added.
‘Second step?’ I asked.
‘Right, because your first one is to empty this kitchen bin. It’s overflowing.’
CHAPTER 16
P utting out the big wheelie bin each Wednesday night isn’t my only job. I’m also meant to keep my room tidy, unload the dishwasher every morning, bath Muppet once a week, and empty the kitchen bin whenever it gets full. I remember to do most of those things (most of the time) but I do sometimes forget the bins. That Tuesday night, Dad reminded me of the one under the kitchen sink. The problem was that he reminded me just as I’d almost finished getting ready for bed. I know he sometimes gets a bit frustrated that I forget, but I’ve got other things to think about that I reckon are a bit more important than emptying bins. But this night he was actually a bit mean about it, after he saw that I was in my pyjamas and about to go into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
‘Betty, have you emptied the kitchen bin, like your mum asked?’ he said. ‘It’s getting pretty full.’
‘Oh,’ I answered. ‘Can’t I do it tomorrow? I’m already in my pyjamas.’
‘No, I want you to do it now.’
‘But I’m already –’
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘Tonight, please, Lizzie. This happens all the time! We go through this every second day!’
‘It’s not every second day,’ I said.
It probably wasn’t a good idea to talk back, because when Dad’s already grouchy, arguing never ends well.
‘Less of the chat, young lady,’ he said, all snippy. ‘Just do the job, okay?’
‘I will, but it’s not every second day,’ I replied.
Remember how I said that talking back is a bad idea? But did you see how I went ahead and did it anyway? That was because it was my turn to be a bit cross. See, I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t do the bin. I was definitely going to do it. All I wanted him to say was that he’d been wrong, and that I didn’t actually need to be reminded every couple of days. That’s wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
Well, apparently that time it was, because Mum (who wasn’t even part of the conversation) stuck her head out of their bedroom door and said, ‘Lizzie! Not the right time.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Dad asked her, standing there in the hallway with one hand on his hip, like a teapot. ‘What is “It’s not the right time” supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, Marty.’
‘Well, it wasn’t nothing, was it?’
That was when I decided that taking the rubbish out right away was the best thing I could do, so I ran downstairs, pulled the bag out of the bin (it wasn’t actually overflowing, by the way) and hurried outside.
I went around the end of the house to where the wheelie bin lives. I don’t really like going out there after it’s dark, because that’s the HomeFest side of our yard, and after dark, nothing much happens over there. There are no lights except for the streetlights, no music and no traffic apart from a tiny white security car that drives around all night. It’s kind of creepy, like a ghost town.
That’s why I groaned when I heard Muppet barking from the backyard of the Greengrove 300 next door – it meant I was going to have to go over there and get him. Again. Sometimes he scrambles up on the worm farm and jumps over the fence, but then he can’t get back over, and I have to rescue him.
Luckily there’s a gate between that backyard and ours from a couple of years ago, when both the houses were display homes. The weird thing is, no one has ever thought to lock that gate, so it was as simple as lifting the latch and going through.
Usually, as soon as I was over there, Muppet would come running and I’d carry him home and tell him not to climb over again, but this time he didn’t. Instead, he stood at the far end of the house and kept barking.
‘Muppet! Come here!’ I said, but he completely ignored me. He just kept barking so hard that his front feet were lifting off the ground with each woof.
‘Muppet!’ This
‘Second step?’ I asked.
‘Right, because your first one is to empty this kitchen bin. It’s overflowing.’
CHAPTER 16
P utting out the big wheelie bin each Wednesday night isn’t my only job. I’m also meant to keep my room tidy, unload the dishwasher every morning, bath Muppet once a week, and empty the kitchen bin whenever it gets full. I remember to do most of those things (most of the time) but I do sometimes forget the bins. That Tuesday night, Dad reminded me of the one under the kitchen sink. The problem was that he reminded me just as I’d almost finished getting ready for bed. I know he sometimes gets a bit frustrated that I forget, but I’ve got other things to think about that I reckon are a bit more important than emptying bins. But this night he was actually a bit mean about it, after he saw that I was in my pyjamas and about to go into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
‘Betty, have you emptied the kitchen bin, like your mum asked?’ he said. ‘It’s getting pretty full.’
‘Oh,’ I answered. ‘Can’t I do it tomorrow? I’m already in my pyjamas.’
‘No, I want you to do it now.’
‘But I’m already –’
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘Tonight, please, Lizzie. This happens all the time! We go through this every second day!’
‘It’s not every second day,’ I said.
It probably wasn’t a good idea to talk back, because when Dad’s already grouchy, arguing never ends well.
‘Less of the chat, young lady,’ he said, all snippy. ‘Just do the job, okay?’
‘I will, but it’s not every second day,’ I replied.
Remember how I said that talking back is a bad idea? But did you see how I went ahead and did it anyway? That was because it was my turn to be a bit cross. See, I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t do the bin. I was definitely going to do it. All I wanted him to say was that he’d been wrong, and that I didn’t actually need to be reminded every couple of days. That’s wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
Well, apparently that time it was, because Mum (who wasn’t even part of the conversation) stuck her head out of their bedroom door and said, ‘Lizzie! Not the right time.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Dad asked her, standing there in the hallway with one hand on his hip, like a teapot. ‘What is “It’s not the right time” supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing, Marty.’
‘Well, it wasn’t nothing, was it?’
That was when I decided that taking the rubbish out right away was the best thing I could do, so I ran downstairs, pulled the bag out of the bin (it wasn’t actually overflowing, by the way) and hurried outside.
I went around the end of the house to where the wheelie bin lives. I don’t really like going out there after it’s dark, because that’s the HomeFest side of our yard, and after dark, nothing much happens over there. There are no lights except for the streetlights, no music and no traffic apart from a tiny white security car that drives around all night. It’s kind of creepy, like a ghost town.
That’s why I groaned when I heard Muppet barking from the backyard of the Greengrove 300 next door – it meant I was going to have to go over there and get him. Again. Sometimes he scrambles up on the worm farm and jumps over the fence, but then he can’t get back over, and I have to rescue him.
Luckily there’s a gate between that backyard and ours from a couple of years ago, when both the houses were display homes. The weird thing is, no one has ever thought to lock that gate, so it was as simple as lifting the latch and going through.
Usually, as soon as I was over there, Muppet would come running and I’d carry him home and tell him not to climb over again, but this time he didn’t. Instead, he stood at the far end of the house and kept barking.
‘Muppet! Come here!’ I said, but he completely ignored me. He just kept barking so hard that his front feet were lifting off the ground with each woof.
‘Muppet!’ This
Similar Books
