Love Is for Losers Wibke Brueggemann (unputdownable books .TXT) 📖

were AA meetings, but that clearly isn’t the case because she said that she’d never had a drink … Unless that was a massive lie, and we’ve accidentally fed her addiction.

PPS: No, she’s definitely not an alcoholic, because Bill definitely knows about the meetings Emma goes to, and he therefore would definitely not have brought a whole box of Champagne.

PPPS: Why is life so confusing?

PPPPS: I should talk to Polly.

PPPPPS: Mum WhatsApped tonight. She looks like she’s living in a war zone. Oh, wait, she is living in a war zone.

She asked me a gazillion questions about GCSEs.

I reckon she’s feeling guilty about not being here to do all the parenty stuff it says to do in the brochures, like: Make sure your teenager has a hearty breakfast. They may not feel like eating, as nerves often manifest as feeling queasy or having an upset stomach, but eating even a slice of dry toast is advisable.

Kate’s going to be like: “Eat yer breakfast, ye total drama queen.”

I secretly totally love her.

I don’t understand how I’m not her child. We’re so much better together than Mum and me.

Tuesday, April 17 #InvoluntaryBirthingPartner

When I got home from school, the second designer cat was having kittens in the kitchen.

There was half a kitten hanging out of its vagina, and one was already lying on the tiles and twitching, and I proper panicked.

I called Kate’s mobile, but of course she didn’t answer. Then I called the shop, and Pat answered.

Me: Where’s Kate?

Pat: Oh. It’s you.

Me: Where’s Kate?

Pat: She’s popped out to do a change run.

Me: When will she be back?

Pat: How long is a piece of string?

Me: Ask her to call me immediately, because it’s an emergency.

Pat: I’ll let her know as soon as she gets back.

At this point, the cat was licking the half of the kitten that was hanging out, and I was just like: “OMG!”

I didn’t know what else to do, and so I called Emma, who answered straightaway.

Me: The designer cat is having kittens in the kitchen, and I think one is stuck.

Emma (laughing, and I totally get it, because it must be hilarious if someone calls you about that, but it wasn’t funny):…

Me: Can you come and help?

Emma: Where’s Kate?

Me: I don’t know, but seriously, what do I do? I can’t exactly call 999.

Emma (laughing again): I’m on my way.

And then time stopped, and it was 4:49 for literally an hour.

I kept watching the cat, and suddenly the stuck kitten plopped out and onto the tiles just like the other one, and then the designer cat was all like: Okay, let me lick this clean for a moment.

I tried to edge closer to see if it was breathing, but then my phone rang. It was Kate.

Me: The cat’s having kittens in the kitchen. There’s two.

Kate: Does she seem distressed?

Me: I don’t know.

Kate: Are you sure there’s only two?

Me: I don’t know.

Kate: Check under all the furniture for me.

Me (checking under all the furniture): Nothing. I think.

Then, finally, the doorbell rang.

Me: Emma’s here.

Kate: Okay. I think it’s best to leave the cat for now, because they don’t like being disturbed. It’s her second litter, so she should be absolutely fine, but keep an eye on her for me, and if she seems distressed, just give me a call back, and I’ll be right there.

Me: Okay. Bye.

Emma was just like: “Oh my God, how tiny are those kittens?” But all I could think was: Why me? I didn’t sign up for this.

After a few minutes, the designer cat carried one designer kitten by the scruff of its neck into the living room to the kitten box, and when she came back to get the other one, I was like: “What the hell?” Because there was a third kitten coming out of her.

I was like: “This is so stressful.”

Emma and I watched it emerge slowly, and when it was out, the designer cat quickly gave it a few licks to get all the gross membrany stuff off of it, but the kitten didn’t move at all, unlike the other two, and I was like: “What’s happening?” and then Emma went: “I don’t think it’s breathing.”

I felt like I was going to be sick, but I went to have a closer look, and Emma was right, the kitten was just on the floor, like: dead.

I didn’t do anything, I just sat there on my feet, not moving. Emma knelt down on the floor, touched the tiny kitten with her finger, and started rubbing it a bit, but then she was like: “Phoebe, seriously, it’s not breathing.” I was like: “I don’t know what to do.” And then Emma bent down and put her mouth over its face and literally gave it mouth-to-mouth! And the dead kitten came back to life, all twitchy and pulling faces.

I was like: OMFG.

No one is ever going to believe any of this, but the bloody designer kitten lived, and the designer cat just looked at us like: Okay, cheers, I guess I’d better look after this one, too, then.

When Kate got home, Emma and I were so hyper we were literally bouncing off the walls, and Kate was like: “Okay, I think we need to leave Mum and her babies in peace for a while,” and so she took us out to Pizza Hut.

On the way back in the car, she was like: “I’m sorry you’re missing your meeting tonight, Emma.” And I swear there was suddenly this massive proverbial elephant in the room/car, and you’ve never heard a more quiet silence. But instead of me being like: Oh, what meetings are they, then? I said nothing. And instead of Emma being like: Oh yeah, I go to these meetings about blah blah blah, she just went: “I can’t believe I resurrected a kitten. It was one hundred percent DOA.”

And then we all laughed, because the funny temporarily outweighed the awkward.

11:17 P.M.

The designer cats and all seven kittens are doing well now.

What a day.

Wednesday, April 18