"MUM, you bought the 'No pulp' kind again..." I grumble, grimacing with my first sip of orange juice.
"Sorry, dear. I always forget which kind you like," she apologizes.
"It's 'SOME pulp'," I remind her for what must be the millionth time.
She scribbles something on the grocery list tacked to the inside of the silverware cupboard door.
"Run out and get the mail?" She asks.
I run my thumb up the stack of napkins that sits on the table. "Do I have to?"
She turns around and gives me a look that usually means No-dear-you-don't-have-to-but-if-you-don't-I'm-going-to-buy-more-no-pulp-orange-juice.
I groan and stumble out the door, still in my pale-blue nightgown. It's not yet light, but mum loves it when we get up early to "Get a fresh start on the day," so I'm stuck getting up at this ungodly hour of the morning, although my little sister Amelia gets off easy, only having to be awake by 7:00. By my estimate, it's about 6:30 right now.