Free My Madder Fatter Diary by Rae Earl Page A

expert in Elizabethan court politics? No. Will the dining room be turned into a gym IN THE MIDDLE OF MY A LEVELS? Yes. Will he eat an entire Morrisons swiss roll cake like the rest of us eat a Polo mint? Yes.
    The selfishness of my mum beggars belief. Just go out with a normal man like other women!! I know marriages break down but why can’t she marry someone with loads of money and a decent house. She’s even trying to get preserved lemons from somewhere? PRESERVED LEMONS?! It’s Stamford not Marrakesh. Tinned satsumas are exotic round here love!
    WHY CAN’T WE JUST BE NORMAL?
    Friday 1.6.90
    11.12 a.m.
    Yes Mum, you can revise The Tempest and listen to ‘Our Tune’ on Radio 1 at the same time and ‘Our Tune’ is more entertaining. No Mum I don’t care that you are going to the market to get some onions – WHY IS THAT RELEVANT WHEN SOMEONE ON THE RADIO HAS LOST THE LOVE OF THEIR LIFE HORRIFICALLY?! And yes I will hoover. Does anyone exist in my mum’s life other than her?!
     
    2.36 p.m.
    Just hoovered in time to the theme tune from Shaft ! Think Mrs Maughn from across the road might have seen me but I don’t care. I do not fear people seeing my funkiness. HA! HA! HA!
    Oh I bloody do. If she tells my mum they’ll think I’m going funny again.
    I do feel funny again but it’s nothing to do with Isaac Hayes or Otis Redding.
     
    7.12 p.m.
    Adnan has just arrived. There’s a stinking olive tagine orgy and kissing going on in the kitchen. I’m going down the pub with Dobber where’s there’s just crisps and cider and people under 20 who should be the only ones snogging.
     
    11.48 p.m.
    I sat down the pub tonight telling Dobber about Adnan and in the middle of it she went ‘Ronnie Corbett.’ I was going on a bit and I know she’s got her own stuff to worry about but it was a bit harsh.
    Do I go on, diary? Probably. But no-one else wants to listen and compares me to the Two Ronnies.
    Saturday 2.6.90
    Dobber house. Late. Really late.
    No it was not the best idea preparing for your Shakespeare English A level by getting totally ratted and then hiding under an orange blanket whilst Battered Sausage ran around Dobber’s front room with no clothes on pretending to be a male stripper and gyrating on the orange blanket to ‘Hear the Drummer Get Wicked’ by Chad Jackson. But that’s what has just happened.
    Sunday 3.6.90
    4.15 p.m.
    Somewhere along the way I have gone drastically wrong. My being is so consumed with the most hateful anger. I want to scream and kick it all out of me. Punch it out till I bleed and others finally see it.
    My home life is total bollocks at the moment. They have no idea what it does to me. There’s no stability. Mum is either horrible or finding herself or making Adnan a massive non-pork sandwich. I’m staying round Dobber’s. I want somewhere safe and secure. Vine Street is it.
     
    Monday 4.6.90
    5.45 p.m.
    Ladies and gentlemen I am fucking up my A levels!
    It went alright. It’s English. Let’s start well and then spiral down like a massive crashing-on-fire plane disaster.
    I can’t think about Lockerbie. It proves you are not safe anywhere. Even at home. That night I wanted to sleep in the garden but Mum wouldn’t let me because I was really ill then. And it was December and freezing.
    Tuesday 5.6.90
    7.23 p.m.
    A levels have turned into a total fashion parade. You won’t believe how many clothes some of my mates have. Some are coming with a different outfit to get changed into after the exam! Loads of white Laura Ashley shirts and riding ankle boots. And the make-up?! They look like Yasmin Le Bon. It must take them ages to get it plastered on. These are like proper women that juggle revision and sex. I juggle sandwiches and avoiding revision by watching the bloody Open University.
    Perhaps I can just stay in Stamford and get a degree off the TV.
    That’ll cost though as our TV is still on a meter. Sorry I couldn’t finish my essay professor, we ran out of fifty pence