Live and Fabulous! Read Free

men, Veronica,” says Mum sagely, “you’d be better off with a sock puppet.”
    I tend to take Mum’s man advice with a pinch of salt. She always refers to her marriage to Dad as “a drunken bet gone too far.”
    (For more wisdom refer to the appendix.)
    Then suddenly, we hear some footsteps on the stairs.
    JIMI STEELE! HOSANNNNNA!!! LET’S PARTY!
    Er, not quite.
    â€œAhoy, ladies!” says my father, Lawrence “Loz” Ripperton, proprietor of the Fantastic Voyage, appearing in the doorway with a vast grin plastered across his face. My five-month-old baby brother, Seth Otis Ripperton, is strapped to his chest in a powder-blue papoose, snoozing.
    â€œHowdy!” chirps Loz. “Ah, it’s good to see the womenfolk of the Fantastic Voyage all present and accounted for.”
    My father has somehow missed that while his daughter is sobbing, his wife is dressed as an insane parachute commander.
    â€œWe menfolk have been to a meeting,” Dad says, patting Seth’s tiny head.
    I look at Dad with total bemusement. “You’ve just attended the Garstang Brewery summer finance general meeting with Seth strapped to your front in a pastel papoose?” I ask witheringly.
    â€œI know!” says Dad proudly.
    What is happening to my life? Here is a man who, until a year ago, wouldn’t drink a wine cooler in public for fear it made him look “a bit gay.” Now he’s waltzing about like Mary flipping Poppins.
    It’s a world gone mad, I tell you.
    I want my old, predictable parents back.
    This is yucky.
    Everything these days pivots around the desires of Seth Ripperton.
    Night and day. Day and night. It’s like they’ve converted to an obscure religious cult, worshipping a fourteen-pound pink lump. And don’t get me wrong, Seth is totally, like, the most gorgeous baby you have ever seen. I mean, he’s far better looking than some of the freaky-looking things you see on the high street, but right now, he never does anything remotely news-worthy aside from cry, poo, cry while pooing, sleep. (He still manages to squeeze poos out while snoring, don’t worry.) No, I tell a lie: Very recently he’s begun sitting upright with his head lolling about like a helium balloon.
    There was never this fuss when I was a child.
    Oh, no, believe me.
    When Loz and Magda brought me home from the maternity ward, they simply pushed my buggy into the backyard and left it beside some old Garstang Pale Ale crates. I was raised by a family of benevolent passing owls. All I ate was mice and worms till I was eleven, which raised eyebrows in the school dinner hall when I got my packed lunch out.
    No wonder I get stood up on a Friday night.
    â€œYou have a very vivid imagination,” sighs Flight Field Marshal Magda, standing up and unhooking Seth from Dad. “I remember hugging you at least twice,” she adds dryly.
    â€œHee hee, the orphanage kept sending her back, didn’t they, love?” chuckles Dad. “They knew we were still alive. They kept spotting us, pulling away in the car!”
    Ooh, my sides.

send in the reinforcements
    BRRRRRRRR BRRRRRRRR
    At last my phone rings!
    I swoop toward it, in a rugby tackle move, praying it’s not Nana calling me to discuss what she had for her supper. However, the screen reads:
    LIAM ANSWER?
    Why’s Liam “Blackwell bad boy but dead nice really” Gelding calling me?
    I press “Yes.”
    â€œHello?” I say.
    â€œWhat do you mean, hello? How, hello?” begins Fleur “Operation Shock and Awe” Swan, sounding excessively cross. “Right, this better be good, Ronnie. Very good indeed. This party started almost two hours ago! I’ve been asked for, like, two songs already ... And Carson Dewers in lower sixth has bought me a Coke and asked for my mobile number! Where the flipping heck are you, butt crack?”
    â€œI’m ...”
    â€œLook, just tell