Page 64 of Break Out the Girl

My girl needs a heavyweight anchor. I know that’s not my role, but Burt is definitely burly enough to step up. Speaking of the wolf, there’s no sign of him.

Knowing Burt—and I do know him, we’re besties after all—he’s out and about doing secret soldier things and keeping us all safe. Looking out the window I see the wind is blowing a hooly, as Nan used to say.

I’ll make Burt a hot treat for all his hard work. In fact everyone is going to need brekkie.

“Tally-ho to the kitchen,” I whisper.

Basil Fuckwad’s eyes snap open instantly.

The kid doesn't even blink; he just sits straight up on the rug, harpoon clutched in his hands.

“Easy there, Desperate Dan,” I tell him, giving a reassuring wave. “All quiet on the western front.”

He frowns then nods. My words might have been a tad too loud, because the rest of the little peas start wiggling.

I point a finger at my harpoon-wielding friend. “You seem like just the man to take our little niblets to the loo. I’ll make breakfast while you do.”

Ooh, nice rhyme.

“The loo?” he asks, in a grumbly way as he pokes at his bandaged ankle.

Maybe he’s still half-asleep, so I elaborate for him. “The bog! WC?”

Blimey, he still looks blank. “The khazi?”

Maybe he hurt his head as well as his ankle.

He throws off his blanket and hobbles to standing. “Are you saying take the kids for a slash? Why didn’t you just say that?”

He prods Ricky, telling him to go pee, then taps Sheena’s shoulder and repeats the instruction.

“A nice lick and a promise wouldn't go amiss either,” I call after them.

When I take a sniff of my own pits, I realize I should follow my own advice, but first things first.

Breakfast.

Time for a classic London world-famous culinary extravaganza. I skip into the kitchen, tapping out a cheerful rhythm against the slate tile then skid to a halt.

Truth is, I’m not always sure what I’m doing, but I’ve always found that supreme confidence is an excellent substitute for actual skill.

I begin hauling out treasure after treasure from the pantry. There’s a bag of white flour, a bottle of vegetable oil, baking powder, a canister of sugar, and a bag of rock-hard powdered milk.

Yum.

I dump it all into a stainless-steel bowl, and start mixing.

Hey-oh.

The frisky flour doesn’t want to stay in the bowl and keeps levitating out. We’ll see about that. I add some tap water to settle it down, then stir until a thick, lumpy goo forms. Almost perfect, just needs one more thing.

Back in the pantry my eyes fall on a tin of artichoke hearts.

Is this what the mix is calling for?

Or is it the bag of chocolate baking chips hiding right at the back?

I toss the chocolate and the tin of veg around, trying to weigh up which to use, and fall back on the eeny, meeny, miny method.