down at me.
I hadn’t earlier. But suddenly I wasn’t so sure.
Sally’s Diary: January 11th
Our hamster died at school today. I
don’t know why, she wasn’t very old, and none of the kids had been using her
for batting practice, so it’s something of a mystery. Her name was Samantha and
she was eight months old. I mention these things purely for posterity as it
makes me sad to think of something that inspired so much love and happiness in
so many children being forgotten about the moment she’s gone. We haven’t
actually told the children yet and there’s some division as to how we should go
about it. Jenny thinks we should do tomorrow’s assembly on hamster heaven and
how fantastic it is up there, while Donald thinks we should tell them
Samantha’s cage is being redecorated while we order another. Peter thinks we
should stick the cage on eBay and split the money but Carol’s got most
experience with this sort of thing. She says we should just tell the children
that Samantha died and let them learn to deal with it. After all, death is a
part of life and it’s our job to prepare them for what lies ahead, so sugar
coating every little upset isn’t going to help them in the long run. She has a
point. That’s the thing about Carol. She always has a point.
Andrew, on the other hand, rarely seems to have one. He’s
convinced Samantha was murdered and thinks we should set up an investigation
into her “hamstercide”. He even offered to come in and head up the inquiry,
promising to leave no stone unturned until he found Samantha’s killer, although
he hardly inspired me with confidence when I mentioned her to him again half an
hour later and he asked me who Samantha was.
Chapter 8. Party Games
My room was on the sixth floor and
afforded me a great view of Croydon – if that can be considered a great
view. Norman had negotiated a discount rate for all of us who wanted to stay
but my single was still costing me £80. A twin or double would’ve cost only £20
more and Tom hassled me all week to share with him but I insisted on having my
own room.
“Why? What d’you need your own room for? It’s not like I
haven’t seen you in your socks before.”
“I’d just rather have my own room, that’s all. We’re not
students any more, I don’t want to doss down any old place.”
“Sharing a room in a four-star hotel and saving us both
thirty quid in the process is hardly dossing down any old place. What are you
up to?”
“I’m not up to anything.”
“Then why won’t you share with me?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Are you getting your room for free or something? Is that
it?” This conversation went on all week and almost threatened the return of my
tenner but Tom eventually relented when he found himself a B&B half a mile
down the road for only £40.
“Should’ve blagged a few caravans and we could’ve all kipped
in the car park,” Godfrey reckoned.
“I’m sure the Croydon Park Hotel would’ve loved that,” I
replied.
Anyway, back to my room. It was nice and roomy and soft and
plush. It was also only a short lift journey away from our party downstairs
(Joe Bananas having been already booked). I checked in at six, showered, shaved
and changed into my party frock, then cracked open a bottle of Jim Beam I’d
bought from the off-licence around the corner and took a couple of sneaky
knocks. I hoped the hotel wouldn’t mind but I bought it in case I wanted a
nightcap when the party wound down and mini-bars were always so expensive. And
the drinks showed up on your bills too. And bills were sometimes looked at by
others. And that might not be such a good thing. Especially if someone else
wanted to come up to my room for a nightcap.
At that moment my mobile rang and I saw it was Sally. I
pressed the green button and held it to my ear.
“Hello love, just me,” she said. “Just giving you a quick
ring to see if you want me to record Taggart tonight?”
“Oh, er yes
I hadn’t earlier. But suddenly I wasn’t so sure.
Sally’s Diary: January 11th
Our hamster died at school today. I
don’t know why, she wasn’t very old, and none of the kids had been using her
for batting practice, so it’s something of a mystery. Her name was Samantha and
she was eight months old. I mention these things purely for posterity as it
makes me sad to think of something that inspired so much love and happiness in
so many children being forgotten about the moment she’s gone. We haven’t
actually told the children yet and there’s some division as to how we should go
about it. Jenny thinks we should do tomorrow’s assembly on hamster heaven and
how fantastic it is up there, while Donald thinks we should tell them
Samantha’s cage is being redecorated while we order another. Peter thinks we
should stick the cage on eBay and split the money but Carol’s got most
experience with this sort of thing. She says we should just tell the children
that Samantha died and let them learn to deal with it. After all, death is a
part of life and it’s our job to prepare them for what lies ahead, so sugar
coating every little upset isn’t going to help them in the long run. She has a
point. That’s the thing about Carol. She always has a point.
Andrew, on the other hand, rarely seems to have one. He’s
convinced Samantha was murdered and thinks we should set up an investigation
into her “hamstercide”. He even offered to come in and head up the inquiry,
promising to leave no stone unturned until he found Samantha’s killer, although
he hardly inspired me with confidence when I mentioned her to him again half an
hour later and he asked me who Samantha was.
Chapter 8. Party Games
My room was on the sixth floor and
afforded me a great view of Croydon – if that can be considered a great
view. Norman had negotiated a discount rate for all of us who wanted to stay
but my single was still costing me £80. A twin or double would’ve cost only £20
more and Tom hassled me all week to share with him but I insisted on having my
own room.
“Why? What d’you need your own room for? It’s not like I
haven’t seen you in your socks before.”
“I’d just rather have my own room, that’s all. We’re not
students any more, I don’t want to doss down any old place.”
“Sharing a room in a four-star hotel and saving us both
thirty quid in the process is hardly dossing down any old place. What are you
up to?”
“I’m not up to anything.”
“Then why won’t you share with me?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Are you getting your room for free or something? Is that
it?” This conversation went on all week and almost threatened the return of my
tenner but Tom eventually relented when he found himself a B&B half a mile
down the road for only £40.
“Should’ve blagged a few caravans and we could’ve all kipped
in the car park,” Godfrey reckoned.
“I’m sure the Croydon Park Hotel would’ve loved that,” I
replied.
Anyway, back to my room. It was nice and roomy and soft and
plush. It was also only a short lift journey away from our party downstairs
(Joe Bananas having been already booked). I checked in at six, showered, shaved
and changed into my party frock, then cracked open a bottle of Jim Beam I’d
bought from the off-licence around the corner and took a couple of sneaky
knocks. I hoped the hotel wouldn’t mind but I bought it in case I wanted a
nightcap when the party wound down and mini-bars were always so expensive. And
the drinks showed up on your bills too. And bills were sometimes looked at by
others. And that might not be such a good thing. Especially if someone else
wanted to come up to my room for a nightcap.
At that moment my mobile rang and I saw it was Sally. I
pressed the green button and held it to my ear.
“Hello love, just me,” she said. “Just giving you a quick
ring to see if you want me to record Taggart tonight?”
“Oh, er yes
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