Over the Moon. Jean Ure

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      Yeah, and guess what? This is my diary entry for the next day:

       Tanya’s stupid party wasn’t worth going to. NO boys to speak of, except for just a few geeks, and loads of dim and boring cousins, and people from her old school, I might just as well not have bothered. It was a total waste of a good outfit, cos now everyone’s seen me in it, in my beeeeeautiful emerald green skirt and top, I obviously can’t wear them again! Not in front of Tanya.

       I wonder if I could take them back and change them? I mean, I’ve only worn them once. They wouldn’t know. I could always say they were the wrong size, then I could get one of those tiny little denim jobs that I’d have got last time if Mum hadn’t been with me and said they looked tarty. Like she knows anything! What does she know? If she doesn’t want me to look tarty she should give me my own clothes allowance and let me get designer gear. But oh, no! that’s a RIDICULOUS PRICE, for a girl of your age.

       I’ve just had a look and discovered I can’t take the stuff back cos some idiot’s gone and dropped a disgusting great splodge of food down the front. I don’t know who it was, but it certainly wasn’t me! UGH. That is just so gross! And I don’t think even Dad will let me go and buy something else.

       Damn, damn, damn! Life is one constant battle.

      I shall say it again: pathetic. OK, I’m not trying to pretend that I don’t still think it’s important to make the most of yourself. I’m not even trying to pretend that I don’t still look forward to parties, and to meeting boys. Course I do! It’s only natural. But lots of things have happened to me since I made that entry in my diary. I have been over the moon and down in the dumps and back over the moon and back down in the dumps, up and down, up and down, like a yo-yo, more times than I can remember. I expect that is only natural, too. But I wouldn’t ever claim now that my life had been ruined simply on account of clothes.

      I guess what it is: I have just got older. Older and wiser, as the saying goes. Or, as my best friend Hattie once informed me, in her stern schoolmistressy way, “You have to grow up some time.” That is it: I have grown up!

       Started back at school. Year 8! We’ve got Mrs Wymark. She’s really strict, but I think she’ll be OK. Me and Hattie are still together, thank goodness. Mum says thank goodness, too. She says I need Hattie to “quell my worst impulses”. She says if it weren’t for Hattie I would be like a walking Barbie doll.

       What cheek! Like all I think about are clothes, and hair, and make-up. I think about loads of other things! I said this to Mum, and she said, “Like what, for instance?” and I said

       “Well, boys, for a start. Didn’t you used to think about boys?” Dad fell about laughing. He said, “She’s got you there!” Mum just said, “Hm”.

       She pretended to be amused, but I could tell she was wishing that Dad wouldn’t get all jokey when she wanted to be serious. I don’t know what the matter is with Mum just lately, she’s no fun at all. She is becoming really crotchety. Me and Dad, we laugh and fool around the whole time. Everything with Mum is like some big deal. She doesn’t seem to have any sense of humour any more. Dad only has to make some totally harmless little joke, like he did the other day, about how women ought to stay home and look after their men instead of having ideas “above their station”, and she flies at him like a wildcat. It was only a JOKE, for heaven’s sake! I just don’t know what’s got into her.

      That was what I wrote way back last September. Only ten months ago, but it seems like for ever. Reading through my diary is like delving into ancient history. Not that I keep a real proper diary; I don’t fill in all the pages. Just now and then, when I feel inspired, I’ll pick up a pen and jot things down. I personally consider that I do quite enough writing as it is, what with school all day and homework half the night. I wouldn’t have the patience to do more than just scribble the odd few sentences.

      Unlike Hattie, who has an actual blog. She spends hours on the computer, setting down her thoughts. She writes these whole long screeds, all about the current political situation and the state of the world. I guess I am more interested in the state of my emotions. I certainly wouldn’t want to go putting them on the computer for everyone to read. No way! I would shrivel up and die.

      Not even Hattie is allowed to see what I write in my diary. When we were younger we never used to have secrets from each other; we took a vow that we would tell each other everything. But the older you get, the more private you get, or at least that is how it seems to me. I surely can’t be the only one to keep my innermost thoughts and feelings locked away inside myself? Mostly it’s because I’d be embarrassed if I were to tell anyone, but also, maybe, sometimes, it’s because I’d be a bit ashamed. I mean, some of the things I think … I know they are not worthy. Like this that I wrote about Tanya Hoskins:

       That girl is so PASTRY-faced. How can anyone say she’s pretty??? She looks like she’s made out of dough!

      Raging jealousy, that’s all it was. I’ve always been jealous СКАЧАТЬ