Skinny Jeans Have No Place On These Thighs
"Say Hello To My Little Friend."
I think I might start keeping a food diary. I'll buy a note book and if the pages are blank then I'll know I'm doing a good job.
I managed to avoid the take away last night. My Mum tried to talk to me through the door but I pretended to be asleep. Unfortunately since it was six o clock on a Friday night, I don't think I convinced her.
By the time I wake up in the morning, she's already gone to the gym. My Mum never used to go to the gym when my Dad was around. She always said she didn't have the time.
The way she said it made it sound like any spare time she had she wanted to spend with him but that wasn't it. Mum never had any spare time, that's why my Dad and I got along so well. We were forced together. It was either that or die of boredom.
I'm not going to think about Dad though. There's no point wasting a lovely Saturday.
I take my book Slaughterhouse 5 into the garden and lie lazily in the hammock. I can't sit in my room because . . . well, when you've been grounded a lot you tend to grow to hate your room a little bit. It's not exactly a cell but you get what I'm trying to say.
The more I think about it, Mum has less spare time now. Or at least she should do. Working, looking after me (and by looking after I mean nagging, bossing around, delegating, etc, etc), talking to the police about my Dad, although she hasn't done that in a while.
Before Mum always liked to read the paper in the bed with a cup of tea and some scrambled egg on toast. But for the last three weeks, she's been getting up really early, going the gym and not getting back until at least four in the afternoon.
The first time it happened, I'd brought up her breakfast on the tray only to find she'd gone out. So I ate the egg on toast, left half the tea and did the sudoku in the paper. I'd like to read a whole newspaper one day but they're just so long. And plus, they're really awkward to hold.
Apparently it's illegal to sell fish and chips in newspaper. Probably something to do with the ink.
When Mum got back that day, I tried to make her breakfast again, only of course this time it was more like afternoon tea. But she turned her nose up at it and only nibble at the egg whites, mumbling something about needing the protein and then complained that I'd given her white bread, not wholemeal, and put sugar in her tea. Then I grumbled that if she was going to change the way she had her tea, the least she could do was to tell me.
Then I spent the rest of the day in my room because that, apparently, had been far too much cheek for a girl of my age.
My Mum should hear the way Izzie talks to her Dad. She's rude, unappreciative . . . yet ALWAYS, without fail, gets her own way. How?!
Bridget is sort of the balance in between us here. Her parents are easy going but she never takes them for granted. I suppose that it helps having an older sibling who's already broken all the barriers. Now Bridget is reaping the rewards. Seb managed to get most of his work done while still being a 'one'.
My Mum used to say Seb was a 'one' - I never quite understood what she meant though.
"Hey, loser."
I look up then and nearly fall out of the hammock. Because there, leaning on my garden fence, is Marcus!
It's very hard to get out of a hammock gracefully so I just swing my legs around and hope to God that I don't look too terrible.
"Oh my God, what are you doing here?"
I try so hard to sound casual but it just doesn't work!
"No reason. Just . . . say hello to my little friend."
My heart shudders as he reaches down behind the gate. What is he doing? That definitely sounded rude! But then Marcus grins at me and waves my phone in the air.
I sigh in a minor relief - it's too early for that sort of talk. And I don't want to see his little friend. Well, I do and I don't.
Marcus pushes the gate open and wanders into my garden, looking around appreciatively. For once in my life, I'm glad that my Mum brings a gardener in once a fortnight. It does make a difference. Only . . . do I look like a spoiled, pampered little princess now? With my gardener and my hammock?
Oh God, I have to say something!
"Thanks for - for getting it back."
"No problem baby. Next time, don't get it nicked by a drug lord."
I laugh even though this is horribly unfair. If Marcus had given me the fifty pounds in the first place, Iggy Popper wouldn't have held my phone to ransom.
I force myself to forget about that though - I mean, who cares in the long run? And besides, if it hadn't happened, Marcus wouldn't be here in my garden right now. So maybe everything does happen for a reason.
"Make me a cup of tea baby, I'm parched from the walk over here."
God, I'd make you anything you like Marcus. Horse on toast, baby alligator fingers, as long as you stay here forever!
I managed to avoid the take away last night. My Mum tried to talk to me through the door but I pretended to be asleep. Unfortunately since it was six o clock on a Friday night, I don't think I convinced her.
By the time I wake up in the morning, she's already gone to the gym. My Mum never used to go to the gym when my Dad was around. She always said she didn't have the time.
The way she said it made it sound like any spare time she had she wanted to spend with him but that wasn't it. Mum never had any spare time, that's why my Dad and I got along so well. We were forced together. It was either that or die of boredom.
I'm not going to think about Dad though. There's no point wasting a lovely Saturday.
I take my book Slaughterhouse 5 into the garden and lie lazily in the hammock. I can't sit in my room because . . . well, when you've been grounded a lot you tend to grow to hate your room a little bit. It's not exactly a cell but you get what I'm trying to say.
The more I think about it, Mum has less spare time now. Or at least she should do. Working, looking after me (and by looking after I mean nagging, bossing around, delegating, etc, etc), talking to the police about my Dad, although she hasn't done that in a while.
Before Mum always liked to read the paper in the bed with a cup of tea and some scrambled egg on toast. But for the last three weeks, she's been getting up really early, going the gym and not getting back until at least four in the afternoon.
The first time it happened, I'd brought up her breakfast on the tray only to find she'd gone out. So I ate the egg on toast, left half the tea and did the sudoku in the paper. I'd like to read a whole newspaper one day but they're just so long. And plus, they're really awkward to hold.
Apparently it's illegal to sell fish and chips in newspaper. Probably something to do with the ink.
When Mum got back that day, I tried to make her breakfast again, only of course this time it was more like afternoon tea. But she turned her nose up at it and only nibble at the egg whites, mumbling something about needing the protein and then complained that I'd given her white bread, not wholemeal, and put sugar in her tea. Then I grumbled that if she was going to change the way she had her tea, the least she could do was to tell me.
Then I spent the rest of the day in my room because that, apparently, had been far too much cheek for a girl of my age.
My Mum should hear the way Izzie talks to her Dad. She's rude, unappreciative . . . yet ALWAYS, without fail, gets her own way. How?!
Bridget is sort of the balance in between us here. Her parents are easy going but she never takes them for granted. I suppose that it helps having an older sibling who's already broken all the barriers. Now Bridget is reaping the rewards. Seb managed to get most of his work done while still being a 'one'.
My Mum used to say Seb was a 'one' - I never quite understood what she meant though.
"Hey, loser."
I look up then and nearly fall out of the hammock. Because there, leaning on my garden fence, is Marcus!
It's very hard to get out of a hammock gracefully so I just swing my legs around and hope to God that I don't look too terrible.
"Oh my God, what are you doing here?"
I try so hard to sound casual but it just doesn't work!
"No reason. Just . . . say hello to my little friend."
My heart shudders as he reaches down behind the gate. What is he doing? That definitely sounded rude! But then Marcus grins at me and waves my phone in the air.
I sigh in a minor relief - it's too early for that sort of talk. And I don't want to see his little friend. Well, I do and I don't.
Marcus pushes the gate open and wanders into my garden, looking around appreciatively. For once in my life, I'm glad that my Mum brings a gardener in once a fortnight. It does make a difference. Only . . . do I look like a spoiled, pampered little princess now? With my gardener and my hammock?
Oh God, I have to say something!
"Thanks for - for getting it back."
"No problem baby. Next time, don't get it nicked by a drug lord."
I laugh even though this is horribly unfair. If Marcus had given me the fifty pounds in the first place, Iggy Popper wouldn't have held my phone to ransom.
I force myself to forget about that though - I mean, who cares in the long run? And besides, if it hadn't happened, Marcus wouldn't be here in my garden right now. So maybe everything does happen for a reason.
"Make me a cup of tea baby, I'm parched from the walk over here."
God, I'd make you anything you like Marcus. Horse on toast, baby alligator fingers, as long as you stay here forever!
♠ ♠ ♠
"Say Hello To My Little Friend" is (obviously) a reference to Scarface. Ella, being the naive uncultured lass she is, doesn't get this reference.So in case you thought Marcus was being rude, he wasn't. Although he probably mildly enjoyed making Ella feel vaguely uncomfortable for a few seconds.
Anyway, Marcus is back in the fray.
Wonder if it's just tea he's after . . .