Or Matilda could tap-dance on a tin tray. I could make the tappy noises with castanets. That should make a few quid before she fell off the tray.

More ideas later.

I’m going to pop down to see the owlets after school for inspiration, and I’ll call for my fun-sized mate Ruby. Connie, the mother owl, will be out night hunting. I hope. I definitely don’t want a repeat of what happened when Alex came with me to see them, and Connie swooped down unexpectedly from the barn roof. And I leapt onto Alex’s back. Like a mad turtle shell.

Hang on a minute. Actually, perhaps I do want a repeat incident of that.

Me on his back. Mmmmmmm Alex.

Me and Alex. The turtle and his shell.

And anyway, when he next sees me, he will find me greatly changed. Changed in a way that makes him think, “Yum yum.” Rather than, “Crikey, I’ve got a shell on my back.”

I’m going to write down what might happen when we next meet.

I will be sitting on a tree felled by lightning. Wearing my new winter shorts with new three-quarter over-the-knee socks, reading a book of poetry.

It is by me.

Reading aloud my latest poem.

On nights like these, I am like a ripe fruit, ready to be plucked.

A peach, a perfect proud peach, a polished purple plum,

A naughty nectarine, a darkly demanding damson … a fat fig.

No, no, not a fat fig. A tall tangerine? Hmmmm.

I am lost to the world. Unaware I am being observed.

My long, black, silky hair tumbles softly, flicked by the prevailing North wind.

Alex watches from the trees, in his frilly shirt and breeches. Then a rude, coarse, red-faced man huffs into view.

It is Ted Barraclough. He says to me in his coarse voice, “This bloody wind is from Russia, the Russkies do it on purpose to spoil my curry nights on Fridays. They know that folk won’t turn out when there’s a cold wind blowing. And stop flicking your hair about, you daft lad.”

But I think he talks rubbish.

I don’t think Ted Barraclough even knows which direction Russia is in.

Crude, coarse Ted leaves and it is then that I notice Alex crouching in the undergrowth.

I am struck dumb by the sudden surging of old familiar feelings.

I know he is at his fine, fancy theater college, but I see he is still wearing the breeches I know so well.

His flouncy white shirt open to the waist.

He runs to me and takes me in his arms. I close my eyes, it is too much, I am melting, I am melting, and he says softly, “Hello. We is here, wiv our bumbums out.”

I opened my bedroom door.

There they were, the mad twins, naked from the waist down.

Looking at me.

Oh goodie.

I can’t believe that Honey is actually leaving. Because of all the Dother Hall business, I haven’t really thought about it properly. The Hollywood people are sending a car to pick her up and take her to the airport today!