'Be generous, little one. She was alone and tired and hungry. Such pretty golden hair, poor child! I'll go make some more porridge, and don't you dare be a crank and wake her up.'
'But- but- they're Mine! Why can't she go to Her house ? But- maybe she doesn't have a house. Or a mamabear. Or a papabear. I should not make a fuss. I'll go and help mamabear make the porridge; I'm sure she'll be making some for me, to make up for it. Maybe papabear will let me help him fix the chair, or even get me a new one. This one was getting kind of small anyway.'
Dear Diary. Goldilocks (yes, people can actually be named things like that) is going to stay. The chair's fixed and being given to her, and I get the old beanbag, and a room of my own- the attic. She's kind of annoying and immature, but I feel really cool and old, and I'm getting my space. And she's really polite and grateful, she really must've been hungry when she ate my porridge and all that, the poor kid.
I still don't get the fuss about the yellow hair, though.
