Dating : Lunch with Miss Lamb

I may only be ten, but I know a well-made sandwich when I see one, and this one’s so not it.

Mum’s got a migraine – again. She’s still in bed. Even so, it doesn’t take a genius to know she hasn’t made this sloppy mess.

It’s got Dad’s name all over it.

I’m not spoilt – honest. It’s just that I feel safe when Mum’s here fussing around in the morning.

I prod the white bread, Dad grabbed at the petrol station last night. It’s the sort that clags in your mouth and cakes your teeth. Mum buys brown bread with bits in it, but she’s not been to the proper shops lately.

I can hardly look at the wet, bubblegum-pink slither of something he’s slapped between two of the slices. Is it supposed to be meat?

There is nothing green or crunchy in my lunch box. Miss Lamb’s going to go mad. She purses her lips when she inspects my lunch. This could get serious, but Dad doesn’t listen.

Miss Lamb sent a note to our parents about healthy meals. Mum said she couldn’t read it until she felt better. Dad stuffed the note in his mouth and pretended to eat it. That made me giggle, even though I’m scared of Miss Lamb.

Miss Lamb gives you a gold star if your lunch passes her test. Scarlett Taylor has ten stars. I’ve got none. Her mum says it’s not hard to provide proper food. People who don’t are just lazy. ‘And,’ says Scarlett in a loud voice, ‘we’re saving the planet. My Dad’s virtually carbon neutral.’ I don’t even know what that means. But I don’t think my Dad’s there yet- though he did shove an apple in my pocket this morning.

We stand in a line in front of Miss Lamb. Her mood’s as dark as her clothes. As I shuffle forwards, I open the box and see if I can do something to make the sandwich look better. I remove the top slice of bread and catch my breath. A note sits on top of the meat. I narrow my eyes to read Dad’s scruffy scrawl,

‘Say Baa to Miss Lamb from me.’