My name is Tracy Beaker.

I am 10 years 2 months old.

My birthday is on May 8. It's not fair, because that dopey Peter Ingham has his birthday then too, so we just got the one cake between us. And we had to hold the knife to cut the cake together. Which meant we only had half a wish each. Wishing is for babies anyway. Wishes don't come true.

I was born at some hospital somewhere. I looked cute when I was a little baby but I bet I yelled a lot.

I am inches tall. I don't know. I've tried measuring with a ruler but it keeps wobbling about and I can't reach properly. I don't want to get any of the other children to help me. This is my private book.

I weigh pounds. I don't know that either. Jenny has a scale in her bathroom but it's in stones. I don't weigh many stones. I'm little and skinny.

My eyes are black and I can make them go all wicked and witchy. I quite like the idea of being a witch. I'd make up all these incredibly evil spells and wave my wand and ZAP! Louise's golden curls would all fall out and ZAP! Peter Ingham's silly squeaky voice would get sillier and squeakier and he'd grow whiskers and a long tail and ZAP!… there's not room on this bit of the page, but I've still got all sorts of ZAPs inside my head.

My hair is fair and very long and curly. I am telling fibs. It's dark and difficult and it sticks up in all the wrong places.

My skin is full of pimples when I eat a lot of sweets.

I'm not really cross-eyed. I was just making a silly face.

I started this book on I don't know. Who cares what the date is? You always have to put the date at school. I got fed up with this and put 2091 in my Day Book and wrote about all these rockets and spaceships and monsters zooming down from Mars to eat us all up, as if we'd all whizzed one hundred years into the future. Miss Brown got really annoyed.