Hi, my name’s Margaret.
I’m 13 years old, and I want to tell you about my family.
We live in xxx, a little town in the northern Italy, at the number 12 of a quiet, neat, long street named xxx.
Our home’s a big apartment with a lot of windows shining in the sunlight, paints and photos on the walls and shelfes full of books.
We all love colors, and it’s crystal-clear: my bedroom’s walls are pink, my brothers’ bedroom’s are light-yellow and light-blue and our dining room’s are light-yellow.
Our home’s an odd mixture of styles and colors: we’ve got computers, tablets and e-books nearby old, rich forniture; we’ve got colorful tableclothes on a frail crystal table; an ancient wardrobe full of pencils, pens, photos and sheets of paper; a wonderful plant with its strong green on an ancient wardrobe, and a tv and some book on a weight commode of our ancestors!
Well, we live in this strange house, and we’re happy, too.
My family’s very big.
I’ve got my mum, two sister, two brothers, a cat, two granddads, two grandmums, three uncles, two aunts, two cousins and two great-grandmums.
Sometimes it’s frightful, but I love my big family: it’s cool.
My mother’s name’s Eliza: she’s forty and she’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known.
She’d got a lot of troubles in her life, but she got it all.
She’s quiet tall, with long, curly, brown hair, light-green eyes and she always smiles.
She doesn’t care about what people say about her and she works hard to make me and my siblings happy: I’m enormously grateful for this.
My sister Camilla is a pretty twelve-years-old girl: she isn’t very tall, she’s got big, faithful, brown eyes, long, light-brown hair and some freckles here and there on her cheeks.
She likes clothes and babies, going to her dance lessons and talking with her friends.
When she was a child she looked like a doll and I’ve always dearly loved her.
My sister Maryangel is eleven years old: she’s short and very thin, her skin’s as white as milk, she’s got big, light-blue eyes, long, wavy, golden hair and some freckles on her pretty face.
She’s got one great passion: artistic gymnastic.
She’s amazing when she jumps up and down, climbing everywhere and running as fast as wind: she’s as light as a butterfly and I’m sure she’ll do great things in her life.
We’ve always loved each other, and, though sometimes I say I hate her, I always love her.
My brother John is a ten years old child: he isn’t very tall, he’s got beautiful dark-blue eyes, soft, short, brown hair and red lips.
He’s a very sweet and kind child: he likes painting more than all the other things, and he’s got a great talent for this.
He likes cats and Maths, too: I like talking with him very much, ‘cause we’re very similar.
He usually is the quietest in our home, but when he loves or hates something nobody can make him change his mind.
My brother Thomas’s seven year old: he’s quiet tall and plump, he’s got a round face, beautiful dark-green eyes and short, silky, golden hair.
He’s got a great passion: sharks.
He started studying them when he was five and he has never stopped.
He knows everything about them: what kind of fish they eat, where they live, how big they are, if they’re dangerous or not and a lot of other things.
He loves drawing and painting them, and he doensn’t copy them: he perfectly knows almost every kind of shark.
He likes Maths and videogames, too.
Though sometimes I hate him ‘cause he’s stubborn and naughty I like him, ‘cause I know he’s very clever and smart.
You could think he hasn’t got any heart, but it woudn’t be true: I know that, in the dephts of his heart, he loves us.
The aforesaid cat is Pepper: he’s a plump, sweet, sleepy cat, and I absolutely adore him.
We brought him home when he was only two months old: he was so small and sweet, with his big ears, his light-green eyes and he’s pink nose!
At first he was frightned and he run under the sofa, trembling, but in a few hours he started playing with some paper balls and then he ate some crocket.
Now he’s grown-up, and he’s the dearest, sweetest creature ever: he’s got a silky, soft, gray-and-black fur, big, green-and-grey eyes and a pretty pink nose.
He loves when I cuddle him, and I often do it: I adore him!
He sleeps almost all the day.
When we go out to take a walk we bring him with us: he adores when we put him in my bike’s basket, with a slight wind caressing his fur and such interesting smells all around.
My granddads’ names are L. and S.: they’re really different.
L. is a short, plump man of sixty-seven: he’s got grey hair and mustache and his brown eyes shine behind his old glasses.
He always wear shirts, jeans and he loves watches.
My granddad S. is sixty-one: he’s really tall and quiet thin, his got short balck hair and he wears glasses.
He’s got a bright mind and he has visited thousands of places in his life: he’s been living in Spain, France, Brazil and a lot of other countries.
I love when he tells me about his travels.
My grandmums’ names are R. and P.
R.’s a sixty-years-old, tall, plump woman: she’s got wonderful eyes as green as grass, straight, blond hair which caress her shoulders and she always wears trousers, silk shirts and beautiful jewels like pearl ears and amber necklaces.
She’s quiet and tidy: her house’s always perfect.
When I was a child she told me wonderful stories about little fairies, horrible witches, beautiful princesses, bold princes, old kings and queens, bloody drakes, terrible monsters, dark woods, precious castles, pretty villages and magic lands: I’ve always absolutely adored these tales, and I still remeber them all, though I were very young when she told me them.
P.’s a sixty-eight-years-old woman: she’s short and very thin, she’s pale and bony, she’s got short, black hair, big brown eyes and she always wears odd and strange clothes: she’s got yellow, red, blue and green skirts, orange, violet, pink and black jackets and bizarre jewels like big amber ears, colorful woody necklaces, strange bracialets and enormous rings.
She’s sweet and kind, she likes reading and talking and sometimes she stops and starts thinking and dreaming or talking by herself.
Though she’s a bit odd, I dearly love her.
My uncles are D. and L., and my aunts M. and O.
L. and O. with their sons, my cousins G. and D., don’t live in Italy: they live in France, nearby Switzerland, and they sometimes come here to pass some day with us.
G. is almost seven and he doesn’t speak my language: though his dad’s Italian, his mum’s Spanish.
I’m lucky, ‘cause I can speak Spanish quiet well and we can talk.
D. doesn’t speak any language at all: she’s only two months old.
Then, of course, there’s me.
I’m Margaret and I’m 13 years old.
I’m not very tall, I’ve long, wavy, brown hair, big light-blue eyes, I always wear glasses and my skin’s as white as milk.
I’ve got two great passions: reading and writing.
Since I can remember I’ve always loved reading: books are what I love most.
I can loose myself in them for hours, floating in worlds which none but me can know, dreaming of persons and places that don’t exist in reality, but which live in my heart.
I’ve read more than two-hundred books in my life, and I still can remember them all.
I love writing, too: I’ve written three books since I was ten, one every year.
I’ve won some prize, too, and I’m so grateful to everyone who read my books and tales.
I don’t mind cooking, painting and dancing.
I love my life and my family, and I’m absolutely sure that I couldn’t be happier.