The boys were in their jimjams now.

Still with their otter hats on.

They started shuffling towards me for more knee-hugging, but Dibdobs stepped in firmly and said, “Let Lullah sit down, boys, and have her supper. Lullah, it’s a local supper.”

Max said, “Bogie supper.”

Dibdobs ignored him although she went a bit red.

“The eggs are from Jessica and Maureen. Maureen’s the one with the clubfoot.”

I was just thinking I didn’t know any woman with a clubfoot when I realized she meant the chicken Maureen.

As I ate my supper, the boys stood about an inch away from me, looking at me and sucking. It was very unnerving. They certainly do not get any less odd.

Dibdobs was prattling on.

“So much going on, Tallulah!! I must tell you about . . .”

At that point Max fell over Micky the tortoise.

Dibdobs laughed and said, “You silly old chap, Max. You just fell over Micky onto your bottom!!!”

The lunatic twins rocked with laughter.

It was like being in the House of the Mad.

Max said out of the side of his dodie, “An’ sjuuuge bumbums. Look at my bumbums!!!!”

And he pulled down his pajama bottoms.

Sam started laughing so much I thought he would choke. And both the boys began yelling, “Bum bum bum bum!”

Dibdobs said, with a fixed smile, “Yes, it is funny, boys, but pull up your jimmies now. That’s enough. You’re BIG boys now, aren’t you, and . . .”

Then they both started rubbing their bottoms together and shouting, “Bummity bum bum.”

Dibdobs lost her rag and flicked at them with her tea towel. “Boys, boys, that’s not funny.”

I quickly finished off Maureen’s egg and stood up. “Well, that was a lovely supper . . . I think I’ll turn in now, just do a bit more creative thinking for tomorrow. Night-night.”

As I went up the wooden stairs, I heard Harold come in. The boys were still squealing and Dibdobs yelling, “What will your father say???”

Harold’s voice rumbled up as I opened my bedroom door. “Put your bottoms away now, boys. I’ve got some live maggots in my pocket.”

When I got into my bed, I flicked through my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary to look at my Lululuuuve List again, and it fell open at the last page.

And there was the poem that Cain had pinned to the tree with a knife.

Written in thick, untidy writing.

Like he had got a twig and dipped it in ink.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

And underneath:

I know tha likes this sort of thing

See thee later.

Did it mean he knew I had liked kissing him?

Did he even know we’d got to Number 6 on my Love List?

No, he couldn’t know that because I’ve just made it up.

What does “this sort of thing” mean?

I could do with some proper girl company.