“Happy Birthday to you,Squashed tomatoes and stew,Bread and butter in the gutter,Happy Birthday to you!” We were all walking back from school on Friday, arm in arm right across the pavement – me, Kenny, Fliss, Rosie and Lyndz. And because it was my birthday that weekend, the others had all decided to caterwaul really loudly at me, and expect me to like it. “Gee, thanks, you guys,” I said, putting on a really cheesy accent. “Ah’m reeeally moved by your beeootiful singing voices—ow!” “You’re just an ungrateful pig, Frankie Thomas,” grinned Kenny, bashing me in the ribs with her elbow again. “Yes, I agree with Kenny,” said Fliss in an exaggerated way, her eyelashes batting up and down like a pair of mad spiders. “We were trying our best, you know.” “I wasn’t,” said Rosie with a grin. “Anyone got any crisps?” “LYNDZ!” we all chorused. Lyndz always had food in her bag. “Hey, guys,” said Lyndz, burrowing deep down in her manky old rucksack (it had a stain on one corner which Fliss swore was horse muck), “I can’t wait for tomorrow, can you?”
