Angie Bates - The Sleepover Club on the Beach

But today I’ve decided it’s high time I set a good example. I mean, most of this stuff dates back to the last century! From now on I intend to be a genuine twenty-first-century girl. I’m going to save up and buy some of those really cool files to store things in. And I’m definitely asking Dad to make me a grown-up-type desk, to replace the old kiddies’ one I inherited from Stu and Tom. Who knows – maybe my parents will even buy me that new computer I’ve been begging and pleading for (Yeah, well, I can dream!).

Anyway, I’ve made up my mind. With or without a computer, by the time I’ve finished, my new-look bedroom is going to make my Sleepover Club mates sick with envy!

But right now I could do with a rest. In fact, you must be a total mind-reader! I was just unpacking my rucksack when you walked in, but now I’ve got a better idea. I’ll empty everything out, and you see if you can figure out what we got up to on our last sleepover.

Heavens, where did all this sand come from, hint hint!

Ooh, and this teeny strand of pink seaweed!

Hmmn, what else is there? Old rubber flipflops, sunglasses, assorted pebbles and pretty shells… Oh, and right down at the bottom, four absolutely ancient, hopelessly sandy adventure books.

Don’t laugh! The characters might look like kids from a 1940s knitting pattern, but they provided crucial inspiration for our latest sleepover.

And let me tell you this sleepover had EVERYTHING. Sun, sand, sea and a thrilling race against time to find hidden treasure.

Yeah, that’s what I said. Hidden treasure!

No, I’m not having you on. I’m deadly serious.

Want me to tell you all about it? Look, shove those boxes out of the way and sit on my bed. Squish back against my cushions, go on, that’s what I do.

Now are you sitting comfortably?

Then I’ll begin…

It all started with an earache.

You know the kind of illnesses where you feel very slightly fragile and everyone spoils you rotten? I lurve those. Sometimes Dad buys me silly treats on the way home from work: sherbet necklaces and stick-on tattoos and puzzle books.

Well, my ear infection was nothing like that. It made me totally miz, even after the antibiotics had kicked in. And I had to miss loads of school. I didn’t mind about lessons, obviously, but I hated not seeing my mates. Plus, my illness TOTALLY disrupted our Sleepover schedule.

I was praying I’d recover in time to go on our school trip. But when the day came, Mum said I was nowhere near well enough to go bombing off to Skeggy on a coach.

On the other hand, she saw absolutely NO reason to cancel the paddling party she’d arranged. She’d invited her best mates and all their little kids to our house. Which, if you include my little brothers, makes eight screaming, sticky-fingered under-fives in total! Lucky ol’ me, eh.

Things weren’t too bad at the start. The sun shone and the mums nattered and the little ones splashed around in our ancient paddling pool, like cute little water babies. I just sprawled in a deckchair, looking interestingly pale in my sunglasses, pretending to read a magazine. Also privately wondering how I’d ever squeezed into that teeny weeny plastic pool. If I jumped in now, I’d create a major tidal wave!

Then quite suddenly the heavens opened and it POURED. The mums scooped up toddlers and plates of sandwiches and ran for shelter.

Unfortunately Dad had started one of his famous DIY projects, putting our sitting room completely out of action. (My dad makes Changing Rooms look like a bunch of wimpy amateurs!) So the paddling party had to picnic in the kitchen.

Just imagine it. Eight screaming toddlers all spilling juice and trampling on sandwiches and occasionally on each other’s fingers. Total nightmare!

I just couldn’t take the mayhem. So I sneaked off to the bombsite formerly known as our sitting room, to watch TV by myself.

But the telly was swathed in several sheets of industrial plastic.

My star sign is Libra, and I’m a really easygoing person. My mates will tell you that normally I take things like disappearing tellies completely in my stride.

But you’ve to got remember I was seriously stressed out. My house was filled with rampaging rugrats and there was completely nowhere to run. And my ear still hurt, a LOT. And the no-telly-situation was just the last straw.

And I’m sorry, OK, but I completely lost it. Actually, I went totally ballistic. “ARGH!” I yelled. And again. “AAARGH!!!”

But no-one heard me. This was because Mum and her mates had finally succeeded in persuading all the kiddiwinks to sing Five Fat Sausages at the tops of their cute little voices.

I started ripping at the plastic in a frenzy.

“I’m not asking for the moon,” I stormed. “I want to veg out in front of the TV, that’s all. But no! I’ve got to play Pass the blooming TV Parcel…”

Finally I’d peeled my way down to the last layer. Then I dragged our TV to the nearest electrical socket and plugged it in. But all the channels had gone completely skew-whiff!

Now I was really mad. I stomped back to the kitchen, glowering at everyone like the evil fairy in a panto. I generally go all starry-eyed when I hear pre-schoolers singing in their little off-key voices. But my heart had entirely turned to stone.

“Excuse ME for breaking up the party!” I yelled rudely. “But I’m still really ill, in case you’ve forgotten, Mum, and I need to watch TV, but Dad’s sabotaged the channels, hasn’t he?”

All the tinies gawped at me in pure astonishment.

I could tell Mum was silently counting to ten. “Why don’t you go and watch Stuart’s?” she suggested at last.

“THAT heap of junk!” I snarled. “I’d get a bigger buzz watching Grandma’s snowstorm paperweight!”

My brother’s ancient Sony recently went on the blink, which means you have to watch programmes through this permanent blizzard.

“I know,” said Mum, in her best playgroup leader’s voice. “Why don’t you help yourself to one of those lovely juicy peaches, curl up in a comfy chair and read a library book?”

“Yeah, right,” I sneered. “First find a chair, then—”

“I’m sure we can find you a chair,” Mum interrupted, laughing.

“But I’ve read those books heaps of times,” I moaned. “I can practically recite them from memory.”

My little brother, Ben, slipped a sticky hand into mine. “Don’t worry, I’ll lend you my library books if you like,” he whispered.

I’ll just explain that Ben’s favourite toddler fact-book explains exactly where your poo goes to, with v. colourful diagrams.

“That’s sweet, Ben,” I shuddered. “But I’d just want to lose myself in a good story. You know, escape. ” My voice came out in a feeble little wail. To my horror I realised I was going to cry.

“Tell you what,” said my mum’s mate Teresa. “I’ve got some kids’ books in the car. I’m meant to be taking them to the charity shop. My dad’s been clearing out his attic.”

“Oh,” I said. “Erm…”

But before I could explain that this wasn’t exactly the reading I had in mind, Teresa had nipped out to her car. In no time, she was back with two bulging carrier bags.

Inside were the fogeyest, most depressing hard-backed books I have EVER seen. No doubt they looked incredibly hip when they came out in the 1940s or whatever. But over the years all the covers had faded to the colour of bogey slime (I’m sorry, but it’s true!).