When I did get to the door, I had to go back and change my tights because my cat, Angus, had one of his “Call of the Wild” episodes.
He really is completely bonkers. We got him when we went on holiday to Loch Lomond. On the last day I found him wandering around the garden of the guest house we were staying in. Tarry-a-Wee-While, it was called. That should give you some idea of what the holiday was like.
I should have guessed all was not entirely well in the cat department when I picked him up and he began savaging my cardigan. But he was such a lovely-looking kitten, all tabby and long-haired, with huge yellow eyes. Even as a kitten he looked like a small dog. I begged and pleaded to take him home.
“He’ll die here; he has no mummy or daddy,” I said plaintively.
My dad said, “He’s probably eaten them.” Honestly, he can be callous. I worked on Mum, and in the end I brought him home. The Scottish landlady did say she thought he was probably mixed breed, half domestic tabby and half Scottish wildcat. I remember thinking, Oh, that will be exotic. I didn’t realize that he would grow to the size of a small Labrador, only mad. I used to drag him around on a lead but, as I explained to Mrs. Next Door, he ate it.
Anyway, sometimes he hears the call of the Scottish Highlands. So, as I was passing by as a stuffed olive, he leaped out from his concealed hiding place behind the curtains (or his lair, as I suppose he imagined it in his cat brain) and attacked my tights or “prey.” I couldn’t break his hold by banging his head because he was darting from side to side. In the end I managed to reach the outdoor broom by the door and beat him off with it.
Then I couldn’t get in Dad’s Volvo. Dad said, “Why don’t you take off the olive bit and we’ll stick it in the boot.”
Honestly, what is the point? I said, “Dad, if you think I am sitting next to you in a green T-shirt and tights, you’re mad.”
He got all shirty like parents do as soon as you point out how stupid and useless they are. “Well, you’ll have to walk, then. I’ll drive along really slowly with Jas and you walk alongside.”
I couldn’t believe it. “If I have to walk, why don’t Jas and I both walk there and forget about the car?”
He got that tight-lipped look that dads get when they think they are being reasonable. “Because I want to be sure of where you are going. I don’t want you out wandering the streets at night.”
Unbelievable! I said, “What would I be doing walking the streets at night as a stuffed olive— gate-crashing cocktail parties?”
Jas smirked, but Dad got all outraged parenty. “Don’t you speak to me like that, otherwise you won’t go out at all.”
What is the point?
When we did eventually get to the party (me walking next to Dad’s Volvo driving at five miles an hour), I had a horrible time. Everyone laughed at first but then more or less ignored me. In a mood of defiant stuffed oliveness I did have a dance by myself, but things kept crashing to the floor around me. The host asked me if I would sit down. I had a go at that but it was useless. In the end I was at the gate for about an hour before Dad arrived, and I did stick the olive bit in the boot. We didn’t speak on the way home.
Jas, on the other hand, had a great time. She said she was surrounded by Tarzans and Robin Hoods and James Bonds. (Boys have very vivid imaginations—not.)
I was feeling a bit moody as we did the “recall” bit. I said bitterly, “Well, I could have been surrounded by boys if I hadn’t been dressed as an olive.”
Jas said, “Georgia, you thought it was funny and I thought it was funny, but you have to remember that boys don’t think girls are for funniness.”
She looked annoyingly “wise” and “mature.” What the hell did she know about boys? God, she had an annoying fringe. Shut up, fringey.
I said, “Oh yeah, so that’s what they want, is it? Boys? They want simpering girly-wirlys in cat-suits?”
Through my bedroom window I could see next door’s poodle leaping up and down at our fence, yapping. It would be trying to scare off our cat, Angus . . . fat chance.
Jas was going on and on wisely, “Yes they do, I think they do like girls who are a bit soft and not so, well . . . you know.”
She was zipping up her rucksack. I looked at her. “Not so what?” I asked.
She said, “I have to go. We have an early supper.”
As she left my room I knew I should shut up. But you know when you should shut up because you really should just shut up . . . but you keep on and on anyway? Well, I had that.
“Go on . . . not so what?” I insisted.
She mumbled something as she went down the stairs.
I yelled at her as she went through the door, “Not so like me you mean, don’t you?!!!”
11:00 p.m.
I can already feel myself getting fed up with boys and I haven’t had anything to do with them yet.
midnight
Oh God, please, please don’t make me have to be a lesbian like Hairy Kate or Miss Stamp.
12:10 am.
What do lesbians do, anyway?
monday august 24th
5:00 p.m.
Absolutely no phone calls from anyone. I may as well be dead. I’m going to have an early night.
5:30 p.m.
Libby came in and squiggled into bed with me, saying, “Hahahahaha!” for so long I had to get up. She’s so nice, although a bit smelly. At least she likes me and doesn’t mind if I have a sense of humor.
7:00 p.m.
Ellen and Julia rang from a phone box. They took turns to speak in French accents. We’re going for a mystery walk tomorrow. Or La Marche avec Mystery.
10:30 p.m.
Have put on a face mask made from egg yolk just in case we see any les garçons gorgeous on our walk.
tuesday august 25th
9:00 a.m.
Woke up and thought my face was paralyzed. It was quite scary—my skin was all tight and stiff and I couldn’t open my eyes properly. Then I remembered the egg yolk mask. I must have fallen asleep reading. I don’t think I’ll go to bed early again—it makes my eyes go all puffy. I look like there is a touch of the Asian in my family. Sadly not the case. The nearest we have to any exotic influence is Auntie Kath, who can sing in Chinese, but only after a couple of pints of wine.
11:00 a.m.
Arranged to rendezvous with Ellen and Julia at Whiteleys so we can start our La Marche avec Mystery. We agreed we would dress “sports casual,” so I’m wearing ski trousers, ankle boots and a blacktop with a roll neck, with a PVC jacket. I’m going for the young Brigitte Bardot look which is a shame as a) I am nothing like her and b) I haven’t got blond hair, which is, as we all know, her trademark. I would have blond hair if I was allowed, but it honestly is like playschool at my house. My dad has got the mentality of a Teletubby only not so developed. I said to Mum, “I’m going to dye my hair blond. What product would you recommend?” She pretended not to hear me and went on dressing Libby. But Dad went ballistic.
“You’re fourteen years old. You’ve only had that hair for fourteen years and you want to change it already! How bored are you going to be with it by the time you are thirty? What color will you be up to by then?”