Saturday, 31 October 2009

Halloween Story

I have a secret. I’ve got something that I shouldn’t have.

Her hair feels soft, like I always imagined girl’s hair would feel. Her skin is smooth and her eyes so blue. She doesn’t look the way I thought a dead girl would. I thought death would steal something from her, but it didn’t. On the contrary, it gave something to me. Her death was her gift. Ha. I like that. She is poetry. I’m going to write that down.

It was a lot of effort to remove her head from her body. A lot harder than I thought it would be. Who would have thought that such a beautiful head would have so much gristle and sinew and stuff? Note to self, I need to invest in some better knives.

Her mouth pouts a little, like I’ve done something to upset her. Like I’m late for dinner or don’t compliment her new skirt. I pinch her lips together with my thumb and forefinger. I don’t want her to look upset. I want her to look beautiful. She doesn’t look dead. I think that will come later. At the moment she looks like she did when I met her. When we had the conversation. The one that started all of this.

I smooth her hair and make it cover her ears, so it looks the way it did when she shook her head and said, ever so quietly,
“I’m sorry but we don’t stock that here. There’s a shop up the road called Steel Wheels. It sells a lot more alternative stuff. You should try there.”
They didn’t have what I wanted, but that’s not the point. She tried. She understood. She spoke to me like I was a normal person who deserved to be spoken to. She was lovely.

She is lovely.

She is love.

I want to keep her and it makes me sad that I can’t. I wonder how long it will be before she starts to smell, before her skin wilts and she starts to smell and can’t be mine anymore. I think I’d be happy only to have her body for a few hours, but I would like to keep her face forever. She is so pretty.

Is this what its like to have a girlfriend?

I think it might be.

Monday, 26 October 2009

good intentions

when I started this blog I decided that absolutely every single post was going to be accompanied by creative writing of some description, whether it be a little story or a poem or...something. because I have no interest in just writing about me. no siree bob. but then, today, I've decided that I might have changed my mind (its taken me, what, all of two weeks?) so I'm just going to have a little write about general nothingness. because although I want to post a story, I don't have one to post. and everything I've been trying to start just seems...mediocre. and everything that doesn't seem mediocre I've already earmarked for somewhere else so can't post it until its been rejected 3 times and therefore becomes blog-fodder.

I'm trying to write a story called How To Go Missing, which is going to be just for the blog and not for anyone else. and I've done one draft which is fun but too silly. and I've tried to make it darker (which is what it needs) and I can't get the tone right. so I'm going to let it live in my head for a bit, and hopefully, it will end up on here.

I've also started about five stories for women's magazines. at the moment, these are in various forms, from notes to (very unfinished) second drafts. I need to get round to actually finishing them, but at the moment, I just seem to be starting new ones. starting things is definitely one of my special skills, along with drinking tea, having bedroom discos and making kick-ass omelettes. so I think I am going to make a list and set myself a deadline for each of the stories, and not let myself start any new ones until they're done and out. hmmmm.

I have a halloween story planned for here (I think its pretty much done, but I haven't looked at it for a while) and then after that its NaNoWriMo. I am super-excited about this, and have been trying not to think about my story too much. although that hasn't worked too well, and it now has a soundtrack, and a blurb, which makes it very, very exciting. one of my smaller characters is trying to take over so I'm interested to see what happens. she's managed to blag the working title to be named after her - I don't know how that happened. writing that much in one go is going to be a very new experience, I always start with the best of intentions but then end up talking myself out of it, one minute I'm the greatest writer in the whole wide world and the next, everything is rubbish...the very wonderful boyfriend has very kindly said he'll buy me a web-book for my birthday (did I mention I'm going to be 30 soon?) and I've foolishly said that he's only allowed to do that if I win NaNo and write 50,000 words in Nov. I'm hoping that the carrot of a beautiful pink and shiny web-book (with flowers on it!!!) might be what this little donkey needs. fingers crossed.

this appears to have descended into nothingness and I think its because I'm tired and grumpy. america's next top model was cancelled tonight to make way for a most haunted halloween special which didn't help. why would you do that, living, why? I think though, that I just wanted to come on and tell you all that I was going to be writing some new things...because once I've told you about them I have to do them, right? right. or else I will just look silly.

so, coming soon. How To Go Missing. a halloween special. and then probably some updates on how NaNo is going and me weeping real tears over my laptop.

before then, I'm busy being a bridesmaid and testing out my theory that bridesmaids only cry at weddings because they're not the ones getting married. as well as that, I'm going to have to walk in heels, have my contacts in and be ladylike for a whole day. wish me luck. especially with the heels (although a broken ankle or two would probably significantly increase my chances of winning NaNo and coming away with a shiny new techno-toy that I can't use properly, but love all the more for it. hmmmm!)

Saturday, 24 October 2009

waiting and procrastinating

I've just been down to check the post (before you say it, I know, I know, there is a postal strike on). I wouldn't usually bother. I don't tend to get any interesting post unless I've ordered something from ebay. Its all the bills I can't manage on-line, payslips and general boring nonsense that reminds me I'm a grown-up, but at the moment, I am waiting for a letter. I would be quite excited if I wasn't so irritated by the whole process. See, I've applied for this thing at work...lets call it a talent management programme. Basically, if you can prove you've got potential, they will spend two years trying to exploit this and send you on secondments and to India and...well, its just something else to do that's a bit different from my day job and will help me pass the time until I retire or become a best-selling author and can jack the whole thing in. I really, really, really want to get on it but its been dragging on for such a long time its farcical. We were supposed to get the info in May, it came on the last day of May. So I applied in June. Was interviewed in August and had my assessment centre the week before last. Every time they've told us we'll hear about the outcome, they've missed their own deadline by about 3 weeks. They've also, bizarrely, taken it upon themselves to communicate with us by post. By post? Why not by carrier pigeon? That's equally archaic. Honestly. So, we're supposed to find out at some point soon. Hence me checking the post (there was nothing there, incidentally). But now I'm just going to be up a height until I find out. I hate it. I hate waiting. I especially hate waiting for something which experience teaches me will be delayed, through no fault of mine but through the ineptitude of others. Grrrrrr.

There are some kinds of waiting that I don't really mind. For example, I don't mind waiting for a bus, if the weather is nice and I have a book (I never go anywhere without a book. If I leave the house and realise I've forgotten it, I can get quite panicky. What if I had to wait somewhere?)

There are some kinds of waiting that I bring on myself. You know the kind. When I really should be doing something but I just put it off and put it off and play on the internet or read or watch tv instead. Procrastination is indeed a self-imposed form of waiting. But I don't mind that at all. In fact, by default, it is one of my main hobbies. Take now, for instance. I switched on the computer at about 9.30 to do some writing. I drafted an outline for a short story (I generally don't do that but I am trying to write stuff for magazines, with a very specific audience and therefore it is easier to actually plan) and since then I have had about 4 cups of tea, done 2 loads of washing and discovered this...

which I think is fab. But its not what I sat down to do. I definitely need to get over the whole waiting to write thing that I've got going on. Procrastination never wrote a novel. Sitting down at the computer and actually typing wrote a novel. With this in mind, I've decided that next month I am going to take part in National Novel Writing Month ( The aim is to write 50,000 during November. The theory is that first drafts are generally rubbishy, but you need to write them to get on to the second and third drafts, which are generally a lot better. So fingers crossed I will get to the end of November and have 50,000 words, which I really hope will have a beginning, a middle and an end, some interesting characters and potential for a real, live book. I normally talk myself out of my writing, decide its rubbish and then just stop and do something else, so I'm hoping this will help me get over it. I haven't written anything down yet (you're allowed to plan, although I'm no good at plans as sooner or later, it stops being a plan and becomes a story with description and dialogue, as its more interesting to show the characters doing something than tell myself about it). I've had the story in my head for a few months, and my characters are now starting to have conversations with each other, which I fervently hope they'll still be doing when I start to write. It should be an interesting experience, and its all part of the "absolutely have to do something before I'm 30" mission that I'm on. Needless to say, I'll keep you the meantime, have a poem...


by the phone,
even though it’s a mobile
on vibrate and turned up loudly,
checked religiously,
like a new mother round a sickly baby
up every five minutes –
is it still breathing?
has it got enough batteries?

Waiting, for a call, a text,
anything, to say
I enjoyed the other night,
would like to see you again,
buy you flowers,
take you to dinner,
introduce you to my mother,
perhaps get married
or something.

going out of my mind with waiting,
my mind which is cramped,
cluttered thoughts of my ideal man who
calls me Princess,
brings me chocolates,
and has mastered the art of interesting conversation
(even though I don’t know his surname
and am not even sure I could
pick him out of a line-up).

holding my breath til I’m blue in the face
with waiting,
think I might burst
if the phone doesn’t ring
(not sure what I’d do if he actually called)

and I’m waiting,
and waiting.

Like I don’t have anything better to do.

The phone beeps,
and I feel sick
and I can’t breath
one message received

and I’m waiting.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

a little secret or two...

I'm going to tell you a secret. don't get your hopes up, its not scandalous (well, unless you're easily scandalised by syntax) but, here we go...I'm not a big fan of capital letters. I think they're over-rated. oh, ok, sure, they can serve a purpose, and sometimes they're useful ("I" for example, is one that I think deserves a capital) they're good when you really want to make a POINT, or play with the way your words look, but for the most part, I think that capital letters are pretty redundant. I mean, new york is just New York, right? you wouldn't read about someone going shopping in new york and think "oh my gosh, where is this fabulous place I've never heard of?" would you? (if the answer is yes, well...quite frankly there is little hope for you. jog on).

but apart from all that, I just don't think that upper case is as pretty as lower case. check out how cute I am, writing in lower case, blah blah blah.

so that is secret number one. I warned you, not scandalous. but someone pointed out that people might read this blog and think that I didn't know how to write because I sometimes don't capitalise properly. (admittedly, I think there has been little interest from people who I don't know, so its not necessarily an issue yet but still, it could happen). so for all of you stranger dangers out there who don't know that in bijou-land small=cute, this is for you. I can capitalise, I just choose not to. so there.

(the eagle-eyed amongst you might notice that some of my posts have capitals and some don't. there is a simple explanation, some of them are drafted in word and copied over. word likes to correct you if you don't start a sentence with a capital letter - it makes poetry incredibly frustrating!!! - but this generally means I am more prone to capitals when using word. when I haven't used word, ta-da!!! no capitals).

secret number two. I'm not brilliant at grammar. I use punctuation to make things sound like I want them to sound in my head, so for everyone who isn't me, I can only assume that you read it the same way and understand. sometimes this means that things are more stream of consciousness than grammatically correct. sometimes it's because I choose not to do it (I know, for example, that I shouldn't start a sentence with an and or a but), and sometimes it's because I just don't know. I'm quite anal about my there/they're/theirs - it drives me absolutely fruit loopy when people get them wrong (when I was a civil servant, I used to ignore emails from senior managers where the incorrect "there" was used) but I can't for the life of me get my head round it's/its. the information just won't stay in there. I don't know why. I'm a bright girl, but for the most part, I don't get it. so I ignore it (I know I used it correctly before, but that's because I've been dictionary.comming whilst typing this). so whilst I'm militant about "there" I am incredibly lax about "its". I like grammar when it suits me, which is when I understand it and find it easy.

I used to work with a woman who didn't know what an apostrophe was. she called it an "up-comma" and went through a phase of sending out emails that read a bit like she,d never written anything that,d ever required an up-comma before, because surely you,d look at that and realise that it,s wrong, wouldn,t you?

needless to say, upon receiving the email I had a massive rant. (I am also very careful to ensure that any emails I send out at work make sense, I would hate for anyone to read one and think that I'm stupid). looking back, part of me thinks that perhaps she just didn't understand so chose to ignore the apostrophe/comma debate, but a bigger part of me thinks that surely no-one can honestly think that that,s how normal people write? hmmm. lazy militant, that's me.

another thing that drives me mental is american english. z where s's should be, a distinct lack of u's...I'm not very good at spelling any more (that is definitely the fault of the computer, its inherent laziness on my part. I have no excuse) but I really, really, really hate it when the spell check tries to correct me and make me spell in american. and on that very tenuous is a very old poem. it's a bit silly. goodnight!! xx

Americans can't spell "colour"

Oh, what have the Americans,
got against the letter "U"?
They leave it out of colour
and out of neighbour too.
What if they were prejudiced
against the letter "O" as well?
Then colour would be clr
a very awkward word to spell.
I guess we should just all be thankful
they don't mind "L" "R" and "C"
or there'd just be a space like this

where colour ought to be.

Saturday, 17 October 2009

Five Minutes

It’s funny how five minutes of one day can change your life. How five minutes of one day can go on to set the standard for all other days. This was one of those days.

It started off in the same way that all days normally do. I got up later than planned, didn’t wash my hair even though it needed it, pulled on the first clothes I could find, got to work and opened the shop. I’m usually on my own til about eleven. There’s only ever me, reading, dusting the shelves, drinking tea. A nice, luke-warm start to the day. Except this day. He scared me when he came in. Snuck up behind me so quietly that the first I knew of it was a soft waft of stale beer.
“Do you have any books about pirates?” he asked.
“Treasure Island, it’s over there. In the R section. We’re on first name terms with all our authors here.”
He laughed with his mouth closed and I blushed at my own piss-poor joke.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a reference book?” he said.
“We don’t deal in fact here. Fiction only. Treasure Island is the only one I can think of, off the top of my head,” I was babbling. It’s my worst habit. “It’s quite good,” I said, searching for something to save myself. “I read it in school.”
“I know,” he said, smiling. Lovely teeth. I suddenly noticed how lovely and blue his eyes were. “I know who you are, Cordelia Deadly. How could I ever forget a girl like you?”
And with that he was off. Into the labyrinth loosely titled ‘Popular Fiction, Bible-Present’. And I couldn’t stop staring. Like the odd glimpse of his elbow, a shot of his arm would make me remember who he was. You know when you know that you know someone, you just don’t know how you know them? He was walking back to the counter, book tucked underneath one arm when it hit me. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realised sooner. He hadn’t changed that much since we’d been at school.
“Why, Thomas Brown!” I said, “whatever are you doing here..?” I trailed off, embarrassed again. I knew what he was doing here. He was looking for a book, one about pirates. It was one of those moments when I wished I could stop time, think of a winning line and then press play again.
“Oh, you know. I’m just trawling second-hand bookshops looking for pretty girls I used to go to school with,” he grinned. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“That’ll be £3.99 please.” He paid for it in handfuls of change.
“Well it was nice seeing you again,” he said. I told him not to be a stranger.
“Stranger than what?” he asked. After he left I stared into space and wrote Cordelia loves Tom 85% all over the newspapers.

I was still daydreaming when Pete got in at twelve. He handed me a scrap of paper torn from the front of a novel. “I certainly hope it isn’t one of ours,” he grumbled. I didn’t answer as I hurriedly unfolded it.

I always wondered about you. Would you like to spend the day with me on Saturday? I’ll meet you here, at ten, in the morning. I’ll get up especially early and wear my good shoes. Hope to see you, Tom.

I woke up early on Saturday. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t help it. I never can sleep when I’m excited. I washed my hair and put on some eyeliner, found some clean clothes and gave my trainers a quick scrub with the dishcloth. I was at work for nine thirty, humming to myself. Pete wolf-whistled. By the time eleven o’clock rolled around, Pete bought me my fourth cup of tea and patted my arm in what I’m sure was supposed to be a reassuring gesture.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” he said.
“I don’t doubt it,” I replied, when in actual fact I doubted it very much indeed. Maybe he’d forgotten, maybe he’d been drunk that day he came in, maybe he’d changed his mind. They weren’t reasonable explanations.

At twelve o’clock, Pete excused himself and went to watch the tiny black and white portable he kept in the back room. Since I refused to go home, I might as well make myself useful and watch the shop. Like I didn’t know that he spent most of his time smoking rollies and watching the racing in the backroom, whether I was there or not. A few minutes later, I heard him shout.
“Cordie, you’d best get in here, quick!” I was so jumpy, I almost ran. Pete was watching the news. Tom’s face filled the tiny screen, his face tilted in profile, he was laughing at something behind the camera, something we couldn’t see. The voice of the newscaster droned on, emotionless.
“…police are appealing for any witnesses to come forward.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.
“He’s dead, Cordie,” Pete replied. “He’s been murdered.”
“He can’t be dead,” I said, “we’re going on a date.”


“Well at least you know he hasn’t stood you up. I told you there would be a reasonable explanation.”

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

Yorkshire puddings and historical fiction

There are certain things that I’d really like to be able to do. Certain things that I’m a more than a little bit in awe of. I’ve attempted to make Yorkshire puds on numerous occasions, and they’re, well, lets just say that they come out ok. They generally come out tasting like Yorkshire puddings and looking like, er, flat Yorkshire puddings. But they’re definitely recognisable as what they’re supposed to be, and not poisonous, which is always a good start when cooking. They don’t, however, come out anything like they do when my dad’s girlfriend makes them, even when I follow her instructions to the letter. Most of the time (I say most of the time because I think there was a fluke or two early doors which filled me with false confidence) they just don’t rise properly. I try not to let it get to me. It’s not the end of the world. I have, after all, mastered roast potatoes. I had a few soggy efforts at first but then I got there, and the boyf reached up and dusted off one of his best compliments, telling me “They’re just as good as ones you’d buy from the shop”. But roast potato making successes aside, there would still be something very satisfying about making decent Yorkshires.

Aside from Yorkshire puddings I would really, really like to be able to write realistic historical fiction. This is not at all like making Yorkshire puddings because this is something I have never even attempted. Now, I’m not saying that I want to realistically and evocatively bring to life the tempestuous relationships of Jacobean sheep farmers. What I’m saying is that I find it hard enough to write convincingly in the real world, in the here and now where I live my life, every day, and have quite a lot of experience of. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to write (and write well) when your characters are slap bang in the middle of a different time period. Its about evoking a sense of place. The reason that this is in my head today is because as an exercise in last weeks writing class we had to make lists, some of them were boring (things that I like to read about, things that interest me) but one really struck a chord. Times that interest me. My list was World War Two, Pioneer America and my 1980s childhood.

So our homework was to find a topic (from one of the many lists) that interests me, devise an idea for a character, consider what they most want, make a list of obstacles, pick one scenario and write about it blah blah blah. We have to show the character in action not getting what they want and it should be about 300 words.

Now, I’m really struggling for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I’ve never been much of a planner. I tend to write inside out and start with what I think is the beginning and an idea of where I think its going, only to realise that the beginning is not the beginning at all and where I thought it was going was a different direction than I’ve found myself now. After a bit, I plan if I need to and that’s when the lists start and the random notes and the hope that I can tie it together. Secondly, I find that if I just write, then sooner or later I will figure out the character and the obstacles and it will all sort itself out. It is very difficult to find out what a character wants before you’ve done the decent thing and written about them a little bit and started to get to know them.

So I think I am going to have to cheat, and do the homework backwards and wine and dine my character first before making a list of their deepest desires and the obstacles in their way, because its not very interesting the other way round. And although I would like my character to be a German Jew in post-war Britain, I have a feeling that she probably won’t be. Just because I’m not convinced I could ever write her, and (at this precise moment in time, when my writing is all about building my confidence back up and getting into good habits) I’m a bit too scared to try.

Anyway, I’m going to stop rambling (must go and finish my homework).

Before I go, I’m going to post a poem, where I do feel like I’ve captured time quite well. It was written as an exercise when I was at Uni and we all went to the National Portrait Gallery and were, quite simply, told to write poems of pictures that took our fancy. This one is written after seeing “Dancing Couple from Animal Locomotion” (1887) by Eadweard Muybridge. I googled him, he’s a bit mental

and here are some examples of the kind of work he did (although not the actual picture the poem is based on, I can’t find that anywhere)

Ok, here we go…

Poem of a Picture

As my eyes move, I see the couple dance,
The same couple who,
From the other side of the room,
Seemed quite, quite still,
But now as I stand and watch them dance
I see her slow smile as she turns to the camera
I hear the swoosh of her long skirt moving behind her,
I feel the warmth of his arms around her,
And the shiver of excitement that runs up her spine
And the fantasies that race through his mind
And the quickening pulse and the shallow breath
As he tries, and fails, not to look at her breasts,
She sees but merely laughs and ignores it
Because deep down inside she really adores it
Their bodies in tune, twirling the dance,
A soft, low moan, a furtive glance,
Her heart races, anticipates the thrill
But then I look away and they are still.

Saturday, 10 October 2009

day two and some small technical difficulties...

so I managed to log on here before and edit my blog. this is easy, I thought. this is a piece of cake. then I decided to start following some blogs I like...and have managed to follow myself. so now the bijou raconteur follows, er, the bijou raconteur. this isn't me being a narcissist, this is me not being particularly technologically savvy. oops. luckily, cally is going to log on later and fix it for me, she's really quite good at it, which is good for me. phew!

so I'm going to stick to what I can do, which is type text in a box. there's not much that can go wrong here (hopefully).

as I mentioned yesterday, I'm in the process of sending stuff off to magazines and competitions and have decided that each story will have a 3 strikes rule - if it isn't accepted, then I'm going to post it on here. like vanity publication that isn't going to bankrupt me. hooray! I only started sending stuff off at the end of August, so that means it will be a good few months before I've been rejected 3 times. so for now, until I write something just for here (which I will, I've started it already, although historically I'm a lot better at starting things than I am at finishing them) for now I am going to post some old stuff. just to get posting, and to keep the momentum up. which is a good thing.

ok, so here you are, have some poems. enjoy!


Old woman sat alone
at a two seater table
in the window of the bakers,
shop half unopened around her,
as she nibbles, squirrel-like,
at her antiquated toasted teacake,
treating herself.

Teacup devoid of saucer
in this harsh, modern world,
plate, knife, spoon arranged symmetrically,
a bad habit from her childhood
enraged by old age
and the taunt of senile dementia.

Old woman sat alone like a bulldog,
all jowl and foul expression,
the youth of yesterday,
an attitude problem armed
with a walking stick and a blue rinse.

Twenty-one again if she closes her eyes,
ignores her aching joints, rheumy fingers.
She's waiting for him in the shadows,
breeze blowing freshly washed hair in her eyes,
shivering beneath her thin cardigan.

He steals up behind her,
wraps his arms around her thin waist,
shared laughter,
warm glow,
brilliant smile.

Hey friend, take my advice,
watch the world through rose tinted glasses,
paint your feelings in primary colours,
and never let the bastards get you down.
Think once, think twice
then throw caution to the wind,
dive into the river and sink or swim.
Look left, look right
then take a deep breath
and put faith in the dice and
Dance with your friends
in armchairs on rooftops,
laugh with your siblings at family functions
and never learn by other people's mistakes.
Choose your friends and your drinks wisely,
and mix them carefully,
tequila, with a vodka chaser, will not make you
glamorous, sophisticated, or particularly nice.
Make every day an adventure,
and above all, remember this,
never listen to bad advice
and always remember the people you've kissed.

Friday, 9 October 2009

hello this is it. I said I would start a blog and I have. so what do I want to say..?

I had a moment at work the other day...I was listening to a conference call and I thought, is this it? is this really it..? as much as I want to marry a rockstar and be a fairy princess, I am a realist, and the answer was resounding...

sadly, yes. yes, this is it. and the likelyhood is that I won't get to retire until I'm about 70, so I have a choice. I can either continue like I am or I can try to escape and do something that I love.

I want to be a novellist. I want to write stories. I am going to be 30 very soon and the very thought has struck fear into my bones and I have decided that this is not it. I am not going to let this be it. so I have started doing the following things...

I'm working with a writing coach (
I'm going to a writing class
I'm working on this blog
I've been sending stories off to competitions/magazines

it might not sound like a lot, but to me, it is a lot. I'm lucky that I have the lovely cally ( as my best friend/sis-in-law to do lots of lovely artwork for me and encourage me. and a boyfriend who is prepared to drive me to and from class and is learning to cook so he can make me tea and give me more time to write. other than that, well, it's really just down to me. so watch this space. I'm gonna post some words that I like, and it would be very nice if you liked them too ...

these words were from my writing class, they said, 10 mins, 200 words, romance, bus (admittedly, this is a second draft...) please feel free to post comments and let me know what you think.

“He looks like Justin Timberlake,” Shanice said.
“No he doesn’t! He looks nuffin like him!”
“He does! He’s his twin, man! Who you lookin’ at? You can’t be lookin’ at the same one!”
“I’m lookin’ at that one there, in the hat,” I pointed.
“Yeah, that’s him,” she sighed. “He’s lovely.”
“Well how come I’ve never seen him before? How come you’ve never said nuffin?”
“Well I dunno, do I? I’m shy or summat.”
“You? Shy? Fuck off.”
“Don’t take the piss Chantelle, I’m serious here.”
“If you love him that much, why don’t you just talk to him?”
“Oh, I can’t! I daren’t!”
“I’ll talk to him for you –“
“No!” she shrieked, grabbing my arm. “Chantelle! Don’t!”
I didn’t listen.
“Oi! Oi, you!” I yelled at JT. “My mate fancies you.”
Justin turned and winked. Started walking our way as he went to go down the stairs.
“Aw-right darlin’,” he drawled, grabbing his crotch as he went by. “Fancy a piece of this, do ya?”
Shanice went bright red as Justin and his cronies howled and pounded on the windows as they ran down the stairs.

If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn she was crying.