Produktdetaljer
Biografisk notat
Dawn was born in a blue house by the sea in Sussex. She now lives in a brown house in Gloucestershire with her two teenage daughters and lots of furry pets. In 2008 she did an MA in Writing for Young People at Bath Spa University, which was 100% fab. In the past, she has worked as a bereavement counsellor, a copywriter, a teaching assistant and a children's bookseller - but her best job has always been being a mummy. Dawn likes dancing to bad 80s songs, going for rainy walks, eating green soup, snoozing by her log-burner, and writing in cafes (PS: Never challenge Dawn to a water fight cos you'll lose). Follow Dawn on Twitter: @DawnMcNiffTold with a lot of sympathy and empathy, this story is a good read for any young girl
- Sue Breslin, School Library Association
A heart-warming tale about magic, responsibility, mothers and daughters
Eleven-year-old Shelley only leaves her bedroom for two minutes, but when she gets back, there's a real, true-life, lavender-eyed baby on her bed. It's far too noisy, smelly and heavy to be a ghost baby - so whose is it? It can't be her mum's - Shelley would have noticed - but it's not like she's around for Shelley to ask, anyway. She's too busy trying to get her horrible ex-boyfriend Scott ('the Toadstool') back, who Shelley definitely does NOT like as much as her mum does.
But someone's got to look after the baby, and give her a name. 'Celeste' sounds good (in fact, it sounds kind of magical) and so Shelley and little Celeste embark on some rather messy adventures, gain some new friends and realise that maybe some wishes can come true after all...
I was fuming, but somehow that got me laughing. It was like a switch. Then I just couldn't
stop. I was hysterical.
'Yeah!' I shrieked. 'Great, big, fat raspberries to Mama.' I sank down on the floor next to her and laughed and laughed and laughed. Celeste's face was still teary, but she started giggling too and upended a bag of noodles next to a small hill of sugar. She grinned at me, naughtily.
'Yes, what a bad, mad mess you've made!' I said to her. 'Well, good. I'm not cleaning it up.
Mum can. And bog-breath Toadstool!'
I snatched a bottle of Mum's diet lemonade from the side and shook it hard. I twisted the lid
open and lemonade exploded out everywhere. I showered the kitchen with froth.
Celeste shrieked with delight.
'Yahooooo!' I yelled. I took up a big packet of cornflakes and threw golden handfuls into
the air. I lobbed two iced buns at the window. Toadstool's fat-boy food. One stuck to the glass like a doughy slug.
Celeste was digging her sharp little nails into me, and trying to mountaineer up my legs. I picked her up, and we danced and whirled and slid up and down on the lino, crashing into all the junk on the floor. My socks bunched up under my feet and I kept nearly falling over. We laughed and laughed like loons.
My socks were getting wet. The floor was slimy under the Rice Krispies. Eggs! Celeste had been in the fridge too . . . what a good idea. I took out one of Mum's yoghurts . . .
'Let's make it slidier,' I said, tipping the yoghurt all over the lino. It worked a total treat - we
skidded much faster.
'This is soooo much fun!' I felt wild with badness.