Babysitting is a breeze, right?

Actually since I wrote that last bit I’ve discovered that it’s not a proper tattoo, just a very good imitation in dark blue felt tip. It was an April fool – Fred doesn’t confine his April Fools to the first of April, they go on all the year round.

He really dropped me in it last week, though. I’ve got this new babysitting job in a v. posh street called Charleston Avenue. The street is lined with huge shady trees and every house is a kind of mansion down a drive.

The people who asked me to babysit are friends of Flora’s mum. Flora’s already got a babysitting job so she couldn’t take this one on. Her parents only allow her one babysitting job! My Dad would cheerfully send me out to slave away over a hot baby seven nights a week, and rake in the muns!!!

Anyway, the mum and dad are called Brain and Sheila, but that’s not their fault. They’re quite nice actually, and they always leave me a nice little snack which includes top-notch crisps and some lovely freshly-squeezed orange juice. And they don’t mind if Fred comes round and shares the chores.

The baby is a dear little girl called Hannah, and she’s always asleep by the time I arrive, and she never wakes up (or she hasn’t so far) so the babysitting side of it’s a breeze.

It’s the noises. Of course, when Fred’s there with me I don’t even notice the noises, but last week he chickened out because he had some rubbish event – a chess match or something – so I found myself alone at 66 Charleston Avenue. 66! Almost the devil’s number!

Once I’d eaten the crisps (as loudly as possible) I turned the TV up so it was roaring , and settled down to a bit of ‘homework’. (Checking out the latest spring togs in an orgy of online window-shopping).

Eventually all the freshly squeezed orange juice did its evil work and I had to go to the loo, and of course it was quieter in there, so quiet, in fact, that I could hear the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing out on the landing!

I flew from the loo and locked the door. Well, you don’t bother when you’re Home Alone, do you? Then what? I looked out of the window and realized it was far too far to jump.

Babes, I did the only sensible thing. I stayed locked in that blasted bathroom for two hours – and there were no magazines, plus I’d left my moby downstairs, so all I could do to pass the time was squeeze my spots until Brian and Sheila came home. Then I had to pretend I’d only just gone upstairs to the bathroom.

‘By the way,’ I said breezily, ‘what’s that sound a bit like heavy breathing?’

‘Oh, it’s the central heating,’ said Sheila with a cheery laugh. ‘Sounds quite scary sometimes, doesn’t it? I hope you weren’t too terrified!’

‘Oh gosh, no!’ I quipped. ‘It’d take a lot more than a noisy central heating system to scare the living daylights out of me!’

I am wearing black lace gloves all the time, now, to help me grow my fingernails back. And as soon as they’ve grown I’m going to use them to carve my name with pride on Fred’s forearm, as a punishment for leaving me on my own in the House of Horror.

You can keep babysitting. I’m sticking to washing cars from now on.

Stephen King, Legend of Horror

Well guys, I’m still biting my nails, and in fact I’m biting them a lot more as I have loads of new angsty events to report. There was indeed no Valentine, but that seems like ancient history now, as Fred has committed a much worse crime. He’s had a tattoo. And you’ll never guess what it says.

‘Jess’ perhaps? No. ‘Miss Jordan is the tops’? No. Not even ‘J.J.’ – and I’ve got such stylish initials. You would have thought anyone would want ‘J.J.’ on his arm even if he was a mere acquaintance.

Fred’s initials, of course, are ‘F.P’ – totally lacking in style. Parsons isn’t much of a surname anyway. Not like mine. Jordan,. The mighty river. That would make a great tattoo as well. ‘Cos it would be honouring a mighty river but also a secret tribute to yours truly.

(Actually Fred has started calling me ‘Jordan’ now, but I can’t work out whether it’s a good sign or not.)

But back to the tattoo. Here’s what is says: ‘Stephen King, Legend of Horror’. And there’s a dagger dripping blood. How naff can you get?

No Valentine from Fred.

No Valentine from Fred. No Valentine! NO VALENTINE!!!!!

No Valentine!!!!!!! I have now run out of fonts to express my rage.

I went down to breakfast as usual, and Mum gave me a furtive glance and then stared with determined fascination at the toaster. Granny was gazing at me with horrible compassion. There was a small pile of the usual junk mail by Mum’s place but by my place NOTHING!

My heart shattered into a thousand pieces but of course I pretended I was totally unaware.

This time he’s really blown it.

Nobody mentioned anything: instead Mum and Granny discussed the weather for what seemed like a hundred years, concluding that it was ‘better’.

After a small bowl of cornflakes which tasted about as appetizing as nuclear waste, I dashed upstairs into the bathroom and texted Flora.

NO VALENTINE! I ranted.

I HAD 3, she replied heartlessly, BUT NOT SURE WHO FROM?????

That’s it in a nutshell. Me and Flora. If we were football teams, she’d be Man Utd and I’d be Gruntlesham Rovers.
But Fred has gone too far. He’s toast. (Watch this space…..)

New Year’s Resolutions

So here’s the story. Flora and I made lists. Flora’s went like this:

 

1)   Become rich and famous.

2)   Fascinate Prince Harry.

3)   Fascinate George Smith (NB local heartthrob, five-star looks, rumoured to have old rock star dad with Porsche, boat and private jet – but possibly just long straggly old grey hair & beard.)

4)   Acquire adorable terrier.

5)   Learn Italian (preferably in a week, due to sudden unexpected linguistic brilliance.)

 

My list went like this:

 

1)   Stop biting my nails.

 

Right, I thought. Silly old Flora. What an idiot. Obviously fascinating Prince Harry would be all in a day’s work, but learn Italian? Acquire a terrier? What planet is she on?

And here’s what happened during the next week:

Day 1: Blazing row with Mum about tidying my room. She tidied it while I was out, invading my private space and moving my ultra-secret diary from under my pillow to the drawer of my bedside table. Total invasion! Bit nails.

Day 2: Irritated snapping session with Fred because of something he said about Harriet Fowler. Never mind what.  Just hurtful to average flat-chested people such as me. Bit nails.

Day 3: Awful unexpected Maths test. Bit nails right up to the elbows.

Day 4: Granny ill. Terribly worried. Bit nails. Shall have to start biting toenails soon as very little left on fingers.

Day 5: Granny better, but Fred came over with v v suspenseful movie. Bit nails.

Day 6: Went to Dad’s. He abandoned his usual cheery attitude and started giving me a hard time about schoolwork, etc. Bit nails.

Day 7: Reading Stephen King book and fear my fave character is about to be murdered. Bit nails.

 

‘So,’ I said to Flora with a deep sigh, ‘I’ve, like, totally failed to keep my New Year’s Resolution. It was stupid of us even to try, wasn’t it? Total waste of time.’

‘Oh, well, actually, I’m doing quite well,’ said Flo excitedly.

Whaaaat? Not Prince Harry, surely?

‘My Mum,’ admitted Flora coyly, ‘says if I get the best school report ever, we can at least talk about getting a little dog. It fits in with her New Year’s Res, ‘cos she’s joined Weightwatchers, and she needs an exercise programme!’

 

Grrrrrrr!

‘Hickeys’ or ‘love bites’? Neither, thanks

Sorry for the silence – there was Hallowe’en, Bonfire Night, Flu, Projectile Vomiting and an enormous row with Fred. Things have quietened down a bit now, though, and I am doing brilliantly with the jogging. I’ve jogged twice in the past month – one was all the way from the kettle to the sofa.

I must tell you about the row with Fred, though.  We’ve had heaps of rows, of course, the worst being that Five Star Fiasco when we were trying to organize a Valentine’s event and Fred was so very, very… unspeakably bad. You wouldn’t believe what he did.

But this time it’s more personal. Fred tried to shave last week, and nicked his neck. (That sort of rhymes, but it doesn’t give pleasure like real poetry would). When a scab formed, he kept picking it, and now it looks like a huge wound from the American Civil War or something.

‘I’ve decided to tell everybody it’s a love bite,’ he said with a grin. I was horrified – in fact, I screamed aloud, for which we were sent out of the library. (There’s a new librarian, Miss Morton, who is small, fluffy and frightening).

I somehow hate love bites, although if I was slightly chewed by a cute puppy, that would be all right. But I shall never experience a canine love-in. This is so unfair, because Mum won’t have animals in the house. Except Granny.

Because Fred was pretending his shaving injury was a love bite, everybody started teasing me and calling me Dracula, and so I refused to speak to anyone at all for two days. Except Flora. And she couldn’t reply because she has laryngitis.

The Americans call love bites ‘hickeys’, which makes them sound less revolting. They’re good at re-naming things to sound better: ‘the john’ for example, instead of loo or toilet. I’m not so sure about ‘faucet’ for tap, though.

I was a bit bored with my maths homework (or ‘math’ as they call it across The Pond) so I looked up the word ‘hickey’ online and discovered it was a funeral home in Canada.

Off to start my Christmas shopping now. Fred’s getting a big woolly scarf to match his big woolly brain. Can’t think what to get Granny though. Any suggestions?

 

Jane Austen and Jogging

Any minute now Flora and I are going to go jogging. She’s doing up her cool new trainers as we speak. I just wanted to mention our heroic plan in my blog just in case something catastrophic happens. (Legs turn to jelly and are eaten by passing pack of toddlers?).

We want to see if we can still move our legs after an epic sofa session with Jane Austen’s Emma. We’ve been watching it in eight minute chunks on YouTube. It’s the one starring Romola Garai, who looks a bit like Flora, and Jonny Lee Miller as Emma’s beau Mr Knightley. Just think, he used to be married to Angelina Jolie… Jonny, not Knightley.

But enough of Hollywood gossip! (Although… maybe not?!) (Maybe one can never have enough of it????) (I seem to be suffering from an epidemic of brackets?!?) (And exclamation marks and question marks?!?!?)

Halfway through Episode 3 part 4, when Emma was having one of her agonizing misunderstandings with Mr Knightley, although she still hadn’t realized she was in lurve with him, Fred texted me asking if he could come round with his DVD of Blood, Guts ‘n’Gore from Outer Space – or whatever.  I told him sternly that Flora and I were not into action movies – in fact the only action we were into was whether or not Mr Knightley would raise his eyebrow, and what he would mean by it.

‘I HEAR THAT AMONG HIS FRIENDS HE’S KNOWN AS TWICE KNIGHTLEY’ Fred texted back – the idiot! He has to spoil everything with his stupid macho sneering!

Anyway, eventually we got through to Emma’s wedding, though Mr Knightley’s first name was still something of a mystery to us, and perhaps even to Emma.

‘Imagine,’ mused Flora, ‘if she still didn’t know his first name, until the wedding ceremony, when the vicar says “Do you, Percy, take this Emma…” – She’d run out screaming, right? I could never marry a man called Percy.’

I quite like Percy, but I could never marry a man called Clive. I do like the idea of calling guys Mr Knightley, Parsons etc tho’ – it’s kind of sexy.

Watching Emma had taken us hours, and I’d been sitting on my feet, so they started to sizzle, throb and smoke like a couple of sausages on a barbecue. About ten mins ago, we felt ashamed that we’d burned up zero calories, in fact, owing to a pizza break halfway through Episode 4 Part 2, we had, in fact, ingested five thousand. So Flora suggested we should go jogging.  I’m not sure my undies are up to the challenge. Will report back soon. x

PS Fred – or should I say, Mr Parsons – if this jogging session ends badly, I want you to know that it’s all your fault for calling me Miss Piggy the other day when I was eating that doughnut.

DISGUSTING OLD PERSONALITY TYPES & a really weird rescue

You’ll never guess. You’ll never, never guess what happened about the disastrous zit which erupted only days before the barbecue. There I was surfing the web for spot cures… I decided to find out what they used in medieval times, as I’m getting into herbal remedies. Halfway through instructions about how to make a kind of paste out of crushed nettles and toadskin, (soooo tempting! Never mind an acne cure – possibly a tasty supper dish!) I came across a piece about the medieval idea of personality types.

Apparently they thought there were four different kinds of human character. Which kind are you? First of all there was the Melancholic, kind of gloomy. Me, obvs, skulking around in my black ‘skinny’ jeans (skinny till I pull them on, and then mysteriously bulgy – will have to return them and ask for money back!). Melancholy types have too much black bile in their bods, apparently, which, although in some ways rather Too Much Information, might explain why blackheads have erupted all over my back. Sorry, forget I said that. Delete, delete!

The second personality type is Sanguine – cheerful and positive, so nobody in my social circle, obviously, except possibly Granny, who is obsessed by death, but in a cheerful and positive way. Incidentally, Granny’s answer to my spot crisis was to say, ‘Just flash that lovely smile of yours, dear, and nobody will notice your spot at all!’ Bless her, the silly old fool!

Third comes Phlegmatic. Kind of switched-off and non-committal. Ben Jones possibly. Although I would never associate him with Phlegm, which is my least favourite word, I think, after ***, *********, and ****-*********. Phlegm, to put it tactfully, is basically what your nose fills up with when you have a cold. Enough to make anyone switched-off and non-committal.

Last is the ANGRY personality, called Choleric. Jodie, for example. Though it did say Choleric people are often red-haired and thin. Speaking of red-haired and thin, I do sometimes wonder who’s going to marry Prince Harry. He doesn’t seem angry at all – I bet he’s a Sanguine. Not that I fancy him! Well, not more than 5%.

Anyway, right now Fred deserves my complete devotion – for almost the first time ever.

‘Cos guess what happened? I was halfway through a medieval love-spell to make yourself irresistible to your sweetheart using spiders’ webs, rain and mouse-droppings, when Fred arrived.

‘It’s sorted!’ he shouted, quite enthusiastically for somebody who veers between Melancholic and Phlegmatic. ‘Make it a Pirate Barbecue!’

‘W-what?’ I stammered, totally lost.

‘A Pirate Barbecue!’ he yelled, scrabbling in his bag. ‘We all wear beards! And eye patches and whatever! I called in on the Joke Shop and here’s your beard!’

I grabbed it and put it on. It was dark like my hair and had a wonderful moustache. And, Fred Be Praised! It totally covered the World’s Worst Zit.

‘Fred, you’re a genius!’ I cried. ‘I won’t just save it up for the barbecue – I’ll wear it non-stop from now on! Come here and gimme a snog!’

‘No way!’ protested Fred, moving rapidly away. ‘Snog a bearded person? No chance. However, I do accept cash… these beards don’t grow on trees, you know.’

So I paid him what was left of my pocket money, and ever since I have been hiding behind my beard and feeling much more – well, Sanguine.  The barbecue was a great success. I wore a red bandanna, a lorryload of eyeliner and some dangly earrings, and everyone said I was a dead ringer for Captain Jack Sparrow.

ENGLISH SCHOOLGIRL’S ZIT BLOTS OUT THE SUN

I can see the headlines already. I have the mother of all zits on my chin. It’s not even central. It’s slightly off to the right. If you have to have a massive spot, it should at least be central, like the lamp on a miner’s helmet.

It’s still slightly submerged, huge and pulsating. I know that by Saturday it will have risen into a mountainous peak and be actually flashing.

And on Saturday I’ve persuaded mum to let me have a barbecue. My spot will ruin everything.  Flora’s coming and she only has one spot a year, and it’s usually out of sight on her back. Jodie’s coming and in the past few months, she’s lost weight by jogging and her skin is now clear.  Fred, Mackenzie and Ben Jones are coming, but somehow it doesn’t matter if boys have spots – with them, it’s a sign of character.

Shall I cancel?

The alternative is welcoming my guests with a gracious smile while my chin flashes away like a lighthouse. At least we won’t need tealights.

Could I hold a barbecue and keep my back turned to my guests all evening without anyone noticing?

I am ransacking the internet for herbal acne cures, or failing that, a concealer stick the size of Nelson’s column.

It started so well and ended so badly

Inspired by Wimbledon, Fred and I have been playing tennis every evening in the park. Well, when I say ‘playing tennis’, Fred looks like a frantic flamingo trying to swat flies. He goes very red in the face and his arms and legs kind of lose their sense of belonging to him and seem to head off in different directions, desperate to escape.

One of the problems is he tries to talk and play at the same time. I can’t do this, but I can scream just like those Eastern European women players with long blonde plaits and names like Krakatova and Fizzikenko.

‘Fizzikenko’s not a woman’s name,’ Fred shouted, puffing up and down the baseline. ‘If it ends in an ‘O’, it’s masculine.’

‘What about Nancy dell’Olio?’ I argued, crashing the ball with majestic ease straight into the net.

At this point it started to rain – well, it had been dry for ten mins so it was about time – and we ran under the nearest tree to shelter. Trees are OK for the first 15 mins of a shower, but after about 20 mins they start to pelt you with water bombs.

‘I’m thinking of changing my name to Fred-Wilfred Parsongo,’ said Fred thoughtfully. ‘Flora could be Flora Barclayova and you could be Jess Jordanova.’

I didn’t think Jordanova sounded silly enough, and when I Googled it later I found that there were loads of real people called Jordanova, in fact one is a v. brilliant Lady Prof in London.  Respect! So I think I shall change my name to Jess O’Jordan. I’ve always loved the Irish.

‘MacKenzie could be MacKenzievic,’ Fred went on thoughtfully. ‘But I think Ben Jones should go more Italian, kind of Benvenuto del Jonesio.’

I noticed that Fred didn’t invent a tennis name for Jodie, but was it a good thing or a suspicious silence? Since they had their little fling a while back, I’m always on edge if he mentions her name. I always try hard to tell if he’s mentioning it with affection, if you know what I mean.  If only I could keep well clear of the subject of Jodie. I should never, ever bring up the subject of She Who Should be Nameless.

‘What about Jodie?’ I demanded jealously.  I knew I was heading for trouble but I couldn’t help myself. Fred kind of flinched.

‘Jodie?’ he repeated hesitantly as if he couldn’t quite remember who she was. ‘Oh, er… ah, I think she wouldn’t be a player, she’d be an umpire.’

Presumably he meant this to be reassuring, but it had the opposite effect.

‘Why?’ I asked, in the manner of someone delivering a slap.

‘Because… because she’s so bossy,’ Fred stuttered, looking around wildly as if he hoped a bus would come crashing across the grass and rescue him. One moment you’re enjoying a cosy sheltering-from-the-rain cuddling opportunity with your beloved, the next you’re being interrogated by the Gestapo.

‘What do you mean, bossy?’ I screeched, twice as loud as any Stonkokokova missing a serve. ‘You still fancy her, don’t you? You’d like to be umpired by her so you could look up to her and shake hands with her at the end!’

I don’t know where this stream of idiotic rage came from. Long-buried jealousy can fester and sizzle and then boil over, it seems, like when Mum fills the thermos flask with Bicarb of Soda (a summer tradition when preparing for picnics).

‘You’ve gone mad!’ cried Fred, and ran off through the rain towards the distant café.

The trouble is, he really doesn’t enjoy quarrelling, but I love a good shouty row, and on this occasion I had no choice but to turn my fury against the tree.

‘You’ve never liked me!’ I yelled. ‘You’re so passive! You just stand there! I have to organize everything! If there’s other people around, who’s the one who has to do the talking? Me! You’re just a waste of space!’

And then I kicked its trunk. But I went back again next day and apologized.

*                 *                  *

Things have been a bit dodgy with Fred ever since. I’ve never quite understood exactly how he and Jodie got together, and somehow I’ve just got to find out – whilst remaining serene and charming of course. But will I be able to do it? Watch this space.

Monkeying around, regrettably.

Mackenzie is such an idiot. Guess what he’s done. Now I shan’t be able to show my face in public for at least ten years.

OK, I admit it was a bit stupid of Fred and me to spend an afternoon imitating the Great Apes in our special corner of the park – and taking photographs of ourselves. Fred’s Baboon was a triumph – he made himself a bright red bottom out of the carrier bag containing his PE kit.

But it was my Howler Monkey which caused all the trouble. I was swinging from the lower branches of a tree with my mouth wide open and my legs trailing in a kind of bandy monkeyish posture. Fred took a really hilarious photo of me and said if ever I became Prime Minister he’d blackmail me with it.

(Obviously, I shall never become Prime Minister because I hate politics. I wouldn’t mind being Archbishop of Canterbury though as he has great frocks.)

Anyway… Fred and I laughed so much at the ape photos we started to feel sick, and eventually, of course, we had to go home and do our History revision, etc.

Next day I was walking to school when the loathsome Whizzer (with whom I have History of the most Disgusting Sort) rode past me on his bike and yelled, ‘Hey! The Howler Monkey’s escaped! Whoooooo! Nice one, Jordan! On a good day you look almost human!’

My heart gave a kind of horrible lurch, and the minute I got to school I cornered Fred by the recycling bins.

‘How come Whizzer knows I was a Howler Monkey?’ I demanded. Fred looked genuinely shocked and puzzled – well, when I say genuinely, I mean genuine by his standards. ‘Did you show him that pic?’ I demanded furiously, ‘because if you did, I’m gonna recycle you right now!’

‘I swear on the sacred name of Stephen King,’ said Fred, going as bright red as a baboon’s bottom, ‘I only showed it to Mackenzie!’

Mackenzie.

What an idiot Fred is. Of course, it turned out he hadn’t showed it to Mackenzie – he’d sent  it to Mackenzie, and of course Mackenzie had forwarded it to everybody on his contact list, which is basically half the population of England.

All day I had to put up with hooting and howling noises wherever I went. I’ve given up any hope of ever being considered cool. Well, you try and look cool with your mouth wide open, howling. Mackenzie has ruined my life, at least for the next six weeks.

It’s not the worst thing he’s done, ever, though – the thought of that still makes me shudder. It makes my Mum and Dad shudder, too…

Read a laugh out loud taster here from Party Disaster! the brand new and brilliantly funny novel featuring Jess Jordan which is available to buy now!