The thirteenth of June was both the best day of my life and the worst. It began well - I woke up in the morning, filled with happiness that I could lie there in the fresh sunlight for another hour or two yet, with no school to go to  (it being a Saturday). I did stay under the duvet for half an hour or so, before the smell of eggs frying tempted me down the stairs. I paused at the bottom: a brown package lying on the doormat had caught my eye. I was convinced it wouldn't be for me, since everything that came through my letterbox seemed to be junk mail or bills for my parents, with the occasional postcard or letter, but my eyes widened with surprise when I saw Bernadette Johnson scrawled across the front. I bent to pick it up, only to find that  it was quite heavy and needed both of my hands to pick it up.

  I skipped through to the kitchen with it before plonking it triumphantly on the table in front of my mum. "A parcel!" I said brightly, "For me!".                                                           "Oh," mumbled my mum, who still looked half asleep with ruffled brown hair and her glasses placed wonkily on her nose. "Have a fried egg, darling."                                                 I was hungry, but the parcel was too intriguing and I felt that it should be opened now, so i didn't hesitate in ripping off the paper and looking inside. I heard an almost non existent tut come from my mum as if to say "Don't rip that, it could be reused!" Why is it that she still thinks about these things even when she isn't fully awake? Perhaps she had woken up a bit - when I pulled out the contents of the package, she caught the little note that fluttered down and exclaimed "Auntie Rose! Now I wonder why she's sending a present..."                                                                                                                  "It's a recipe book! Ooh..." I whispered as I stroked my hand down the old blue binding, soft with age. On the cover all there was was a raised rectangle which said the word Recipes on it.                                                                                                                                 As I touched it I thought I felt a sort of fuzzy feeling go through my body... but no, I must have imagined it. I put down the book and went to get a fried egg from the pan. 

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