Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre

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      Me: (shouting) You can’t throw stuff at me! That’s child abuse!

      Mum: Child abuse? I’ll show you child abuse, lady, if you don’t clear that mess up RIGHT. This. Minute.

      Honestly, there is no talking to her at the moment, and I thought it was teenagers who were supposed to be the stroppy ones. I’ll show you child abuse. She needs to stop being such a mardy-arse, moody mare and grow up; she’s making Simon look mature. A sentiment I expressed very clearly by slamming the door extra hard on my way out to karate. Ha!

       FEBRUARY 18TH

      Snow. Loads of it.

      Some people, i.e. Simple Simon, look out of the window and see a winter wonderland, replete with possibilities. Me? Sunday paper round from hell. Absolutely awful this morning. It was like Touching the Void. Crampons, ice axes . . . the works.

      Extreme Paper Delivery.

      I tried to get Paddington to come along, but no joy. Man’s best friend? Yeah, sure. Possibly if you substitute ‘Basket at the top of the stairs’ for ‘Man’. She just gave me the canine evil eye and headed straight back to the warm. (Or where ‘warm’ would be in a normal house, as opposed to one occupied by Mr & Mrs ‘Put another jumper on and stop moaning’ Titliss.)

      I had to snap the icicles off the front door to get out, and I don’t mean the outside either. My crappy fake Uggs (Fuggs?) leaked and by the time I got back home my fingers were so stiff they wouldn’t operate individually. I was forced to jab at the doorbell with my flipper-like hand till Dad heaved his idle carcass out of bed.

      Then when he saw me standing there, lips blue, fingertips blackened by frostbite, etc., all he said was, ‘What are you playing at? Shut the bloody door!’

      Do I want to spend my mornings wearing a hi-vis tabard and being chased by dogs? Of course not. But until I get a proper Saturday job, a paper round’s the only option. He should be grateful I’m trying to earn money to ease the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES, especially now Mr Patel’s said I can have the teatime round too.

      Then barely even thawed to mauve before Mr P rang to say there’d been three calls complaining about wet papers. Speechless!

      Just keep thinking bike fund, bike fund, bike fund . . .

      Later . . . Excellent newsflash: just got off the phone and, if the Ice Age ends, cousin Emma is coming up to an open day at Leeds Uni, so she’s staying here for a few days.

      Getting used to seeing her once-every-whenever has been well rough. Being skint/Mum and Dad at each other’s throats/Chloe’s vanishing act/chucked out of our lovely house – all of that sucks biiiig time, but not having Em on tap is the mouldy cherry on the top.

      In my fave boring-lesson-avoiding daydreams for the future, I’ve got a flat with Emma in some glamorous part of London. It’s in a Georgian townhouse with black-and-white marble tiles in the entrance hall. My room has high ceilings and sash windows that rattle a bit in the wind, but I don’t mind. There are red geraniums in pots on the window boxes and the friendly gay neighbours leave home-made muffins on the doorstep, romcom style.

      My boyfriend (who is a dead ringer for Mr Jagger) is coming over to take us to a champagne bar so I’ll have to iron the Vivienne Westwood in a minute. We’ve got a mad night’s partying lined up to celebrate Em’s new job at Alexander McQueen.

      Meanwhile, back home in Huddersfield, Molly Hardy-Jones has also landed her first job: serving on the counter at Greggs.

       FEBRUARY 20TH

      Guess who Mr Jagger has personally selected to help him on his new ‘special project’?

      Yep, none other than good ol’ Lara T, Queen of the Untouchables!

      I know!!! Blimey.

      Last lesson, I was packing my English stuff up when he asked me to stay behind. Then, when everyone else had gone, he leaned against the edge of his desk.

      ‘Thanks, Lara, I won’t keep you long. Now I know Mrs Gill always puts a play on at the end of this term, but I fancied doing something different. A talent contest, maybe, get the boys involved too. Something to get both schools buzzing. What do you reckon?’

      ‘Sounds good, Sir.’

      ‘Really? Not too clichéd?’

      ‘No, Sir. I think it’s a good idea.’

      ‘Great. Well, I’d love you to get involved; I think you’d enjoy it.’

      Hmm, pretty certain that was the gist anyway. I was too busy contemplating his unearthly gorgeousness to register the individual words. He’s got the whitest eyeballs I’ve ever seen; they glow like Simon Cowell’s teeth.

      ‘Er, not sure what I could do, Sir, I haven’t got any talents.’

      ‘Oh, come on, of course you have.’

      His eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles and the amber flecks are like pebbles in a rock pool. (In the Caribbean, not Skegness.) Incredible how not one aspect of his entire being is less than perfect: he looks airbrushed even close up.

      ‘Come on, it’ll be fun.’

      ‘I’ll think about it, Sir. Thanks for asking me.’

      I had to pelt it to make the bus, but it didn’t matter because Mr J wants me – ME – to help him!

      And while on the topic of unrequited adoration, Themnextdoor’s dog has developed a crush on Paddington, attempting (rather ambitiously for a Yorkshire terrier) to hump her at every opportunity. Dad went mental over it last night and turned the hose on them both, icing the drive like a bobsleigh run in the process. How Mum laughed as she went flying.

      Then when I went to fill the kettle after the early papers this morning, Dad was already sitting at the table, staring down at a pile of brown envelopes, none of which looked like they contained good tidings. The top one had my school crest on it.

      I put on a phoney American accent. ‘Who is this Bill guy anyway, and why does he always want our money?’

      ‘Not now, Lara,’ he said, without looking up.

      I turned the tap off and went to school. Can’t even remember the last time I saw him smile.

       FEBRUARY 22ND

      Bugger. I think I may have made a HUGE mistake. It seems I have made Sam Short my mortal enemy.

      ‘What’s this then? The original Ginger Minger?’ he said, ostentatiously looking me up and down as I waited near the bus queue at home-time.

      I put my headphones in and walked off to hide behind the churchyard wall in the hope he’d lose interest.

      No chance. He planted himself slap in front of me, gang of henches hot on his heels.

      ‘Hey, I’m talking to you.’

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