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Tonight we’re having roast chicken, so if you don’t hear from me again it’s probably because I died of salmonella poisoning.

Ten past five, Tuesday, still middle of June.
    OK, Dad’s mad at me again, and it’s my own fault.
    You know how I’ve been e-mailing Mam without him knowing? Well, yesterday I was just signing off when the doorbell rang, and it was a woman with a clipboard, asking if I wanted to do a survey about eating habits, which, of course, I couldn’t resist.
    I told her that there were ten people living in the house, and that eight of us were allergic to vegetables. I told her that I had popcorn and yoghurt for breakfast, and that my favourite treat was pickled rhubarb, and that one of my brothers would only eat food that was yellow. It was lots of fun.
    I’m not sure how much she believed, but she wrote it all down, and thanked me very politely at the end. After she was gone, I went upstairs to do some painting, and totally forgot that the phone line was still plugged intothe back of the computer. Bad mistake.
    Of course Dad went to make a phone call about ten minutes after he got home, and discovered my mistake. So then we had the Big Investigation, with him standing there like someone out of the Secret Service, and talking about going behind his back, and how could he trust me again, and stuff like that. And of course he went on about the dangers of the Internet, like I knew he would.
    And I’m sure I could still have got away with it if I’d played along, told him how sorry I was, and how I just wanted to keep in touch with Mam in as many ways as I could, and promised him that I wasn’t surfing the net looking for porn, and he probably would have huffed and puffed a bit, and then given in and agreed to let me keep emailing.
    But, of course, I didn’t do the sensible thing at all. I told him I had to go behind his back, because I knew he wouldn’t let me get an e-mail address, because he was such a meanie, and it was my right to use a computer if I wanted, especially if he was going to go off with the first woman who looked at him.
    And as soon as I said that last bit, I knew I’d gone too far. He pressed his lips together and walked over to the computer and plugged it out, and told me that he was bringing it back to work in the morning, since clearly I couldn’t be trusted with it.
    God, he is
such
a pain. Imagine I ever thought I’d miss him, if I’d gone off with Mam.
    But the joke’s on him, because there’s an Internet café in town that he probably doesn’t even know about,and I can call there on my way home from school, and keep on e-mailing Mam, and anyone else I want (although the only other person whose e-mail address I know is Bumble, and I don’t think I’d have much to say to him, seeing as how we’re together every day for about five hours.)
    And since Dad is now convinced that I can’t be trusted, I’ve nothing to lose if I feel like doing something really bad – which is kind of exciting.
    Let’s see what really bad thing I can think of.

Twenty to seven, Monday, beginning of last week of June.
    I’ve really done it now – I’m in the biggest trouble of my life. And you know what the worst bit is? It wasn’t even fun.
    Here’s what happened. I was walking out of Boots this afternoon when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around and this woman said, ‘I need you to come back inside with me now.’
    I looked at her with my most innocent face and asked her why, but she just took me by the elbow and sort of marched me back inside, and I thought it might be better not to make a fuss so I went with her, hoping she couldn’t hear my thumping heart.
    She wasn’t wearing a uniform, just a normal jumper and skirt, so if anyone saw us I could say afterwards that she was my aunt, or something. At least, that’s what I thought then. Anyway, she brought me into a small room and sat me down, and asked me to emptythe pockets of my school blazer, which I did, since I