells back. “Why are you such a naughty little spider?” And then Annabel bursts out laughing.

“Aaaargh!” I scream in frustration. “I hate you I hate you I hate youihateyouihateyouihateyou.”

Then I run out of the room with as much dignity as I can muster.

Which – as my spare leg gets caught in the door frame until Annabel unhooks me in peals of laughter – isn’t much.