*Claps hands!* - I’ve managed to blag an extra hour on the laptop to do homework. Little does Mum know I’m here to write her blogpost. I mean, it’s not like she’ll get around to it herself - *rolls eyes*. She's going through another of her writing crises.
You’d think I’d be the over-emotional one. You know, with boyfriend probs, SATs exams, pressure to binge on cider, do ecstasy (yeah, I read the Daily Mail) or shag (Mum hates that word). But none of that compares to her latest rejection letter or crappy editorial report. And those supportive emails she gets from her writing friends, covered in smilies and kisses… Ugh! I’m never going to be like that when I reach their age. It’s so unsophisticated. You should see the flirty emails she sends to various men at WriteWords… Yeah, okay, I peeked at her inbox. That’ll teach her to read my school journal and spot the detention I forgot to tell her about. Anyway, I left one open on the screen so that Dad might ‘accidentally’ take a look - but all he did was close it so he could Google the football results.
It’s so unfair! I’m not allowed to make friends on Myspace and here she is practically snogging strangers over the internet – some of them have even met up. I mean, how dangerous is that, even writers could be vampire lesbians or axe murderers! And you should see her whenever we shop in Waterstones, announcing their book titles in a loud voice… It’s not like they’re Stephanie Meyer. Or JK Rowling. Or Jordan.
So, what’s all the latest fuss about? *Removes ipod plugs from ears*. Oh God! She’s still ranting on to poor Dad.*Puts plugs back in*. Apparently everyone thinks she should rewrite her latest book for teens. God, that’s random – as if Mum understands anything about being young. So if you’re out there, you sick people (no offence) who suggested this, you are soooo wrong. It’s embarrassing. Did you know Barry Manilow sings her ringtone? She calls funky short skirts “tarty belts” and can’t understand why I’d kill to snog Robert Pattinson. She fancies Simon Cowell - Simon Cowell! - and tries to be what she calls "street" with my friends, chatting about music and downloads. She doesn’t even know her Pixie Lott from Geldof. Why can’t she be like Megan’s mum and just say ‘That’s nice, dear’ before disappearing off to make tea? What’s even more random is that my friends don’t seem to mind and laugh at her jokes.
Then there’s the food – she still adds up my five-a-day and thinks I’m anorexic if I miss breakfast. Although that’s nothing compared to when I brought Tom home last month. Mum had been on at me for weeks, saying its her biological, God-given right to meet my boyfriend. Fine, I eventually said (after she bribed me with several chunky caramel Kit-Kats), as long as she didn’t wear her M&S lycra leggings (she thinks they’re really cool). And it all went okay, even when she asked if his phone had got Greentooth - until she served the pudding: home-made fairy cakes, decorated with pink icing and silver balls.
So please, any of you lot with half a brain – or heart – DON’T GIVE MY MOTHER ANY MORE BONKERS IDEAS!
Better go now. I promised I’d make her and me hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. We’re going to drink them in my room and if she’s still set on this mad teen lit idea, I suppose I could show her some of my favourite books. Then I’ll test out my new foundation on her skin as blotchy red eyes really aren’t a good look. Perhaps I’ll let her try my dazzle eyeshadow from Claire’s. She’ll like that. And I might even laugh at one of her jokes…
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You’d think I’d be the over-emotional one. You know, with boyfriend probs, SATs exams, pressure to binge on cider, do ecstasy (yeah, I read the Daily Mail) or shag (Mum hates that word). But none of that compares to her latest rejection letter or crappy editorial report. And those supportive emails she gets from her writing friends, covered in smilies and kisses… Ugh! I’m never going to be like that when I reach their age. It’s so unsophisticated. You should see the flirty emails she sends to various men at WriteWords… Yeah, okay, I peeked at her inbox. That’ll teach her to read my school journal and spot the detention I forgot to tell her about. Anyway, I left one open on the screen so that Dad might ‘accidentally’ take a look - but all he did was close it so he could Google the football results.
It’s so unfair! I’m not allowed to make friends on Myspace and here she is practically snogging strangers over the internet – some of them have even met up. I mean, how dangerous is that, even writers could be vampire lesbians or axe murderers! And you should see her whenever we shop in Waterstones, announcing their book titles in a loud voice… It’s not like they’re Stephanie Meyer. Or JK Rowling. Or Jordan.
So, what’s all the latest fuss about? *Removes ipod plugs from ears*. Oh God! She’s still ranting on to poor Dad.*Puts plugs back in*. Apparently everyone thinks she should rewrite her latest book for teens. God, that’s random – as if Mum understands anything about being young. So if you’re out there, you sick people (no offence) who suggested this, you are soooo wrong. It’s embarrassing. Did you know Barry Manilow sings her ringtone? She calls funky short skirts “tarty belts” and can’t understand why I’d kill to snog Robert Pattinson. She fancies Simon Cowell - Simon Cowell! - and tries to be what she calls "street" with my friends, chatting about music and downloads. She doesn’t even know her Pixie Lott from Geldof. Why can’t she be like Megan’s mum and just say ‘That’s nice, dear’ before disappearing off to make tea? What’s even more random is that my friends don’t seem to mind and laugh at her jokes.
Then there’s the food – she still adds up my five-a-day and thinks I’m anorexic if I miss breakfast. Although that’s nothing compared to when I brought Tom home last month. Mum had been on at me for weeks, saying its her biological, God-given right to meet my boyfriend. Fine, I eventually said (after she bribed me with several chunky caramel Kit-Kats), as long as she didn’t wear her M&S lycra leggings (she thinks they’re really cool). And it all went okay, even when she asked if his phone had got Greentooth - until she served the pudding: home-made fairy cakes, decorated with pink icing and silver balls.
So please, any of you lot with half a brain – or heart – DON’T GIVE MY MOTHER ANY MORE BONKERS IDEAS!
Better go now. I promised I’d make her and me hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. We’re going to drink them in my room and if she’s still set on this mad teen lit idea, I suppose I could show her some of my favourite books. Then I’ll test out my new foundation on her skin as blotchy red eyes really aren’t a good look. Perhaps I’ll let her try my dazzle eyeshadow from Claire’s. She’ll like that. And I might even laugh at one of her jokes…
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