Authors: Dyan Sheldon
What an excruciating relief to get back to the real world after all that time imprisoned in the
House of Horror
! And also, of course, I was glad to see my many friends and Ms Staples (my English and FAVOURITE teacher). There was a lot to catch up on! Catriona Hendley spent most of the day boring everyone with tales of her excruciatingly wonderful holiday in NEW YORK (of course! Where else would she go; they’re not selling tickets to Mars yet, are they?), and all the famous people she met and all the amazing restaurants she ate in, and all the astounding things she did (like shopping till – cue hysterical laughter here – she couldn’t shop any more!!!). Step aside, Columbus. You’d think SHE discovered America, the way she went on. It was TOTALLY revolting. Not all was
gloom and doom
, however. Disha, Siranee, Alice and I all noticed that Catriona had put on a few pounds eating in all those amazing restaurants. Her chest bones aren’t protruding as much as usual. Unfortunately this also means that I’ll NEVER be able to go to New York unless I lose at least a stone beforehand. And so far I apparently haven’t lost a gram. I’m going to have to stop my diet until the MC buys a decent set of scales (e.g. ones that work). What’s the point of starving if every time I weigh myself I’m heavier than I was the time before?
Wore my new boots to school for the first time today. EVERYONE admired them. Even Catriona Hendley said they were tr
è
s cool and asked where I got them. Wiping a tear from my eye, I sadly had to tell her they were the last pair in the shop. Which is why they’re a little tight (though I didn’t tell her that, of course). I was starting to limp by the end of the day, but I don’t think anyone noticed.
I asked Mr Belakis, my art teacher, why there aren’t any Great Women Artists and he said what about Frida Kahlo, to name but one. Then he told me to read some book by Germaine Greer. Found Germaine in my diary. Apparently there are HORDES of Great Women Artists, but no one ever tells you about them. Then I found Frida in my diary. Apparently she had one eyebrow, a moustache and slept with TONS of people of BOTH sexes. No wonder no one ever talks about her.
Had to soak my feet when I got home because of the blisters. Despite the pain I was in, the Mad Cow threw a MAJOR wobbly because I used the stewpot (it was the largest thing I could find). She said why didn’t I use the mop bucket? I didn’t know we had a mop bucket, but even if I had I wouldn’t have put my feet in it. (After she’s used it to wash the floors?) Disha says I can probably stretch them (the boots, not my feet).
I mentioned Frida Kahlo to Sappho, so she’ll know I’m finally using something she gave me. Sappho said Frida’s husband (who was also a famous artist) had a moustache and slept with TONS of people too so what was the big deal?
There really isn’t any justice in this world, is there? The school magazine met this afternoon, and the next issue’s going to have TWO poems by Catriona God Died and Left Me in Charge Hendley that she wrote about New York. One’s called “Skyline” (how tr
è
s original!) and the other’s entitled “Invisible People” (about the poor – like she’s ever met any). They’re both really stupid poems if you ask me. Esp. the one about the invisible poor. All I can say is New York must be v different to London. Here poor people are right in your face. And you can’t move down the street without tripping over their blankets and dogs etc. Meanwhile, NOBODY liked the story I submitted before Christmas. They found it confusing. But isn’t life confusing? I talked to Ms Staples about it in private. She had some v constructive things to say (
good imagery! nice use of language! gripping idea!
), but she says I need to work a bit harder on my plots. I told her I thought plots belonged in gardens, and that to conform to rigid rules about stuff like that stifled my
Creative Spirit
. Ms Staples laughed and said that she hoped I didn’t take that line when it came to my GCSEs because the education authority likes plots. I could never be a teacher. It must suck the
Soul
right out of you (e.g. Jocelyn Bandry, though it is possible that she never had a soul in the first place). I feel bad for poor Ms Staples, who, unlike my female parent, does have a
Passionate Soul
and a questing, intelligent mind despite the personal lack of talent that must’ve driven her into teaching. How depressing it must be to work for people who don’t understand literature or art or the true nature of life! I told her I’d do my best. She gave me a grateful smile. It’s a BIG responsibility, having to keep Ms Staples’s level of hope up, but I feel I’m old enough now to handle it. After all, that’s part of what life’s about, isn’t it?
What a day! I don’t think any more could go wrong if I tried! The Mad Cow forgot to iron the grey skirt I was going to wear, so I had to find something else that fit my mood. It took EONS. I missed my usual bus, of course, and then I couldn’t find my pass. I took
everything
out of my bag but it wasn’t
anywhere
. You should’ve heard the driver moan about how much stuff I carry around with me. (What’s it to him? He’s not my mother!) I asked him if he thought I was lugging around all these school books to get a free ride! I mean, really, if there was ever a man in DESPERATE need of a life, this was the man. When I finally got to school, Disha turned up wearing almost the exact same shirt I was wearing, so we went back to hers so she could change. We were really only seconds late, but Stalin (aka Mr Wilkins, our tutor) wouldn’t listen to our perfectly reasonable explanation and gave us detention. (Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I can’t remember where I heard that, but it’s true.) Then it turned out that besides forgetting to iron my skirt, the Mad Cow forgot to remind me to take my PE kit again. I told the Anti-Barbie that I had cramps so bad I thought I was giving birth and she let me go to the library instead of running around the field having my shins clubbed. The bad news was that the sight of me reminded the librarian, Mrs Higgle, that I still had two books outstanding. I tried to explain that I thought I’d brought them back, but she said that was what I said last time. It’ll be a note home next, and then Sigmund will get on my case, blah blah blah. The man can talk you into unconsciousness. I hope the Mad Cow can find the books.
OH, TRAGEDY! OH, DARK DAY OF HORROR AND GLOOM! I CAN’T FIND MY MOBE! And I thought nothing more could go WRONG today! How ironic is that? Why does everything happen to ME? I must’ve dropped it on the bus this morning, which is understandable considering all the trauma I was put through! The last time I remember having it was when I rang Sara Dancer at the bus stop. The parents will dehydrate me if they find out.
I’m meant to be tidying my room. (“If you want to go to Disha’s tonight, you’d better tidy that room!” I don’t know why she doesn’t put it on a tape loop and save herself the trouble of saying the same thing OVER AND OVER.) The good news is that I thought I heard her coming to check on me (she was definitely a prison guard in one of her previous lives), so I dived under my bed in cleaning mode, and guess what I found? The yoga book I got for Christmas! I’d forgotten all about it. The woman on the cover is sitting cross-legged and smiling. There are dozens of quotes on the back from ordinary people who say that yoga changed their lives. It looks pretty easy. I can smile, and I can sit cross-legged, so what could be so hard? Maybe I’ll give it a try. I can see yoga fitting in v well with the Dark Phase. Ms Staples does yoga and she says it’s
v Spiritual
, as well as healthy. I wonder if you can lose weight doing yoga (since dieting obviously doesn’t work).
Had a v good time at Disha’s as per usual. Her parents aren’t as obtrusive as some. We were going to have an
Exploring Other Dimensions Night
, but I left the book on witchcraft at home and Disha couldn’t find the tarot cards I gave her for Christmas (you’ve got to be given them; you can’t buy them for yourself), so we decided to have an Intellectual Night instead. We were going to get out this brilliant Japanese film Ms Staples told us about, but Blockbuster didn’t have it. We were going to listen to intelligent music and read poetry instead, but we couldn’t find the jazz station. All was FRUSTRATION AND DOOM until Disha remembered that Mrs Foster next door (who is civilized and has cable) lent her a copy of
Clueless
last year that we never watched. Ms Staples says
Clueless
is based on a Jane Austen novel, so we reckoned that was just as good as something in Japanese. We finally found it under some stuff on the floor of Disha’s wardrobe. But then frustration and doom turned to AMAZEMENT AND SHOCK! Someone who was probably Mr Foster taped over
Clueless
with an ADULT MOVIE. We’re not naïve – we’ve seen the magazines on the top shelf in the newsagent’s and stuff like that, of course – but both Disha and I come from homes where pornography is frowned upon. Even Sigmund and the MC, who are major believers in free speech, say it’s demeaning to women. Sappho said if she ever found Justin with porn she’d make him eat it, and not even Justin would think that was an idle threat. As for the Paskis, they were both arrested for disorderly conduct when someone tried to open a sex shop in their old neighbourhood. (Mrs P whacked the store owner over the head with a sign that said
CHILDREN LIVE HERE
.) We didn’t watch much (you don’t have to watch much to get the idea, and after that it’s sort of boring). Disha says now she’ll never be able to see the Fosters (esp. Mr Foster) without feeling embarrassed. We talked a bit about the boys we know and whether or not they’re into porn, which is a bit weird and creepy to think about. Then Disha said could I imagine either of our mothers straddling a chair in black lace suspenders with tassles hanging from her nipples and her tongue out like that and we practically died laughing.
When I got back to
Bleak House
this afternoon, the Mad Cow was lying in wait (and not in suspenders and tassles, believe me. She might be into S&M though. I have no trouble picturing her with a whip). I barely got the door shut before she started in. “What did I tell you…? What did you promise…? I thought you were going to clean up that pigsty before you went out last night?” Same old same old. Then she literally dragged me over to the sink so I could see all the plates and stuff she’d found under my bed. AND she actually made me count them: six glasses, seven mugs, two plates, nine spoons, three bowls and Great-Grandmother Rose’s WILLOW PLATE!!! (Am I INSANE? How could I treat a family heirloom like that?) I told her to chill out. “A woman your age shouldn’t get so excited,” I told her. “You’ll give yourself a stroke.” For a minute there I thought she was going to forget about her commitment to non-violent parenting and give
me
a stroke, but instead she asked me to let her know when my planet was ready to receive transmissions from Earth so she wasn’t just wasting her breath all the time. And then she told me to GO AND TIDY my room, and not to come down till it was done. I may spend the rest of my life up here. (At least I would if I had a phone!)
Disha wanted to know if I managed to stretch my new boots. I groaned out loud! Disha’d said I should wet them before I stuffed them full of newspaper so they’d be more flexible when I stretched them, so on Wednesday I filled the famous mop bucket with water and left them in it in the garden shed. I TOTALLY forgot about them! Disha said when she told me to soak them she meant for an hour or so, not nearly a WEEK. What a DISASTER!!! I must’ve been cursed at birth or something. They look all funny, and the heel came off the right boot. Disha said I could take it to a cobbler, but I was too depressed to ask her what a cobbler is.
I hate my brother more than anyone has ever hated ANYONE or ANYTHING in the history of the world. As if it wasn’t enough that my new boots are TOTALLY RUINED, I was just trying out some new make-up (
Sorceress Black
) when the door to my room was flung open and there was Justin and his bloody camera (we at 73A Wooster Crescent live in a virtually lockless world). He got me putting on eyeliner. I really think it’s time they had him put down. You can’t bite into a crisp in this house without being photographed. It’s like living with the paparazzi (but without the champagne and stuff). Poor Princess Di! I really feel for what she went through. Death must’ve been a kind of release. (When I told that to Disha, she said maybe it’s not just the
Creative
who suffer – the famous do too. I never thought of it like that. I mean, you can be MEGA FAMOUS and have the
Soul
of a cowpat, can’t you? But D says one has to make a distinction between physical suffering and spiritual suffering. Spiritual suffering is what the creative do. I don’t think it’s premature to say that the Dark Phase is v successful so far!)
Sara Dancer says her mother’s boyfriend’s into porn, which Sara says is pretty understandable, since her mother isn’t exactly Madonna (she looks like a dinner lady). Sara even found magazines with names like
Sex Slaves
and
She’s Gotta Have It
under the rug in the bathroom. She won’t have baths any more. Sara’s mother doesn’t know it, but Sara’s little brother watches porn all the time on cable. And also on the Net. Sara watched it on the Net once, out of intellectual curiosity, and it was pretty gross. She says she’s searched her dad’s flat for signs of Solitary Sexual Activity but all she turned up was a packet of condoms, which she took as a good sign even though she doesn’t think he has a steady girlfriend. Sara says there’s no way she’d put up with a room without a lock in her mother’s house – not even when she’s just there for a visit. She says it’s like living with wild lions. You never know when their primitive nature is going to take over and they attack. I said you don’t think your mum’s boyfriend would DO SOMETHING, do you, and she said no, of course not, but you can’t be too careful, can you? Look at all the articles in the papers about people molesting minors. Maybe newspapers aren’t as BORING as I’ve always thought. (And also reading papers might be good for stimulating the
Depression and Sense of Suffering
of the DP. At least they’re faster to read than most of Ms Staples’s books!)