Blabber Mouth Read Free

milk bar man must have been right because as we left, a man in a brown suit glared at us from the menswear shop next door.
    We went to the pub and had lemon squash and played pool. Dad slaughtered me as usual, but I didn’t mind. One of the things I really like about Dad is he doesn’t fake stuff just to make you feel better. So when he says good things you know he means it. Like on the pool table today when I cracked a backspin for the first time and he said how proud it made him because he hadn’t done it till he was thirteen.
    When we got back here the sun was going down but Dad let me drive the tractor round the orchard a few times while he stood up on the engine cover waving a branch to keep the mozzies off us.
    I was feeling so good by then I didn’t even mind his singing.
    We came inside and made fried eggs and apple fritters, which everyone thinks sounds yukky but that’s only because they don’t know how to make it. You’ve got to leave the eggs runny.
    After dinner we watched telly, then I went to bed.
    Dad came in and gave me a hug.
    I switched the lamp on so he could hear me.
    â€˜If you ever get really depressed about anything,’ I said, ‘feel free to use the school stationery cupboard, but take a peg for your nose.’
    Dad grinned.
    â€˜Thanks, Tonto,’ he said. ‘Anyone who doesn’t want to be your mate has got bubbles in the brain. Or frogs in the mouth.’
    I hugged him again and thought how lucky I am to have such a great Dad.
    It’s true, I am.
    He’s a completely and totally great Dad.
    Except for one little thing.
    But I don’t want to think about that tonight because I’m feeling too happy.

I love talking in my head.
    For a start you can yak on for hours and your hands don’t get tired. Plus, while you’re yakking, you can use your hands for other things like making apple fritters or driving tractors or squeezing pimples.
    Pretty yukky, I know, but sometimes Dad gets one on his back and can’t reach it so I have to help him out.
    Another good thing about conversations in your head is you can talk to whoever you like. I talk to Kylie Minogue and the federal Minister for Health and Lisa from ‘The Simpsons’ and all sorts of people. You can save a fortune in phone bills.
    And, if you want to, you can talk to people who’ve died, like Mum or Erin my best friend from my last school.
    I don’t do that too much, but, because it gets pretty depressing.
    It’s depressing me now so I’m going to stop thinking about it.
    The best thing about talking in your head is you can have exactly the conversation you want.
    â€˜G’day Dad,’ you say.
    â€˜G’day Ro,’ he answers.
    â€˜Dad,’ you say, ‘do you think you could back off a bit when you meet people from my new school cause I’m really worried that even if they get over the frog incident none of them’ll want to be friends with the daughter of an apple cowboy who sings at them and even if they do their parents won’t let them.’
    â€˜Right-o,’ he says, ‘no problem.’
    People pay attention when you talk to them in your head.
    Not like in real life.
    In real life, even if you’re really careful not to hurt their feelings, and you just say something like ‘Dad, could you wear a dull shirt and not sing today please’, people just roll their eyes and grin and nudge you in the ribs and say ‘loosen up, Tonto’ and ‘the world’d be a crook place without a bit of colour and movement’.
    He’s yelling at me now to get out of the shower because I’ll be late for school and the soap’ll go squishy and the water always sprays over the top of the curtain when I stand here and think.
    How come he knows when a shower’s going over the top, but he doesn’t know when he is?
    I wish I hadn’t mentioned Erin because now I’m feeling squishy