LITMIR.BIZ

      Once I am into my clothes I go racing to Mum’s room to make sure that she is awake. Dad has to leave home at six o’clock to go and clean windows with his friend Garry, and sometimes after he’s gone Mum falls asleep again. If I don’t wake her she would be late for work and then she would be threatened with the sack, which is what happened once before.

      My nan says, “Oh, really, Sandra!” (Sandra is my mum’s name.) “Fancy having to rely on a child to get you up! Why on earth don’t you set your alarm?”

      But the one time Mum set the alarm for seven, after Dad had gone off, she forgot to put it back again to 5.30 and Dad didn’t wake up next morning, so then he was late and that made him fly off the handle, and that is why I have taken charge. It is easier for me to do it. I don’t mind waking up.

      After I have shaken Mum, I go into the kitchen and make some tea and toast. I then go back to Mum’s room to check that she is still awake. Sometimes she is, but more often she has gone and nodded off again. It isn’t Mum’s fault that she can’t wake up in the mornings. She’s just not very good at it. Some people are and some people aren’t, and Mum is one of the ones that aren’t. But it’s all right, because she’s got me. She says, “What I’d do without my Mand, I don’t know.”

      Mum is Sand and I am Mand. I think that’s really neat!

      Dad is Barry. It occurs to me that if they had another baby and it was a boy, they could call it Harry and then we would have Barry and Harry, and that would be neat, as well. I’d quite like a baby brother, but Nan says, “Heaven forbid! They can’t even cope with one of you.” So I don’t think, alas, that they will have another baby. Apart from anything else, where would it sleep?

      All we have in this upstairs part of the house is one bedroom for Mum and Dad, one (tiny little) bedroom for me, one room for sitting in, one which is a kitchen, and one which is the bathroom, though that is just a measly bit of room shaped like a wedge of cheese, half-way down the stairs, that we have to share with old Misery Guts, who moans like crazy about tide marks round the bath and hairs in the wash basin. She also used to moan about us using her loo paper, so now she carries her own roll with her whenever she goes there.

      Now I’ve forgotten where I was.

      I know! Telling about my day.

      So. Right. As soon as I’ve eaten a bit of toast, and Mum’s had her cup of tea, we go down the stairs, on tiptoe because of Misery Guts, and close the front door behind us really quietly, and run up the road together, laughing, as it is always a relief to know that a) Mum is not late and won’t be threatened with the sack and b) we have not disturbed old Misery Guts and been yelled at.

      Poor Mum! She hates being yelled at. She’s quite a timid person, really. I am more like Dad. I am FIERCE. What my nan calls “aggressive and up-front”. But she can talk! We both take after her. Dad’s dad, my grandy, is well under her thumb. That’s what Mum says, anyway.

      Mum hasn’t got a mum and dad. She was dumped when she was just a little kid. I think it must be so terrible to feel that you’re not wanted. That is something I have never felt. I know I was a mistake, because Nan has often told me so. She says that Mum and Dad were “no more than children themselves” and “far too young to go having babies”. But once they’d got over their surprise they were really pleased. Mum says I’m the cleverest thing she’s ever done. She says, “Your dad was so excited! He even came to the hospital to see you arrive!”

      So I know that I am loved and wanted. I just wish I could be certain that Mum and Dad love and want each other. I think they do, ’cos they always kiss and make up and Dad is always buying Mum little presents to show how much she means to him. But it just would be nice to be certain sure.

      Now I’ve gone and lost track again. Miss Foster – she’s our teacher at school – she’d say I’m not concentrating. She’s always accusing me of not concentrating.

      OK. So now I am! This is what happens after me and Mum have left the house.

      We walk as far as the tube station together, then Mum kisses me goodbye and I go on to school. I always turn at the corner and wave, and Mum waves back. For the rest of the day, I can’t wait for school to end so that I can go back home again.

      I can’t stand school. There’s this girl in my class called Tracey Bigg who really bugs me. She’s really got it in for me. This is because one time when Oliver Pratt was blubbing and Tracey Bigg and her mates were making fun of him, I went to his rescue. Like Tracey was jeering at him and calling him a crybaby so I told her to stop it and she said, “Who do you think you are?” and I said I knew who I was and if she didn’t shut her mouth I’d shut it for her and she goes, “Oh, yeah?” and I go, “Yeah,” and we have this huge big fight and Oliver just stands there with his finger in his mouth, gorming. I mean, he is a total nerd but he can’t help it. I don’t expect he can. It isn’t any reason to be horrid to him. But lots of people are, like Billy Murdo and his gang. Bully Murdo, I call him.

      See, if you’re not the same as all the rest, you get picked on. Oliver’s not the same ‘cos he’s a bit, well, sort of slow; and I’m not the same ‘cos—I don’t really know why I’m not the same. But Miss Foster’s always getting at me and making me feel like I’m useless. I wish I could go to an acting

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