Me Life Story by Scarlett Moffatt (best classic books of all time txt) 📗

something else. It’s also the time when it really brings it home that it’s just lovely to have really close family. We are like the Brady Bunch and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

It was bizarre after the jungle because everyone got swept up in the show, and as a result no one was very organised with Christmas. So we decided to eat out for Christmas dinner, something we had never done before (and will never be doing again). Although it was nice not doing any washing up, there’s something lovely about chaos at Christmas. I know the dream that is sold to you on the TV is being knee-deep in presents and expensive crackers, having a civilised turkey dinner with all the trimmings, then sitting by an open fire roasting chestnuts with a lavish tree sparkling with antique baubles in the background. But it’s just not Christmas for me and my family if everything goes to plan. Dare I say it, I missed eating cold mashed potato last Christmas. I missed not having enough elbow room to cut my meat up and banging into the person sat next to me, I missed being able to sit in my slippers and not be judged for it. In the words of my good friend (well, I feel like he is) Dr Seuss:

‘What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store.

What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?’

Chapter Eighteen

LONDON AND ITS SMASHED AVOCADO

To pass the Knowledge, the insanely difficult London geography test required of black-cab drivers in the city, you must master 320 basic routes, all of the 25,000 streets that are scattered within those routes, and about 20,000 landmarks and places of interest within a six-mile radius of Charing Cross.

The word ‘avocado’ in Nahuatl Indian (Aztec) means ‘testicle’ because of its shape, so the word ‘guacamole’ literally translates as ‘testicle sauce’.

Cock Lane, near Holborn Viaduct, didn’t get its name due to any association with poultry, but because it was the only street to be licensed for prostitution in medieval times.

Tears streamed down my face.

‘Scarlett, what’s wrong?’ My mam, dad and Ava looked so concerned.

‘I don’t even know how to say it because it doesn’t feel real but I have been offered a place to present the Best Seats in the House competition for Saturday Night Takeaway!’

‘Ahhhhhh!’ my dad screamed and picked me up.

‘This is amazing! Wow, dreams do come true, Scarlett, you’re right,’ my little sister yelled.

Now was the time to tell them what I’d been thinking about all over Christmas. ‘You know, I have always wanted to see what it’s like living in London and now seems a perfect time. If I rent somewhere for a year then I can see if it’s the place for me. I’ve got to take a chance.’

‘I agree completely, kid. We will help you look for a flat.’

Just three weeks later, I was at Darlington station listening to an announcement.

‘The next train arriving onto platform one will be the 12.29 Virgin service from Edinburgh Waverley to London King’s Cross, calling at York and London King’s Cross,’ the tannoy announced. Holding back the tears with a lump in my throat, standing next to everything I owned – two suitcases and a backpack – it was really happening, just three weeks after the discussion of moving to London. I waved my mam goodbye. Yes, I had lived away from my family before but never this far away. I was off to live in the capital city, London. I was like a real-life Dick Whittington. I should have been super excited but I just felt distraught at the fact I couldn’t pop round my mam and dad’s for a cup of tea, or to give my little sister a cuddle or to go and have a natter and a kebab with my best friend Sarah.

It was a huge step for me, suddenly moving hundreds of miles away, especially after everything had been such a whirlwind recently. I had only been down to London a handful of times in my whole life so I bought a map of London and the Underground (such a tourist) just so I could get my head around it all. I could walk from one end of my town to the other in half an hour, whereas London seemed like this giant country. As soon as I arrived into King’s Cross station, well, let’s put it this way, ‘I knew I wasn’t in Kansas any more.’

I knew straight away things were going to be different living down south to up north when I got into the taxi to take me to my new flat. After I got over the fact there was a card machine in the taxi (which I’d never seen before), I realised the taxi driver hadn’t done the normal three things all northern taxi drivers do.

1. Tell me what time he had been working since.

2. Tell me what time he is working till.

3. Moan about Ubers.

Normally you couldn’t get taxi drivers to stop talking but no, not a mutter of a word. I mean the driver was pleasant enough and he got us there safely but it just wasn’t the same. I have so many stories that involve taxis back at home. Like the time I had no money on me so I gave the driver some garlic and chips as payment. Or the time I thought I had money in my room at uni so I ran up to get the £4 and realised I had spent it on four VKs the other afternoon. I had a brainwave and remembered I once read somewhere that stamps were legal tender. Knowing I had three packs of first-class stamps (as I’m a traditionalist and still like to send letters to my family), I ran down the stairs clenching the Queen’s lovely face.

‘Here you go, mate, it’s