She always had to stay alone on weekday afternoons, and whenever she was told to shut up, she had to shut up.
Her safety-valve, the thing that prevented her from going round the bend, was the fun of devising and dishing out these splendid punishments,
and the lovely thing was that they seemed to work, at any rate for short periods.
The father in particular became less cocky and unbearable for several days after receiving a dose of Matilda's magic medicine.
The parrot-in-the-chimney affair quite definitely cooled both parents down a lot,
and for over a week they were comparatively civil to their small daughter.
But alas, this couldn't last. The next flare-up came one evening in the sitting-room. Mr Wormwood had just returned from work.
Matilda and her brother were sitting quietly on the sofa waiting for their mother to bring in the TV dinners on a tray.
The television had not yet been switched on. In came Mr Wormwood in a loud check suit and a yellow tie.
The appalling broad orange-and-green check of the jacket and trousers almost blinded the onlooker.
He looked like a low-grade bookmaker dressed up for his daughter's wedding, and he was clearly very pleased with himself this evening.
He sat down in an armchair and rubbed his hands together and addressed his son in a loud voice.
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