Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ especially Dad, but I was almost relieved when he and Uncle Andy gave up the fight. Obviously, that was misery on toast, but it meant the tension stopped – that horrible scrabbling on a cliff edge thing with the pair of them constantly up and down to the bank, begging for more time. Once they’d given up and the house had gone to pay the debts, at least the uncertainty was over.

      I may actually cry if I think about this much longer. Soooo . . .

      Yay! (drum roll) The weekend has arrived at last, full of thrilling possibilities: parties, premieres, paper rounds . . .

      Thank God no one has any of the Sunday whoppers round here, I can barely lift the bag as it is. I bet Molly’s parents get The Times; they probably order five copies and spring-load the letterbox just to taunt their paper girl.

      Not that Molly could actually read it of course. She’s far too dumb.

       JANUARY 22ND

      Karate was excellent tonight and I cannot wait for the day when I Jackie Chan the bejesus out of everyone who annoys me at school. Hiiii yaaaaah! Chop.

      Went round to Gran’s after with the shopping and had a cup of tea. She did wake up briefly for the Sky Sports headlines, but mainly I ate choccy digestives and broiled myself on the central heating. Mmmmm, warmth: how I miss you, old friend. Mum and Dad are still point-blank refusing to turn the heating on (fuel costs blah bills blah money blah) so only a pair of thermal socks and dreams of Mr J came between me and hypothermia last night.

      On a brighter note (hallelujah and praise the Lord), I’m currently enjoying a respite schoolwise because Molly is so entirely obsessed with the lovely Mr J that flirting with/ talking about him consumes all her time.

      Typical conversation of the day

      Molly: I’m off for a sandwich. You coming?

      Mikaela: What do you reckon Mr Jagger’s favourite sandwich is – egg and cress?

      Chloe: No, that’s too gay. Tuna salad?

      Molly: Salad? No chance. He’s a proper man. It’ll be ham and mustard, something like that. Hot. Meaty. Little bit spicy.

      Aaaand so on.

      Gay sandwiches, eh? Who knew?

      Ever since Molly had her hamster-to-human brain swap, when she’s distracted (e.g. by sunflower seeds, hibernating, fancying the hot new English teacher, etc.), there are no spare neurons available to monitor other activity. Which means I can slip under her radar for a bit. Not so much as a single ginger jibe all day. Result!

      Now if only a fit teacher could start at the boys’ school then maybe the bus lot would leave off for a bit too. Tonight at home-time some lad I’ve never even laid eyes on before was loudly jabbering on in my direction about ‘kick a ginger day’. I plugged my iPod in to ignore him, assuming he was making it up, but a quick Google confirmed it later. A dedicated ginger-bashing day does indeed exist. You can even buy commemorative mugs.

      How can that be legal, never mind socially acceptable? If we’ve got laws against abusing people because of the colour of their skin, why not hair? Blonde, black, brown, bald, grey, red: one nation, follicly united!

      Later . . . Oh dear. Dad has just lost it big-style with Themnextdoor (mutual anonymous loathing – we don’t know their names, they don’t know ours).

      They’ve just dumped (boom boom) the dog poo from their yard over our fence. Most of it landed by the car on the driver’s side. Dad nipped out to get some fags and, well, the upshot is he’s had to throw his best trainers in the bin. Not good: wars have started for less.

       JANUARY 28TH

      Themnextdoor are driving Dad to new – heights? depths? – of grumpiness because their YAP ratty YAP little YAP dog YAP never stops YAPPING.

      I guess it’s worse for Dad because at least the rest of us are out during the day. He went round after tea to complain about dog/rat and they just laughed in his face. He got straight in the car and he’s still not back now and it’s half ten. Mum’s rung his mobile about twenty times, but it’s switched off.

      Better news! There are some exciting potential developments on the Hellbus front in that I have had a Eureka moment. (Except not in the bath and I didn’t run down the road starkers. Ha ha.)

      Humanity’s past glitters with such moments. Ideas so simple yet so revolutionary they’ve changed the world: How about if I rub these two sticks together? Is it me, or do we all look a bit like monkeys? Chips AND cheese?

      And here’s my own modest contribution. If I ask Mr Patel for an evening paper round as well as the morning shift, beg Mum for a loan (maybe) and use up all my savings, I should be able to buy myself a BIKE.

      I know, it’s genius. Cycling is cool AND I’ll get the papers done loads quicker AND it’ll pay for itself in a term as it’ll save me forking out for a bus pass AND I’ll get fitter AND help the environment, plus (and this is the best bit) I won’t need to face the boys’ school knobs on the Hellbus ever again.

      Go me!

      PS 11.35. Still no sign of Dad.

       FEBRUARY 5TH

      Did Mum and Dad win the lottery? No. Has Simon become human? No. Have aliens abducted Molly? Unfortunately not.

      Nonetheless, it’s been a fantastic day because I got an A* from Hell High’s newest and finest member of staff, Mr ‘I am so hot I may spontaneously combust’ Jagger!

      We’ve been doing some warm-ups for the creative writing coursework. As he’s still ‘getting to know us as a group’, the task to write an essay about the Christmas hols was a bit Year 7, but he is box-fresh teaching-wise (he told us we’re his first job), so I’ll let him off. Here goes:

       My Christmas

       As is the tradition in our house, Gran is glued to Noel Edmonds while Mum feeds the stress volcano until she erupts, kicking the oven door. I go in, get some frozen peas to put on her foot and finish dinner off, while Dad sits drinking Baileys (which he doesn’t even like) in front of the telly.

      By the time The Sound of Music comes on, our house is alive with the sound of mayhem. Simon’s broken his new toys already, Mum’s burnt herself as well as all the food, Gran is comatose and Dad’s slurring his words. And poor Paddington, our highly-strung golden retriever, is cowering under the dining-room table.

       This year, Dad got even drunker than usual. As we can’t afford real Baileys since he lost his job, he was drinking a bargain-bucket liqueur (possibly) called ‘Piss’. Anyway, he was plastered and the food was on the table. Mum called everyone into the dining room. When she shouted, ‘Lunch is ready,’ Gran groaned and Dad, who’d forgotten she was there, jumped up with a scream.

       СКАЧАТЬ