Scapegoat

Our family has gained a garrulous new member. She spends her days in my 10-year-old's room and is unprepossessing in looks and character. From the bed she holds forth on her world view which is as jaundiced as her complexion, for Tweety is a creature of vigorous and vociferous prejudices.

She deplores my M&S wardrobe (she demands Hollister) and shouts over Radio 4 (she wants Heart FM). Tweety is contemptuous of Sunday Mass (she desires shopping malls), appalled by green vegetables (her diet is restricted to pastrami sticks) and is militant about washing up and pocket money (she requires £20 a week with extra for the Superdrug make-up counter).

'It's not me, it's Tweety!' protests my 10-year-old when shrieks of derision greet the family Skoda.

Life has become clamourous since Tweety was won at an Easter tombola, and yet, united in disapproval, my daughter and I live in vastly improved harmony. And so I too have decided to acquire a friend who will fearlessly pronounce prejudices.

Grumpy is loud in his loathing of Claire's Accessories. He drowns out Jesse J with Tosca's dying screeches, derides the Juicy Couture tote bags that tempt the 10-year-old on eBay and mocks pubescent tantrums.

'It's not me, it's Grumpy!' I protest when snorts of contempt greet her sketchy attempts at homework.

My plan is to launch Grumpy into the wider world. He'll tackle the man who hangs knotted bags of dog doings off trees in the park. He'll scoff at the shrivelled growths that pass as mushrooms in Co-op and he'll harangue the Audi that filched my parking space.

And, come evening, Grumpy and Tweety can be shut into my daughter's bedroom and they can slug out their differences among her pink pillows, while she and I, deploring their intolerance, eat toast in peaceable companionship on the sofa.

To all of you who voted me into the finals of the Brilliance in Blogging Writer category, I'm truly grateful.