Skinny Melon and Me (9 page)

Alliteration. (Just looked it up in the dictionary.) This
means having two letters the same. B and B. Like bed and breakfast. Or bread and butter.

I have just thought of a joke. If it’s a girl they could call it Bredan, which is Brenda mixed up. Ha ha! That is a Slimey joke. I shall suggest it to them.

Dog’s vomit and earwax, with crusty bits on top. I didn’t ask anyone what it was supposed to be. I think it’s better not to know. I just held my breath and swallowed. I am seriously thinking of taking up Mum’s offer of vegetarian sandwiches. I would if it weren’t for him. Old Slimey. I hate the thought of him crowing because he’s won me over. If I decide to do it, it will be out of sheer desperation and a desire not to be poisoned. Nothing whatsoever to do with him.

When I got in at tea-time he was there, which I didn’t expect him to be as he’d gone off to bore some more poor little kids, showing them how he draws elves. So I told them my idea for calling the baby Bredan and Mum (stupid) said, “Oh, you mean like Bredon Hill? But that’s pronounced Breedon.” Slime got it. He got it straightaway. He said, “Bredan Butter! Brilliant!” and promptly started to sketch a loaf of bread on the kitchen table with his felt-tip pen that he always keeps handy in case sudden inspiration comes to him. Mum said, “Oh! Yes. I see. Then we’d have a Roll and
Butter and a Bread and Butter. Clever!”

Slimey said, “Yes, and if we had another we could call it Toastan.” I have been trying without success to think of other things that go with butter. All I can think of is T.K. Cann-Butter and Chris P. Bredan Butter. But they are not very good.

I suppose you could have Saul T. Butter. That is not bad.

A woman over the road who has just moved in has asked Mum if I’d like to go and have tea tomorrow with her daughter because her daughter is the same age as me and doesn’t yet know anyone. Mum has gone and said that I will! It is terrible the way grown-ups just dispose of one’s life for one. I don’t particularly want to go and have tea with this person’s daughter. She is called Sereena, which I know is not her fault, and her surname is Swaddle, which again I know she cannot be blamed for. Sereena Swaddle. That is alliteration. Mum says it is “unfortunate”, but why she should think it’s any more unfortunate than Belinda or Bernard Butter is beyond me.

Skinny rang later to know if I wanted to go swimming with her tomorrow afternoon and I had to say that I was having tea with this Sereena person. Skinny said “Who?” and I said, “Sereena Swaddle,” and she said, “You’re joking!” I said that I only wished I was. I went back to Mum and said, “Do I have to do this thing?” and she said, “Oh, Cherry, just once! It won’t hurt you. She’s a sweet little thing, I know you’ll like her.”

When Mum said, “sweet little thing” old Slime caught my eye and pulled a face. I’d gone and pulled one back before I could stop myself. I don’t think I ought to do that. It’s like him and me being ganged up together against Mum. Mum must have sensed it because she said, “You can laugh! It’s nice to know there still are some sweet little things … they don’t all clump around in bovver boots shouting four-letter words and watching ghastly horror movies.”

I have just thought of something else that could go with butter. P. Nutt-Butter. That is a good one!

Ha! So much for Mum not letting me go to Gemma’s sleep-over in case she corrupted me. I went to have tea with the Sereena person this afternoon. The sweet little thing who doesn’t swear or watch horror movies. I can see why Mum thought she was a sweet little thing. It is because she has a sweet little face. (Yuck!) She also has long blonde hair and rose-pink cheeks and eyes the size of satellite dishes and blue as whatever’s blue. The sky. Forget-me-nots. Saffires. Rather revolting, really. At least, I think so. But it’s what grown-ups like.

So anyway, we had tea and her mum was there and she’s sort of … frothy. All fizzing and bubbling like Andrew’s Fruit Salts that Dad used to take for his acid indigestion. She kept giggling and saying things like, “Oh, Reena.” (That’s what she calls her. Double yuck.) “Oh, Reena, isn’t this fun! You’ve found a friend already!” But I don’t know whether I want to be her friend. I like to choose my own friends, and besides, I’ve got Skinny.

Afterwards we went up to her room and she said, “What do you want to do?” And I said, “Whatever you want to do.” And she said, “Would you like to see some pictures of people having babies?”

I said, “I’ve seen pictures of people having babies. We did all that in Juniors.”

“All right,” she says. “What about pictures of people completely starkers?” I said, “Where would you get pictures of people starkers?” and she said her best friend Sharon where she used to live had torn them out of a magazine and photocopied them for her. She said some of them were really gross. Do you want to have a look?”

I was tempted to say yes as I thought it would pay
Mum out for not letting me go to Gemma’s sleep-over, and also it would be a new experience and I do believe in having new experiences, but really to be honest I didn’t fancy it, I mean that sort of thing could put you off for life and I would like to grow up to be reasonably normal.

Sereena said, “Oh, well, if you don’t think you can take it, I’ll tell you some jokes instead, shall I?” And before I can stop her she’s telling me all these jokes that her friend Sharon had told her and which I shall not repeat in here as this is a diary and not a reseptikle for filth.

Pause while I look in the dictionary. That word is spelt receptacle. And saffire is spelt sapphire. I am very good at spelling, on the whole. Mrs James said to me the other day (before we had our little talk), “Your spelling and punctuation are excellent, Cherry.” On the other hand I cannot understand figures, which is what Mr Fisher, who takes us for maths, calls “a decided drawback”. Mum can’t understand figures either, and nor can Slimey Roland, but it doesn’t matter to them as they do the sort of jobs where figures are not important. Mr Fisher says that anyone who is not numerate, meaning anyone that can’t add up or subtract, will have a hard time of it in the 21st century. He says we must come to terms with technology or perish.

Computers are technology and I’m not very good with computers, either. I don’t know what I will end up doing. Sweeping the streets, I expect. I don’t think I will be able to work with books like Mum, as I don’t think there will be any books left, just CD Roms, or whatever they are. And I don’t think there will be people drawing pictures of elves, either. It will all be done by computer and people such as myself will be left behind like old empty bottles on the beach.

I tried talking about this with Sereena, thinking I would find out what kind of things she is good at other than telling rude jokes, but you cannot have a proper conversation with her as you can with the Melon. All she can do is bat her
satellite dishes and giggle. Of course the Melon is a bit of an intellectual, I mean, she has a real brain. Sereena’s brain if she has one, is about the size of a pea.

When I got home Mum said, “There! That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I told her it was “enlightening” and she said, “Why? What did you do?” I said, “Read porno mags and told dirty jokes.” Mum laughed. She thought it really funny. “No, seriously,” she said.

I said that seriously we had discussed what we thought would happen in the 21st century and I had come to the melancholy conclusion that far from being a pop star or a judge I would most likely end up living in a cardboard box as I was not numerate and couldn’t make friends with computers the way some people could. Skinny, for example, and Sereena. Mum told me not to be so pessimistic. She said, “You’re like me, you’re into words.” I said yes, but there won’t be any words. Just computerspeak. Mum said, “Oh, what a bleak picture!” I said, “Yes, it is, but I think one has to face facts.”

Mum doesn’t want to face them. She says that if it’s going to be a world without books and pictures then she’d sooner not be here. Slimey didn’t play any part in this conversation as he was upstairs finishing some more elves to meet what is called “a deadline”, meaning (I think) that his publishers will sue him for vast sums of money if he hasn’t drawn the right number by a certain date.

It was nice being on my own with Mum, even if our conversation was rather doom-laden. At least she didn’t
mention the baby, which is now sticking out in front of her like a huge horrible sack of potatoes.

She asked me the other day if I’d like to feel it but I said no, thank you very much. Catch me!

Tomorrow I am going to stay with Dad. Hooray hooray hooray! Three whole days without Slimey Roland! No more stupid jokes, no more stupid cards! I can go to bed at night and know that nobody is going to come creeping along the passage and shoving stuff under my door while I’m asleep, which is something I really hate.

Dad is picking me up in the car. He is driving all the way from Southampton and is arriving at about 9 o’clock, so I must be sure and be up early. I am going to set my alarm. Fortunately I have already packed my case, I did it this morning with Mum’s help. She kept saying things like, “Well, you won’t need all that much, now it’s only for a few days.” She just refuses to
accept that Dad is an important person and cannot simply please himself. This is because he is in an office. All Mum and Slimey ever do is sit at home reading books and drawing elves. But with Dad, there is a great deal depending on him and he has to be prepared to work long hours. It is not his fault. I do wish Mum could see this.

I am going to take my diary with me just in case, but I expect I shall be too busy to write anything in it. The next three days are going to be ACTION PACKED!!!