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rare indeed in Malawi and he may not get the chance to taste one again for quite a while.
    Then we trail along to customs, and that is where we have to say goodbye. It’s kind of upsetting. Pixie starts sobbing and begging Dad not to get himself trampled by a herd of hippos, and I fling my arms round his neck and hang on so tightly I don’t think I will ever let go. Even Becca hugs Dad quickly and tells him things won’t be the same without him.
      
    Well, they won’t. Who will make us beansprout crumble and fig and beetroot upside-down cake now that Dad is going away?
    Hmm – no more disgustingly healthy dinners! I suppose every cloud has a silver lining.
    ‘Well, then,’ Mum says gruffly. ‘Take care, Mike. Keep in touch.’
    Dad just nods and turns towards customs, but right at the last minute he turns back and lifts Mum up in a big bear hug. When they finally pull apart, I notice that Mum is dabbing at her eyes, which has to be a good sign, surely?
    It means she’s going to miss him.
    And then he’s gone, stepping through the magnetic archway and being frisked by uniformed guards before disappearing towards the departure lounge.
    ‘Oh, Mike,’ Mum whispers. ‘You silly, silly man.’
    We head for home.

Demo version limitation

S chool is just about the only thing that keeps me sane, but it is not easy to care very much about long division and spelling tests when everything else is falling to bits. And no, I am not talking about the kitchen cupboard door.
    Miss Moon calls me over to her desk one lunchtime as everyone else is filing out towards the canteen.
    ‘Daizy,’ she says, her green eyes sparkly and kind, ‘is there anything worrying you?’
    I blink.
    Where do I start? I am worried because Dad has been gone for thirteen days now, and we haven’t heard from him for well over a week. I am worried he has forgotten us, or fallen down the well he is digging and drowned. I am worried he has been killed by a python or trampled by an elephant or stung by a deadly mosquito. Even now, he could be lying in a hut made from dusty red bricks, burning up with a fever, delirious, dying. It could happen. He could die without ever knowing that I have discovered my star quality.
    ‘Why do you ask?’ I say, stalling for time.
    Miss Moon opens my English jotter. Earlier on, we were asked to write a poem about how we were feeling today. Maybe I was a bit too honest?
    Sick And Tired
      
    I’m sick and tired of French and maths,
    Sick and tired of playground laughs,
    I’m sick and tired of science and art,
    Cos my whole life is falling apart.
    In Malawi life is tough,
      
    Life is hard and life is rough.
    A mosquito with a nasty bite
    Might come and get you in the night,
    And then you will be really sick,
    No medicine to do the trick.
    I’m sick and tired of all the lies,
    Sick and tired of hungry cries.
    Sometimes it’s too hard to bear,
    Why can life be so UNFAIR?
    Miss Moon looks at me, obviously concerned. ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve mentioned Malawi at school,’ she says. ‘You haven’t been your usual bouncy self just lately, Daizy Star. And then there are the band practices. I can’t help noticing it all sounds very … um … loud and … well, angry.’
    ‘Has Mr Bleecher been complaining?’ I ask.
    ‘Not just Mr Bleecher,’ Miss Moon admits. ‘Several of the teachers have commented. I am all for you and your friends practising your music, Daizy, but as your teacher I am just a little bit concerned.’
    ‘Are you going to stop us from practising?’ I ask, alarmed.
    ‘No, no, of course not!’ she says. ‘I have defended you in the staffroom. This band is obviously very important to you.’
    ‘It is! And besides, we are a thrash-metal-punk band. We are supposed to sound loud and angry!’
    ‘I see,’ she sighs. ‘But, Daizy … I have to ask … is something on your mind?’
    So many things are on my mind, it’s like wearing a concrete sunhat. It weighs me down … and it