The Donut Diaries Read Online Free PDF

grabbed my bag from the boot and tried to escape before my mum could give me a hug, but she was too clever for me.
    ‘You’ll need some money,’ she said, holding out a twenty-pound note. I had to climb back into the car to get it, and that meant a hug, two kisses and a splashing of tears.
    ‘I’m really proud of you for this,’ she said. ‘It takes guts to do what you’re doing.’
    I had a quick look around. No one was there to see, except Badwig, and I guessed he’d seen it all before.
    ‘Yeah, well,’ I said, patting my ample stomach, ‘got plenty of those.’
    Another squeeze, and then I escaped. I trudged through the gates carrying my bag, which was so heavy I wondered for a moment if my mum hadn’t somehow managed to sneak herself into it.
    ‘Right, Milligan,’ said Badwig as soon as my mum was out of sight. ‘You’re in for a wonderful time. But let’s get off on the right foot, shall we? So stand up straight, and quick march.’
    ‘March?’
    ‘That’s right. Swing your arms, one-two, one-two.’
    This was not a good start. I mean – marching . . .?
    And my first sighting of the inside of Camp Fatso wasn’t very promising either.
    I could see a number of long wooden huts and various other buildings. The tower I had seen from the road was one of four, each placed at a corner of a high perimeter fence. I couldn’t see any machine guns up there, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Back on ground level, there was a sports field, marked with various mysterious white lines. Clusters of overweight kids were doing various equally mysterious things around the field, overseen by more adults in black. The kids were wearing bright orange tracksuits.
    Orange is not a good colour for fat people. Take a kid who is more or less round, and dress him (or her, if it’s a female fatty) in orange, and what you have, basically, is an orange. A similar effect can be had by taking tall, slightly curved kids and dressing them in yellow.
    Badwig marched me into one of the buildings. There were a couple of muscle-bound adults in there, lounging around and drinking those protein shakes that bodybuilders slurp all day. They looked me up and down and then one whispered to the other, and they both burst out laughing. In my experience, anything that begins with being laughed at doesn’t usually end very well.
    ‘This is Milligan,’ said Badwig, and the final tiny bit of friendliness had gone out of his voice. Then he added, ominously, ‘The last of them . . .’
    Then he opened up a counter and moved behind it. This involved stepping over something on the floor. For a second I thought it was a large stain; then I saw that it was alive, and I briefly contemplated the possibility that it might be a new species of giant weasel. Then I realized that it wasn’t a large or giant version of a small thing, but a small version of a big thing. A dog. A sausage dog, to be precise.

    I’ve never liked sausage dogs. They look sly and evil to me, but the main thing is that they take themselves sooooo seriously, and don’t realize how fundamentally silly they are. Taking yourself seriously is perfectly OK if you’re the Prime Minister or a professor of philosophy, but there’s absolutely no excuse for it if you’re a dog and you look like a sausage.
    And I know that the real name for a sausage dog is a datchhund, dachunte, doushhound or dachshund, but I can never remember how to spell it, so I prefer to stick with sausage dog.
    Oh yes, and the other thing about sausage dogs is that they really hate me. I can’t say which came first, the me-hating-them or the them-hating-me. It’s a chicken-and-egg situation. But all you have to remember is that me and sausage dogs don’t get on.
    But I thought I could at least make an effort, so I tried to stroke the dog. He snapped at me as if he’d been waiting all day for the chance to eat some poor fat kid’s fingers.
    ‘Meet Gustav,’ said Badwig. ‘He’s Boss