Rule 8a) Mrs Bennet does not want drugs. Not even 'to loosen up'.

Rule 8b) Just don't read The Hunger Games. It doesn't get a good response.

Rule 8c) Meryton is perfectly happy not knowing about street dance.

I touched down in front of a group of five girls, one older woman and one very put-upon man. I looked down at myself to find that I was in a very old-fashioned dress that gathered at the base of my ribs and fell gracefully down. I sighed and unconsciously ran a hand through my hair, or at least tried to. My now chocolate brown hair had been curled and scraped back into an elaborate hairdo underneath an Austen-style bonnet.

"Mr Bennet," the woman started. "Who is this? Where has she come from? Oh, my poor nerves!" she exclaimed dramatically and in a highly affected manner.

Target Acquired. I knew who I was going to be tormenting while I was here.

Politeness seemed to be, however, the best way to go for now. "I am most dreadfully sorry, but this has been happening to me rather frequently recently. I have no idea how this dreadful thing has come to pass. It has been most traumatising." Well, yeah. Mainly for the people I meet. I followed my gut feeling and mentioned a non-existent partner. "I am most dreadfully worried and greatly distraught. I do miss my husband so terribly much." I managed to squeeze out a few tears and, at this, the dreadful woman clucked and fussed over me like a mother hen.

"And what is your name, my dear?" she asked.

"A-alice," I replied, not sure if my own surname would be posh enough to impress them. I elaborated, encouraged to do so by their looks. "Alice Hollister-Wills." Yes, I just took the names of my favourite clothes shops and double-barrelled them. So what? It's not like I was going to face a lawsuit or anything; I was pretty sure that neither existed in the seventeen hundreds.

So, I integrated myself into the (rather large) Bennet family. It was not difficult. With Kitty and Lydia, the two youngest, I just had to act very shallow and gossip about boys, clothes and bonnets. With Mary, the middle daughter, I conversed in depth about morality and other such boring stuff. Lizzy was befriended through sympathy over Mr Darcy's slights and the book she was reading. Jane, though, was difficult. I couldn't read her as easily as the other four; her motives were not so clear. It was possible for me to see that she fancied Mr Bingley, but not much else.

It was during one of the tedious family Sunday lunches that I decided to liven up the proceedings. The talk was all about the ball that evening and, just before we left, I took advantage of the family's distraction. I rummaged around in my Magic Handbag thinking fervently 'drugs!' and not medicine drugs, but drug drugs.

I was standing in front of Mrs Bennet to offer her a nibble that I considered particularly tasty, receiving some grateful thanks, when I used a little bit of slight of hand to sprinkle on a rather special topping. It did not take long to kick in.

"Mr Bingley," she slurred, fully taken over by the 'happy potion' she had unwittingly taken. "It is most agreeable to s-s-seeeee you again." I hid a smirk. This should prove to be rather entertaining and a very good way of whiling away the otherwise boring hours spent at a ball. Have the never heard of proper music? Or proper dancing? I mean, really. Even a little jazz would be a relief.

Needless to say, the ball was highly eventful, the main topic of gossip being not who danced with who and for how many dances, but the behaviour of Mrs Bennet who, it was assumed, was drunk.

Wrong!

I don't really want to go into details but let it suffice to say that I could barely breathe from laughter. Unlike most of the sleepy town, I was very pleased with the results of my experiment and resolved to do it again soon.

It was a bright Sunday and I was sitting outside with a good book, relaxing on a bench with my annoying bonnet hurled into a nearby bush and my hair hanging down loose in an attempt to get out the ache from using hairgrips twenty-four/seven. I rolled my head on my neck, revelling in the fresh, clean air, the gentle warmth of the sun caressing my face and the silence, apart from a few birds. The peace and quiet was broken by the scrunch of gravel.

"Hello, Alice." Lizzy greeted me warmly. "What are you reading?"

I looked up, squinting against the bright rays. "The Hunger Games," I replied, seeing no reason to explain further.

"And what is it about?" she asked, undoubtedly think something along the lines of cooking or decorating food.

"Well, it's the story of a sixteen year old girl named Katniss who gets thrown into an arena with twenty-three other children from the ages of twelve to eighteen in a gruesome battle to the death. The winner gets money, a nice house in the Victors' Village in their district, and much-needed food supplies for their whole district. There is a love triangle, but it's not an integral part of the story, unlike Twilight. Remove the love triangle from Twilight and it's a story about a girl who moves to a rainy town. Remove it from The Hunger Games and it's a story about a bitter struggle to the death in an arena full of booby traps and career packs taking out the weaker victims."

I looked up at her face. It was remarkably pale.

"And you read this?" she asked me hesitatingly.

"Yup. And it's the first of a trilogy ending in a bitter struggle to overthrow a tyrannical government and reinstate a fair system of democracy. Most diverting. Do you want to borrow it? I've almost finished."

She turned and ran in the other direction, face pale, uncaring about the mud splatters on her petticoat.

"Apparently not," I stated to the air. "Shame."

"Okay, you ready?" I asked my partners in crime (A.K.A. Kitty and Lydia) I received their nods and switched on my CD player, getting about thirty seconds to get back into position. The two youngest Bennets were grinning in the excitement and flushed with pride to be wearing the latest fashion in London (I had to tell them something to get them into tracksuits bottoms and hoodies) and in anticipation of showing Meryton the latest style of dance.

The room was silent, staring at us in disbelief. We ignored them; what did they know about style?

The stares increased as the pounding beat came through my impressive speaker array and we bounced in time to the beat, arms folded.

(Insert your favourite street routine here)

The room was silent. Glasses had smashed to the floor, the men and women who had been holding them uninterested in their expensive fizzy. Eyes stared in shock.

I turned around and we exchanged high-fives, the two Bennets stinging my palms with their over-enthusiastic slaps.

"Great work, ladies." I told them, just as I was enveloped by lightning. I grinned to myself. Mr Bennet was going to enjoy the trilogy I left behind.

OK, I really have to apologise fort he delay: I hate my internet connection. I live in the middle of nowhere and my broadband service is faulty at best. Shame on you, BT Home Hub! I'm going to see how many of these I cat post before I get cut off again.

Toodles!