Write what ya done in t’ summer holidays, teacher says, soon as school starts back.
Lazy feckin’ teachin’, Da used t’ say, but he din’t say it this summer. This summer were all old people kissin’ us with wet faces, tellin’ our ma it’d be a’right, and pattin’ our heads an’ sayin’ poor darlings like we were four, even tho’ I were nine an’ Jen were twelve.
Any time someone said it’d be a’right t’ our ma they’d make a nice pot o’ tea, an’ send us to the shop, me an’ Jen, t’ get us an ice cream. We liked ices well enough, most times, but they tasted more like somethin’ t’ keep us out the way while the grown-ups talked ’bout grown-up stuff like payin’ for t’ funeral an’ Jen needin’ new shoes t’ match her black dress.
Ma were cryin’ all the time, so Aunt Clara an’ Uncle John (who ain’t me real uncle, but Aunt Clara don’t live with Uncle Greg no more) took us with them t’ give our ma a break, an’ we kept out t’ way like they said. Most days we went down t’ sea. Aunt Clara’d told us don’t go near t’ water if there ain’t no grown up with us, an’ there never were, so we didn’t get to do no paddlin’. We petted the donkeys fer a bit, ’til the man yelled don’t be hangin’ round here if you ain’t havin’ no rides.
When teacher says write what ya done, I get me pen and write
Me and Jen went to the seaside and ate too much ice cream and didn’t do nothing exciting and that’s all we done this summer.
An’ it’s what we done a’right, but it looks to me like blots and lies.