Miss Manners by Iman Sid Read Free Book Online Page B

virus across all the news channels. Hello, public humiliation. Goodbye, dignity.
    Family and friends are going to start calling me any minute , I thought miserably as the memory unfolded in technicolor.
    I had hoped no one was watching the news that early in the morning.
     
    The phone rang.
     
    ‘Hello?’ I mumbled.
    ‘ Hello, darling. It’s Mum.’
    AAAARRRRGGH! I knew it. Bad news really does travel fast.
    ‘Oh, hi Mum,’ I said, trying to disguise an inner twirl of nerves. There was no way I was going to tell her I’d been fired whilst she and Dad were on holiday.
    Mum and Dad were ful filling their lifelong ambition of travelling around the world in eighty days. Their aim was to see as many countries as possible before ending up back in England. I know, a bit old for a gap year. In their ordinary lives, Mum was a freelance herbalist and Dad was an architect. So, it made for a welcome break from their usual routines.
    ‘ How are you and Dad?’ I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.
    ‘ Oh, we’re great. We’re currently dancing with the Bora tribe in Iquitos, Peru. I’ll email you over the photos and video later. Anyway, so what’s this I hear about you getting into a fight? It’s just that Janet was watching This Morning earlier and could have sworn she saw you in a video.’
    ‘ Me? Don’t be silly, Mum,’ I lied. ‘You know Janet, she’s short-sighted. And when you’re short-sighted, lots of people look like me. I mean, was she even wearing her glasses at the time?’
    Janet Moore lived in Bromley, South London (where I grew up as a kid). I remember she used to give me orange squash and digestive biscuits (both of which would keep me amused for a good while in those days) whenever she babysat me whilst Mum was away at events and conferences. Although Mum and Janet were complete opposites (Mum was adventurous, Janet was homely), they had been best friends for donkey’s years.
    ‘ Actually, darling, Janet’s long-sighted. Look, are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?’ she asked, rising suspicion in her voice.
    ‘ Everything’s fine, Mum,’ I reassured her. ‘Look, can I call you back?’
    ‘ Anna, are you sure everything’s alright?’ Mum asked worriedly.
    ‘ Yes, Mum,’ I mock-chimed, trying to sound as chirpy as humanly possible. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll speak to you soon. Meanwhile, have fun doing tribal things. Oh, and don’t forget to bring me back some shrunken heads.’ I hung up the phone and slumped back onto the sofa, switched the TV off, and closed my eyes.
    Seriously, this was too much. I mean, as if owing £1,287.50 wasn’t enough, I was now on national news! But before I could deal with my public humiliation, I had more important issues to think about. Like, how was I going to pay all that money off? Busking in Covent Garden? No – I needed an act. Renting my room out? No – where would I sleep? Sell my stuff on eBay? No – it was all crap.
    I needed to find a quick fix. But first, I needed time to think. So I put on my jumper, combats and wheelie shoes (much faster than trainers) and headed over to Camden Stables Market.
    I ambled down the labyrinth of narrow walkways, admiring the diverse mix of clothes, jewellery and music and the smell of waffles, crêpes and Chinese food.
    My favourite place was a cosy little area filled with North African cafés – a place called The Casbah. The music was North African, the food was North African, but the customers were multinational tourists.
    The cafés were never empty and always filled with the sweet smells of shisha, traditional music and the hum of lively chatter. I was a real people-watcher and saw poetry in just about everything. Often, I would see a guy writing on a laptop in a café, which would make me think he was writing the next bestseller or something – which would then make me feel crap. So, as a way of making myself feel better, I tried to guess what they were really doing: updating their