Despite being in Mother’s bad books, nothing could sour my weekend. I had the letter in my hand from school, confirming I was taking part in the ABBA recording along with the rest of the choir. It was like having a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.
I whooped and clutched it to my chest, singing “Voulez-Vouz” and whirling and jumping around. This eventually led to a more concentrated bout of spinning on the spot: if the magic letter in my hand wasn’t going to let me become Wonder Woman, nothing was. As I twirled, I casually tossed the letter from my hand, like Diana Prince throwing aside her glasses before the big transformation.
I corkscrewed to the floor in a dizzy heap. It hadn’t worked, but the letter was real!
There was just one problem: the letter needed to be signed by a parent or guardian, authorising our absence from school and giving permission for us to be filmed. Given Mother’s current mood, the chances of this happening were less than zero.