Trouble

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So I had sex with Fletch again last night. It was all right, better than last time anyway, and Fletch is a laugh. And he’s not so bad-looking… although not so good without his clothes on. We didn’t cuddle afterwards — that’s not really how it is with us. We were dressed and downstairs with our History books open by the time his mum came in, although you could tell she didn’t buy it the way she gave me evils when Fletch’s little brother ran over to show me the crown he’d made at school. Whatever. She might think she knows me by looking at the length of my skirt, but it’s her youngest son who’s got me sussed. Kids see all the way to your soul. What you wear and how you look mean nothing to them.

I showered as soon as I got in. No one questioned me about it. Why would they? I shower a lot. Mum asked me about my homework, so I lied, but she asked to see it and we had a fight. There was a lot of screaming (her), a few tears (her) and finally a grudging “I’ll do it after EastEnders” (me — although I wished she’d offered to do it). I never even got started I was so knackered.

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