Wednesday 22nd January

'Thanks.' I stared at the miniature match stick figures clothed in painted rainbow rags.

As a congratulations for doing so well in the first term of High School, Mother has rewarded me with a bag of Peruvian good luck charms called Worry Dolls. Well whoop-de-doo, what a way to inspire my onward efforts. Go Mother!

'Natasha's mum just bought her a Playstation.'

'Well I very much doubt that a Whatever-Station listens to your deepest concerns and anxieties, like these little guys do.'

Apparently, if you tell them what's on your mind and put them under your pillow before going to sleep at night, well when you wake up in the morning, et voila, whaddya know, all of your worries will have disappeared. Just like that.

Despite my protests, she must know me better than I'd care to admit, for as soon as I reclined on to my bed I started on a real confessional flood with the entire matchstick family:-

'Please, dear purple Worry Doll, make it be that the 136 arrives on time in the morning, because I couldn't bear for it to be late again. Ideally I'd like it to arrive by 8:12, as that way I can relax, confident that we will make it to form class on time, but please don't let it arrive any later than 8.15, otherwise I'm likely to get in to a real panic, just like when it didn't turn up until 8.16. But most of all, assuming that the bus does arrive promptly, please dear purple Worry Doll, make it happen, that Michael and David ride the bus in the morning. I can barely wait until tomorrow to see them, and I'm confident that I'll never make it through another anguished day devoid of their enchanting presence. PS, please make sure that I get top marks in all tests from now until after I finish University, or at least until I've done my A Levels. That's all.'

Thursday 23rd January

Of course the Worry Doll power hasn't worked. Like I ever actually believed it would. In fact, contrary to the subconscious delivery of the advertised positive vibes they've had completely the opposite effect. For when I woke up the ground was covered in a hearty heap of snow, at least a foot deep. What absolute total chaos. Not only was the 136 not running as a consequence, but can you believe that I was still expected to attend school? I'm appalled; I mean just how exactly was I meant to get there?

'Get walking kid,' Daddy grinned, as he pushed me out of the door. How is it fair that the rules of the world dictate that adults get to take the day off work, yet I have to struggle onwards, as if one day off will ruin my entire education?

Oh my life, what am I doing? Walking to school would be horrific under any ordinary circumstance, since it's at least a mile away, but it also means that I'm not riding the bus, gazing adoringly at my beloveds, which of course is the worst of all outcomes. Why this whole disaster is quite possibly bordering on child abuse.

'We might die!' I wailed, clinging to the gate post, as Natasha opened the door.

'It's absolutely ghastly,' she agreed.

One would think we were headed to the frozen muddied trenches of war as we set off, our cheerless heads stooped downwards, as we marched against the brutal north winds, the beating blizzard blowing the hoods of our coats backwards.

Reaching the summit of our treacherous journey, standing high up on the coal blackened railway bridge which marked the halfway point between home and school, a terrible incident occurred.

'It's Michael Butterworth,' I gasped, 'Michael Butterworth and he's cycling towards us. Cycling! In the snow! Wow, that's so brave. He's such a real man.'

As he approached closer, his wind battered face recognised us as the two desperado waifs from the bus stop. This was our chance. If we could just stand still now, and smile alluringly, we might be able to elevate our status from immature school girls to the supermodels he associates with.

'Be cool Natasha. Be cool.'

The premise was a good one, but its reality was always doomed. As the icy ground slipped beneath her, a yelping Natasha commenced her descent. How kind of her to include me in her downward spiral, to clutch at my sleeve and drag my flapping arms with her, stealing away my dignity and denying me the chance to stand tall and shine at this most pivotal moment, the moment when one of half of the best looking duo of boys in the world takes notice, at last, of who I am.

'Now look what you've done!' The damp ground spilled across my bruised red bum, soaking through my skirt and tights. 'This is just typical. Not only did Michael see us, but I've got a wet bum and I think I've cut my leg.' Sprawled in a twisted heap amongst the horrible mucky snow, I grasped at the hem of Natasha's skirt.

Now I can't be certain as it would seem most out of character, but I'm sure I caught a glimpse of Michael laughing. Maybe he was distracted by thinking about something funny, or maybe I'd just imagined it, since Natasha was also busy having a right old laugh to herself.

'Stop it!' Am I the only person to find this whole event savage, and certainly not something to be having a merry time about?

'I told you we might die. Except when I said that I meant due to hyperthermia not humiliation. Now help me get up!'

Yet despite an arduous struggle to regain our balance my fractious mood welcomed the challenge.

'Wait. Do you know what this means?' I was enlightened.

'No.' Natasha, only half listening, was busy wiping the snow from the back of her skirt.

'It means that Michael Butterworth just looked at us. Okay, so we were flapping about on the floor and he was laughing at us, but still, he looked at us, he knows who we are!'

Wednesday 5th February

The nightmare of my life just happened. That wretched little maggot Harry Styles only went and told the entire bus that I'm in love with Michael and David, or more specifically David.

'Simone Rose fancies David Butterworth!' He shouted as we pulled up at school.

Firstly, how can Harry Styles possibly know this? Secondly, what have I ever done to him to make him do such a thing? And thirdly, how does he think he would actually get away with pulling such a stunt?

Lunging forward with the ferocity of a tormented tyrannosaurus, I gave him just what he deserved; a giant smack in the face, kerpow, and before he could move anywhere I yanked at the shell suited fabric of his rain coat, pulling him backwards into the seat, his shirt collar nearly choking him. Staggered by my own aggression I loosened my grip, momentarily guilty that I might have seriously hurt him. Damn it, this gave the scumbag the opportunity he needed to make a run for it. But if he thought he was getting away that easily then Harry Styles is more of a turd stinker than I'd first thought.

Catapulting myself in to the aisle, I grabbed my bag and embarked upon the chase.

'Come here! I'm going to get you, you swine!'

I was too humiliated to even so much as sneak a glance at David, the embarrassment he must have felt. Poor David, what has he ever done to deserve such treatment?

Too quickly my oxygen levels depleted, and with my muscles now screaming, I collapsed against the wall and waited for Natasha and Sarah's understanding arms to embrace me, to hug me tight and offer me kind words of sympathy.

'I can't believe you did that,' Natasha's disapproval was apparent.

'Did what?'

'You hit Harry.'

'But didn't see what he just did? He humiliated me. He told everyone that I fancy David Butterworth'.

'But you do fancy David Butterworth, and everyone knows that, including David, so you didn't have to go and smash Harry's face up. It was a bit of an overreaction.'

'What do you mean everyone knows that I fancy David?' I'm stunned. How can Natasha blame me for what Harry did? Why can't she see what a wretch he is?