I’m awoken abruptly by Eric, who’s bathed in grime from last night’s heavy sesh playing Overwatch. His face is as puffy and red as his hair, a far cry from the rest of his pearlescent white skin, and from this angle he’s dripping oily sweat on my cheek. I shove him away and growl, hurling the hood of my sleeping bag over my head and face planting into the damply fusty pillow. A spindly finger prods my back, at first hesitant but soon short, quick and…stabby. My frustrated cry dissipates through the knackered, lumpy pillow and I remind him, face down, that it’s really fluffing early and that we spent most of last night having to wait for him to install all 6.3gb of the game on Mrs Leigh’s practically-dial-up broadband which we all agreed to do BEFOREHAND and that Mrs Leigh is totally going to bollock us for. The prodding continues, underscored by the really disconcerting sound of Eric huffing and puffing like a panicked choir boy running away from a priest. I aggressively shimmy around to face him, rustling really bloody loudly so that Eric KNOWS I’m pretty irate about the situation. Sweaty Eric thrusts a small blurry orange and blue bottle in my face, and I grouchily slam my hand about until it falls on my glasses case. I examine the much clearer bottle with my half-rims on. I gulp as I realise how totally boned we are. There’s only 10ml left in the Factor 90.
We alert Adam straight away. As a registered dweller of this house and the conservatory we had gamed and slept in, we figured he’d know what to do. We, however, leave Dawn sleeping. The palest skinned and most vividly orange of the core four. Also the resident asthmatic. We agree it’s best not to panic her if there’s a solution to be had. Adam, our leader both in battle and in spirit, resolves to get another bottle from the bathroom.
The door between the conservatory and the living room is locked. Adam is now banging furiously on the glass and yelling at his little sister as she smugly digs into her Coco Pops and swings the conservatory key on her index finger. She’s completely unphased by Adam’s wailing threats to tell Mrs Leigh on her and she retorts that their Mum has gone to pilates with the girls and won’t be back until the afternoon. Apparently this teaches us for not letting her play with us and using a bot instead. Besides, she didn’t want “boy smell” to “infect the house”. The only way out now is via the garden. Adam has now turned rage purple.
Adam has absolutely scuppered any hope of his sister unlocking the door by telling her she’s adopted. We can hear her crying upstairs.
Adam’s war cries have awoken Dawn and she now won’t stop screaming. Eric has spent the last ten minutes trying to coax her off the wicker chair which she is rapidly peeling bare with her nails. I’ve been trying to calm down Adam who has been berating Dawn for not being a proper girl and bringing any bobby pins to pick the living room lock. He doesn’t mean it. I think.
The heat is becoming unbearable. We’ve all had to break into the Factor 90 at 1ml each measured with precision with Mrs Leigh’s gardening pipette. Although there might have been some residual plant food left in the pipette as Dawn’s neck has come out in a particularly nasty rash. She’s allergic to everything though, so we’re going to epipen her anyway just to be safe.
Emergency. Man down. The sun moved whilst we were trying to wrestle Dawn into submission with the epipen and severely burnt Eric’s ears. In a state of itchy confusion, he’s holding the sun screen hostage.
Eric has been banished to the hottest corner of the conservatory after he took Adam’s threat to delete his level 60 Pandaren too seriously and spilled at least 6ml of the Factor 90. Dawn is currently rolling on the floor to soak it up. Her neck has started to pus. Adam’s sister is still crying.
Mrs Leigh still isn’t back. After trying to drain some of the Factor 90 from Dawn’s face, we have managed to salvage 2ml. 3ml in total. Someone is going to have to get more Factor 90. Someone is going to have go outside.
Adam found some of Mrs Leigh’s nail files and has snapped them to different sizes. Eric has been omitted from the drawer for on account of passing out from heat stroke. He’s still in the corner of shame, but we’ve chucked a crocheted decorative blanket over him.
Dawn picked the short file. She doesn’t want to go outside.
We pushed Dawn outside. She is screaming at us with her face pressed up to the window. She’s not listening to our instructions to get more sun screen from the offie.
Dawn is now trying to file the lock open with the remaining nubbin of emery board. Adam and I are pressed to the wall closest to the house, as the sun has started to encroach upon the conservatory. We may need to use the remaining 3ml
Dawn’s got the sun screen. As long as she remains too sweaty to open the cap, we’ll be fine.
Dawn is using her top to pry open the sun screen. We’re doomed. And she’s already the colour of Charmander. Three bulbous yellow, pustular sacs wobble on the back of her irritated neck. Eric is completely in the sun now. We’ve assumed he’s dead.
Adam drank his own urine. I’m not sure why. There’s still some cans of coke by the sofa bed.
Mrs Leigh finally returned from pilates to find Dawn passed out by the nationalist themed Chrysthanthemums. Adam, Dawn and I have been let into the living room and presented with a bottle of camomile lotion. I have never been more aroused.
Mum dropped Dawn at her parents after a quick visit to A&E to sort out her neck. Turns out she’s allergic to whatever was in Eric’s epipen. I’ve been slathered in more camomile lotion. Laying down feels like I’m being grated finely like parmesan. Sleeping may be an issue.
I think Eric might still be in the conservatory.