Now keep your nasty mouth shut so we can all watch this programme in peace.”
They were in the living-room eating their suppers on their knees in front of the telly.
The suppers were TV dinners in floppy aluminium containers with separate compartments for the stewed meat, the boiled potatoes and the peas.
Mrs Wormwood sat munching her meal with her eyes glued to the American soap-opera on the screen.
She was a large woman whose hair was dyed platinum blonde except where you could see the mousy-brown bits growing out from the roots.
She wore heavy makeup and she had one of those unfortunate bulging figures
where the flesh appears to be strapped in all around the body to prevent it from falling out.
“Mummy,” Matilda said, “would you mind if I ate my supper in the dining-room so I could read my book?”
The father glanced up sharply. “I would mind!” he snapped. “Supper is a family gathering and no one leaves the table till it's over!”
“But we're not at the table,” Matilda said. “We never are. We're always eating off our knees and watching the telly.”
“What's wrong with watching the telly, may I ask?” the father said.
His voice had suddenly become soft and dangerous. Matilda didn't trust herself to answer him, so she kept quiet.
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