Misrule

When I finally reached home today Saffy and Sarah were waiting for me. Sarah had brought me another book.

“I am determined to get you addicted to the things,” she said, handing me a
bright pink paperback. “I cannot bear for you to be missing so much. Try this.
It is as unlike poor Gombrich as I could possible find. Hardly any pictures
(and then only black and white and of the crudest kind). Not heavy at all
(observe the cheapness of the paper on which it is printed). and utterly
relevant to you, Rosy Pose!”

Oh good.

“A family story, you see,” continued Sarah. “Concerning (I gather, I must admit
I only skimmed) a family very like yours. Absent father. Slightly daft mother.
No cleaner. Large family of talented children with central focus on the
youngest (a remarkable child)…”

“Yucky pucky,” I said. “I think Molly has read that book. I’ve seen her with
something that looks just like it.”

“Very likely,” said Sarah. “They churn them out by the million. I can get you a
never-ending supply if necessary.”

I said she need not bother. It would almost certainly not be necessary. Then I
attempted to change the subject by pretending to sneeze enormously into Kai’s
fake blood-soaked hanky which he had very kindly lent for the night. It worked
superbly. Saffy and Sarah shrieked like witches and hit me. But they did not
forget the book.

“Try it!” ordered Saffron sternly. “Do not force us to resort to blackmail!”
while Sarah begged, “Oh please read it! Read the first page anyway. Just to get
the page-turning habit. It might lead you on to better things.”

After they had gone (Extra Spanish again) I tried to read that book. I really
did. Sarah’s remarks about the remarkable youngest (to whom I shall refer to as
R Y) made me slightly curious.

R Y was easy to find, there she was first page, second paragraph, very sorry
for herself.

Hmmm.

I hunted her out halfway through and she was still having a bad time.

By the last page R Y was occupying nearly all the print and a quick flip
backwards showed she had been doing this for some chapters. She was getting a
lot of attention (lucky old R Y). Was she pleased at this unmerited rise to
family fame? No. According to her final Big Moan absolutely nothing had
improved.

The End.

That book has nothing to do
with me. Daddy is not absent; he is worrying about me in London. Mummy is not
slightly daft; she is sensibly trying to keep her germs in the shed. I suppose
Mummy’s pictures might safely be called daft, if that is all they were.
Pictures. But of course, they are not. They are dinner money and bags of apples
and car repairs and new trainers and Stay Fresh Muffins. And I am NOTHING LIKE
that dismal remarkable youngest!

Do you think I will still be moaning on the last page?

NO!

Throw the book away!

(Please don't!)