It was like scrubbing my face with sandpaper. The only good thing about this time of raging hormones was that we were all in the same boat. Hormones are very democratic that way. Nobody dared to tease me about it at school. We didn’t even give Warty Toadskin a hard time, because we were all getting to look more and more like her. And anyway it hadn’t stopped her getting a boyfriend. Only Etienne and Marie were aware that I’d had a hand in bringing the two lovebirds together. It was the first time I’d kept something from my noble Egyptian and it made me feel good, this sign of independence.

As far as Warty’s interior beauty had been concerned, that was easy, I’d just used my imagination. But her physical beauty had posed more of a challenge.

I showed Dad the poem, just so he could check the spelling, because overall I thought it sounded quite tasteful:

Well I know how they call you Wharty Toadskin,

How they also say you’re shaped like a muffin,

And yet me, I adore your humongous nose!

Real beauty’s within: my love is like a red, red rose!

Thighs as vigorous as yours I grately admire,

You flex their mussels at netball and my heart’s on fire.

Then you rise off the ground despite your great size:

Oh! Round as the ball, but like a rocket in my eyes!

And later in the canteen, I watch your jaws chew,

Divine creature, as you wolf down potatoe’s and stew.

So I gaze upon you gobbling, my heart full of love,

Kissing your dark moustashe is all I dream of.

I hope, once you’ve gorged, you’ll say you’ll be mine:

Now look kindly upon me and I’ll really feel fine!

Dad went pale and then the top of his head flushed red. It was obvious he was impressed and overcome with paternal pride.

“Did you notice,” I said, “that the first letters of each line make a word? It’s striking, don’t you think?”

“Warty doesn’t have an h.”

He sank back into the armchair and looked at me thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

“I wrote it on my own,” I added, a bit self-consciously.

“I should hope so,” said Dad. “Two of you would have been overkill.”

“Except for ‘my love is like a red, red rose’, which I found in a book at school.”

“Get some paper. We’re going to improve it.”

“Don’t you like it? I think it’s sensational!”

“Yes, I like it, but we’re still going to improve it. Just a few little things here and there. Don’t you think Mick Jagger ever tries to improve his lyrics? And that poet – Ronsard – do you think he’d still be reducing us to tears if he hadn’t made an effort to lick his poems into shape?”