A Tiny Bit Marvellous (7 page)

Dora

Oh my actual like holy God. What a totally amazing day. Just goes to show you shouldn’t judge a book by its title, because I could never EVER of believed that Nana Pamela was so like, amazingly amazing. I was only supposed to be going over there to drop off Poo. She’s being spayed tomorrow and Nana Pamela lives nearest the vet so she’s taking her in. Mum wouldn’t have been able to deal with it really, she gets so stressy about anything to do with the dog.

What is spaying anyway? I think it’s taking out her eggs or something so she can’t get pregnant. Hope she gets one of those huge cones they put on dogs’ heads to stop them licking the stitches. She had one of those when her leg broke, it was mega hilarious. Kept banging into furniture and you could creep up on her from behind and scare her to death. Sooo funny.

I wish she wasn’t getting it done though. It would be like sooo sweet if she had puppies, I would like sooo love it. With their tiny tiny teeth and tiny tiny hot tongues licking your face. I’m sure we could find homes for them. All of my friends would want one, especially if they could be, like really small, and fit in your handbag or something? Poo is quite small, border terriers are, but she would have to like mate with a boy chiwoowoo or something to make the puppies really tiny. Has a dog ever mated with a cat? That would be, like sooo sweet.

The dad dog would have to be white or something though because Poo is brown and if the dad was black or brown and small as well, the babies would be like really small and brown. So Poo would give birth to a lot of tiny poos. Be better if the dad was white or something, then the puppies would look more like dogs. I love it when the dog like so goes with the handbag? Like if the bag is pinky glittery and the dog coat and collar is too. It’s sooo great. I know it’s like totally plastic to want a mini-dog but that’s the only plastics’ thing I’m jealous of. Just that. The tiny dog thing.

Anyway, when I was at Nana Pamela’s she made some hot chocolate and asked me all about Sam and stuff? It was good because although Mum and Dad know what happened, they haven’t really talked to me much about it. Think Mum just reckons it was some kind of like teenage thing or something like it didn’t really matter but it like so did because he was the longest boyfriend I’ve ever had and as well, he was the one I got closest to doing it with and that makes it like so special? We didn’t actually do it, which I’m like so glad about now, but he really actually did want to, twice. So I could of.

Anyway, I was telling Nana Pamela all about him and she was like so listening. And it was so lovely and I was looking at her lovely face, which has looked at me like that all my whole life, always interested in what I’m saying and never talking about her all the time like Mum. And she hasn’t got a phone that always goes off or writing to do or other teenagers at work to be more interested in than me, her
own
bloody
daughter excuse me? So I just kept talking and talking, all about Sam, and school, and Lottie and stuff. Then she like totally gobsmacked me when she said, ‘And tell me, sweetie pie, did you bonk each other?’ Oh my actual God. Just like that. With that weird word old people say to make it sound like you’re not actually doing it, you’re just jumping about or something. Like Tigger.

Anyway, we just started laughing and it was really good. And I told her I’ve never actually done it and then we just kept talking about it and she said we should like play a sort of game where I ask like ANY questions I like about like sex stuff, and she has to answer really honestly. So it went like:

ME: OK. How long does sex actually take to do?

NANA PAMELA: Well, the cuddling and stuff can take ages but the in and out and done stuff is about five minutes usually. If you’re lucky.

ME: Oh my God. I thought it took hours.

NANA PAMELA: No hon. Only if you are Sting and his lovely wife Judy and even then, most of that is just talk. And endless awful meaningful staring. I should imagine.

ME: How do you know if you’re good at it?

NANA PAMELA: All girls are good at it. Being a girl automatically means you’re good at it.

ME: Does cling film work as well as a condom?

NANA PAMELA: No, never do that. And conversely, don’t ever keep your sandwiches in a condom either.

ME: What is a female condom?

NANA PAMELA: A bad idea.

ME: Should you ever let a boy put his you know in your bottom?

NANA PAMELA: Entirely up to you, but personally I think that’s the exit not the entrance.

ME: Could it happen that he might wee in you instead of the other thing?

NANA PAMELA: No. Never. Men have plumbing that tells them exactly when to do which thing. The only time that goes wrong is when their brains mistake car parks and shop doorways for toilets.

ME: Should you believe him when he says his ball bags are filling up and it could back up into his body and poison him or even just burst if you don’t help him out?

NANA PAMELA: No. But you could offer to puncture or lance them with a sharp implement in order to facilitate drainage. See what he says then.

ME: When should I say yes to going all the way?

NANA PAMELA: When that boy is a beautiful generous spirit who loves you and cares about how you feel and doesn’t pester you to do it before you’re ready. When you know he will understand how golden the moment is, for both of you. When you can honestly say he’s a top-notch fella who thinks you are the cat’s pyjamas, and wants to make this moment matter …

And then Nana P started to cry and I didn’t know what was the matter. She told me it was all right, it just made her remember Granddad Ted and how lovely he was when they were young. I like, so couldn’t believe it when she told me they did it when they were both sixteen! Oh my actual God. In a sand dune in Dorset! Apparently like, after it was over and they were lying there, he told her she was ‘a gem of the first water’, and Nana P says that’s when a diamond or something is the best ever quality, when it’s the clearest, like water, or something? She said she felt ‘exalted’ and that’s what I deserve too because I’m splendid she said. Yeah. But, like how can you ‘exalt’ someone with fat knees? Then we had some delish pineapple upside-down cake she made, because she knows that’s my favourite. She said 122% fact it wouldn’t go to my knees.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous

Oscar

So, Tuesday finally deigned to arrive. I was Tuesday’s slave for a week, and he was my master. What a cruel master. How could he tease me thus, by purposefully putting the brakes on time? Each twenty-four hours has meandered past, a snail-like sluggard, mocking me with its retarded impertinence. All life has been in slow motion. Chug chug chug. I was on the verge of acute melancholia when, as if by magic, Monday was upon us heralding the glorious and imminent advent of Tuesday.

As if kick-started by the school klaxon at four-fifteen, my underarm sweat glands commenced their damp attack, firstly on my school shirt and thencely on my white linen shirt with frontal ruffles which I changed into in the toilets, along with my yellow check slacks, and the winkle pickers I purloined from the back of the Pater’s wardrobe. On closer inspection of the said shirt I noticed that it was less than white, in fact it could more accurately be described as grey. Sadly, not a bold, purposeful, brave grey. More like a limp, ‘I was thrown into the machine with a careless leaky young black sock’ grey.

It has been said of Mama, and with much truth, she is no expert laundress. The whole family have, at one time or another, fallen victim to her ineptitude in this, the very epitome of womanly skills. Ah me. I had no option but to soldier on enrobed in dull grey. I had no doubt and took comfort from the fact, that my irrepressible wit and sparkling bons mots would be the focus for my dear Noel, not my disappointing shirt.

I shovelled my uniform into my school briefcase and took a few moments to attend to my toilette. It is the mark of a gentleman to arrive upon the scene well groomed and fragrant. I hoped that a liberal spraying of the Pater’s sports deodorant would help to staunch the underarm flow, and if not, at least perfume the offending area. I splashed some of Pamela’s lavender water about my neck and face and tugged some Brylcreem through my unruly shock. I let alone my chin where I am pleased to note a small but significant display of hirsute manliness has recently sprouted. I fancy I cut quite a dash on a final glance in the broken mirrors. Unfortunately I had to don the God-awful blazer to leave school (rule) but all in all, I knew the effect was pleasing.

The journey to Mama’s office was a delight. It might have taken considerably longer had I been condemned to walk on the pavement but of course, I had a ticket to ride on a cloud. My step was light, my transport was air and my companion was joy. The quickening beat of my heart helped to hasten my passage, and the very essence of Noel called me on. The sky was bluer, the sun was brighter, the flowers were more colourier than ever. All was verdant and fresh. Although admittedly a ‘big’ fellow, I was but a wisp, being carried along by the sweetest of zephyrs. Tumbling, whooshing ever onwards towards my destiny. Towards my love. Towards Noel.

In less than a fairy’s tinkle, I was at the door. Now, my heartbeat was calling strong and refusing to be quiet or still. My heart urgently wanted to physically connect with his, and was trying to escape from my chest to find him. Lisa greeted me with the fairly offensive ‘Ha! Here he is, Giant Lord Fauntleroy, come to work amongst the mortals!’ She directed me towards the back room behind her desk where the filing cabinets are.

Lisa has become increasingly strange. She is looking more and more like that mad Australian crocodile man who died in a stingray attack. Steve Irwin. Yes, Lisa is becoming him. The thought flashed across my mind that one inconceivably awful explanation for her odd metamorphosis could be that she was attempting to allure Noel by making herself familiarly Antipodean. I dismissed the thought pretty quickly – it was too horrible to countenance.

She gave me a cursory demonstration of the archaic filing system they have there. I can’t quite believe they still use handwritten notes in this way, but I suspect much of it has to do with Mama’s allergy to technology. It is positively Dickensian, but at least my task is pathetically easy. Put files in alphabetical order. Yes, I do believe I am capable of that. In fact, I quickly realized I was going to have to feign a deliberate slowness in order to stretch it out. All the while I had to come up with bogus excuses to emerge from the back room so as to catch sight of my paramour.

That’s the damnable thing about these mind doctors – they work in sealed rooms with tightly closed doors. One is not permitted to enter during their ‘sessions’, even to offer refreshments. I learned that very early on from Mama, when, as a young boy of thirteen I barged in and sat down whilst she was mid shrinking. I thought it would be fine to join in as it were, and enquired whether their particular problem was anything I could contribute to? This was, apparently, an outrage, and I was quickly ejected with a lengthy lecture about propriety to follow over the kitchen table at home later. So tedious.

Thus, in order to catch sight of my beloved, and to allow him to feast his eyes upon me, I must appear as if out of the ether, utterly coincidentally, by his side. It must be supremely casual. Nothing deters a potential lover so much as the whiff of desperation. In order to know when he might be approaching, I needed to be positioned at the front desk, near Lisa. This meant concocting numerous reasons to come out and station myself by her. I dreamed up endless questions to preoccupy her, mostly practical requests and banal enquiries, like:

‘Do you enjoy working here?’

Or:

‘What time did you start this morning?’

Or:

‘That’s a lovely practical haircut you have there.’

But she was soon flagging and in need of a more fruitful line of enquiry so as to elicit lengthier stories, thereby allowing me to tarry awhile longer.

I hit a rich vein when I chanced upon her obsession with outdoor pursuits and her survivalist lifestyle. Her attire should surely have been the clue, but I was after all otherwise distracted. After nearly two hours of relentless information on the subjects of hammocks and their many uses, poisonous plant life and the merits of cooking a rabbit in an underground hangi, Maori-style, I was nearly beaten. As yet, there had been no sighting of Noel, so I raised my metaphorical white flag and retreated to the back room.

I had little to no interest in the filing but did find some solace in the contents of the files themselves, which were immensely enjoyable to read. Mama writes quite well. Obviously these documents are in note form and consequently severely précised, but still, a vibrant and engaging style shines through, mostly very pleasantly expressed. Judging by the multitude of supposed ‘behaviours’ brought to her; I can only conclude that she is the very saint of patience. People really are beyond the pale. What on earth do these young folk think they’re doing when they speak aloud of ‘feeling dead’, ‘hating Dad’ and ‘want to cut myself’? For heaven’s sake, you silly nancys, just take a brisk stroll and cheer up! Stop depressing my mother and wasting her time with your pointless whingeing, you great babies. If I were your therapist I’d get up and stroll over to where you sit and give you a proper slap. With the full force of my hand. What a dreary shower of Olympic-level moaning minnies you are. The least you could do would be to invent a malady with the merest modicum of originality. What despicable bad manners – to bore your therapist into a torpid oblivion.

The reading occupied me for the best part of an hour until Lisa surprised me by calling out ‘That’s it, mates! Time to shut shop. Last orders, please. Could the deluded, misguided and lost make their way to the exits. Followed swiftly by their patients. Thank you and goodnight.’

Quelle horreur! The day was over and not a moment had been spent with my darling dreamboat. Terrible – all is terrible! Mama emerged from her drab room and offered me a lift home. I was initially reluctant, because perhaps now, at this last moment, I might catch a glimpse of him? Of his dear dear lovely visage? Perhaps now, as the workday ended, he too would reveal himself and appear alongside the other weary day-enders? Might he appreciate a reviving Dubonnet and lemonade in my company at some nearby hostelry? Might he be thankful for a quick neck rub perhaps? I enquired of Mama, as casually as I dared, ‘Is Noel not finished too … ?’

Her answer was brief but devastating.

‘He doesn’t work on Tuesdays.’

Curses.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous