Mmmmmm, Alex.

Last term I saw him up here, looking out to the moors.

Like Mr. Darcy. Only not in pantaloons and a ruffled shirt. He turned and saw me and he said, “Hey, Lullah!” and hugged me. In a proper huggy way. I felt myself melt. I don’t mean I actually melted, I just mean . . . anyway, it doesn’t matter whether I melted or not. It was just me and him in Brontë country. It was a perfect opportunity for him to kiss me.

But then “she” came wafting out of a field like a . . . like a . . . twit. A twit in a floaty dress. He introduced us: “Meet Candice. She’s at college with me.” Then he kissed her on the lips.

Do boys like twits in floaty dresses? I haven’t asked Cousin Georgia that. She’s told me some number-one rules that they do like. Boys, I mean.

Like when you want them to like you, you have to have “sticky eyes.” Not like eyes with glue on, just eyes that do “looking up, looking down, and then just looking, full-on looking at them.”

Georgia said you mustn’t accidentally do sticky eyes when a boy says something so stupid you are just staring at him in disbelief. Because they will get the wrong impression and think that you actually like them. In an “I fancy you” way.

Another number-one top tip Georgia says is that boys like you to say nice things to them and praise them for stuff. Even if they unexpectedly do a backflip or something.

You have to say, “Golly, that’s the best backflip I’ve ever seen.”

I said to Georgia, “No fool would believe that you really liked people doing backflips.”

Georgia said, “Boys will. If you say something nice to them and give them praise, they are like jelly boys and you can do anything with them.”

My brother, Connor, thinks he is the world’s top farter. Which he probably is, but I’m not going to give him praise for that. Otherwise he would do it all day.

He does do it all day.

I’ve got a photo from Georgia to remind me of her. I’ve stuck it in my Darkly Demanding Damson Diary. It’s of her and her Ace Gang all sitting in those big teacups that go round and round at fairgrounds. They’re supposed to be for tiny toddlers. In fact, there were some little children in the background crying.

On the back of the photo it says, Send us the latest on the DBC of H. Yours sincerely, A Friend. And some other friends. In our cups.

Georgia wants the latest on the DBC of H, which is Cain. Because I call him the Dark Black Crow of Heckmondwhite. But there won’t be anything to tell her because I won’t be having anything to do with him.

EVER again.

Whoever he is.

And if and when I do see him, I’m going to make it clear that what happened—you know, the accidental snogging incident on the moorland path—was . . .