Description
We must have looked an odd sight, the three of us: me, Our Joey and Mum, scuttling along the pavement of an industrial estate in South Liverpool carrying deckchairs and packed lunch boxes in the middle of December.
Jodie, your shoes are really getting on my tits, moaned Our Joey.
'Don't say tits, Joey, Mum said sternly.
'Why not?' He knew why not. 'It's not becoming for an eight-year-old.
'Can I say it?' I asked. I was ten. AKA dead grown up. 'No'
Our Joey tried again. Jodie your shoes are really getting on my nerves.
He meant the noise they were making. I'd recently looped some Friends fridge magnets into the laces of my shoes, so with every hurried step I took, Chandler and Joey clunked against my burgundy patent leather T-bars.
The air was heavy with the acrid tang of chemicals wafting on the breeze from the Mersey. We passed the cigarette factory where Mum worked. We passed the boarded-up bank. . . . .
There are some things in life you can always rely on. Living in the shadow of your 'perfect' brother Joey, getting the flu over Christmas, and your mother showing you up in the supermarket.
Then there are some things you really don't count on happening: a good dose of fame, getting completely trashed at an awards ceremony, and catching your fella doing something unmentionable on your wedding day.
