MY LITTLE SISTER Weezer was supposed to be helping me to pack for our holiday but, instead, she was moaning. She’s very good at that, and she moans at me more than anyone else. It’s as if she expects me to be able to do something about it.

“But Annie,” she said. “It’s not fair. I’m going to miss the dancing display. Miss Matting says it’s the highlight of the whole year, and I won’t be in it. And I was going to be the Sunshine Fairy.”

“You look more like the Thunder Fairy at the moment, Weezer!” I said, trying to cheer her up. I’m ten, which is three years older than she is, and I’m always trying to cheer her up.

“Louisa!” said Weezer, looking crosser than ever.

“Sorry,” I said. She decided some time ago that Weezer wasn’t a suitable name for a ballet dancer, but I’ve called her Weezer for nearly eight years, and it’s difficult to stop. She was standing by our dressing table, pointing her toes and lifting her leg up in a half-hearted sort of way. Round her neck she was wearing a pink scarf made of wispy, see-through material, which Mrs Posnansky, our neighbour, had given her as a going-away present.

Mrs Posnansky is Russian, and very old. Her own mother was a dancer when she was young and Mrs Posnansky believes Weezer is going to be a famous ballerina when she grows up. The two of them are great friends because this is what my sister thinks as well. She’s mad about ballet, and whenever she stands still for more than a few seconds, she starts doing something like dance steps with her feet.

“Most people,” I said, “would think that going off to Florida with their dad and staying in a posh hotel and swimming in a pool and visiting Disneyland and flying in an aeroplane was the most brilliant thing in the whole world.”