Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre

clicked her (acrylic gel-tipped) fingers and my best friend gave me the elbow quicker than you can say ‘check out my new en suite’.

      Anyway, Mrs Murphy took pity on me at dinner, letting me do some shelving in the library which meant I didn’t have to brave the yard again. But it was BIG LAUGHS all round at the bus stop later so v. glad I had my iPod to drown their stupid voices out.

      Yeah, so my mum’s a cleaner. Big effing deal. At least she works for a living, unlike yours, Molly, who despite being a lazy, sorry, lady of leisure, can’t be bothered to get off her bony backside to pick up a duster once in a while.

      These are tough times. It wasn’t Mum’s life goal to be a cleaner, but after the business went under, it was that or starve. Seriously think she and Dad aged about ten years in six months. And not just because the business flatlined. Selling the house was definitely the lowest of the low points. Standing on the drive in a family hug; Simon not really getting it; Mum trying to act brave; Dad promising it’s only temporary.

      But two years later it looks pretty permanent to me.

      And that’s why, far from being ashamed of her job, I am actually proud that my mum cleans your house, Molly Hardy-Jones. Because when she picks your skanky knickers up off your bedroom floor, she is doing it to keep me, my dad and my brother going. Meaning she is a star not a scrubber.

      So screw you, Molly Hardy-Jones, and your new en suite. My mum is the Queen of Clean and she rocks her rubber gloves like a GODDESS. And if you EVER leave your dirty pants lying about for her to deal with, I swear I will stuff each and every pair in your big fat gob.

      PS Molly’s got her own en suite. Me and Simon share a flannel. There literally is no justice.

       JANUARY 8TH

      Simple Simon (aka World’s Dumbest Kid Brother) stuck a knife in the toaster and ripped its guts out while I was making the tea tonight. Then he tried to stick his tongue in a light fitting, blowing all the fuses in the house (including Dad’s), which meant when Mum got in from work, the three of us were a) starving and b) blundering about in pitch-darkness.

      Never mind ‘ass’, Simon is an omni-pain in the brain, body and soul. He surpassed ‘ass’ at about eighteen months. Hard to believe it now, but when he was first born I loved playing Big Sis. Taking him out in his pram, blowing raspberries on his tummy, dressing him up like a doll.

      Ha! How times have changed. He has belonged to Satan since the minute he learned to talk. No matter how much I threaten him, his mouth is ALWAYS on full volume while his brain’s turned way, way down. And the little freak constantly gets me into grief.

      Like tonight: instead of dealing directly with her delinquent spawn, as any normal mother would, Mum had a right go at me.

      We are currently stuck on a loop, like that film Groundhog Day, except ours is called Everything is Lara’s Fault Day. OK, Mother, totally get you work hard, are sole breadwinner, etc., but STOP TAKING OUT YOUR MOODS ON ME.

      Tonight’s variation on the theme: beef Hula Hoops.

      ‘What’s this all over the carpet?’

      ‘Could be Hula Hoops. Simon had a packet earlier.’

      ‘First the electric’s off and now the place is a pigsty,’ Mum snapped. ‘I am sick to death of coming home to this every night.’ She poked at the crumbs with her foot. ‘Look! Right the way up the stairs. It’s like sharing the bloody house with Hansel and Gretel.’

      ‘Er, yeah, they’re not my crisps. Tell him, not me.’

      ‘It’s your responsibility to make sure things are straight; you’re the eldest.’

      ‘That is so unfair. I have to do everything.’

      ‘Lara, Simon is six years old. And anyway, he does his share.’

      !!!!

      I clattered the hoover out of the kitchen cupboard and naturally I did tut, sigh and roll my eyes while I was doing it, of course I did.

      Simon ‘does his share’ round the house? What a joke. You can count the number of times Simon’s ‘done his share’ on the fingers of an oven glove.

      More to the point, why isn’t she nagging Dad to ‘do his share’? I mean, if we’re getting technical here, isn’t he the eldest?

      I am up at five every day delivering newspapers in arctic conditions, while he’s still snoring his head off upstairs. (A job I do, let’s not forget, so I can pay for karate and other stuff myself, thus sparing them extra expense.)

      Then, after school, I’ve got ten GCSEs to study for. With the way they go on about the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES they’ve made for my education, they should see my exams as the Holy Grail. But no. My parents think clean carpets are more important.

      Meanwhile, Simple Simon gets away with murder and Dad gets to spend his days brooding on the sofa like some TV-obsessed, housework-shy troll.

      He’s unemployed FFS, what else has he got to do?

       JANUARY 10TH

      WTF?! Massive shock in English today. Surely Mrs Gill’s idea of a good time in bed is the complete Jane Austen and a hobnob?

      Well, apparently not. Turns out she’s going on maternity leave till September.

      Bombshell though that may be, the real headline news is the cover teacher they’ve drafted in. Imagine Edward Cullen and Mr Darcy rolled into one. Well, that does not even come close to the glorious gorge-ness of Mr Ben Jagger. And it wasn’t just me who noticed either: the poor guy was nearly knocked to the floor by 11G’s collective fake-eyelash fluttering. Even treat-’em-mean Molly tossed her hair extensions so hard I thought she’d dislocate her neck. (Sadly, no.)

      Anyway, Mr Jagger kicked off his lesson with, ‘Right then . . . OK then . . .’ and mucho throat-clearing. But once he’d got past the nerves (understandable given the whole class was eyeing him like a starving dog shown a chop), he was excellent and it was BY MILES the best English lesson I’ve ever had. He’d prepped this interactive video stuff on medieval Verona that was so absolutely brilliant even Thicky Mikaela was mesmerised.

      Plus! Not just English, he’s our form tutor too, so pleeenty of opportunities afoot to gaze upon his gorge-ness.

      Never thought I would write these words, but I am looking forward to going to school tomorrow!

       JANUARY 11TH

      Registration was like being backstage at Next Top Model this morning. Obviously, we already had the competitive bulimia and bitching, but Mr Jagger’s sudden appearance has sent the class glamour stakes stratospheric. Some hardcore make-up bag raids were in evidence and I admit I am just as guilty: nearly missed the bus I spent that long trying to de-bush my hair.

      Honestly, he could be a top model himself. Tall, but not gangly stick-insect-esque like me, more sporty and fit, with floppy boy-band hair doing a cool this-is-just-the-way-it-goes vibe, not a posing-in-front-of-the-mirror style. His eyes are amazing too, light green with brown flecks in (think so anyway – I need to confirm via a closer look) and a tan like he spends his summers on a surfboard somewhere exotic.

      He belongs on a catwalk or the set of an Australian soap. Definitely not in a classroom filled with drooling girls. No exaggeration, the whole school is Jagger-struck.

      Mr Jagger, Sir: you are a bucketload of glitter sprinkled on a cowpat and you don’t even know it. In fact, today you performed possibly the greatest miracle of the twenty-first century: your presence made a day at Huddersfield Girls’ High School pleasant.

      Well, almost pleasant anyway, because the ‘your mum’s a scrubber’ comments kept coming thick and fast. (But since Mikaela started it, mainly thick. Ha ha.)

      What can I do? I’ve tried cultivating