Read Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
@Rudyardbutgentle
What? It was you?
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 11
@Rudyardbutgentle
Are you still there?
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 11
Yep.
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 11
Gimme
some big hard cock.
A big hard cock's cock.
Mmmmm
. Finger licking good.
#
flightlessissexiest
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 11
@Rudyardbutgentle
Sod off!!!
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 11
That's two more exclamation marks than you need there, Jamie. I can start posting pictures any time I like...
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 11
@Rudyardbutgentle
Okay, okay. I'm sorry, you win. I'm very sorry for being rude to you.
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 11
Alright then.
Apology accepted. No more saying you like to have sex with birds.
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 11
@Rudyardbutgentle
Thank you very much.
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 11
No problem. Now, how do you feel about fellating leprechauns?
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 11
@Rudyardbutgentle
Leprechauns? Oh God, they are so sexy! I'll chug down a leprechaun's length to get at his pot of gold!
#
suckmyluckycharms
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 11
You utter bastard!
Tom
@Thunderbratz Jul 11
Dude. You have some serious issues. I'm reporting you.
***
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
I'm a tiny leprechaun, all dressed in green. I am the smallest man that you've ever seen.
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
If you rub my belly, I'll laugh all the day. If you go down on me, then you're probably gay.
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
@Rudyardbutgentle
You're
back then Rudyard...
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 12
Yeah baby!
What'cho
you
gonna
do about it?
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
@Rudyardbutgentle
Not much.
I'm no expert at this stuff.
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 12
Nope. That'd be me!
Hee
hee
hee
! Blow any dwarves today Jamie?
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
Not yet... I don't have many tech skills, but you know what I do have?
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 12
What's that, you midget molesting maniac?
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
Fans.
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 12
So fucking what?
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
A lot of them DO have tech skills Rudyard.
Way more than me... or you.
And so now I have something else.
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 12
What?
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
Your IP address.
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 12
No you fucking don't!!!
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
Is that THREE exclamation marks I see there, Rudyard? ...Or should I say, Dave
Pinder
from
Cleethorpes
???!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Rudyard Stripling
@Rudyardbutgentle Jul 12
Oh shit! Please don't tell my mum!
Dan Jones
@DannyTwoTone Jul 12
@Rudyardbutgentle
Ha! Fucking owned!
Minch
@MinchieMoo92 Jul 12
Woo
hoo
! Well done Jamie!! :)
Jamie and Laura
@NewmanWriters Jul 12
#
revengeissweet
When venturing into the thorny world of social media, it's vital to have one thing.
Back up.
Wednesday, July 21st
Dear Mum,
I fear I may have created a monster. Said monster is in the shape of a seven-year-old girl, but is a monster nonetheless.
Last night was the occasion of Middle Park Infant School's annual summer play, which shall hereafter be known as 'the night of the Newman creature'. If I was embarrassed when I had to fish my sunburned husband out of the Indian Ocean, then I felt triple the degree of shamefacedness by the end of yesterday evening, thanks to my lovely daughter Poppy, and her newfound aspirations towards stardom.
You would imagine that a school play is an innocuous thing at the best of times. An event trotted out by the weary teaching staff on an annual basis, to provide them with something to entertain the children with in the run up to the school holidays - and an opportunity for proud parents to come to school and see where all those hard earned taxes are going.
In Middle Park Infant School's case, those tax pounds are going into a slavish recreation of the story of Noah And His Ark. It's the ideal play to stage for seven year olds, given that it features a large amount of colourful animal costumes that they can be stuffed into, and is a story everyone knows - and is therefore easy to follow - even when the stars of the show inevitably forget their lines, or pee themselves before the end of the first act.
For most children, being a part of Noah And His Ark would just be a chance to run around making farmyard noises in front of two hundred adults, but for Poppy Helen Newman, it represents the opportunity for her to firmly set out her store as a future star of stage and screen.
At least it would be if she hadn't been cast as a chicken.
This news of dreadful import was delivered to me with a scowl about two weeks ago, upon Poppy's return from school with her father.
'I don't want to be a chicken!' she snaps, throwing her backpack down onto one of the kitchen chairs in disgust.
'But that's the part Mrs Carmoody has given you Pops,' Jamie tells her, sitting himself down at the breakfast bar.
Poppy crosses her arms and twists her perfect little mouth. 'Mrs Carmoody is a poo head,' she declares in tones that brook no argument.
I gasp in horror. 'Poppy Helen Newman! You do not say that kind of thing about your teacher!'
'No Poppy, Mum is right,' Jamie agrees, but you can quite clearly see he's not that bothered about his daughter's choice of words, given that there's a distinct smile playing across his lips, and a twinkle of veiled parental approval in his eyes.
'But I should have been Noah's wife!' Poppy counters. 'I was the best at her, and I looked the best in the sheet thing, and I made
Briony
Peters laugh so much that she
snotted
a bit.'
Not being a Christian, I don't know whether Noah's better half displayed the ability to make snot come out of people's noses in The Bible, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say probably not.
'Well Mrs Carmoody obviously decided that you were also very good at being a chicken,' I say, trying my hardest to make her feel better. I doubt that anyone since the beginning of time has comforted somebody effectively by comparing them to a chicken, so I'm not all that surprised when Poppy's eyes start to well up.
'Mrs Carmoody doesn't like me,' Poppy intones.
'What makes you say that, sweetheart?' Jamie asks.
'Coz I trod on her foot at playtime two weeks ago. The one she always has in that funny bandage thing.'
Now, I've met Mrs Carmoody a couple of times, and while she does look a trifle stern and authoritative, she doesn't come across as the kind of person who'd hold a grudge based on a little girl's clumsiness. 'Did you say sorry?' I ask Poppy.
'Yes.'
'Well I'm sure it played no part in your casting as a chicken then.'
To be honest, I can well believe that Mrs Carmoody put Poppy in such a lowly role to teach her a bit of humility. My daughter is not one for being humble or self-deprecating. She tears through the world like a whirlwind in a Hello Kitty t-shirt, and tends to get what she wants 99% of the time.
In fact, there's every chance she might be an entitled brat.
I have no-one to blame for this but myself - and Jamie, of course. Though mostly me, because at no point have I wanted to go through the misery of pregnancy again to grant Poppy a little brother or sister. Some may see this is selfish, but they can quite clearly fuck off. I love my daughter unreservedly, but am happy with just one child, and don't see how there's anything wrong with that. Besides, there's every chance that by now Poppy would have engineered an 'accident' for her younger sibling, to make sure that they weren't getting more attention than she was. Possibly something involving a fork and the nearest electrical socket.
No, it's been best for us all that family Newman has remained a three part harmony - rather than a four or five part cacophony.
That's not to say I don't feel horrible for not supplying Poppy with a playmate. That would be far too sensible, and not at all in keeping with the uncanny ability that my brain has to completely contradict itself. I feel
incredibly
guilty sometimes that Poppy is an only child, even though I'm happy with my decision not to have another baby.
Now, parents who feel this way tend to do one of two things. They either feed their single child so much food that they find themselves raising a barrel with arms and legs, or they lavish money and presents on them.
This second choice requires money, of course.
I have no doubt that if I were still working in a chocolate shop and Jamie were still in a lowly marketing job, then Poppy would now be a good eight stone, and unable to see her own feet. As it stands, Pops is kept whip-thin by all that swirling around like a miniature hurricane, and has now reached the point where her levels of entitlement are becoming something of a problem.
What Poppy wants, Poppy rather inevitably gets.
Her bedroom is awash with Disney merchandise - in every colour as long as it’s pink.
I could quite cheerfully open the room up to strangers and make a tidy profit flogging all the hideously expensive plastic crap we've accumulated in there in the past couple of years.
To give you some idea of how bad it is, Poppy has no less than
four
Nemos
. Finding the little sod would present absolutely no issue for Dory, should the little fish find herself in Poppy's bedroom. In fact, the only danger she'd be in is being crushed by the largest of the four - Poppy's enormous two foot high night light that we bought her for Christmas this year. This is what happens when you buy a present off the internet without looking properly at the measurements.
If it's not Finding
Nemo
stuff, it's
Frozen
merchandise. If it's not
Frozen
, it's The Lion King. Graven images of
Simba
,
Nemo
and Elsa fight for supremacy on almost every surface. I have to confess I occasionally get the creeps when I put Poppy to bed, as they all look at me with that dull eyed expression stuffed toys seem to suffer from.
The spoiling of Poppy Newman doesn't end there.
We generally end up cooking her something she likes every night for tea, with one of us taking on the task of preparing our own meal, while the other devotes themselves to making sure that Poppy gets her turkey dinosaurs and potato waffles just the way she likes them. Thankfully her child's palette does like to take in some vegetables alongside all the brown crap, which is a saving grace. I don't have the strength to put up with the tantrums I would have to endure should it prove necessary to force feed her broccoli or peas.
Poppy also watches what she wants on the TV. Until 8pm, it's pretty much exclusively her domain, with Jamie and I forced onto our iPads, while she stares endlessly at the Disney channel.
Pathetic, isn't it? Poppy receives little to no discipline from either of us most of the time, if I'm being honest. Jamie and I dote on her to a level that completely negates our ability to punish her for anything she does wrong - and boy is that lack of parental control coming back to bite us on the arse now.
'But I don't want to be a chicken!' she screeches and literally stamps her feet on the floor.
'Why don't you show Mum the costume Pops? Maybe if she likes it, you won't mind being a chicken quite so much?' Jamie ventures and looks at me. 'They let her bring it home to show us, as long as
she takes care of it
.' I get Jamie's meaning straight away. The costume will be kept away from Poppy under lock and key, so she doesn't get the chance to attack it with her plastic craft scissors.
Poppy turns slowly to regard her father with a look of distain. 'She won't Dad.'
'I might Pops!' I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. 'Let's have a look at it, shall we?'
Poppy thinks about this for a second. Her desire to continue the tantrum is weighed against her love of showing off for her parents.
The showing off wins.
'Come on sweetheart, I'll help you with it,' Jamie says, and gets up from his seat. 'We'll go upstairs and Mum can wait down here.' Jamie gives me a hopeful look. 'She could make a nice cup of tea while she waits.'
I roll my eyes and pick the kettle up.
I hear Poppy's loud, stamping footsteps coming down the stairs about ten minutes later. They are the sound of pure, distilled, and unadulterated anger.
She appears in the kitchen doorway, a sullen look on her face. Jamie stands behind her with a broad grin.
'Doesn't she look fantastic!?' he says in excited joy.
This is a masterpiece of amateur dramatics, as poor old Poppy does
not
look fantastic. It's not her fault of course, my daughter is gorgeous; but not even her elfin good looks can make up for the fact that the costume she is jammed into is utter shit.
It consists of what looks like a faded yellow bath mat with a hole cut in the middle for Poppy to stick her head through. Somebody has attempted to draw a red chicken's wattle coming from the hole in thick marker pen. Sadly, what they have actually managed to draw is two big hanging red testicles. It doesn't help that what remains of the bathroom mat's thick shag pile looks like pubes.
On Poppy's head is a second bath mat (I can only assume somebody really liked yellow bathroom accessories in the seventies) that has been awkwardly cut and stitched into a hood shape. Protruding from the top of the hood is the end of an orange sock that I presume is meant to be the beak. There are a couple of those plastic
googly
eyes stuck on either side of the hood above the sock, and more red marker has been employed to colour in something of an irregular
mohawk
down the middle of the sewn together bathmat.
All efforts to resemble a chicken sadly stop at waist level, as Poppy has also been forced into a pair of bright yellow jogging pants that are at least four sizes too big for her.
The overall effect is not a convincing representation of barnyard fowl. Unless it had been run over by the tractor, and had a set of testicles glued to it afterwards.
'Wow Poppy!' I over compensate. 'You look brilliant!'
'Doesn't she?!' Jamie agrees, nodding his head vociferously.
Poppy is having
none
of it.
'I look really silly Mum!' she wails and pulls at the bathmat poncho. 'It smells funny, and it itches!'