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Chapter 2

Growing up, I was definitely the more sensitive sister. While Katie used Barbie's hot pink Convertible to pummel ladybirds into the carpet, I built hospitals out of match boxes to deal with her victims. A fly with reduced wing capacity spent six weeks swaddled in tissue in the ICU unit. Everyone said it was dead, but how could they be sure it wasn't in a coma?

I wanted something cuddlier than a disabled housefly but Katie was allergic to cats so a kitten was out of the question. We didn't have much space either. After a lot of begging my parents finally caved in and bought me the smallest dog they could find in Battersea Dog's Home, a Jack Russell called Sid. Poor Sid. I'd only had him six weeks before he ran into the road and got run over by a learner driver. The woman panicked and stamped down on the accelerator instead of the brake. It was a tragedy. My parents blame that day for everything that happened afterwards.

What did happen? My memory is that I recovered pretty well after the funeral, once I'd lapped up the story about doggy heaven from my atheist parents. But when I grew up they needed an explanation as to why I hadn't become a teacher, or a doctor, or a social worker, or some other noble profession which would better suit their socialist ideologies. Why instead had I become an ambitious, money chasing media type?

That's what they assume from the location of my office (Soho), my manicured nails (£10 at my local Vietnamese nail salon), my glam outfits (ebay), and my preference for sparkling water over natural (it really is more refreshing). Lah-di-dah, they'll say, forgetting all the anxiety the income from their noble jobs (as recycling officer and part-time social worker) had caused them.

Is it so wrong to seize a chance to make some money? It might not be the most worthy of jobs, but it could be worse. I could be an arms dealer or drug trafficker or a poacher of rhino horns...

At least I've got a job. Wouldn't it be worse to be still living at home, relying on my parents' for handouts? Don't they want me to have security? Don't they want me to own my own place? With a job like mine, that's actually a possibility. Don't parents usually want for their children what they didn't quite manage to achieve themselves?

If I had a daughter I'd be really proud if she managed to put a deposit down on a flat in one of the most expensive capitals in the world. I'd toast her independence, commend her for her hard graft.

I suppose my parents' main issue is they feel I should be using my own voice, not mimicking the voices of people I've expressed very little admiration for in the past. I don't blame them for not understanding it. Every day I experience an acute moment of self-loathing, that paralyses me for a moment, but soon passes.

The problem is, no one is going to pay to hear my voice. Not now at least. I'm always scribbling down ideas, but if I'm going to add my voice to the millions of other established vloggers and bloggers, then I want to make sure it has a strong identity and that it's adding something useful to the world. Until then, I'm going to get on with my job of being the voice of Bernard Thompson-Skinner.

He definitely has a lot to say. I know I don't have enough words to fill that doorstopper of a memoir with leftovers for a sequel. I don't blame Bernard for getting annoyed with Sandy Hubert. It's harsh having someone dismiss two years of work in less than 140 characters. The least Hubert could have done is dedicate a full blog post to ripping it apart. If not a blog post then a long Facebook status with the appropriate emoticon attached - feeling blah after reading the worst book ever... The emoticon for 'blah' being the one with eyes squeezed shut and tongue out. Obviously.