How Cake Changed my Life

The Uncomfortable Rabbit of Silence

Look what I've gone and done! I've uploaded!

Sorry it took so long- but I've been ridiculously busy (exams... ugh), and then I was in Paris, and then there were more exams. Joy.

I should explain- the Uncomfortable Rabbit of Silence was created by my dad, and it works in the same way as the Awkward Turtle. So it's his creation, so we must all ask his permission before we use it.

One more thing- I'm entering a competition for comedy writing, and I was wondering if I should enter part of this story... what do you think?

Don't forget to comment!

...And vote, if you feel like it...

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“Remind me,” George grumbled, “What do I do at- shite-” (he just missed a turning for the fifth time in a row) “10pm on a Friday?”

I sighed, feeling a little light-headed. “Watch films? Make sculptures out of cocktail sticks? Destroy death stars with scissors?”

“Exactly. I don’t- oh for-” (he missed the turning again, and only just remembered in time that Mum was in the back of the car) “…morph into a chauffeur to drive my friends and their dead-to-the world parents up and down the same street fifty million times- especially if said parents have some massive grudge against me for no reason…” yeah… George isn’t an evening person. Or a morning person. It would be better for the world if he just lived in bed. I don’t think he’d mind. In fact, he might even consider it…

“You’re not meant to be driving up and down the same street,” I pointed out, only to be met with a very evil look, “you just keep missing the turning…”

“You know what? Fine. You drive, then!” he snapped, letting go of the steering wheel, folding his arms, and turning away from me. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do that, but…

Well, to tell the truth, his infuriating mood swings (okay, okay, occasional hissy fits) weren’t my biggest problem. Due to the fact that we (coughGeorgecough) were failing to steal the car, it was heading towards a tightly-packed cluster of full wheelie bins. And the roof was down.

“GeorgeforGod’ssakesteerthebloodycar!” I screamed. He sprang back into ‘driving mode’, and managed to turn the car away from the oncoming disaster.

Unfortunately, he turned too far too quickly, swinging the back end of the car right into the bins, sending them- and their contents- quite an impressive distance, and waking my mother, who, until the… shall we call it the incident?... was dozing blissfully in the back seat, dreaming about cocktail sticks and screaming children.

“Learn to drive!” she shouted, angrily, smoothing down her hair.

George turned in his seat, ignoring the gang of scary teenagers and the couple of old ladies who had gathered round the disaster zone. “Funnily enough, I did,” he replied, smoothly and sarcastically.

“When? I’m surprised Anne didn’t ask me to make you a special cake,” she snapped.

“Five months ago,” he replied, flatly. It was the wrong time to mention it, I know, but I think I deserved at least some  of the credit for the miracle which was George passing a test involving something called ‘coordination’. I was the one who labelled the foot pedals on one of Mum’s Ford Mondeos which I’d pretended I was borrowing for my own use (Ford Mondeos can be found at any major car dealer near you. 1981 Audi Quattros can’t). But that would mean taking my mother’s side over my best friend’s. That would be mean. So I kept my mouth (quite sensibly) closed.