God isn’t real either, but it's different from Santa Claus. With God it's not that Maisie and Donald are pretending because they think I'm stupid. They're not pretending. They really think it's real.

So does the vicar and all the old ladies who go to church, and the fat red-faced woman who plays the organ. So does every single person in the church, I think, except for me.

It makes me mad because they're grown-ups and they shouldn't believe in stupid games any more. Invisible things. Made up things. Most of the time I don't mind Maisie and Donald but sometimes they make me feel like I could break things. Like I could be like Mum when she's manic. Going off like a firework.

That's how I feel right now, sitting here on the hard cold wooden pew. Just waiting for it to finish. Waiting for the vicar to stop moving his mouth. I hate him and I hate this place and I hate Maisie and Donald too.

Maisie is on one side of me and Donald is on the other. They are both sitting up very straight and keen and they are wearing their nice clothes that they only wear to church. Maisie the dress with daffodils on. Donald the white shirt with lots of different coloured lines.

The vicar is a man with too much loose neck. Like chicken skin. It wobbles when he talks and I don't even hear the words that's how hard I'm looking at it. I think about him exploding. Out of nowhere, like he's been hit by an invisble death ray. Like he's been struck down. Boom. Smoke and little bits of singed vicar hanging off the pews, and everyone sitting in shocked silence. The church echoing with the explosion.