Me and Mr J. Rachel McIntyre

booth in their garage. Every Saturday morning, Molly and her mum put paper knickers on and spray each other the colour of chicken tikka.

      This is the girl who thinks I’m weird.

       FEBRUARY 24TH

      Hmmm, surreal conversation with Mum at teatime.

      I’d just got back from picking up Gran’s washing and I was telling her about Gran moaning because I’d bought ginger ‘denture wrencher’ biscuits again. (Her words.)

      Anyway, Mum went, ‘That reminds me. I was telling Mrs Hardy-Jones how good you are with your gran. How you do her shopping and washing and watch Noel Edmonds with her and that. And it got me thinking. Molly seems a nice girl . . .’

      She paused while I choked to death on my fishfinger.

      ‘Do you ever hang out with her at school? Only you don’t say much about your friends nowadays. I haven’t even seen Chloe for ages.’

      My internal monologue went like this: Firstly, I don’t have any friends, not even Chloe. And secondly, FYI, Mum, Molly is ‘a nice girl’ in the same way Hitler was ‘a real sweetie’.

      ‘You know, she’s always asking questions about you, asking how you are, what you’ve been up to.’

      Sirens went off in my head. Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! Danger danger!

      ‘What have you told her about me?’

      ‘Nothing really. Er . . . about karate and your paper round, how much you help out with your gran, that sort of thing. She’s a nice, friendly girl showing a polite interest. You’d do well to take a leaf out of her book, you know, make yourself a bit more Peer Sociable. It’s not norm– I mean, it’s not good for you to spend so much time on your own.’

      ‘Peer Sociable’?!

      God help us, she’s been on Netmums again. I wish she wouldn’t do that. It’s embarrassing enough to feel like a friendless loser without your own mother underlining it for you.

      ‘I don’t know where we’d be without the Hardy-Joneses at the moment,’ she said, concluding the Conversation I Did Not Want To Be Having with some more unwelcome info. ‘That cleaning job has been a godsend.’

      Beholden to my orange-skinned nemesis? The thought was so stomach-churning I couldn’t face pudding. I had to give mine to Simon. And it was trifle.

      Mum never mentioned Chloe’s party, so I assume Molly didn’t divulge that particular kick in the teeth. But it’s a never-ending source of fascination at school. The itinerary, the timings, the venue(s), the clothes, the hair products, the co-ordinated toilet roll . . .

      Now the entire class (barring yours truly) has booked in at FunkyFeet for a fish pedicure. Fish pedicure! Jeez. Praying a rookie shoal strips them down to the bone. Chomp chomp. Please, please, Divine Fish God, make it happen.

       FEBRUARY 26TH

      Taaa-daaaah!! I can now declare the Bus Stop Action Plan a success. No major incidents, just a little mild verbal abuse, but nothing I couldn’t fend off with headphones. Anyway, won’t be long now till I can bid a cheery ‘So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Eff Off’ to the Hellbus because the evening paper round starts on Monday. And as I’ve already got nearly £30 in the kitty plus Mum’s donating her Clubcard points (which is so nice of her because I know she wants a new frying pan) I should have enough for the bike by the end of the month.

      AND IT’S HALF-TERM!!!!!

      PS Found out Dognextdoor is called Beyoncé. No kidding, he really is.

       FEBRUARY 28TH

      Happy days, oh happy happy days! A fabulous abuse-free NINE of them to be precise. Well, school abuse anyway. Can’t comment on Mum and Dad who are both ratty as anything. Sadly, that goes hand in hand with no sign of the godlike Mr Jagger for days, which means my half-term cake is plain sponge, slightly stale, no icing.

      Sob.

      In other news, tonight Simon did his sowing-crumbs-across-the-carpet thing literally a nanosecond after I’d hoovered the front room. But when I entirely justifiably smacked him round the head, I got shouted at! Pointed out this was a gross miscarriage of justice, but Dad stropped off mid-rant, tutting as he went.

      When Mum got in, I tried telling her what happened, but I only got as far as, ‘Mum, while you were at work, Simon –’ before she interrupted.

      ‘I’m not interested, Lara.’

      ‘That’s not fair!’

      ‘Well, life’s not fair. I’ve enough on my plate without you two bickering. Sort it out between yourselves.’

      At least Emma’ll be here soon. Finally, someone who doesn’t act like I’m a big fat slug in the garden of life.

      Oh yeah and Mum? Next time, before you lose your rag over Hula Hoops on the stairs, try and remember:

      LIFE’S. NOT. FAIR.