CHAPTER 1 On the showbiz express

       I’ve come to Yorkshire by mistakeChugging towards Dother Hall

      Wow. This is it. This is me growing up. On my own, going to Performing Arts College. This is goodbye Tallulah, you long, gangly thing and helloooooo Lullah, star of stage and…owwwwooo. Ow and ow.

      The train lurched and I’ve nearly knocked myself out on the side of the door. I’m bound to get a massive lump. Oh good, I can start college with two heads…

      In my brochure it has a picture of a big manor house and on the front it says:

      Dother Hall, world-renowned for its excellence in the Arts. This magnificent centre of artistry is set amongst the beautiful Yorkshire Dales. With its friendly northern folk offering a warm welcome to visitors, think Wuthering Heights but with less moaning!

      I’ve been looking over the top of my brochure at the bloke opposite. He is the grumpiest man in the universe probably.

      He’s got no hair on his head, but he has loads of red hair shooting out of his ears. Like there are a couple of red squirrels nesting in there. Which would be quite good actually, as they are an endangered species.

      His wife said to him, “Oooh look, Fred, the sun’s coming out.”

      And he said, “It can please its bloody self.”

      Is this what Yorkshire folk are like?

      I wonder if anyone is missing me at home?

      I wonder if they are saying, “Where is Tallulah?”

      I think I know the answer to that question, and it is, “Who?”

      Connor will just move into my bedroom and make it smelly and then leave.

      It will be next week before my grandma notices that my egg-cup hasn’t been used. When I tried to explain to her that I was going to performing arts college in Yorkshire for the summer, she said, “Will you bring a trifle back?”

      Maybe she thought I said I was going to Marks and Spencers for the summer.

      Mum didn’t comment because as usual she wasn’t there. She’s gone to Norway to paint.

      Not people’s houses. She’s doing her art.

      When I stayed over with cousin Georgia, I asked her what sort of painting the Norwegians did and she said, “It’s mostly sledges.”

      I thought she meant they painted sledges a lot, but she said, “No, my not-so-little cousy, they paint WITH sledges.”

      She said the official term for that kind of work was ‘Sled-werk’, and that it was one of the reasons why Norwegians had such big arms and had therefore become Vikings (for the rowing). And that if I dropped ‘Sled-werk’ into a conversation at art college, people would be impressed and not notice my knees…

      Georgia knows a lot of stuff. Not just about painting, but about life. And boys. She wears a bra. It’s a big one. She showed me her special disco inferno dancing and her lady bumps were jiggling quite a lot.

      I wish I wore a bra. And jiggled.

      It’s so boring being fourteen and a half.

      She’s nice to me, but I know she thinks I’m just a kid.

      When I left she gave me her ‘special’ comedy moustache. She’s grown out