A Tiny Bit Marvellous (4 page)

Dora

Well thanks Mum, for ruining my life. I’m glad you’ve got flu, you utterly deserve it and I hope you die in a horrendous choking in your own snot incident. I bloody bought you crisps and stuff! You are so beyond selfish! How dare you give me this kind of stress? As if I’m not like stressed out enough at the moment for fuck’s sake. I’ve got coursework stress, uni stress, X Factor audition stress, Sam stress, money stress, phone credit stress, Facebook picture stress and now she only goes and adds to it with bloody major hair stress!

I’m bloody fed up of explaining it over and over again. Listen up, sucker – I HAVE TO HAVE THIS HAIR!! If you have brown curly hair at my bloody motherarseing school, NOBODY like bloody talks to you. End of. You are a leper. You are a mong. You are a brown curly-haired leper mong. And you might as well die of loneliness and pain right now, coz that’s what’s going to happen in the end anyway. Make the choice Mum – blonde hair or death?!

Maybe you would prefer death for me? – then you wouldn’t have to like keep looking at my so-called ‘straw head’ all the time? Yea, that would like so make your bloody life so much better. Admit it, then you’d be able to like get on with your work and writing without the annoying distraction of what’s it called again? – oh yeah – A DAUGHTER!!!

Sorry for existing, sorry for breathing – sorry for offending you with my hair, and my face and everything else about me and my body that you loathe on sight. Is it too late for you to look in the offspring catalogue and choose a like more perfect one? Then you could return me and order a flawless daughter with ideal brown curly hair who looks like a bog brush on legs and fits exactly with you in your pretend immaculate family with no faults or defects. God forbid the child shrink should have a kid with such a hideous flaw. Blonde hair – how disgusting!

And stop calling me a ‘wannabe plastic’. I’M NOT a plastic. I might look plastic on the outside yes, but that’s nothing. A real plastic is plastic on the inside and that’s exactly where I am not plastic if you just bothered to stop and notice. On the inside Mother, I am fully natural. I am 143% real. Are you?!

A Tiny Bit Marvellous

Oscar

Who would have thought that a simple mistake could prove to be the portal to my personal nirvana? Who could have predicted that anything so very wondrous could possibly occur on a Thursday? In Pangbourne? But tarry a while, haste is the arch-enemy of delight, and I need to fully explain today’s miracle from the beginning.

Mama is so very quaint. I can’t help but admire her resistance to all of this ‘new-fangled’ technology. I have done a good deal of resisting it myself, but I am accustomed to the very inevitability of it all, so I have availed myself of the knowledge and advantages a computer can bring. We are all of us, more or less, barbarians in these befuddling times we rashly refer to as ‘modern’, but needs must, and, frankly, I can do without the wrath of Mr Gilicone, my irascible IT teacher. It’s as well to keep him equable. Perturbed, he is a danger, and can render my life intolerable should he choose to impose yet another strict regime of detentions and break-time restrictions. Break time is, after all, my only chance to convene with The Enchantings.

What’s that, I hear you cry, dear darling diary? ‘Who are The Enchantings?’ Well now, since The Enchantings are an exclusive, secret and elite band of brothers, I shouldn’t rightly inform you. However, in the sure knowledge that one day, when I am notoriously well known, these meagre scribblings will no doubt be published as a tome of some note, I ought to edify you. But pray, keep it to yourselves do, for the very motto of The Enchantings is ‘semper arcanus’ which denotes that we should never speak of it or otherwise perish for ever. I cannot perish. No, no. I have too much to offer, I am whole volumes in folio. I must not deprive the world of me, that would be nothing short of selfish.

So, The Enchantings. I founded this institution as a conclave of excellence. It wasn’t hard to identify potential members since my school maintains a steady paucity of anything remotely excellent, especially human beings. In the end it came down to three. Including myself. I am the chairman. Roddy Hargreaves in my year is the vice chairman and Wilson from Year 9 is also a member. Roddy brings to our merry table his extraordinary knowledge of musical theatre and his affable wit along with his ability to play the pianoforte.

Wilson gains admittance by dint of only one qualification – his ravishing good looks. He appears to have been plopped into Year 9 directly from heaven. Surely one so beautiful can’t possibly have been created from mere mortal homo sapiens? Angels must have been involved in the manufacture of him somewhere along the line.

I, of course, bring me. We all agree, that alone is more than sufficient.

We meet each Wednesday in a clearing in the dingle by the old tennis courts if fine. If wet, we repair to the cupboard at the rear of Big Hall where the large vaulting equipment is stored. This is capacious enough for our purposes. Our typical rendezvous consists of a password (usually the name of the most enchanting person in the news that week) followed by a fifteen-minute discussion concerning all that enchants us. At the end, we swear allegiance to Aphrodite, the most enchanting of all the ancient goddesses, give each other a little kiss, and hasten off to class. I have no doubt of it that this charming ritual makes my entire experience at that dreadful vulgar place nominally called school, even slightly bearable. It is one of my greatest pleasures, and entirely necessary if I am to survive there.

So, to reiterate, I do not at any cost need Mr Gilicone to have reason to cause me to miss The Enchantings and Wednesday break is when detentions occur. Thus I endeavour to meet the strenuous demands of ‘Glans’ Gilicone’s IT homework schedule. This, and only this, is the reason I know how to use the computer. I remain suspicious of it at all times. However, I regularly log on to question Google about who might be deemed Enchanting – on more than one occasion, its most popular suggestion has been someone named Paris Hilton. I think not.

Even with my rudimentary knowledge of technology though, I surpass Mama’s ability a hundredfold. I suppose this will never change now since Mama is so hopelessly, irreversibly ancient. Unbelievably, she will see her fiftieth birthday in October should she last that long. Fifty?! My Lord. Is it possible that she can survive much after this age without becoming a public nuisance?

Should she become infirm, I would, of course, offer to assist, but only on the strict understanding that it would be in my capacity as a companion and entertainer. I would, for instance, happily read the classics aloud to her, or regale her with stories of contemporary scandals and malicious gossip. I would, under no circumstances whatsoever, touch her or tend to any base physical needs. That is the work of women, husbands and paid help. No Enchanting should be required to perform such menial and degrading duties. Mama wouldn’t wish it anyway. She adores it when I amuse her and that is what I would do. Let us hope decrepitude befalls her later rather than sooner, for both our sakes.

So, to the fortuitous ‘simple mistake’. Owing to Mother’s ill health this week, and her lack of technological expertise, Ditzy Dora and I have agreed to alternately collect various work folders to bring home to her during her confinement. Today was my turn. It was clearly specified to me at breakfast by the Pater who requested that I drop by her office after school for just such a purpose, which I dutifully did, only to find Dozy Dora already ensconced in the reception area and mistakenly receiving the aforementioned files. Is it possible that a mortal can live, breathe, walk and talk without the benefit of a brain? If so, Dumpy Dora really is a staggering example.

In the meantime, I had the more pressing matter to attend to, of persuading her that she had come on the wrong day, and that her turn was tomorrow. She remained impervious to any reasonable argument however, and insisted that she was in the right. I may be taller, bigger and undoubtedly brighter than Dodo Dora, but sadly, she is the more violent and less controlled. A lifetime of painful and sometimes eventually septic pinches and punches have taught me to keep my distance and to always allow her the victory. This way, I’m permitted to keep my skin, eyes, hair and all extremities intact. That is my preference, it is the civilized route. Since the Pater was coming to pick up the assigned courier – me – I decided to bide my time, wait with Dim Dora and enjoy a lift home.

This is when I first laid eyes on Noel.

What a thing temptation is. Just at the moment I believed that Wilson personifies all that is necessary to be beautiful, there is Noel, and I’m compelled to posit the question ‘Is beauty enough?’ Till today, Wilson was, indeed, enough. To look upon him was all the lusty sustenance I needed. But Noel …

Oh Noel. How did you come here? Did Father Christmas accurately name you, and let you ride on his sleigh all the way from New Zealand with him on Christmas Eve so that you could be the best, brightest present of all? Ordinarily, I don’t care for the bitter twang and ting of a Kiwi accent to be frank, but emanating from you, Noel, it somehow becomes an aria of syrup. Honey. Elixir. What were our first words? Ah yes:

‘I haven’t met your mum yet but I’m looking forward to it. Here are the files she wanted. Send Mrs Battle my regards.’ Yes. Yes, Noel, I will. I will do your bidding.

Let me tell you all about him, diary: Noel is tall, solid and blond. Not Dishonest Dora blonde. Genuine blond. Like Marilyn Monroe. Or the Archangel Gabriel. Or Adonis. He is about thirty years of age, I think, with a good jaw and a full mouth. His eyes are green, the green of a kiwi fruit’s fleshy inner. He sports linen slacks. Linen! In Pangbourne! Hallelujah! How divine. The answer to my prayers at last. He seems utterly unruffled by anything, even the prospect of working with Mama, which might put the willies up the boldest of fellows. He shook my hand, and I don’t exaggerate when I say that there was unquestionably a shudder of frisson that passed stealthily between us. Something mysterious and important. Something that spoke of wonders yet to come … ‘how do you do, sir? May I acquaint you with all things Enchanting hereabouts … ?’

A Tiny Bit Marvellous

Dora

Oh my actual God. My brother is a mega moron. Mum says he’s eccentric or something and it’s like just a phase, but how embarrassing is he? I can’t believe we are related. Especially today. He went off on a big one about who had to collect Mum’s files from work, whose turn it is. Idiot. Then, when the new guy was giving them to us, he just stood there like a silent mong and didn’t say a bloody like word! Thanks, Pete, like leave me to do all the talking, and the guy was just trying to be nice.

He’s Australian or something – looks and sounds like that old Crocodile Dundee bloke.

He said, ‘Wow, you’re so tall! I didn’t expect that in England, don’t know why.’

What did he expect? Midgets? Like from Victorian times or something?

‘Is your mum tall too?’

Peter didn’t answer, didn’t speak atall, just stared at him like a bloody goldfish, so I had to say,

‘Yes, she’s very tall. As tall as a block of flats.’

Luckily he laughed, coz Mum said to be friendly coz she has to work with him for the next year or something.

There was a new girl there called Veronica who is working with George. She’s really pretty and everything. Mum should of got her – why don’t they put the girls with the girls and the boys with the boys?

You can so see George loves showing off to Veronica – he is doing that thing to her, where he looks over the top of his glasses at you really close up to make you feel like you’re the only important one. It’s a bit creepy. He did it to me once, and it made me feel nervous. It’s scary. I think he just likes acting the big one. Like, ‘I’m the boss, Ok? And I can make you do what I say.’ Yeah, well he’s not the boss of me, and anyway, hello George, I know your like, wife, Jess remember? – because she was the one who like helped me with that project on Shakespeare I had to do in Year 10. She’s lovely, so what do you think you’re doing looking over your glasses at Veronica’s mega jubblies? You twathead! My sixteen yr old weirdo brother is like, more mature than you! Be a bloody adult. Like Dad. He wouldn’t dream of behaving like that. Maybe coz he doesn’t need to keep making people notice him all the time. He doesn’t mind if no one notices him. That’s how he likes it. Mr See-Through.

Dad made fajitas this evening. Oh my actual like utter God or something, I just like bloody LOVE them. I would so marry a fajita if I could. Yum Yum. Coz a fajita is delicious and would like, never disappoint you or like dump you or anything.

Saw Sam today. He was in the baker’s at lunch break getting a sausage roll. God, yeah, we used to do that together and like, he would like always choose the most burnt one or something? Those are his favourites. He said they were like the rejects of the sausage roll world, the unloved ones no one else wants, like as if they’ve committed a crime or something, against pastry.

Sam always stood up for injustice, and that’s one of the reasons I like totally fell for him, even though Kitty Cook, the head plastic in my year, said he was a troll-boy. She doesn’t know him like me though because all she cares about right, is what somebody like looks like. How shallow is that? Mind you, she is a plastic and that is the first rule of a plastic – you must be shallow. No depth required. You have to be able to like, see the bottom? I may be blonde, but you can’t see my bottom …

Anyway, it was weird seeing Sam. Dunno. As if he knew I was there but couldn’t look at me kind of thing. He got his phone out and started talking on it so he didn’t have to speak to me. He pretended it had just rung, but it hadn’t otherwise I would of heard his ring-tone coz he’s got the Mission Impossible tune on there and it’s really loud and he never has it on vibrate. He just suddenly started talking to obviously no one …

‘Yeah? OK. Yeah. I will. Yeah. Really? OK. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Me too. Yeah. OK. Yeah … … … … . . Yeah.’

Honestly, it was so bloody embarrassing. I get the picture Sam. You don’t want to talk to me. Fine. Think he is like ashamed or something that he went out with me? I might be shit, yes, but you don’t have to be such a tosser about it Sam. I’m not ashamed I went out with you, and like you’re the one with dwarfish legs! I would never ever make him feel bad so why is he doing that to me? It would almost be better if he like spoke to me and said something really nasty instead of ignoring me like this. What am I supposed to feel? Proper crap. That’s what I feel.

Actually I really do feel crap. Like, in my gut. I added some of Peter’s prawns to the fajita and I think they’re out of date or something? Thought you could always eat prawns if they’re in the fridge? Dad says they put the sell by date on to scare you. Well, yes thanks for that comfort Dad, but I can feel bad stuff going on inside. Going to bed.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous