Lottie’s who just, like listens and doesn’t say stupid untrue stuff all the time just to bloody hurt you? Why did I get the mad one? Dad just got up and walked out, he was just like, so grossed out.
‘No Mother, you major douchelord, I am not pregnant. Shall we put that in the paper to let people know? Like, “Mr and Mrs Battle are delighted to announce that their daughter Dora is currently unpregnant.” Would that do?’
She went on and on about how she is ‘entitled to ask’ and perhaps if I ‘included her’ more she would feel like she is a part of my life. I don’t want her in my life full stop – never mind telling my private stuff to. I only live with her because I have to. I can’t bloody wait to get away from her. I full on proper hate her. I do. I hate her.
Look what she’s bloody made me do now. I have to eat like this whole packet of Jaffa Cakes to even feel a tiny bit better. So thanks Mum, for all your endless belief in me. Perhaps if you stopped thinking I’m a slag, I might actually like myself a bit more and then I might NOT eat so many Jaffa Cakes? Excuse me. Who is the shrink now?
A Tiny Bit Marvellous
TWENTY-EIGHT
Oscar
Well, really. Is it my lot to be so unutterably disappointed my whole lifelong? Today I was forced to come to terms with the undeniable notion that even The Enchantings might ultimately prove to be shallow. With the exception of myself, of course. One hopes against hope that one’s choice of members is sound and well judged, and yet …
We convened at the usual hour, in the dingle. Today’s password was ‘Audrey Hepburn’. Hargreaves knew well enough who she was, but Wilson commenced a litany of atrocious transgressions by pronouncing her name to be ‘Angela Hopburn’. What a beautiful fool he transpires to be. He claimed never to have heard of her. Thus followed a full fifteen-minute briefing on the many attributes of said Ms Hepburn. Hargreaves employed words such as: ‘elegant’, ‘tiny’ and ‘posh’. I rather fancy that I was a jot more eloquent, parrying with the likes of ‘gamine’, ‘flawless’ and ‘dainty’. I even dared to posit that very naughty word, ‘pert’. Ultimately I reduced them to a respectful hush with ‘paragon’. Yes, a fitting victory.
We endeavoured to move on to various other topics including the necessary withdrawal of Anton Du Beke from the top ten list of Enchantings’ Icons, due to his recent ill-mannered trespasses, and of course the ever-thorny and controversial issue that is Peter Andre. Hargreaves was generally chatty and willing to contribute whereas Wilson was bafflingly inadequate, revealing himself to be pathetically wanting.
Have I massively overestimated him? Perhaps I have been blinded by his beauty. I suppose if I were charitable I would remind myself that he is, after all, only a Year 9er, rendering him a good couple of years junior to myself and Hargreaves. He simply hasn’t lived as we have. The sheer paucity of his Enchantings-worthy knowledge ought to be excusable, yet I find him to be increasingly irksome.
It could well be that he simply pales in comparison to Noel. I am acutely afflicted with Noelitis, that’s a cert. Even Hargreaves’s hearty attempt to lift my spirits with a breathy rendition of Gershwin’s ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’ didn’t do the trick. My heart remains leaden. I took the opportunity of a willing and captive audience to recite some lines from an Ode to Noel, which I have been working on.
O my racy pulse stops, and a sleepy sorrow starts
My mind, as though of serpent’s sap I had sipped
Or spilled full lull into the dear sweethearts
Of two star-crossed buds, hence been nipped.
Admittedly I owe a certain debt of gratitude to Keats but I feel sure he would commend my attempt. Wilson seemed somewhat saddened when I spoke the lines. Perhaps he guesses that he has been usurped in my heart by Noel. I admit it. I have Noel fever. Help me, doctor.
A Tiny Bit
‘No Mother, you major douchelord, I am not pregnant. Shall we put that in the paper to let people know? Like, “Mr and Mrs Battle are delighted to announce that their daughter Dora is currently unpregnant.” Would that do?’
She went on and on about how she is ‘entitled to ask’ and perhaps if I ‘included her’ more she would feel like she is a part of my life. I don’t want her in my life full stop – never mind telling my private stuff to. I only live with her because I have to. I can’t bloody wait to get away from her. I full on proper hate her. I do. I hate her.
Look what she’s bloody made me do now. I have to eat like this whole packet of Jaffa Cakes to even feel a tiny bit better. So thanks Mum, for all your endless belief in me. Perhaps if you stopped thinking I’m a slag, I might actually like myself a bit more and then I might NOT eat so many Jaffa Cakes? Excuse me. Who is the shrink now?
A Tiny Bit Marvellous
TWENTY-EIGHT
Oscar
Well, really. Is it my lot to be so unutterably disappointed my whole lifelong? Today I was forced to come to terms with the undeniable notion that even The Enchantings might ultimately prove to be shallow. With the exception of myself, of course. One hopes against hope that one’s choice of members is sound and well judged, and yet …
We convened at the usual hour, in the dingle. Today’s password was ‘Audrey Hepburn’. Hargreaves knew well enough who she was, but Wilson commenced a litany of atrocious transgressions by pronouncing her name to be ‘Angela Hopburn’. What a beautiful fool he transpires to be. He claimed never to have heard of her. Thus followed a full fifteen-minute briefing on the many attributes of said Ms Hepburn. Hargreaves employed words such as: ‘elegant’, ‘tiny’ and ‘posh’. I rather fancy that I was a jot more eloquent, parrying with the likes of ‘gamine’, ‘flawless’ and ‘dainty’. I even dared to posit that very naughty word, ‘pert’. Ultimately I reduced them to a respectful hush with ‘paragon’. Yes, a fitting victory.
We endeavoured to move on to various other topics including the necessary withdrawal of Anton Du Beke from the top ten list of Enchantings’ Icons, due to his recent ill-mannered trespasses, and of course the ever-thorny and controversial issue that is Peter Andre. Hargreaves was generally chatty and willing to contribute whereas Wilson was bafflingly inadequate, revealing himself to be pathetically wanting.
Have I massively overestimated him? Perhaps I have been blinded by his beauty. I suppose if I were charitable I would remind myself that he is, after all, only a Year 9er, rendering him a good couple of years junior to myself and Hargreaves. He simply hasn’t lived as we have. The sheer paucity of his Enchantings-worthy knowledge ought to be excusable, yet I find him to be increasingly irksome.
It could well be that he simply pales in comparison to Noel. I am acutely afflicted with Noelitis, that’s a cert. Even Hargreaves’s hearty attempt to lift my spirits with a breathy rendition of Gershwin’s ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’ didn’t do the trick. My heart remains leaden. I took the opportunity of a willing and captive audience to recite some lines from an Ode to Noel, which I have been working on.
O my racy pulse stops, and a sleepy sorrow starts
My mind, as though of serpent’s sap I had sipped
Or spilled full lull into the dear sweethearts
Of two star-crossed buds, hence been nipped.
Admittedly I owe a certain debt of gratitude to Keats but I feel sure he would commend my attempt. Wilson seemed somewhat saddened when I spoke the lines. Perhaps he guesses that he has been usurped in my heart by Noel. I admit it. I have Noel fever. Help me, doctor.
A Tiny Bit
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