Henrietta Pickering didn’t believe in cake. It was the enemy, along with soft drinks and muesli bars. So when her twins’ annoying teacher had dared request a homemade sponge from her for their school “event”, Henrietta hadn’t been impressed. And of course she hadn’t. She’d thought everyone knew about sugar by now. Apparently not. No, it was both necessary and expected she bring a cake, so despite how vexing it was, she’d jotted it in her diary…

Hadassah has an intimate relationship with her name. It’s obvious. Because it sounds as old as she feels, like she’s from another time and born a thousand years too late. And she likes it, you can tell, because she’s embroidered it on her satchel that’s always stuffed with books and slung close to her hip everywhere she goes. Books are her refuge; she’s a typical librarian that way. But she wouldn’t care for fluffy romance novels, like most librarians probably do. No, what she’s into is a more thrilling read. Hadassah’s into mythology…

It’s twenty-three minutes past one in the morning. You know this, because a minute ago your abnormally sharp sit bones started screaming out with sharp pangs – you’d been sitting on them for an abusively long time. You’d normally hear that pain before now, of course. But your brain had thoughtfully muted that bull-ant-biting sensation for most of this long, arduous – but really – pointless debrief with your parents about how you’ve monumentally fucked things up…