entered a competition and so she needs to practise and I’ve said I’ll help her – and Pongo too, of course. I’ve been training him.’ He turns to the dog and commands: ‘Pongo, up!’
At the sound of his name, our silly dog stands on his hind legs and holds his front paws up as though he is begging. Even I have to admit he looks cute, but I am not going to give my idiot brother the benefit of the doubt.
‘It’s ridiculous that Mum’s entering a competition,’ I say. ‘She’s never going to be good enough for a competition, however many lessons she has. She’d better not be expecting us to go and watch her,’ I mutter.
Fact: I would rather eat spiders.
‘Of
course
we are going to watch her. And she is going to win because we are going to help her,’ says Harris. ‘Come on, Pongo!’ He takes the dog by his front paws and drags him out on to the landing while singing some random song in a high-pitched tuneless voice. Pongo joins in, yapping and panting.
Turns out Britain Has Not Got Talent in this house.
I listen as the cacophony fades into the distance. Once I am sure they are not going to come crashing in again, I get comfy with my book and soon I am worrying with Cassandra about leaking roofs and batty stepmothers, and I have forgotten all about my own worse-than-batty family when . . .
BRRRRRIIIIIING!
The sound of the doorbell jolts me back to reality.
I hear Harris yell, ‘I’ll get it,’ then the sounds of the door opening to the accompaniment of much silver-paper rustling.
The next thing I hear is far from welcome news.
‘YAY! It’s Finn! Hi, Finn, come in! SKYE, IT’S FINN! MU-UM . . .’ And Pongo starts barking, joining my brother in his frenzied greeting.
Nonononono. This is the last thing I want – Finn coming round, no doubt to brag about being in the band. Harris will love him even more. In fact he will probably be so excited he will insist on showing him his bonkers silver-foil dance and then Finn will tell everyone at school that not only am I a walking disaster area but I also have a brother who is one sandwich short of a picnic. He might even film Harris and post it online to add to the ever-growing collection of Greatest Hits currently doing the rounds.
I can’t face another moment of humiliation in my life.
Without thinking, I run into the bathroom and slam and bolt the door. I intend on staying in here and reading until Finn gets the message that I don’t want him in my house.
I am about to get comfortable with my back to the radiator and my bum on a couple of towels when I realize I have left my book in my room. Sighing, I go to unbolt the door.
Except that I can’t. Something has happened to the bolt. It is wedged shut.
I can’t move it.
I rattle it and jostle it and rattle it again, but it won’t budge. This is crazy. I must be doing something wrong. This has never happened before.
I tell myself to breathe, and have another go.
I try easing the bolt carefully back, forcing myself to slow down, to concentrate, not to worry.
It’s no good. The bolt is stuck.
My chest is fizzing with sharp little bubbles of panic. I let my head fall forward as I take deep breaths and tell myself to think. And then I see that a screw has fallen to the floor. I pick it up and inspect it, looking at the bolt more closely, and I see that the screw must have been holding the bolt in place. Now that it has come loose, the bolt is wedged at a slight angle in the locked position. I try to ease the fixture back to its original position, but it just slips down again with the bolt securely stuck in ‘locked’ mode.
I bang on the door and shout, ‘Can someone come and help me? I’m . . .’ And then I stop.
I can’t yell out that I am stuck in the bathroom because Finn will hear. I can just imagine what he will do with this knowledge once we are back at school. He would probably film this as well. Then the VTs could add it to their Classic Compendium of Comedy Clips. This
At the sound of his name, our silly dog stands on his hind legs and holds his front paws up as though he is begging. Even I have to admit he looks cute, but I am not going to give my idiot brother the benefit of the doubt.
‘It’s ridiculous that Mum’s entering a competition,’ I say. ‘She’s never going to be good enough for a competition, however many lessons she has. She’d better not be expecting us to go and watch her,’ I mutter.
Fact: I would rather eat spiders.
‘Of
course
we are going to watch her. And she is going to win because we are going to help her,’ says Harris. ‘Come on, Pongo!’ He takes the dog by his front paws and drags him out on to the landing while singing some random song in a high-pitched tuneless voice. Pongo joins in, yapping and panting.
Turns out Britain Has Not Got Talent in this house.
I listen as the cacophony fades into the distance. Once I am sure they are not going to come crashing in again, I get comfy with my book and soon I am worrying with Cassandra about leaking roofs and batty stepmothers, and I have forgotten all about my own worse-than-batty family when . . .
BRRRRRIIIIIING!
The sound of the doorbell jolts me back to reality.
I hear Harris yell, ‘I’ll get it,’ then the sounds of the door opening to the accompaniment of much silver-paper rustling.
The next thing I hear is far from welcome news.
‘YAY! It’s Finn! Hi, Finn, come in! SKYE, IT’S FINN! MU-UM . . .’ And Pongo starts barking, joining my brother in his frenzied greeting.
Nonononono. This is the last thing I want – Finn coming round, no doubt to brag about being in the band. Harris will love him even more. In fact he will probably be so excited he will insist on showing him his bonkers silver-foil dance and then Finn will tell everyone at school that not only am I a walking disaster area but I also have a brother who is one sandwich short of a picnic. He might even film Harris and post it online to add to the ever-growing collection of Greatest Hits currently doing the rounds.
I can’t face another moment of humiliation in my life.
Without thinking, I run into the bathroom and slam and bolt the door. I intend on staying in here and reading until Finn gets the message that I don’t want him in my house.
I am about to get comfortable with my back to the radiator and my bum on a couple of towels when I realize I have left my book in my room. Sighing, I go to unbolt the door.
Except that I can’t. Something has happened to the bolt. It is wedged shut.
I can’t move it.
I rattle it and jostle it and rattle it again, but it won’t budge. This is crazy. I must be doing something wrong. This has never happened before.
I tell myself to breathe, and have another go.
I try easing the bolt carefully back, forcing myself to slow down, to concentrate, not to worry.
It’s no good. The bolt is stuck.
My chest is fizzing with sharp little bubbles of panic. I let my head fall forward as I take deep breaths and tell myself to think. And then I see that a screw has fallen to the floor. I pick it up and inspect it, looking at the bolt more closely, and I see that the screw must have been holding the bolt in place. Now that it has come loose, the bolt is wedged at a slight angle in the locked position. I try to ease the fixture back to its original position, but it just slips down again with the bolt securely stuck in ‘locked’ mode.
I bang on the door and shout, ‘Can someone come and help me? I’m . . .’ And then I stop.
I can’t yell out that I am stuck in the bathroom because Finn will hear. I can just imagine what he will do with this knowledge once we are back at school. He would probably film this as well. Then the VTs could add it to their Classic Compendium of Comedy Clips. This
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