don’t know half of it
, I thought as Iclimbed into the back of the car with Rosie. I wished I could tell Mum what was going on, but I knew it would have been a mistake. Mum would have dived in to try to sort everything out, and then everything would end up even worse than before. So I didn’t say any more, as Dad revved up the car and we set off for our day out.
* * *
We had a lovely time. It was really warm so we decided to go to the beach. For a while I made sandcastles with Rosie, Dad read the paper, and Mum did her knitting. She was knitting something in thick, hard wool the colour of green slime. It was probably a surprise jumper for someone – a very scary surprise. I hoped it wasn’t for me.
After a while, we were all hot and sweaty, so we decided to go for a swim. It was fun, once I got over the shock of seeing my family’s swimming clothes. (After two weeks with normal people, I’d almost forgotten how weird my family was.) Mum’s swimming togs were huge and covered with fading flowers. They looked like they had once belonged to her granny’s granny. Poor Rosiewas wearing a floppy bikini that looked suspiciously as if Mum had knitted it. (Luckily Rosie is too young to be as embarrassed as she should be by that sort of thing.) Dad was in horrible, tight shiny swimming trunks that made a lot of people stare at him, and two little boys laugh out loud.
We swam until we were all shivery and my fingers were turning white. Then we raced back to our stuff and wrapped ourselves in our towels and tried not to think cold thoughts.
When we were all dry and warm again, Mum started to root around in one of the huge bags she always seems to carry around with her.
‘I’ve brought a picnic,’ she said with a big grin – like that was something that would make us all jump up and down with joy.
First she pulled out a bag of bananas, but it looked like someone had sat on them. They were so badly squashed that even Mum (who thinks wasting food is almost as bad as killing someone) didn’t try to insist that we eat them.
Next she rooted in another bag and produced apack of (and I’m not joking here) chick-pea sandwiches. For the millionth time I wondered why I couldn’t have had a mum who put normal stuff in sandwiches like ham or chicken or cheese. The sandwiches had been left lying in the sun, though, and they smelled so bad that even Dad wouldn’t eat them. (And he’d eat practically anything).
‘Oh well,’ said Mum. ‘Looks like we’ll have to go straight on to our treat.’ As she spoke she pulled out another package. ‘It’s my special sugar-free, fat-free cookies.’
I sighed. I should have known she wouldn’t have brought a real treat. Mum’s sugar-free, fat-free cookies were also taste-free – unless you think dried-up sawdust has a taste.
Rosie squealed.
‘Yippee. Cookies,’ she said, jumping in the air. As she landed, she knocked the package from Mum’s hand and the cookies flew into the sand. For a minute I thought Rosie had done it deliberately, then I remembered that Rosie is so innocent, she actually likes Mum’s cookies. Thepoor child doesn’t know what real cookies are supposed to taste like.
‘Ooops. Sorry, Mum,’ she said.
So that was the end of Mum’s picnic.
I tried not to look too happy.
‘There’s nothing for it,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll have to walk to the nearest shop and buy us some food.’
I gulped. There was no telling what she’d bring back. There was every chance we’d end up sitting on the beach eating cold butter beans, or something totally gross like that.
Dad must have seen the scared look on my face.
‘No, Sheila,’ he said. ‘That wouldn’t be fair. You were up early packing all that lovely food for us. You rest here with the girls, and I’ll go and buy us something to eat.’
After Mum had spent twenty minutes telling him about the food pyramid, and hydrogenated fats and all that boring stuff, Dad set off for the shop.
Fifteen minutes
, I thought as Iclimbed into the back of the car with Rosie. I wished I could tell Mum what was going on, but I knew it would have been a mistake. Mum would have dived in to try to sort everything out, and then everything would end up even worse than before. So I didn’t say any more, as Dad revved up the car and we set off for our day out.
* * *
We had a lovely time. It was really warm so we decided to go to the beach. For a while I made sandcastles with Rosie, Dad read the paper, and Mum did her knitting. She was knitting something in thick, hard wool the colour of green slime. It was probably a surprise jumper for someone – a very scary surprise. I hoped it wasn’t for me.
After a while, we were all hot and sweaty, so we decided to go for a swim. It was fun, once I got over the shock of seeing my family’s swimming clothes. (After two weeks with normal people, I’d almost forgotten how weird my family was.) Mum’s swimming togs were huge and covered with fading flowers. They looked like they had once belonged to her granny’s granny. Poor Rosiewas wearing a floppy bikini that looked suspiciously as if Mum had knitted it. (Luckily Rosie is too young to be as embarrassed as she should be by that sort of thing.) Dad was in horrible, tight shiny swimming trunks that made a lot of people stare at him, and two little boys laugh out loud.
We swam until we were all shivery and my fingers were turning white. Then we raced back to our stuff and wrapped ourselves in our towels and tried not to think cold thoughts.
When we were all dry and warm again, Mum started to root around in one of the huge bags she always seems to carry around with her.
‘I’ve brought a picnic,’ she said with a big grin – like that was something that would make us all jump up and down with joy.
First she pulled out a bag of bananas, but it looked like someone had sat on them. They were so badly squashed that even Mum (who thinks wasting food is almost as bad as killing someone) didn’t try to insist that we eat them.
Next she rooted in another bag and produced apack of (and I’m not joking here) chick-pea sandwiches. For the millionth time I wondered why I couldn’t have had a mum who put normal stuff in sandwiches like ham or chicken or cheese. The sandwiches had been left lying in the sun, though, and they smelled so bad that even Dad wouldn’t eat them. (And he’d eat practically anything).
‘Oh well,’ said Mum. ‘Looks like we’ll have to go straight on to our treat.’ As she spoke she pulled out another package. ‘It’s my special sugar-free, fat-free cookies.’
I sighed. I should have known she wouldn’t have brought a real treat. Mum’s sugar-free, fat-free cookies were also taste-free – unless you think dried-up sawdust has a taste.
Rosie squealed.
‘Yippee. Cookies,’ she said, jumping in the air. As she landed, she knocked the package from Mum’s hand and the cookies flew into the sand. For a minute I thought Rosie had done it deliberately, then I remembered that Rosie is so innocent, she actually likes Mum’s cookies. Thepoor child doesn’t know what real cookies are supposed to taste like.
‘Ooops. Sorry, Mum,’ she said.
So that was the end of Mum’s picnic.
I tried not to look too happy.
‘There’s nothing for it,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll have to walk to the nearest shop and buy us some food.’
I gulped. There was no telling what she’d bring back. There was every chance we’d end up sitting on the beach eating cold butter beans, or something totally gross like that.
Dad must have seen the scared look on my face.
‘No, Sheila,’ he said. ‘That wouldn’t be fair. You were up early packing all that lovely food for us. You rest here with the girls, and I’ll go and buy us something to eat.’
After Mum had spent twenty minutes telling him about the food pyramid, and hydrogenated fats and all that boring stuff, Dad set off for the shop.
Fifteen minutes
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