Two Slices of Carrot Cake - REVISING

A FAT FRIGGIN' MESS

As my mum, aka the Great British Baker would say, oh fanny flibberty! Instead of the f-word for those of you with nervous dispositions.

It's 11pm. I got back from Cheryl's: we'd had the usual kind of evening. Her ma served us up dinner. I pushed mine about a bit and then mumbled an excuse about having had a big lunch. Afterwards, we went up to Cheryl's room and mucked about on Instagram. And then I came home.

Thankfully, everyone was in bed. I went into the kitchen, shutting the living room door, doing the same with the kitchen door and sound proofing the whole place.

Pulls open the fridge door. Chunk of cheddar dipped in mayonnaise. Thin slice of white chocolate cheesecake. Bigger slice of cheesecake. Bigger slice; oh fanny flibberty, is it now noticeable? Move to the kitchen cupboard and pull out crisps, scoff down half of the opened packet of Doritos. Can blame my little brother (aka the little rat) if anyone notices. Move on to the bread bin. Yum; sourdough fresh loaf from the posh supermarket down the road. Hack off a slice and spread it with butter thick enough you can see your teeth makrs, then a thin layer of Marmite. Yum, yum...

There's the creak of floor boards above me and I freeze. Is someone coming downstairs? I dart about disposing of the evidence. Crumbs gone. Butter knife tidied away. Cheesecake in exactly the same position on the fridge shelf and Doritos hidden.

And now my head whirls and my heart thumps as if it's about to burst out of my chest.

Where are my Annies? I need them.

Savvyslim: "Hey girls, please talk to me! I ate something tonight. I didn't mean to, I've been so good all week, but I was just so... hungry and unhappy, and I had two slices of bread and butter. Please help me because I feel so horrible and so weak-willed..."

THURSDAY

Another night, another write-off. I wake up a FAT FRIGGIN' FREAKIN' mess. I can still taste those rotten Doritos and I'd been good all week too. 

Cheryl and I posted up selfies (hers) last night on her Instagram account because there's this lad she really likes, and she wants to get his attention. He's new at our school and hot; not my type (my cup of tea? No, that's a rubbish description—more like not my kind of cheesecake). She went for the big pout, cleavage on show look and I fiddled around with the filters and the software, so she ended up with even bigger boobs than normal, whiter than white teeth and sparkly eyes.

"Looking good Chezza," I said, but she made me take six more pics until she was absolutely sorted with what I'd done. Hudson filter? No. Mayfair filter? Yuck. Paint filter, perfect. When we finished, we only had to wait a few minutes until Hot New Lad replied, 'get your tits out for the lads...'

"That's not right Chezza," I said. It looked as if she was gonna do it too. "Doesn't your mum check your account?" I pointed out. No need for her to come storming in and for us both to end up banned from Instagram or other such rubbish.

"Stupid bint can't figure it out," she grinned, but she changed her mind about the proper tits out photo. Better treat 'im mean and keep 'im keen, she reckoned, so we thought for a few minutes about some smart Alec reply to send back to Hot New Lad.

I came up with something—I'm better at the words than Cheryl. She stars in the pics though, which is why she's got more than 2,000 followers. We looked through them all once. Cheryl reckoned she maybe knew seven of them.

Just for the record, I'm jealous of Cheryl. Well jel. She's a size eight, and she's got big boobs, long, dark hair, and caramel-coloured, zit-free skin. I'm friends with the gorgeous girl all the boys like. No wonder I came home last night and raided the sodding fridge.