Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre

maybe, like Lara Jones. Flash and exotic? Lara Kostyakov. Or posh? Lara Willoughby-Smythe, delighted to make your acquaintance. Who am I kidding? I don’t even care; nothing could be worse than the T word.

      Wish I could adopt Emma’s attitude, i.e. be totally unfazed by the Surname of Shame. She could have ditched it by deed poll when she turned sixteen last year, but she didn’t, even though Uncle Andy wouldn’t have minded. If I asked Dad, I’d never hear the end of it.

      Imagine if the world was less alpha male, we could’ve had Mum’s maiden name and Lara Merry’s life would be an endless sunny-day parade of cupcakes and rainbows. Instead I got stuck with ‘Titliss’, officially the worst possible surname in the whole world for a flat-chested teenage girl. Even Molly Hardy-Jones would struggle to pull ‘Titliss’ off and she’s got massive great udders. The cow.

      PS And I found out this new lad’s name is Sam Short, so you’d think I’d get at least a hint of sympathy, but no. The only person who truly understands is poor Tess Tickle in Year 8.

       FEBRUARY 14TH

      Had some terrible news today: I’m being sued by the Post Office. It appears our postman slipped a disc lugging my avalanche of Valentine’s cards to the front door and will never work again. (Ha ha ha. Please excuse me while I die laughing.)

      Graham Flett was the last (ahem, only) person to send me a Valentine’s card. Yes, Fat Graham ‘Hellbus’ Flett. It was in Year 8 and it had kittens on it and came with half a box of Quality Street. (I’m sure he intended to give me the whole box.) Of course, he makes out it was a wind-up now I’m the School Untouchable, but I don’t think it was.

      Mr J of course was absolutely inundated.

      And shock horror! Sam Short-Stuff and Molly Hardly-Human are now An Item. Actually, probs not too much of a shock. It seems so cosmically right that twin demonic minions sent to torment humankind should unite to rule the world. Mwaaaaahahahaha.

      They had a real old slobberfest in the bus queue over their Valentine’s cards. Might as well have put up a stage and sold tickets. Balloons and teddies. Audible snogging. Ugh. Get a room, you pair of dirty slaps.

      Bet Molly hasn’t told him she gets mega-minging cold sores though. (Cue advert voice: Herpes – the Valentine’s gift he’ll keep forever.)

      Heh heh heh.

       FEBRUARY 16TH

      Jeez, GET OFF MY CASE ALREADY, WOMAN! Mum continues the nagathon about the less than immaculate state of the house. Er, hello? We’re not all anally retentive with a side order of OCD, thanks. She reckons, because she pays the rent, my room should meet her hygiene standards. My view is if she doesn’t like it she should steer clear. She wants it clean? Then be my guest.

      Soooo, written down, that seems reasonable enough. My mistake – and I hold my hands up here – was actually saying it out loud. That cup of tea flew across the room like an Exocet missile. Luckily my reactions are superhero issue so I ducked in time, but the carpet is scarred for life.

      Me: (shouting) You can’t throw stuff at me! That’s child abuse!

      Mum: Child abuse? I’ll show you child abuse, lady, if you don’t clear that mess up RIGHT. This. Minute.

      Honestly, there is no talking to her at the moment, and I thought it was teenagers who were supposed to be the stroppy ones. I’ll show you child abuse. She needs to stop being such a mardy-arse, moody mare and grow up; she’s making Simon look mature. A sentiment I expressed very clearly by slamming the door extra hard on my way out to karate. Ha!

       FEBRUARY 18TH

      Snow. Loads of it.

      Some people, i.e. Simple Simon, look out of the window and see a winter wonderland, replete with possibilities. Me? Sunday paper round from hell. Absolutely awful this morning. It was like Touching the Void. Crampons, ice axes . . . the works.

      Extreme Paper Delivery.

      I tried to get Paddington to come along, but no joy. Man’s best friend? Yeah, sure. Possibly if you substitute ‘Basket at the top of the stairs’ for ‘Man’. She just gave me the canine evil eye and headed straight back to the warm. (Or where ‘warm’ would be in a normal house, as opposed to one occupied by Mr & Mrs ‘Put another jumper on and stop moaning’ Titliss.)

      I had to snap the icicles off the front door to get out, and I don’t mean the outside either. My crappy fake Uggs (Fuggs?) leaked and by the time I got back home my fingers were so stiff they wouldn’t operate individually. I was forced to jab at the doorbell with my flipper-like hand till Dad heaved his idle carcass out of bed.

      Then when he saw me standing there, lips blue, fingertips blackened by frostbite, etc., all he said was, ‘What are you playing at? Shut the bloody door!’

      Do I want to spend my mornings wearing a hi-vis tabard and being chased by dogs? Of course not. But until I get a proper Saturday job, a paper round’s the only option. He should be grateful I’m trying to earn money to ease the FINANCIAL SACRIFICES, especially now Mr Patel’s said I can have the teatime round too.

      Then barely even thawed to mauve before Mr P rang to say there’d been three calls complaining about wet papers. Speechless!

      Just keep thinking bike fund, bike fund, bike fund . . .

      Later . . . Excellent newsflash: just got off the phone and, if the Ice Age ends, cousin Emma is coming up to an open day at Leeds Uni, so she’s staying here for a few days.

      Getting used to seeing her once-every-whenever has been well rough. Being skint/Mum and Dad at each other’s throats/Chloe’s vanishing act/chucked out of our lovely house – all of that sucks biiiig time, but not having Em on tap is the mouldy cherry on the top.

      In my fave boring-lesson-avoiding daydreams for the future, I’ve got a flat with Emma in some glamorous part of London. It’s in a Georgian townhouse with black-and-white marble tiles in the entrance hall. My room has high ceilings and sash windows that rattle a bit in the wind, but I don’t mind. There are red geraniums in pots on the window boxes and the friendly gay neighbours leave home-made muffins on the doorstep, romcom style.

      My boyfriend (who is a dead ringer for Mr Jagger) is coming over to take us to a champagne bar so I’ll have to iron the Vivienne Westwood in a minute. We’ve got a mad night’s partying lined up to celebrate Em’s new job at Alexander McQueen.

      Meanwhile, back home in Huddersfield, Molly Hardy-Jones has also landed her first job: serving on the counter at Greggs.

       FEBRUARY 20TH

      Guess who Mr Jagger has personally selected to help him on his new ‘special project’?

      Yep, none other than good ol’ Lara T, Queen of the Untouchables!

      I know!!! Blimey.

      Last lesson, I was packing my English stuff up when he asked me to stay behind. Then, when everyone else had gone, he leaned against the edge of his desk.

      ‘Thanks, Lara, I won’t keep you long. Now I know Mrs Gill always puts a play on at the end of this term, but I fancied doing something different. A talent contest, maybe, get the boys involved too. Something to get both schools buzzing. What do you reckon?’

      ‘Sounds good, Sir.’

      ‘Really? Not too clichéd?’

      ‘No, Sir. I think it’s a good idea.’

      ‘Great. Well, I’d love you to get involved; I think you’d enjoy it.’

      Hmm, pretty certain that was the gist anyway. I was too busy contemplating his unearthly gorgeousness to register the individual words. He’s got the whitest eyeballs I’ve ever seen; they glow like Simon Cowell’s teeth.

      ‘Er,