The Parent Agency. David Baddiel

by the way, have the fantastic Lionel Messi duvet on it that Lukas had):

      THINGS I BLAME MY PARENTS FOR

      1 Being boring.

      2 Calling me Barry. (You see – told you it was near the top of the list.)

      3 Being tired all the time.

      4 Not letting me play video games.

      5 Not buying me any video games. Or a Lionel Messi duvet.

      6 Being REALLY, REALLY, REALLY strict. Examples: making me go to bed at 8.30 when all my friends stay up MUCH later; not letting me eat any sour Haribos in case they give me a tummy ache; and saying, “That’s a swear,” when all I’ve done is say BUM, which isn’t even a proper swear.

      7 Being always much nicer to my twin sisters TSE than to me, just because they’re a pair of goody two-shoes.

      8 Not being glamorous or famous or all the things that the grown-ups in Mum’s magazines are. (Barry realised after he’d written this that it was a bit similar to Number 1, but he’d already started the list when he got to this point, and had written in pen, not pencil, so didn’t want to cross it out and start again.)

      9 Being poor. (Barry felt a bit bad about writing this one as he did sort of know it wasn’t his parents’ fault. His dad worked in IKEA, checking the flat-packed stuff into the warehouses or something, and his mum was a primary school assistant. So he knew that meant they didn’t earn very much. But he did think that if only they had more money then a fair amount of issues 1 to 8 – although not being called Barry – would probably not apply.)

      10 NOT EVER MAKING MY BIRTHDAY REALLY GOOD.

      This was the biggest thing. All his friends had had their tenth birthdays recently, and all of them had been fantastic. Jake had had a go-kart party. Lukas had had a bowling party. And Taj had had a limo! They’d all gone in it to the cinema to see the latest James Bond film!

      Barry loved James Bond. It was partly why he hated being called Barry, as he knew that James Bond would never have been called that. I mean, he knew James Bond’s name was James, but even if it hadn’t been it would probably have been John or David or Michael. Or – as Jake often pointed out – Jake. Barry said this wasn’t true, although in his heart he knew it kind of was, what with Jake being, in name terms, really quite like James.

      Sometimes, Jake would even raise one eyebrow – which Barry, try as he might, just couldn’t do: both of them always went up at once – and say, “The name’s Bond. Jake Bond.”

      Barry agreed, without saying so, that it sounded kind of OK. Certainly better than, “The name’s Bond. Barry Bond.”

      Jake (and his eyebrow) were at Barry’s house on that Sunday, six days before his birthday, when Barry got really cross with his mum and dad.

      All three of Barry’s best friends were on the doorstep, listening to Geoff Bennett say, “No, sorry,” which, Barry thought and not for the first time, was something his dad said a lot.

      Jake was holding a Nike Premier League football, Lukas had on a pair of black Converse trainers and Taj was wearing a brand-new, this-season Chelsea top. Which made Barry feel, in his discount-store jeans and discount-store top and discount-store shoes, a bit rubbish. Although not rubbish enough to stop him wanting to go out and play with them.

      “Dad,” said Barry, “it’ll only be for half an hour!”

      “No, sorry,” said his dad again. “You know we don’t let you go in the park without a grown-up…”

      Barry looked back at his father’s frowning face. He looked very tired, although Barry couldn’t work out how tired, as Geoff Bennett always looked tired these days. There were bits of grey in his hair. In fact, it would be more accurate to say there were bits of black in his hair, because most of it was now grey. He was wearing his navy IKEA shirt, which he didn’t have to at weekends. Barry wished he wouldn’t, especially in front of his friends. Every time he’d seen them, Jake’s dad had been wearing a smart suit, Taj’s a leather jacket and Lukas’s dad – who, some of the time, played in a band! – skinny jeans and sunglasses (even, Barry noticed, when it wasn’t sunny).

      “But…” said Barry, indicating with his hand the three boys on the doorstep, “all my friends are allowed to!”

      “Well, that’s up to their mums and dads, I’m afraid.”

      Barry turned and looked at his friends. At which point, Jake raised one eyebrow. Which gave his face an expression that seemed to say, very clearly, “Oh dear, Barry – such a shame that you’re lumbered with these silly, strict (and tired, bad-clothes-wearing) parents…”

      He didn’t say this, though. He just said: “Sorry, Barry,” and turned round, bouncing the football as he went.

      “Yeah, sorry, Barry,” said Taj, joining Jake.

      “Me too. Sorry…” said Lukas, who for some reason waited until he’d got to the end of the Bennetts’ front path before turning round again to say, “Barry.”

      And even though Barry knew that it was good to feel sorry for some people, like starving children on the sad bits of the news, he found that he really, really didn’t like it that his friends were feeling sorry for him.

       CHAPTER TWO

      But that was just the start of Barry’s bad day. It got worse later, when he was trying to talk to his dad during tea.

      “…so I thought maybe on my birthday – next Saturday – when I wake up, it would be good if waiting outside was an Aston Martin DB6…” Barry was saying, in between forkfuls of Asda low-sugar, low-salt baked beans on jacket potato.

      “An Aston Martin! Write that down, Ginny!”

      “I’m writing it down, Kay!”

      Barry carried on looking at his dad. He had chosen not to recognise his younger twin sisters. Barry often snuck a glance at his dad’s Daily or Sunday Express, as he knew that James Bond would have to be aware of when dangerous stuff was happening in the world, and he had read that some countries did this to other ones. He had read that Iran, for example, did not recognise Israel, calling it instead – his dad had read this phrase out for him – the Zionist entity. Which made it sound all villainous, like Spectre (the secret world-controlling gang in James Bond). So, similarly, he did not call his eight-year-old twin sisters Ginny and Kay, but The Sisterly Entity. Or TSE for short.

      He did, however, out of the corner of his eye, catch them doing that sarcastic thing they did, where one of them – Barry didn’t like separating TSE into two, as that was kind of recognising that they existed, but if he had to, he would refer to them as Sisterly Entities One and Two – would pretend to write down something he said, as if it was really important. Which of course was their way of saying that it wasn’t important at all. Barry really hated it when they did that.

      “…so, Dad, on our birthday can you take us somewhere in a Rolls-Royce? Which you can keep in the garage next to the Aston Martin!” said Sisterly Entity One.

      “Ha ha ha!” laughed Sisterly Entity Two, who was still running her index finger across her palm as part of the pretending-to-write-down-stupid-stuff-Barry-says mime.

      “Yes, well, they’re not that expensive to hire. I checked online,” said Barry, trying as much as possible not to look at them. “And then maybe you can have, like, a tuxedo ready for me to wear and a cake with 007 on it, and all my friends can come dressed as Bond villains, and maybe you can have the film soundtrack playing, and you, Dad, can be Q, showing me gadgets, like a jet pack and a pen that’s actually a gun, and—”

      “Sorry,