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Wednesday 3 May 2000
Tonight, the ill people (Smill and Will) came round for the evening. We didn't touch a drop of alcohol, but the combination of my recently acquired Bloodhound Gang CD, the computer game "Super Sprint" for which half the necessary keys don't work, Spark tests, taking many dodgy photos involving my werebears and "Truth Or Dare" was enough to produce a few choice quotes:
(Truth or dare.)
(Looking at photos.)
(Will is talking to Smill, but she isn't paying much attention. Will looks behind him, to see what she's looking at, and notices the fish tank.)
I know I love my CD collection more than life itself, but even I don't find it that fascinating! Monday 8 May 2000 The weather is lovely. I will make the most of it and start training for Wimbledon. Later On second thoughts, perhaps I won't play in any major tennis tournaments this year. Too many other commitments, that sort of thing. You know how it is. But at least my game hasn't got any worse since last year. I know this isn't really possible, but you know that trick where the ball's rolling along the ground and you flick it into the air using your racquet, chipping loads of paint off it as you do? Well, I can still do that. And you know that other trick where the ball's flying towards you and you outstretch your racquet to block its path, and it whizzes straight past you, and then you have to run at three hundred miles an hour in order to rescue it before it's crushed before an articulated lorry? I can still do that one, too.
Number Of Geens Nearly Run Over On Way To Industrial Estate: 2. (At least they waved at me as I slowed down to let them cross the road.)
To explain this final statistic:
Number Of Balls Hit Onto Roof With Racquet In Right Hand: 2.
So, in order to pursue my career as Ambidextrous Tennis Player Extraordinaire, I'll have to set foot in one of the most aevil places on the face of this earth tomorrow: a sports shop. Wish me luck in this treacherous plight. Saturday 20 May 2000 Today, I received a letter from a stranger in Ghana. This happens every now and again, as a result of "Friendship Books", little booklets in which you write your name and address then sent them on to your penfriends, in the hope that people you don't know will write to you. Although I haven't signed one since I was fifteen, those with my address in them are still kicking around somewhere on the globe. And since all the half-normal letter-writing people of the world seem to have given up on them (presumably due to the advent of the Internet), the letters I receive get stranger and stranger. The opening of this one was typical: "I am afraid you may be surprised to receive this letter from a stranger whom you have neither met nor heard. I got your name and address from a penpal magazing. I hope this will be beginning of a long friendship between us. I eagerly hope you will accept me as your new friend as I am deeply interested in your life and your country." But it got better. First, the writer gave an indication of his cultural awareness: "My name is Victor K**** D*****. D***** is my family name as Victor is my first name. It's a Ghanaian practice to put the first name before the family name." Ghanaian practice, eh? I never knew so many countries were influenced by Ghanaian customs! Better still was this: "I am 4.2m tall" !!!!! Four metres twenty? Fourteen feet? What the beep? Speaking of tall people, Chris appears to have broken my bed! No, Not Like That - just by sleeping on it (on his own!) Gah! I have been in contact with Will (not like that either!) for four days in a row (and I certainly haven't been in a Roe!) Behold! On Tuesday, he agreed to go and see "Scream 3" with me the following day. Actually, it was his idea, but my driving to the cinema was certainly not what he'd wanted. Naturally, the latter was by far the more terrifying part of the evening. After an arm-destroying six point turn in order to escape from a full car park (item #1 on birthday list: power-assisted steering), it took me at least five minutes to get into the next parking space we came across. I don't think I scratched the cars on either side too much, but naturally Will spent a good (or bad) few hours laughing at me afterwards. Despite the eau de fromage emerging from the screen, the film was quite involving. Stupid, perhaps - the characters kept going on and on about how they had to stick together, yet they kept wandering off on their own for no apparent reason - and not especially scary either - the part that made me jump most was Will suddenly grabbing my arm. But it certainly wasn't a complete waste of an evening, if only for the opportunity it gave for endless couple-in-a-car there's-an-ax-murderer-scratching-his-way-in-through-the-sunroof there's-a-decapitated-head-in-the-glove-compartment! scenarios on the way home. "Hello?" I yelled to a dark house when I arrived. "Anyone home?" No answer. "Oh well, I guess I'll just have to go down in the basement without any lights on, then." On Thursday night, we made plans to go out (in the most technical sense of the word) on Friday, since it was the Upper 6th Leavers' Dinner. Herman had come back from university especially for the occasion, so we thought it might be nice to see him and the school years below us who would no doubt be out on the town. (Nice? Herman and the sixth form? What were we thinking?) So on Friday we put this plan into effect. I wore the aevil blister-giving black shoes of dume, and black socks (which makes the shoes even more painful, but I assumed someone would stand on my toes and decided I'd rather not be able to see the blood). I set off to the bus stop, only to have Dad catch up with me. "And where do you think you're going, young lady?" When I had explained why I hadn't taken the car (1. It's hard to drive while wearing three inch heels and 2. Despite having lost his glasses and consequently being blind, Will had agreed to give me a lift home), he insisted on giving me a lift to the bus stop. My feet were grateful, but this meant I had a ten minute wait. And meeting the sixth form did not go quite to plan. We met Herman (who had ended up in hospital after drowning the sorrows of unrequited love in drink, bless!), a girl Will works with (who had been drinking for eight hours and wasn't entirely stable, mentally or physically), a bloke who I haven't seen since I was eleven, a girl who was in the school year above ours, my boss and a ghost, but in three and a half hours, two pubs and a restaurant, we spotted not one member of the sixth form! The Upper Sixth, we assume, would have gone straight from school to Buskers (the traditional nightclub, which we avoided since Will had to be at work for 8am this morning), but where were the Lower Sixth? Oh well, they're not worth too much concern. (The ghost was this guy who was in my school year from the start of fourth form to the end of Lower Sixth. Apparently, a while ago, he'd fallen asleep while driving at a hundred miles per hour and driven straight through a brick wall. His car was destroyed beyond recognition, yet he escaped with only a scar and a dislocated shoulder!) Anyway, Marion now thinks I'm going out with Will! Worse, Will appears to think the same! While stamping along the street, some bloke commented and asked if Will was my boyfriend. "Nah," I said. "Yes," he said. "Well, he's my husband," I clarified. Unsurprisingly, that was the end of that conversation. Monday 29 May 2000 Last night I went to see The Australian Pink Floyd in Kendal (a town about sixty miles away), with Jerry and Mike who work at my parents' shop. Since I have a deep-seated fear of progressive rock, I didn't really want to go, but Dad, believing I needed to get out more, said he'd pay for the ticket, so I agreed. The journey was so uneventful that Jerry felt the need to yell, "Cow!" every time we saw one. "I don't get out much," he kept explaining. When we arrived in the endless one-way-street that is Kendal, we had a few games of pool on a red table with striped and spotted balls (the first time I'd seen such things; have mercy on me, I was excited), which I lost. Then we headed for the concert. As we walked in, our hands were stamped with the words "Registered charity". The view was far from wonderful. Far from anything, actually. The stage wasn't raised at all, so in the two hours of performance (about three songs) I had perhaps five glimpses of the band. I suppose they're not exactly massive celebrities, but I was amazed by the number of spectators present. There were far more than turned up to see The Stranglers and there were even some who were younger than me! This I do not understand. The Stranglers may lack the worldwide success of Flink Poyd, but they're the longest-surviving best-selling genuine punk band who play music designed to be heard live. But you are required by law not to listen to Flink Poyd until you're over thirty and a parent; their music is more than suitable for living rooms; and this, we must remember, was The Australian Flink Poyd! At least The Bootleg Beatles have a reputation of some degree: who the heck were these lot? Yet the masses donned their Floydian t-shirts, jumpers and even jackets to go and see them. (Although a few people got it slightly wrong by turning up in Black Sabbath and Motorhead shirts.) However, I am ashamed to admit that not only did I recognise half the songs, not only did I travel home with all eleven minutes of "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" embedded in my head, but those songs I didn't know I liked! I'm even considering not asking Dad to reimburse me for the cost of the ticket! Help! I still liked "Skippy The Kangaroo" the best, though.
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