We were bored, so the logical thing to do was to bake something. The only problem was we didn't have any scales, so used mugs instead. Or a recipe actually, but we never stick to them anyway... We didn't have eggs either, but we soon realised that mixing some flour, caster sugar and flora light together in a bowl nearly closely resembles the mixture for shortbread. Izzy put the flour in the bowl, then I began beating the marg'.
"It says not suitable for baking," I notice on the side of the tub, "do you think it will be OK?"
"Yeah, it'll be fine. And it's healthier than butter anyway...right?"
She stirs. I toss in a cup full of sugar.
"Oh, we were meant to mix the butter and sugar together first I think, I wonder if it'll make a difference?"
"Probs not, it'll taste fine."
"Well shall we try separate the flour and the sugar?"
"Erm, I don't think we can really. They're both grainy, aren't they?"
"Yeah, spose."
The mixture turns to a pale dough and Izzy adds a bit more caster sugar, as though somehow that will make it brown and tasty looking. Or tastier, for that matter...
We throw the baking tray into the oven and keep checking every fifteen minutes, leaving it in there for longer than the required thirty, an hour to be exact. It's still white. I pull the tray out and cut a square off, placing it into my mouth. I burst out laughing and Izzy asks what's so funny.
"It tastes like Roti! How funny! Indian things you know, like chapatis? My Grandma used to make them. All we need now is a bit of jam and I almost feel Indian,"
"Jess, you are Indian."
"Yeah, but not really. Accidental shortbread roti's are the closest I'm gunna get..."
"So more sugar then next time?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. They do taste a bit weird. I'm not sure if I like it."
The tray was empty by the next morning, Izzy tried to eat one and it nearly broke her tooth. I never did try them with jam. I might try to make them again sometime. 'Accidental shortbread roti's' I mean, not the biscuits.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
So, Four Years Ago I Passed This Test . . .
"I had a customer last week to the job centre Jessie, an African man,"
"I thought you said he was Brazillian?"
"No Jim, African, so he used to trade in diamonds and anyway, he was turning away from me in his seat! So I asked him why, and he said it's just huge, too beautiful!" She wiggles her finger, it catches the light.
"Ha, and it was probably from China or something, built upon the slave trade, like in that BBC show," I scoff
"No, I got it certified actually! from America," dad pipes up,
"Yeah, but I bet it was a lie . . . my friend Laura said that if a man proposed to her with a diamond ring she would refuse it out of principle, because he doesn't know her well enough to know she doesn't agree with them,"
"Yes, but nearly everything is built upon slavery," mum begins
"Well, she's a Veggie as well,"
"And does she wear leather shoes?"
"Dunno . . ."
"What about plastics, hmmm?"
"What's plastic got to do with anything?"
"Come on Jessie, what's plastic made from?"
[Split Second Pause, not long enough for a sufficient thought process . . .]
"Horses?"
[laughter]
"No! I mean, glue!"
"You think plastic is made from glue?"
"No! Horses are made from glue! I mean, wait. . . there was logic somewhere OK?"
"And what's plastic made from then . . .?"
[a longer pause, a 'clever' pause]
"POLYMERS! Ha!"
"And where do polymers come from?"
"Erm, soil?"
I forget the rest of the conversation, in which the father explained where plastics come from.
But I think I can safely say OH dear. It really has been too long since GCSE science.
"I thought you said he was Brazillian?"
"No Jim, African, so he used to trade in diamonds and anyway, he was turning away from me in his seat! So I asked him why, and he said it's just huge, too beautiful!" She wiggles her finger, it catches the light.
"Ha, and it was probably from China or something, built upon the slave trade, like in that BBC show," I scoff
"No, I got it certified actually! from America," dad pipes up,
"Yeah, but I bet it was a lie . . . my friend Laura said that if a man proposed to her with a diamond ring she would refuse it out of principle, because he doesn't know her well enough to know she doesn't agree with them,"
"Yes, but nearly everything is built upon slavery," mum begins
"Well, she's a Veggie as well,"
"And does she wear leather shoes?"
"Dunno . . ."
"What about plastics, hmmm?"
"What's plastic got to do with anything?"
"Come on Jessie, what's plastic made from?"
[Split Second Pause, not long enough for a sufficient thought process . . .]
"Horses?"
[laughter]
"No! I mean, glue!"
"You think plastic is made from glue?"
"No! Horses are made from glue! I mean, wait. . . there was logic somewhere OK?"
"And what's plastic made from then . . .?"
[a longer pause, a 'clever' pause]
"POLYMERS! Ha!"
"And where do polymers come from?"
"Erm, soil?"
I forget the rest of the conversation, in which the father explained where plastics come from.
But I think I can safely say OH dear. It really has been too long since GCSE science.
Monday, 17 May 2010
The Politics of Paranoia
As I climbed into the front of the car and threw my coat into the back I saw something in the foot-well behind the driver’s seat. A handwritten envelope:
‘Matthew Singleton, Sir Peter Hilton Court, Derby.’
There was an A5 letter scrawled underneath it.
Damn it. I didn’t have my bloody glasses on; I'd never be able to see who it was from. I’d have to ask . . .
“Who are you getting handwritten letters from then?” I pulled my seatbelt across my chest, avoiding his eyes, but my voice was accusatory. He knew me too well. I looked over as his face began to contort.
“What do you mean? I don’t know,”
WHAT?!! He was lying!? I couldn’t believe it. Who the hell was writing him love letters??
And then it happened, the brain kicked in. It was The Ex, Love Of His Life, crawling back into his heart with a well penned verse. I already knew he had a thing for writers, and you have to hand it to the girl, it’s a clever way to pull at his 'heartstrings', reminiscing to the good old days.
He sat in the driver’s and started the ignition.
“You don’t know who you have a handwritten letter from? How many do you get, that you don’t know who it’s from?”
“Look at it if you want!” he spluttered.
Ha. I couldn’t think of anything worse. I began to concoct her lines, asking him to go back to her, being you know, 'poetic', perhaps compiling a dirty limerick. I turned away in my seat. He tried to reach for my hand and I pulled away.
“Jess! What?”
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t believe that you don’t know who it’s from.”
I felt as though it was staring at me. I didn’t want to look back. We sat in silence for ten minutes while he drove. I felt bad actually, that he was trying to concentrate on the windy country road and I wanted a full blown argument. I wondered if I could subtly see it out of the corner of my eye. IT. My nemesis on paper. I peered over in a way that made my eye balls bulge, still facing the road ahead. I strained so much so that the top corner of the letter, where the address lay, just came into focus.
‘Littleover? Who on earth does he know who lives in Littleover??’
Then it hit me. I knew who was writing to him from Littleover. They’d written to me as well. And my flatmates. Everyone in the fricking building no doubt.
I reached over and picked it up, laughing as I saw the date mark:
‘May 2010’ and the words underneath . . .
‘Dear Matthew, this upcoming election…’
It wasn’t even handwritten, but printed in that style in order to confuse unwitting students into believing Mummy dearest had sent them a cheque in the post for more baked beans and alcohol.
“It’s the Lib-Dems! The bloody Lib-Dems, making me crazy.”
“Jess! I can’t believe you’ve given me the silent treatment over that!”
“Well, it looked bad!”
“Who did you think it was from?”
“I don’t know. You know, people.”
I had to tell him eventually, of course I did; I couldn’t really talk my way out of it. Paranoia, neuroticism . . . I can only keep it under wraps for so long.
“You owe me an apology.”
“But I didn’t think you’d done anything wrong…One day we’ll laugh about this you know,”
I just didn't know it would be so soon. We pulled up to my house and could see my dad getting out of his car. He met us on the path and Matthew immediately retold the story. Then they had a laugh at how foolish and crazy I had been. In fact, I think they even both said ‘Women!’ in that way that men do, just to sum everything up in two syllables. Ha . . . ha, so I’m crazy. It still hurts just thinking about it. I either need to be committed or NOT SAY ANYTHING EVER.
‘Matthew Singleton, Sir Peter Hilton Court, Derby.’
There was an A5 letter scrawled underneath it.
Damn it. I didn’t have my bloody glasses on; I'd never be able to see who it was from. I’d have to ask . . .
“Who are you getting handwritten letters from then?” I pulled my seatbelt across my chest, avoiding his eyes, but my voice was accusatory. He knew me too well. I looked over as his face began to contort.
“What do you mean? I don’t know,”
WHAT?!! He was lying!? I couldn’t believe it. Who the hell was writing him love letters??
And then it happened, the brain kicked in. It was The Ex, Love Of His Life, crawling back into his heart with a well penned verse. I already knew he had a thing for writers, and you have to hand it to the girl, it’s a clever way to pull at his 'heartstrings', reminiscing to the good old days.
He sat in the driver’s and started the ignition.
“You don’t know who you have a handwritten letter from? How many do you get, that you don’t know who it’s from?”
“Look at it if you want!” he spluttered.
Ha. I couldn’t think of anything worse. I began to concoct her lines, asking him to go back to her, being you know, 'poetic', perhaps compiling a dirty limerick. I turned away in my seat. He tried to reach for my hand and I pulled away.
“Jess! What?”
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t believe that you don’t know who it’s from.”
I felt as though it was staring at me. I didn’t want to look back. We sat in silence for ten minutes while he drove. I felt bad actually, that he was trying to concentrate on the windy country road and I wanted a full blown argument. I wondered if I could subtly see it out of the corner of my eye. IT. My nemesis on paper. I peered over in a way that made my eye balls bulge, still facing the road ahead. I strained so much so that the top corner of the letter, where the address lay, just came into focus.
‘Littleover? Who on earth does he know who lives in Littleover??’
Then it hit me. I knew who was writing to him from Littleover. They’d written to me as well. And my flatmates. Everyone in the fricking building no doubt.
I reached over and picked it up, laughing as I saw the date mark:
‘May 2010’ and the words underneath . . .
‘Dear Matthew, this upcoming election…’
It wasn’t even handwritten, but printed in that style in order to confuse unwitting students into believing Mummy dearest had sent them a cheque in the post for more baked beans and alcohol.
“It’s the Lib-Dems! The bloody Lib-Dems, making me crazy.”
“Jess! I can’t believe you’ve given me the silent treatment over that!”
“Well, it looked bad!”
“Who did you think it was from?”
“I don’t know. You know, people.”
I had to tell him eventually, of course I did; I couldn’t really talk my way out of it. Paranoia, neuroticism . . . I can only keep it under wraps for so long.
“You owe me an apology.”
“But I didn’t think you’d done anything wrong…One day we’ll laugh about this you know,”
I just didn't know it would be so soon. We pulled up to my house and could see my dad getting out of his car. He met us on the path and Matthew immediately retold the story. Then they had a laugh at how foolish and crazy I had been. In fact, I think they even both said ‘Women!’ in that way that men do, just to sum everything up in two syllables. Ha . . . ha, so I’m crazy. It still hurts just thinking about it. I either need to be committed or NOT SAY ANYTHING EVER.
Room Service
We had only arrived home four hours ago and I was still knackered. It had been such a good party but I was too tired. I’m not a ‘night-bird’, in case you didn’t already know. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet but I could feel him watching me. I opened an eye and there he was, inches from my face. I looked over at the clock and groaned as I saw that he had another hour before he had to leave for work.
I heard the telltale splash from the toilet upstairs, as its contents ricocheted down the pipes above my head. We weren’t the only ones awake then. It wouldn’t be long before dad came down and began loading the dishwasher, cleaning the kitchen in the next room. I stretched and rolled around the bed. Matthew was still watching me, laughing at the noises I was making.
“Bugger off,” I said with my eyes closed. “Let me sleep!”
He kissed me on the forehead and settled beside me.
Dad came down the stairs and the familiar banging began.
“It’s cold,” I mumbled, pulling the duvet across us.
Then there was a faint knock on the door, the creak of the hinge as it swung open. No pause to wait for a ‘bugger off!’ or similar response. I huddled into his side, mentally picturing myself from the doorway, hoping I was concealed. Matthew twitched obviously, his hand moving downwards.
“Cup of tea, coffee?”
“No dad!”
“Bacon sandwich, breakfast, Matthew?”
“No, I’m OK thanks.”
“OK, if you say so.”
The door finally closed. We both exhaled and I whispered,
“Did it look like we were wearing pyjamas at all, do you think?”
“No, probably not.”
"Ah."
I heard the telltale splash from the toilet upstairs, as its contents ricocheted down the pipes above my head. We weren’t the only ones awake then. It wouldn’t be long before dad came down and began loading the dishwasher, cleaning the kitchen in the next room. I stretched and rolled around the bed. Matthew was still watching me, laughing at the noises I was making.
“Bugger off,” I said with my eyes closed. “Let me sleep!”
He kissed me on the forehead and settled beside me.
Dad came down the stairs and the familiar banging began.
“It’s cold,” I mumbled, pulling the duvet across us.
Then there was a faint knock on the door, the creak of the hinge as it swung open. No pause to wait for a ‘bugger off!’ or similar response. I huddled into his side, mentally picturing myself from the doorway, hoping I was concealed. Matthew twitched obviously, his hand moving downwards.
“Cup of tea, coffee?”
“No dad!”
“Bacon sandwich, breakfast, Matthew?”
“No, I’m OK thanks.”
“OK, if you say so.”
The door finally closed. We both exhaled and I whispered,
“Did it look like we were wearing pyjamas at all, do you think?”
“No, probably not.”
"Ah."
Sunday, 16 May 2010
An Introduction
I live in picture perfect English suburbia, on a nice estate with large detached houses. There are asphalt driveways instead of picket fences, but every generation has a trend, right? The nieghbours make small talk and children play in the street without their parents fearing they’ll be run down or kidnapped. Peado’s just don’t seem to exist in Tranmere.
But then you get to my house and it’s a bit, well, unsightly. I often get the feeling that there will be a neighbourhood coup to run us from town for being the blight on their Middle-class protentious bliss. I can see why though: overgrown garden, disused race-car on the lawn, exposed brickwork, and that’s just the outside. As soon as you walk through the front door you see more plaster, a garish '80’s green and brown carpet and rooms that have always, in my twenty years of life, been in the process of being redecorated.
My boyfriend Matthew lives in a large, three storey new build on an estate set back by a forest in the country. When I first went there it was quiet, relaxed and cream enough to make me worry that I might have had the smallest spec of dirt on my shoes and instinctively left my leopard-print pumps by the door. It’s quite unusual for anyone to do that back at the building site. You’d be more likely to trail plaster dust behind you as it clung to your clean white socks than deposit any dirt yourself. So you can see that the two environments are rather different. The people are, too.
I met Matthew’s parents a week after he’d broken up with his ex-girlfriend and was greeted with what I believed was a confused look from his father and rightly so, considering that I was a short mixed race brunette and not a skinny, back-combed blonde with a nose stud. But despite the hasty, perhaps inappropriate beginning to our relationship, they politely welcomed me and I began to see the intricacies of the family over a wonderfully cooked dinner. Flip to Maison Macdonald and you’ll be lucky if there isn’t fifty swear words, two arguments and three complaints that dinner is crap in the first five minutes.
I honestly believe I have the most amazing, semi-dysfunctional family that anyone could wish for and usually my friends feel the same way about them. My brother has a summer house in the garden, home to X-box gaming marathons and other illicit activities, the acceptance of which has pushed my parents up to legendary status among his 24 year old friends. They are relaxed to the point of hosting house parties, always providing the witty banter, chilli, nacho’s and beer bong.
My mum is 4 ft 11 with size 2 feet. She changes between children’s trainers and army pyjamas to go to the supermarket, and prostitute heels made, (for some strange reason),for minors, with co-ordinated shift dresses for work. She is my best friend and confidant and is the same to anyone who comes through the door. Dad is the most knowledgeable person I know, closely followed by the know-it-all brother with a memory of the great lawyer he is destined to be. Both are well adept at the Spanish Inquisition, even if they don’t always employ it.
So when it was time for Matthew to ‘meet the family’ I was nervous to say the least. Especially because my track record isn't exactly glowing and they presume everyone I bring home will be an immature tosser with poor conversational skills and more worryingly, teenage hormones. Did I mention that Matthew is nineteen? But I could never have been prepared for what happened when they got together . . .
But then you get to my house and it’s a bit, well, unsightly. I often get the feeling that there will be a neighbourhood coup to run us from town for being the blight on their Middle-class protentious bliss. I can see why though: overgrown garden, disused race-car on the lawn, exposed brickwork, and that’s just the outside. As soon as you walk through the front door you see more plaster, a garish '80’s green and brown carpet and rooms that have always, in my twenty years of life, been in the process of being redecorated.
I never used to care about where I lived, but then I went to University with a large collective of rich Londoners, dated a public schoolboy and became a tad self conscious. I know that anyone worth befriending shouldn’t judge me by the house I live in, but you try telling yourself that when the ceiling has caved in and you have a conversation with your mortified best friend with the background noise of your dad on the toilet directly above, I shit you not.
My boyfriend Matthew lives in a large, three storey new build on an estate set back by a forest in the country. When I first went there it was quiet, relaxed and cream enough to make me worry that I might have had the smallest spec of dirt on my shoes and instinctively left my leopard-print pumps by the door. It’s quite unusual for anyone to do that back at the building site. You’d be more likely to trail plaster dust behind you as it clung to your clean white socks than deposit any dirt yourself. So you can see that the two environments are rather different. The people are, too.
I met Matthew’s parents a week after he’d broken up with his ex-girlfriend and was greeted with what I believed was a confused look from his father and rightly so, considering that I was a short mixed race brunette and not a skinny, back-combed blonde with a nose stud. But despite the hasty, perhaps inappropriate beginning to our relationship, they politely welcomed me and I began to see the intricacies of the family over a wonderfully cooked dinner. Flip to Maison Macdonald and you’ll be lucky if there isn’t fifty swear words, two arguments and three complaints that dinner is crap in the first five minutes.
I honestly believe I have the most amazing, semi-dysfunctional family that anyone could wish for and usually my friends feel the same way about them. My brother has a summer house in the garden, home to X-box gaming marathons and other illicit activities, the acceptance of which has pushed my parents up to legendary status among his 24 year old friends. They are relaxed to the point of hosting house parties, always providing the witty banter, chilli, nacho’s and beer bong.
My mum is 4 ft 11 with size 2 feet. She changes between children’s trainers and army pyjamas to go to the supermarket, and prostitute heels made, (for some strange reason),for minors, with co-ordinated shift dresses for work. She is my best friend and confidant and is the same to anyone who comes through the door. Dad is the most knowledgeable person I know, closely followed by the know-it-all brother with a memory of the great lawyer he is destined to be. Both are well adept at the Spanish Inquisition, even if they don’t always employ it.
So when it was time for Matthew to ‘meet the family’ I was nervous to say the least. Especially because my track record isn't exactly glowing and they presume everyone I bring home will be an immature tosser with poor conversational skills and more worryingly, teenage hormones. Did I mention that Matthew is nineteen? But I could never have been prepared for what happened when they got together . . .
Friday, 30 April 2010
As Young As You . . . Look
So maybe I wasn’t very well prepared. But on an impromptu visit to ASDA, with £20 stuffed into my jeans I didn’t expect to run into such a problem, and such an embarrassing one at that.
After failing miserably to finish my coursework a week before the deadline I took a break and went to the supermarket. Perhaps if I’d slumped down and watched mind numbing TV I’d have spared myself the shame of the ‘incident,’ but life’s full of those annoying ‘If only’s . . .’ isn’t it?
I was just leaving when I spotted ‘One Tree Hill’ Season 4 for, (sharp intake of breath) just £15! It was such a bargain that I couldn’t forgo the opportunity. I stood re-queuing impatiently, as the checkout girl went through the usual rigmarole speaking very slowly and clearly to the old woman in front of me.
My mind wandered as I saw the age certificate, 15, on the box. I daydreamed, reminisced to when I was 12 and looked old enough to get in to 15 film. For a split second I imagined being asked for ID. Have you ever done that, quite clearly jinxed yourself? Thought something when you shouldn’t? The girl took the DVD. I just knew it was coming. Maybe it was my expression; knowing she was going to wind me up prompted her to do just that.
“Have you got any ID...?” She asked, her voice a child high on helium, drawing out the sentence as though to compound my embarrassment. “Are you kidding me?” I replied, clearly exasperated. “I’m 20!”
“Yeah.” she said patronisingly, looking about 12 herself, “But you do look awfully young!” That was the stinging remark she felt compelled to smirk as I fled from the store, not knowing whether to shake her in anger or break down and cry like the 14 year old she thought I was.
14. She thought I was 14 years old. YEAR 9! I wouldn’t say I could pass for 21, or necessarily 20, but it was an absolute joke. Plus, it was a DVD, not a knife, not alcohol, not cigarettes sold to over 18’s. What was I going to do, beat someone into submission with the cardboard box?
Ok, so DVD’s have an age certificate for a reason, but if you know One Tree Hill season 4 you will know why it’s a 15. A girl (stupidly) puts personal information in a blog and leaves her webcam on all day for anyone to view, attracting a very creepy stalker who attacks her. This is just the kind of scary stuff that 14 year olds need to be warned about people! And what better way to warn them than through the wonderful, powerful and compelling medium of TV and American soaps. Rant over. But I’d love not to look 14.
After failing miserably to finish my coursework a week before the deadline I took a break and went to the supermarket. Perhaps if I’d slumped down and watched mind numbing TV I’d have spared myself the shame of the ‘incident,’ but life’s full of those annoying ‘If only’s . . .’ isn’t it?
I was just leaving when I spotted ‘One Tree Hill’ Season 4 for, (sharp intake of breath) just £15! It was such a bargain that I couldn’t forgo the opportunity. I stood re-queuing impatiently, as the checkout girl went through the usual rigmarole speaking very slowly and clearly to the old woman in front of me.
My mind wandered as I saw the age certificate, 15, on the box. I daydreamed, reminisced to when I was 12 and looked old enough to get in to 15 film. For a split second I imagined being asked for ID. Have you ever done that, quite clearly jinxed yourself? Thought something when you shouldn’t? The girl took the DVD. I just knew it was coming. Maybe it was my expression; knowing she was going to wind me up prompted her to do just that.
“Have you got any ID...?” She asked, her voice a child high on helium, drawing out the sentence as though to compound my embarrassment. “Are you kidding me?” I replied, clearly exasperated. “I’m 20!”
“Yeah.” she said patronisingly, looking about 12 herself, “But you do look awfully young!” That was the stinging remark she felt compelled to smirk as I fled from the store, not knowing whether to shake her in anger or break down and cry like the 14 year old she thought I was.
14. She thought I was 14 years old. YEAR 9! I wouldn’t say I could pass for 21, or necessarily 20, but it was an absolute joke. Plus, it was a DVD, not a knife, not alcohol, not cigarettes sold to over 18’s. What was I going to do, beat someone into submission with the cardboard box?
Ok, so DVD’s have an age certificate for a reason, but if you know One Tree Hill season 4 you will know why it’s a 15. A girl (stupidly) puts personal information in a blog and leaves her webcam on all day for anyone to view, attracting a very creepy stalker who attacks her. This is just the kind of scary stuff that 14 year olds need to be warned about people! And what better way to warn them than through the wonderful, powerful and compelling medium of TV and American soaps. Rant over. But I’d love not to look 14.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Five Years in One Minute
"Matthew is going to come and stay next Tuesday."
"Oh yeah, the new one then?" my brother, Joe, looks up from his dinner.
"Yes, the new one."
“You've had quite a few boyfriends, haven't you Jess? Let's see . . . The first one was that Chav boy-racer then yeah? And then there was the cocky know-it-all, and then, God, who came next?”
“Jamie,” the mother pipes up,"they were actually together for a while,"
“Oh yeah? I forgot about him. What was his story then?”
“He didn’t really have one,” I mutter, pushing my broccoli around my plate, knowing the truth in what I was saying, “He was just a pretty face really.”
“OK, then you had a year or so off, and then there was, what...Pete?”
“No Joe!” Mum laughs. “You’re forgetting Tom, Yanis and that other one, you know, the Australians!”
“Piss off mum, they weren’t boyfriends!”
Dad re-enters the dinning room, holding his jar of olives.
“Well, you slept with them...!”
"Who are you sleeping with?" He's incredulous, flops down into the chair.
"You can't be having sex, you're only thirteen!"
"Mum, I didn't dad! She's, oh just f-,"
It's no good. She's laughing, dad's having heart palpitations and Joe is asking what happened to the ex, because, he actually, was 'nice'.
Yeah. Sure.
I stand up and walk out.
Great.
So now I’m a whore, as well as someone with bad taste in men.
"Oh yeah, the new one then?" my brother, Joe, looks up from his dinner.
"Yes, the new one."
“You've had quite a few boyfriends, haven't you Jess? Let's see . . . The first one was that Chav boy-racer then yeah? And then there was the cocky know-it-all, and then, God, who came next?”
“Jamie,” the mother pipes up,"they were actually together for a while,"
“Oh yeah? I forgot about him. What was his story then?”
“He didn’t really have one,” I mutter, pushing my broccoli around my plate, knowing the truth in what I was saying, “He was just a pretty face really.”
“OK, then you had a year or so off, and then there was, what...Pete?”
“No Joe!” Mum laughs. “You’re forgetting Tom, Yanis and that other one, you know, the Australians!”
“Piss off mum, they weren’t boyfriends!”
Dad re-enters the dinning room, holding his jar of olives.
“Well, you slept with them...!”
"Who are you sleeping with?" He's incredulous, flops down into the chair.
"You can't be having sex, you're only thirteen!"
"Mum, I didn't dad! She's, oh just f-,"
It's no good. She's laughing, dad's having heart palpitations and Joe is asking what happened to the ex, because, he actually, was 'nice'.
Yeah. Sure.
I stand up and walk out.
Great.
So now I’m a whore, as well as someone with bad taste in men.
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