Free Eating Things on Sticks by Anne Fine Page B

sides of my frock in my hands, curtsied before simpering, ‘I’m going to rethite for you a very thad thtory.’
    Already Uncle Tristram was shaking with laughter.
    I clasped my hands together and began the poem that we’d been forced to sit and listen to politely only about EIGHT BILLION TIMES.
    â€˜It wath a dark and fearthome night .
    The kittenth lay thafe in their bathket .
    To go outthide would cauthe them fright .
    No one would even athk it.’
    â€˜Appalling!’ Uncle Tristram crowed with glee. ‘Simply appalling. Oh, don’t stop, Harry!’
    I carried on. It’s a long poem. I was still in the middle when Officer Watkins and Morning Glory came back in. He had his arm around her waist, and they were giggling.
    Uncle Tristram raised a finger. ‘Hush, hush!’ he warbled. ‘While we were waiting, my dearest Titania here embarked on a short recitation. May we just hear her out?’
    Officer Watkins sat down politely. Morning Glory sat on his knee and tickled him behind the ears as I pressed on.
    â€˜Then, through the thnow and through the thleet
    The little kittenth picked their way .
    All dethperate to find a plathe
    Where they could thyelter till the day.’
    Around the tenth verse, Uncle Tristram suddenly covered his face with his hands and rushed out. And as I reached the very last two lines –
    â€˜Came to their mother as a fearthome blow
    To thee thothe little corptheth in the thnow.’
    â€“ I could distinctly hear behind me, through the hole in the windowpane caused by some kamikaze piglet, the sound of roars of laughter that could not possibly have been made by anybody’s real Aunt Susan.
    MY DAILY DIARY
    Finally – finally – Officer Watkins tore himself away from Morning Glory and made for the door.
    â€˜Now don’t forget tomorrow at the fair!’ he told her gaily, stepping out into the garden. Instantly both his shoes sank so deep in the mud he nearly lost them. Prising them upwards, one by one, over and over with a series of horrible sucking noises, he gradually picked his way towards the gate.
    â€˜I ought to dig a drainage ditch through this back garden,’ were his last words. ‘No wonder your apple tree fell over. This place is turning into a swamp.’
    Uncle Tristram and I went back into the living room and scrambled out of our frocks. ‘I saved your bacon there,’ said Uncle Tristram sternly to Morning Glory.
    She looked repentant. ‘Do you mind? Horribly?’
    â€˜I mind,’ said Uncle Tristram. ‘But not horribly . Much as I have adored you, I could no more live on this benighted island than fly to the moon.’
    â€˜What’s wrong with the island?’ demanded Morning Glory.
    â€˜Don’t even start!’ I hissed at Uncle Tristram. ‘Remember she no longer loves you, it’s pouring with rain, and there is still a heap of time before the ferry gets us out of here.’
    He took my point. Pretending he was too busy clearing Aunt Audrey’s clothes off the sofa to get into an argument, he let the matter drop. After a moment, Morning Glory pitched in to help. We heaved the piles of shoes and dresses and corsets tidily into a few massive rubbish bags, and sat down to play cards. Morning Glory kept wriggling. ‘I’m so uncomfortable!’ She reached behind her and tugged out the whalebone corset and the holiday homework I’d stuffed behind the cushion and clean forgotten.
    â€˜What’s this?’
    She glanced down at it. Then she looked at me. Tears sprang into her eyes. She gave a little sob. Then, turning to Uncle Tristram, she told him haughtily, ‘At least there’s someone in your family who appreciates the beauty of this island, and is in harmony with the universe.’
    In blatant astonishment, Uncle Tristram pointed in my direction and said, ‘Who? Him? ’
    She cleared her throat and read aloud the first words of my