Free The Donut Diaries by Dermot Milligan Page B

went and did it anyway.
    I think he understood.
    DONUT COUNT:

Sunday 1 October
    I HAD TO do a family tree, for history homework. We were supposed to stick in pictures of any relatives we could find in the right place in the tree diagram. We have a load of family photograph albums in the cupboard under the bookshelves and I got them out and had a look through. All the usual baby pictures: plenty of embarrassing ones of me on the potty, etc., plenty of pink ones of Ruby, and lots with Ella staring moodily into the camera, like she’s got terrible deep dark thoughts, even though she’s only three.
    There were other albums with pictures before we were even born. Pictures of Mum and Dad looking happy. These days my dad looks depressed and my mum looks cross or busy, but in these pictures they were always smiling or laughing. And sometimes, disgusting though it is, snogging. I mean, why would you start snogging when someone’s about to take your picture? It’s just plain crazy. Snog some other time. Or, better still, DON’T SNOG AT ALL.
    Then there were even older albums with pictures of my dad when he was a kid with Uncle Kevin and Granny and Grandad. And there was an album with Grandma and Grandpa, Mum’s parents, that is. But, weirdly, there were hardly any of Mum in them. There were some of when she was a baby, and then a toddler with yellow hair and blue eyes, but none of her as an older kid, a teenager or whatever.
    Anyway, I knew that I couldn’t just rip the photos out of the album, so I banged on the toilet door and asked my dad if there were any loose pictures I could use. He huffed and puffed and then went up into the loft and came down with a carrier bag full of photos.
    ‘Have a look through this lot,’ he said, and disappeared back to the loo.
    I poured the photos out onto the living-room floor. Most of them were just rubbishy versions of the ones in the albums, with someone looking the wrong way or their mouth at a funny angle or everything out of focus , except for a pigeon flying past. And then I saw something truly weird. There was a picture of a fat girl. It looked a bit like Ruby, except it was obviously from the Olden Days because of the clothes.
    Then the door opened and my mum came in.
    ‘What’s all this mess?’ she shrieked. And then her face went hard and white, like stone. And suddenly I realized who the fat girl was.
    It was her.
    My mum.
    My super-yogarized, incredibly skinny mum.
    She came over and shoved all the photos back in the carrier bag, without saying a word.
    So, that’s it. That’s why she’s so bothered about me being a bit overweight. She’d been a fatty.
    At least it took my mind off the poo.
    Until now.

    The little pot is on my windowsill. I can hear it calling me in its mocking voice.
    ‘Fill me. Fill me. If you dare.’
    DONUT COUNT:

Monday 2 October
    THE GENERAL WEIRDNESS continues. Today it was Tamara Bello, of all people. I was putting some stuff in my locker, and when I closed the door she was there. I think I might have let out a little squeak.
    NOTE TO SELF: DO LESS SQUEAKING .
    Tamara, as usual, looked at me like I was something she’d squeezed out of a spot. Not that she’s got any spots. Her skin is so perfect you’d think she was a cyborg. She probably is a cyborg. One of the ones that gets sent back from the future. I don’t know yet if she was sent back to destroy me or to save me. Maybe she was just sent back to ignore me, although I suppose that would be pretty stupid, and they probably just shouldn’t have bothered.
    ‘You should watch out,’ she said.
    ‘Eh?’
    NOTE TO SELF: DON’T SAY ‘EH?’ WHILST WEARING A GORMLESS EXPRESSION: YOU LOOK AND SOUND LIKE A VILLAGE IDIOT .
    ‘Steerforth.’
    ‘Eh?’
    DID YOU NOT LISTEN TO THE LAST ‘NOTE TO SELF’? WHAT’S THE POINT IN WRITING THESE THINGS DOWN IF YOU DON’T PAY ATTENTION!
    Then I remembered who Steerforth was.
    ‘Oh, the FHK.’
    Now it was Tamara’s turn to look puzzled, although