My planned date with DC Dreamy is receiving mixed reviews.
The Teenager, who has never been particularly adept at disguising the inner workings of his ‘thinky’ processes, stood staring into space while the implications of such an alliance flitted from one side of his face to the other. His eyes were twitching, the blood drained entirely from his cheeks and beads of perspiration began sprouting like mushrooms onto his troubled brow.
Sentences were clearly trying to make themselves heard but his dry and trembling mouth appeared unable to form the correct words in the correct order.
I patted him on the shoulder and guided him from the hallway to the sofa, where I left him, burbling like a toddler.
Annabelle on the other hand has let the power go straight to her head and has taken to following me up hill and down dale, reeling off the names of everybody she has ever known, and asking if DC Dashing would be able to either ‘squish’ them or ‘in-prism’ them for her.
She has also taken it upon herself to plan what I’m going to be wearing for the big date. I’m less than convinced however, that turning up in a Little Bo-Peep costume really strikes the right note.
On the other hand, when she was ramming home her point by yanking my wrinkled clothing collection from the ironing pile, (I’m not so much with the whole ‘ironing-clothes-and-then-hanging-them-up-thing’) I realised that the kid was painting quite a picture.
What the hell am I going to wear?
I’ve been so busy spending my money on heat, water and oven-chips that I have completely omitted to keep up with the current fashion trends. I haven’t had my hair high-lighted since 2009, my shoes are all vintage naughty-nineties (haaaaa, good times) and my nails look like I’ve spent the last six months trying to scrabble and dig my way out of a basement.
I need a make-over.
I need some advice.
Oh Gok, I need a lie-down.