Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

On the way back to the car, I get tangled whilst trying to pull myself out of the boilersuit. Mike paid the guy so that we could keep ours — I wanted to show Mum what multi-coloured war wounds look like. My protective vest is an over-the-head number. I get it stuck around my ears like a five-year-old. Mike stops me almost ripping my chain off in my hurry.

‘St Christopher? That’s a blast from the past.’

‘You got one too?’

‘Got it when I was confirmed. Never wear it, though. What’s with yours?’

‘Just an old present. Reminds me of the time when I got it.’

‘Birthday?’

‘Nah. Just reminds me of good intentions. Not always best received.’

‘Now you’re talking my language! Did you know your mum’s on another food fad? She almost bit my head off when I gave her breakfast in bed.’

‘What was it? Bacon?’

‘No. Toast.’

When I’m older, I’ll have a laugh thinking about how I was such an eejit.

Mike doesn’t bring up the subject of school. He’s not like that. He isn’t nosy. Somehow that makes me want to tell him everything. There’s two weeks left ’til the holidays. Mum says there’s no point in going back before then. But this morning I woke up and find myself txting Jase. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Seeing if he’ll meet me at the shops. Safe, he txts back.

Everyone needs to pack up their kid gloves. I’m ready.

Thanks to the following for all their hard work and belief: Mark Stanton at Jenny Brown Associates, Jamie Byng, Kate Weinberg, Francis Bickmore, and everyone at Canongate. Shout-outs to Shoshanna, Jersey Girl and Suzie F for sound advice on things spiritual and athletic.

H / The Stiletto / Ruben — for saving my bacon.

Neely — coolest sister ever.

Love to family and friends, without whom…