OK, so I know I said I'd post this tomorrow, but then I got all paranoid that if I did I might count as being last and get penalised...
Oh hang on a minute, but that'd mean I'd definitely come bottom of the vote, which would make me immune from eviction...
But I sort of already did post this task...
Oh, my head hurts. Fuck it.
Here is me reading my story out loud...
And here is the story itself:
Big Blogger is Bad.
Once upon a time it was a Tuesday, and Little Bear said, "Why does that sign out there say, 'Big Blogger is good?'"
"Because Big Blogger is good," said Mummy Bear.
"This good," said Mummy Bear, stretching her big arms wide. "Now, eat your porridge."
The next day was a Wednesday, and Mummy Bear had a lot to do. She put Little Bear in front of the telly with his tea, but after a while Little Bear got bored, and came looking for his mummy. "How big is Big Blogger," he said?
So Mummy Bear said, with her tippy-toes pointed and her nose almost touching the ceiling, "This big."
"Is that very big?"
"Yes," said Mummy Bear. "Very big. Now eat your porridge."
The next day was a Thursday, and Mummy Bear had a headache. She was just sitting down to her Secret Machine in the back of the house, when the voice came again.
Mummy Bear turned the radio up and pretended not to hear.
"Mummy!" said Little Bear.
Mummy Bear got up from her Secret Machine and switched on the washing machine, the dishwasher, the food mixer, the lawnmower, the microwave, a hairdryer and her vibrator. She sat down again.
Mummy Bear sighed. She switched off her appliances.
"What's a blogger?"
Mummy Bear stared at her Secret Machine. She sighed again.
"A blogger is a person who likes to escape," she said.
"When I grow up, will I be a blogger?" said Little Bear.
"Will I be big, and good?"
"Probably. Now eat your porridge."
The next day was Friday.
"Eat your porridge."
"Not now dear."
"But Mummy, I want somebody to play with."
"I can't play with you now."
"Because Big Blogger said I had to write a story."
"I SAID NOT NOW."
On Saturday, there was nobody in the bears' cottage. Everybody was outside, searching for Little Bear. They had been there all night and all day. They were tired, and hungry, and scared. There were rumours of wolf tracks, and clumps of brown-red fur.
On Sunday Little Blogger was eating his porridge on his mummy’s lap, when he said, "Did I be a good blogger, Mummy?"
"A bit too good, dear."
"Actually Mummy I was very good indeed. But Mummy?"
"Why does that sign out there say, 'Big Blogger is bad?'"