Be first to bag the opening chapters of our fabulous teen novel (drum roll...) The Swish
Do you have a way of escaping 
the bad stuff? A focus for your dreams when reality hits? We all get curveballs thrown at us – by life, by our folks (and don’t get me started on school!) Some kids shout. Some kids run. Me? I rev my motor, put my foot down – and sew.
Vroom. I whizz round a buttonhole. Gran’s old Singer sewing machine was built with the dinosaurs, so it can withstand even Mum going T-rex. Almost.
‘This debt,’ her shouts burst up through my bedroom floor, ‘it’s become a monster. It’s eating us alive!’
‘So, stop feeding it,’ Dad rumbles back.
‘I’m feeding us is what I’m doing.’ Mum clatters the cutlery drawer. ‘I’m covering nursery costs so you can… do what exactly?’
‘I’m working.’
‘It’s not work if no one pays you, Chris! It’s you hiding behind your laptop. Eight hours I’ve been stood on that shop floor,’ she yells, which sets the twins yelling too. ‘I come home to find Daisy sucking on the remote control.
Lil’s weed on the couch and— no, Lil, you do not win a sweet for it.’
Vroom. I race down my hem. The needle flies up and down, turning to a flicker of silver – like a fairy godmother’s wand. No fairy godmother here, though, just me feeling angry my folks are so broke. Then guilty for making things worse. When Mum got in from work just now, I helped her unload the shopping. But I also tried to borrow a tenner.
‘I’ve found this gorgeous Diesel jacket down the market.’ I heaved her torn bag for life onto the kitchen counter.
‘Proper vintage.’
‘Second hand, you mean.’
‘That’s why it’s ten quid! Distressed denim, but I can save it. Ewww…’ I pulled out a cellophane bag full of squished, rank-looking leaves. ‘What’s this?’
‘Half price, that’s what.’ Mum tapped the yellow discount sticker. ‘Salad,’ she said with a frown. ‘Though I admit it’s starting to look more like soup. Soddit.’
She rummaged in the bag for a dented can of spaghetti hoops. ‘Supper!’
She tugged at the ring pull - and snapped it clear off.
‘Mum.’ I yanked her back to my jacket. ‘Remember those seed pearls Gran gave me? I could stitch them into the back – make myself a pair of wings!’
‘Love,’ said Mum, clawing back the sharp tin lid. ‘Where am I going to find a tenner? Your dad’s not earned in months. Ow!’ She cut her finger. Next thing she was leaning over the pile of dirty plates in the sink, trying to jam her bloody hand under the tap.
‘Stop, Mum.’ I rescued her sleeve. ‘You’re making it worse.’
‘How could I make any of this worse?’ She lurched round, flicking droplets of blood over the clutter on our kitchen table: the twins’ spat-out dummies… their crusted breakfast bowls… the council tax bill she left for Dad to sort this morning.
‘Come on, Mum. Things’ll pick up.’
I swiftly slid the bill to the floor. ‘It’s nearly Christmas! Remember how we used to put up the tinsel – me, you and Dad – before they arrived.’
A thud sounded overhead. Then another, louder. And suddenly, it was snowing – in our kitchen! Soft white flakes appeared like magic, floating down onto my eyelashes, settling in Mum’s frizzy hair. For a second, we looked like a family from the John Lewis ad – you know, all happy and loving, and about to buy a sofa. Then (pfla pfla) we were spitting out bits of ceiling plaster.
‘The twins ARE JUMPING again!’ Dad came storming down the stairs. ‘I’m supposed to be writing up there.’
‘Supposed to,’ snorted Mum, ‘you said it!’
Neither of them noticed me leaving. And now they’re rowing so hard, not even my Singer can drown them out. So I try singing instead. ‘La-la-laaaa!’ OK, yelling. And I start on the pile of mending Mum’s dumped on my bed. ‘Deck the halls with boughs of—’
Grr, Lily’s gone through the toes of her tights again. Ditto Daisy and her socks. I swear those two have got Hobbit feet. Darning done, I scoop up my sketchbook. The louder their shouts, the harder I scribble…
Stitch List
Upcycle my latest charity shop find: a sustainable style gem! No
, the label’s not STELLA MCCARTNEY. It’s “£2 from SUE RYDER” (this tank top has seen action!), but hey, I’ve fixed worse. I’m thinking:
1. Shorten the straps.
2. Take in the side seams.
3. Stitch poppy motif across front of vest
4. Find that length of frosted white lace Gran gave me…nip out frosted flowers to make “snowflakes”.
5. Scatter snowflakes over poppy, like it’s hiding…waiting for the sun to come out.
I feed my top into the sewing machine, and put my foot down on the pedal. Vroom goes Kat Parker, chasing a dream
down a seam.
Do you have a way of escaping the bad stuff? A focus for your dreams when reality hits? We all get curveballs thrown at us – by life, by our folks (and don’t get me started on school!) Some kids shout. Some kids run. Me? I rev my motor, put my foot down – and sew.
Vroom. I whizz round a buttonhole. Gran’s old Singer sewing machine was built with the dinosaurs, so it can withstand even Mum going T-rex.
Almost.
‘This debt,’ her shouts burst up through my bedroom floor, ‘it’s become a monster. It’s eating us alive!’
‘So, stop feeding it,’ Dad rumbles back.
‘I’m feeding us is what I’m doing.’ Mum clatters the cutlery drawer. ‘I’m covering nursery costs so you can… do what exactly?’
‘I’m working.’
‘It’s not work if no one pays you, Chris! It’s you hiding behind your laptop. Eight hours I’ve been stood on that shop floor,’ she yells, which sets the twins yelling too. ‘I come home to find Daisy sucking on the remote control.
Lil’s weed on the couch and— no, Lil, you do not win a sweet for it.’
Vroom. I race down my hem. The needle flies up and down, turning to a flicker of silver – like a fairy godmother’s wand. No fairy godmother here, though, just me feeling angry my folks are so broke. Then guilty for making things worse. When Mum got in from work just now, I helped her unload the shopping. But I also tried to borrow a tenner.
‘I’ve found this gorgeous Diesel jacket down the market.’ I heaved her torn bag for life onto the kitchen counter.
‘Proper vintage.’
‘Second hand, you mean.’
‘That’s why it’s ten quid! Distressed denim, but I can save it. Ewww…’ I pulled out a cellophane bag full of squished, rank-looking leaves. ‘What’s this?’
‘Half price, that’s what.’ Mum tapped the yellow discount sticker. ‘Salad,’ she said with a frown. ‘Though I admit it’s starting to look more like soup. Soddit.’
She rummaged in the bag for a dented can of spaghetti hoops. ‘Supper!’
She tugged at the ring pull - and snapped it clear off.
‘Mum.’ I yanked her back to my jacket. ‘Remember those seed pearls Gran gave me? I could stitch them into the back – make myself a pair of wings!’
‘Love,’ said Mum, clawing back the sharp tin lid. ‘Where am I going to find a tenner? Your dad’s not earned in months. Ow!’ She cut her finger. Next thing she was leaning over the pile of dirty plates in the sink, trying to jam her bloody hand under the tap.
‘Stop, Mum.’ I rescued her sleeve. ‘You’re making it worse.’
‘How could I make any of this worse?’ She lurched round, flicking droplets of blood over the clutter on our kitchen table: the twins’ spat-out dummies… their crusted breakfast bowls… the council tax bill she left for Dad to sort this morning.
‘Come on, Mum. Things’ll pick up.’
I swiftly slid the bill to the floor. ‘It’s nearly Christmas! Remember how we used to put up the tinsel – me, you and Dad – before they arrived.’
A thud sounded overhead. Then another, louder. And suddenly, it was snowing – in our kitchen! Soft white flakes appeared like magic, floating down onto my eyelashes, settling in Mum’s frizzy hair. For a second, we looked like a family from the John Lewis ad – you know, all happy and loving, and about to buy a sofa. Then (pfla pfla) we were spitting out bits of ceiling plaster.
‘The twins ARE JUMPING again!’ Dad came storming down the stairs. ‘I’m supposed to be writing up there.’
‘Supposed to,’ snorted Mum, ‘you said it!’
Neither of them noticed me leaving. And now they’re rowing so hard, not even my Singer can drown them out. So I try singing instead. ‘La-la-laaaa!’ OK, yelling. And I start on the pile of mending Mum’s dumped on my bed. ‘Deck the halls with boughs of—’
Grr, Lily’s gone through the toes of her tights again. Ditto Daisy and her socks. I swear those two have got Hobbit feet. Darning done, I scoop up my sketchbook. The louder their shouts, the harder I scribble…
Stitch List
Upcycle my latest charity shop find: a sustainable style gem! No, the label’s not STELLA MCCARTNEY. It’s “£2 from SUE RYDER” (this tank top has seen action!), but hey, I’ve fixed worse. I’m thinking:
1. Shorten the straps.
2. Take in the side seams.
3. Stitch poppy motif across front of vest
4. Find that length of frosted white lace Gran gave me…nip out frosted flowers to make “snowflakes”.
5. Scatter snowflakes over poppy, like it’s hiding…waiting for the sun to come out.
I feed my top into the sewing machine, and put my foot down on the pedal. Vroom goes Kat Parker, chasing a dream down a seam.
Late for school, and it’s the twins’ fault again – they are ginger nut-jobs. Everyone sees their orange curls and freckly cheeks, and sigh, ‘Ahh, aren’t they like Orphan Annie from the musical?’ Er, no actually, because:
a). there was only one of Annie, and
b). she didn’t run round like a Teletubby who’s drunk too many Fruit Shoots.. Also,
c). Annie mopped the floor occasionally. The twins just spill stuff on it.
Take this morning: The second Mum leaves for work, they pull their bowls of Coco Pops off the table.
Late for school, and it’s the twins’ fault again – they are ginger nut-jobs. Everyone sees their orange curls and freckly cheeks, and sigh, ‘Ahh, aren’t they like Orphan Annie from the musical?’ Er, no actually, because:
a). there was only one of Annie, and
b). she didn’t run round like a Teletubby who’s drunk too many Fruit Shoots.. Also,
c). Annie mopped the floor occasionally. The twins just spill stuff on it.
If you like these opening chapters, you’ll LOVE the book! Buy THE SWISH teen novel from your lovely local bookshop or click here to buy from Amazon.
Late for school, and it’s the twins’ fault again – they are ginger nut-jobs. Everyone sees their orange curls and freckly cheeks, and sigh, ‘Ahh, aren’t they like Orphan Annie from the musical?’ Er, no actually, because:
a). there was only one of Annie, and
b). she didn’t run round like a Teletubby who’s drunk too many Fruit Shoots.. Also,
c). Annie mopped the floor occasionally. The twins just spill stuff on it.
If you like these opening chapters, you’ll LOVE the book! Buy THE SWISH teen novel from your lovely local bookshop or click here to buy from Amazon.
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