God, yeah. And she’d shoot me if she heard me blaspheming like that,” he jokes, making me relax again. “Her flat in Ireland, it’s like a shrine to…well, shrines.”
“Wow…” I nod. “Is it a valuable collection?”
“Is it hell! It’s all plastic! Plastic Madonna wall clocks; plastic Last Supper pictures with waterfall effects in the background; plastic baby Jesuses in glowing, neon cribs…Can you imagine the warehouse of the factory that makes that stuff? It must be like a cross between Heaven and Disneyland!”
He’s got me giggling…but that probably has something to do with the nerves I feel whenever we’re alone together, like now. Since they don’t have any gear to pack away, Cherish and Angel zoomed off with a quick bye (and a knowing wink from Cherish, cheekycow!) a few minutes ago. Salman’s back in the rehearsal room, chatting to Mr Fisher. Me and Conor are out here by the equipment cupboard, which Conor has now disappeared into, stashing the bass guitar safely away.
“But go on – you never told me; who’s St Sebastian?” I ask him, leaning on the door frame and watching him wrestle a bit of space among the jam of musical equipment. “What does he do exactly?”
“Patron saint of safe driving,” mutters Conor, pausing to shoot a look over his shoulder.
Now I don’t know whether to believe him or not.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Wrong,” he laughs and stands upright, mission accomplished, bass stashed. “My gran sent me this chain the minute she heard I was taking driving lessons. Here, do you want me to pack your stuff away for you?”
He’s pointing to the black guitar case and small amp on the floor next to me.
“No, it’s all right – Mr Fisher’s OK’d it for me to take this home to practise on. I still feel a little sticky with that middle eight part.”
For the rehearsal and performance, I’ll be using the school’s electric guitar. I’d planned to fool around at home on my acoustic, but since that’s currently in guitar hospital, it’s lucky that Mr Fisher is fine about me takingschool property off the premises. Apart from helping me learn my part better, it’s also going to give me pretty impressive arm muscles, hiking that lot back and forth.
Conor’s obviously thinking along similar lines, the way he’s frowning at the gear.
“I just can’t believe there’s a patron saint of safe driving!” I hear myself twittering, getting a buzz from being so close to Conor and desperate for the conversation not to fizzle out.
“There’s a patron saint of practically everything!” He grins his gorgeous grin at me. “Saint Isidore of Seville: she’s the patron saint of the Internet and computers in general. Gran sent me a whole lot of bumph about her when my parents bought me my i-Mac. I tried praying to her when the thing kept crashing, but it didn’t work. Still had to send it away to get fixed.”
I should get Conor to ask his gran if there’s a patron saint for stressed-out families, but I don’t want to put a damper on a good time by bringing up the touchy topic of my sister.
“You know, my favourite patron saint has to be Guy of Andelecht,” he continues, locking up the cupboard.
“Oh, yeah? And what does he do?” I ask, taking the opportunity, as Conor turns away from me, to ogle his very nice bum in his cute, faded brown cords.
“Patron saint of sheds,” he laughs, spinning around to face me so quickly that he nearly catches me drooling at him like one of the workmen that hassle me every morning. “When Dad ordered a new shed for the garden, my gran was straight on the case, sending blessings from Saint Guy.”
“God bless this shed and all who sail in her…” I feebly joke, but Conor seems to think that’s funny.
Good grief, how glad am I that I went in for the audition at the last minute? I wouldn’t have the competition to look forward to, I wouldn’t have the rehearsals to look forward to, I wouldn’t have these
“Wow…” I nod. “Is it a valuable collection?”
“Is it hell! It’s all plastic! Plastic Madonna wall clocks; plastic Last Supper pictures with waterfall effects in the background; plastic baby Jesuses in glowing, neon cribs…Can you imagine the warehouse of the factory that makes that stuff? It must be like a cross between Heaven and Disneyland!”
He’s got me giggling…but that probably has something to do with the nerves I feel whenever we’re alone together, like now. Since they don’t have any gear to pack away, Cherish and Angel zoomed off with a quick bye (and a knowing wink from Cherish, cheekycow!) a few minutes ago. Salman’s back in the rehearsal room, chatting to Mr Fisher. Me and Conor are out here by the equipment cupboard, which Conor has now disappeared into, stashing the bass guitar safely away.
“But go on – you never told me; who’s St Sebastian?” I ask him, leaning on the door frame and watching him wrestle a bit of space among the jam of musical equipment. “What does he do exactly?”
“Patron saint of safe driving,” mutters Conor, pausing to shoot a look over his shoulder.
Now I don’t know whether to believe him or not.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Wrong,” he laughs and stands upright, mission accomplished, bass stashed. “My gran sent me this chain the minute she heard I was taking driving lessons. Here, do you want me to pack your stuff away for you?”
He’s pointing to the black guitar case and small amp on the floor next to me.
“No, it’s all right – Mr Fisher’s OK’d it for me to take this home to practise on. I still feel a little sticky with that middle eight part.”
For the rehearsal and performance, I’ll be using the school’s electric guitar. I’d planned to fool around at home on my acoustic, but since that’s currently in guitar hospital, it’s lucky that Mr Fisher is fine about me takingschool property off the premises. Apart from helping me learn my part better, it’s also going to give me pretty impressive arm muscles, hiking that lot back and forth.
Conor’s obviously thinking along similar lines, the way he’s frowning at the gear.
“I just can’t believe there’s a patron saint of safe driving!” I hear myself twittering, getting a buzz from being so close to Conor and desperate for the conversation not to fizzle out.
“There’s a patron saint of practically everything!” He grins his gorgeous grin at me. “Saint Isidore of Seville: she’s the patron saint of the Internet and computers in general. Gran sent me a whole lot of bumph about her when my parents bought me my i-Mac. I tried praying to her when the thing kept crashing, but it didn’t work. Still had to send it away to get fixed.”
I should get Conor to ask his gran if there’s a patron saint for stressed-out families, but I don’t want to put a damper on a good time by bringing up the touchy topic of my sister.
“You know, my favourite patron saint has to be Guy of Andelecht,” he continues, locking up the cupboard.
“Oh, yeah? And what does he do?” I ask, taking the opportunity, as Conor turns away from me, to ogle his very nice bum in his cute, faded brown cords.
“Patron saint of sheds,” he laughs, spinning around to face me so quickly that he nearly catches me drooling at him like one of the workmen that hassle me every morning. “When Dad ordered a new shed for the garden, my gran was straight on the case, sending blessings from Saint Guy.”
“God bless this shed and all who sail in her…” I feebly joke, but Conor seems to think that’s funny.
Good grief, how glad am I that I went in for the audition at the last minute? I wouldn’t have the competition to look forward to, I wouldn’t have the rehearsals to look forward to, I wouldn’t have these
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