After Peter went away my life became a total waste of time.

'You'd think you'd lost a husband or a child,' mum said. 'Your grief is disproportionate, Clarissa.'

'I loved him.'

'You're young. In time, you will learn to love another.'

'Never!'

How could she understand? I'm shy. I'm lonely. I have spots on my face. Peter meant the world to me and I'll never find another one to match him. Peter was my constant companion and my love.

It was love at first sight too.

I fell for Peter the first time I clapped eyes on him. He whistled at me. For once I didn't feel at all shy. In fact, I whistled back. That's what started it.

How I adored the way he looked at me. I'd touch him and whisper love words and when we'd say goodnight I couldn't wait to see him again next day. It was that intense.

It was mum who called him Peter O'Toole behind his back. She was mad about O'Toole. God knows why.

'Why mum?' That's not his name. It's just Peter. Why O'Toole?'

'Why not? His posture reminds me of Florence of Albania.'

'It was Lawrence of Arabia, mum.'

'I know. I'm just kidding.'

When I thought about it afterwards it just added to my grief. Remembering Peter and the times we had together. Do you know what it's like to be lonely? Not just a bit down in the dumps or slightly off colour " I mean, down so low you wouldn't mind waking up dead some morning and putting an end to it all. I was that bad after Peter left. I couldn't stop weeping. Memories seemed to be everywhere. I couldn't sit in the park or walk as far as the shops without seeing something that reminded me of him. For ages I didn't even switch on the telly. I was totally desecrated.

'What would cheer you up?' mum asked one evening after I'd had a prolonged weeping fit.

'Nothing. I'll never be happy again.'

'Time is a great healer. You'll soon be over all this.'

'I don't believe it. I'll never be happy again.'

Days passed. I remained almost inconsolable. Obstinately so mum said.

One evening I came in from school and mum was sitting in my bedroom, grinning at me.

'What's up?' I asked. I was in no mood for her grinning.

Mum pointed. On the table across the room was a brand new cage and a brand new budgie.

'And make sure you don't leave the window open this time or he'll be off too. So what are you going to call him?'

'I'll call him the same as the last one,' I said, leaning over the cage, looking at my new friend sitting on his perch. 'Who's a pretty boy? Who's a pretty Peter?'