Dear Mum

Why do you always cook mince? It’s like eating cooked worms on toast, but without the toast. It’s gross. How come dad gets a takeaway four times a week and I get burnt jacket potatoes resembling horse-droppings. It’s not fair. Even my brother gets nicer food than I do (but does it really count if he’s weird enough to like cold Brussels’ sprouts?) Oh well. He enjoys his food.

Come on, you can’t complain that I whine so much. Dad won’t have sausages two days of the week. It has to be something different every day, and what do you call that? You call it fussy, mum, so you can’t moan at me. You don’t moan at dad.

You nag me to tidy my room when I like it how it is and you’re always telling me to go sort out the rabbits, going outside in the pouring rain when you can’t wear gloves because all the straw and poop sticks to them. My brother never does them. But he murdered the last one, and you didn’t even take him to the vet when he whacked him round the head.

You just covered him in straw and left him for the night, hoping he’d wake up. He might have survived if you had taken him to the vet, and at least we’d have known straight away. And you didn’t even punish him. He just got a reprieve. How pathetic is that?

If it was me, and thank God it wasn’t, I’d have been deader than a corpse mouldering in the graveyard in town. It would be ‘what have you done you imbecile?’ from dad. I’d be sent to my room and not allowed to watch TV or play on the Play-station for a year.

Yours in utter complete fury

Your un-loving daughter

Sophia