Free Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy by Lucy-Anne Holmes Page B

want to become sensible. Now we’re due to promptly start and Mum’s in the newsagents. ‘I just want to pick up a bar of chocolate before we get going,’ she said and off she trotted. My mother eating a chocolate bar. Too weird.
    Philippa and I stand side by side, next to the kebab van. Al squints and fiddles with his camera in front of us. Philippa taps her watch. My arms are folded and I hold a whistle between my lips.
    Philippa shakes her head. ‘I expected more from your mother. Five, four, three, two, one,’ Philippa counts down on her watch. I blow my whistle when she’s finished.
    ‘We don’t allow tardiness on the Tiddlesbury Tour,’ I call shrilly as Mum emerges from the corner shop, unwrapping a Biscuit Boost. A very good choice of confectionary, but Philippa and I start tutting and shaking our heads in unison all the same.
    ‘Whoops,’ she says, quickening her step to get to us.
    Philippa and I look at each other and nod. The show must go on. We turn to our audience and smile. We both proudly hold our arms out towards the chip van, Posh Nosh, as though we are glamorous women on a quiz show demonstrating a prize washer-dryer.
    Arty, who’s setting up inside the van, stands squinting at us and clutching three bags of burger buns.
    ‘This is Arty,’ I say.
    ‘Hello, Arty,’ Philippa says.
    ‘Magnificent buns,’ I add.
    Al mumbles the word arse. I think it’s directed towards the video camera.
    ‘Arty fries things at night for the drunk people in the area,’ I inform them.
    ‘Tiddlesbury would not be Tiddlesbury without him,’ Philippa states.
    Philippa and I take a moment to shake our heads, sadly contemplating what Tidds would be like without Arty and Posh Nosh.
    ‘Thank you, Arty,’ we both say, at the same time, with a lot of feeling.
    ‘We should tell them about Bean Gate,’ I whisper to Philippa.
    ‘We should,’ Philippa hisses back.
    ‘Bean Gate was a period in 2007.’
    ‘A semi-hostile period of time, it must be said.’
    ‘It must.’
    ‘Prior to this semi-hostile period of time in 2007, Arty didn’t sell baked beans,’ Philippa states, like a newsreader.
    We shake our heads in disbelief.
    ‘No, but owing to our forceful negotiation tactics,’ I continue in the serious newsreader style.
    ‘Arty now serves baked beans.’ We both squeal and then clap heartily. We love baked beans.
    ‘But beans aren’t printed on his menu,’ Philippa says, suddenly seriously.
    ‘So you have to ask for them.’
    ‘Another gem of wisdom from the Tiddlesbury Tour!’ we say in a high register together.
    ‘Now let’s say goodbye to Arty…’ Philippa starts.
    ‘And his buns,’ I finish.
    ‘Bubbeye, Arty and his buns,’ we both cheerfully say, and wave.
    Next, Philippa and I walk Mum and Al around in a big loop.
    ‘This here loop we are doing, is known as the Hole,’ I tell them. ‘Al, please look at your mobile phone.’
    ‘Er, not too easy with this camera thing, Fan.’
    ‘But Mother doesn’t have one.’
    ‘Hang about then,’ he pulls it out of the back pocket of his jeans.
    ‘Al, what do you see?’ Philippa asks.
    ‘Um, nothing except I haven’t got any service.’
    ‘Yes, Al, because you are in the Hole,’ Philippa informs him. ‘You won’t get any service in this whole area.’
    ‘It is what is known as an arse. If, Al, you say to your friend, “Friend, I’m going to Posh Nosh, can I get you anything?”’ I say.
    ‘And he says, I’d like a lamb doner,’ Philippa continues.
    ‘Which I’d lay money on will, at some point, happen.’
    ‘Something for you to look forward to, Al,’ Philippa says, smiling sweetly.
    ‘Ah ha, but Al, you get to Posh Nosh, and Arty will say, do you want salad, onions, chilli, chilli sauce, garlic mayo?’
    ‘He’s a very thorough man,’ Philippa interjects.
    ‘But you don’t know, so you take your phone out of your pocket to call your friend.’
    ‘But terror has struck,’ Philippa says dramatically.
    ‘You have no