Crushed Diaries

2008-09-18T06:10:00.001-07:00

The Fancy Dress Party

2008-05-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

I used to go to a party every weekend without fail when I was a teenager, but one of the most memorable ones was Tina’s fancy dress bash. Tina was an only child, who lived in a crumbling yellow house round the corner. Her mum was a character actress, who had appeared in millions of films but had only spoken one line of dialogue in each one. Her dad was a director who didn’t work any more, but stayed in bed all day long watching his old films on TV. He even ate his meals in bed. The only time when he went downstairs, was when he had to go out of the front door.

When Tina’s parents were invited to some film festival abroad, she decided to have a fancy dress party. They were always leaving her alone in the house, and couldn't care less if she wrecked it, as they didn’t have any prized possessions to worry about. They were cool, unlike my parents who went bananas if someone broke one of their ashtrays, even though they didn’t smoke.

I didn’t know whom to go as, so stuck a big, cartwheel hat on my head and pretended I was Princess Anne, that was because someone once told me I looked like her. Tina's Mum had made a huge soggy trifle with a mountain of red Smarties on top of the lumpy custard, and I was stuffing my guts on the sofa, careful not to let the goo drip down my moth-eaten fox fur stole, which Mum had once bought me from Portobello Road. I was sandwiched between a fat, bald girl dressed up as Noddy, and an effeminate boy who said he was Shirley Temple. I was just waving to a skinny creature who had a big flowerpot over his head, when I heard a terrific screaming and banging. All the lights dimmed, and I thought I was in an old fashioned horror show, especially when a couple of gorillas came running into the room, thumping their chests and howling. I almost choked on a Smartie.

‘That’s funny, I didn’t know gorillas sounded like hyenas,’ Noddy said.

The guests were unsure what to do, especially when Tina, dressed up as an ostrich, started screaming like she'd been shot. ‘Get those gatecrashers out of here. Call the police,’ she yelled hysterically. The boy who was dressed up as Shirley Temple sprung into action, and started to furiously dial 999 on the big white phone which was plonked on top of the white shaggy rug. But before he was able to splutter out an SOS to the police, one of the gorillas ran over and violently pulled the phone’s socket out of the wall. Noddy shrieked. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when one of the beasts then whipped off its head.
‘Surprise!’ it yelled. It was Tina’s dad! The other gorilla also pulled it’s head off. It was Tina’s Mum, whose dyed pink whispy hair lay flat on her head like squashed candy floss.

‘We missed our plane,’ Tina’s Mum chortled.

‘We didn’t want to go to the film festival anyway,’ Tina’s dad said. They both went onto explain at length, how grown-ups like to do, how they had decided to play a trick on us by hiring the gorilla costumes for the night, so that they could give us a fright.

‘You weren’t frightened, were you Tina darling?’ Tina’s dad asked, putting a big hairy arm around her shoulders, before he sloped upstairs to have his supper in bed. Although Tina forced her thin lips into a grimace, I could see she was furious. Especially, when her Mum got all actressy and forced us all to play charades for the rest of the evening, a game which I’m hopeless at. After I mimed being a teapot for half an hour, pretending I was the dormouse in "Alice in Wonderland", I gave up. The rest of the guests weren’t thrilled either. They had come along to have some mindless fun, and there they were stuck with their hostess’s bossy mother, who was in her element, pretending she was Queen Kong for the night. I sneaked off home, and realised how lucky I was. Although my parents were a pain in the neck, and didn't trust me enough to leave me alone in the house for even one night, at least they were normal. Frances Lynn: copyright 2008

2008-05-22T23:50:00.001-07:00

The Pop Idol

2008-05-22T23:47:00.001-07:00

My girlfriend happily allowed her teenage daughters to go clubbing with their friends every weekend, on the one condition that she collected them at the end of the evening. My mother never insisted on collecting me if I went out with friends when I was their age. She never imagined that anything bad would happen to me.

When I was fourteen, I used to be mad about pop music and spent all my pocket money on singles – this was the age of vinyl, before the invention of CDs. I had a goofy looking friend who was a couple of years older than me. She was mad about The Rolling Stones and had such a major crush on Mick Jagger, she was convinced if she ever met him he’d take one look at her and ask her out. Personally, I think she had a crush on his long hair, not on him as an actual person. I liked the Stones too – I preferred them to the Beatles, but I didn't tell my friend I had a secret crush on Brian, the dead blond one. I used to write him loads of fan letters but he never replied. So, when my friend miraculously got tickets to see the Stones perform on a live music TV show called ‘Ready Steady Go’, and invited me to accompany her, I screamed 'yes' immediately – before I even asked my mother’s permission. Mum happily allowed me to go along to the TV studio, all the way to Elstree (outside London) on the train, reasoning that my older friend would look after me. Mum says she would never have allowed me to come back home nowadays on a train late at night without a grownup escort, but she never used to worry about me.

‘The weekend Starts Here’ was the pop show’s slogan, and I knew my weekend had started with a fizzle and a bang when my simpering friend and I lined up outside the studio before the show. I was in heaven! All the cool looking boys were dressed in mod suits and had hair past their earlobes. All the girls looked cool too, and had long dead straight hair, which was the fashion then. Unfortunately for me, I had curly hair (still do), which meant I always had to iron my hair underneath brown paper on the ironing board before I went out. I know it sounds really daft now, but It was considered social suicide for a girl to have curly hair in those days.

So, there I was in my mini-skirt and black fishnet top, feeling very good about myself until the first drop of rain fell on my bare head. I immediately felt my hair frizzing into a balloon and wanted to go home there and then. ‘You’ve got to be with me when Mick Jagger asks me out,’ my friend screeched, furiously polishing her National Health glasses. I couldn’t leave her – after all she had invited me along in the first place, and no way did I want to miss seeing Brian, my idol in the flesh. So, I reluctantly followed her inside the studio, ignoring the sly sniggers from the other girls, because by this time my hair had frizzed out into an Afro – a wild hairstyle which hadn’t been invented then.

I felt so self-conscious about my frizzy hair, that I couldn’t truly enjoy myself, and was shell-shocked that Brian was smaller than I expected. I immediately went off him and regretted writing him all those soppy letters. As for my friend – she was mortified that Mick completely blanked her. Not surprising really, as I thought she made a right idiot of herself, when she jumped on stage and gave him a big hug. No one would have realised she was sixteen.

Mum didn’t have a clue what I was really up to until by chance, she switched on the TV and saw me on the show – cowering and grimacing behind The Rolling Stones with my hands held over my head. Funnily enough, she allowed me to go to the show with my friend again. But the next time I went, I made sure I took an umbrella with me.

Copyright: Frances Lynn 2008

Other Peoples' Parents

2008-05-22T23:44:00.000-07:00

I was wearing my stolen brown velvet trouser suit from Biba when I first met Simon at a party round the corner. He was the first boy I had ever seen with long hair. It was bright orange, but his locks looked gorgeous against his turquoise blue velvet trouser suit. He offered to drive me home in his souped up mini, even though it would only have taken me a minute to walk back to my place. I thought he was cool, but his two best friends, Gavin and Jamie were even cooler. Simon lived with his father in a grotty basement flat in Baker Street, but Gavin and Jamie both lived in big modern houses in Hampstead Village. Gavin’s parents were very hospitable and were always inviting his friends round for tea. Gavin would lie elegantly on his parents’ chaise longue, and delight in being cynical. His father was a modern art dealer, so there were always lots of peculiar looking paintings on the walls, and I shall never forget the wallpaper as long as I live. Enormous pink eyeballs stared down at you wherever you went. However, Jamie’s parents were the most glamorous of the lot. His dad was a famous songwriter and his mum was a jazz singer who bought all her clothes from Fortnum & Mason’s. But, none of Jamie’s friends had ever met them as we had never been invited to his house.

On New Year’s Eve, we decided to crash some parties. Simon packed his friends into his mini, including a girl called Sally Anne who had suddenly ballooned out. She used to be so thin and pretty and always wore Biba smocks right up to her chin. Now she had to wear a kaftan to conceal her blubber. She had been on the pill since she was twelve, and her metabolism had gone wonky. Thank to Sally Anne’s bulk, it was a very tight squeeze in Simon’s mini, but I insisted on sitting in the front so didn’t end up like a squashed concertina like the others did. After we had crashed fifty parties, we were tired and emotional and desperate for sustenance.
‘Come back to my place for breakfast,’ Jamie said.
'I can't wait to meet your mum,' I enthused.
Jamie laughed grimly.
Simon was also dying to meet Jamie's mum and started to drive at one hundred miles per hour. His mini wasn't called 'souped up' for nothing. Once inside Jamie's big house, we all collapsed in a heap on the pristine white rug in the open plan living room, grateful we had survived the journey. Jamie fished out a magnum bottle of vintage champagne from the fridge and opened it with a flourish. ‘Happy New Year’s Eve,’ we all chorused, kissing each other on the cheeks, but I noticed that the boys didn’t kiss Sally Anne. I suppose they couldn’t bear to touch her, now that she had got fat. Anyway, we were in the middle of dancing frenetically around the room when Jamie suddenly grew hysterical, which was surprising, as he was normally so cool.
‘You’ve all got to leave straightaway, my parents have just returned,’ he exclaimed dramatically.
‘I’m not leaving until I meet your mum,’ I said drunkenly.
‘Get out!‘ Jamie shouted, but it was too late. His parents had just lurched into the room. I think Jamie’s dad must have been drunk, as he kept crashing into the furniture and was slurring ‘Old Man River’ on top of his voice, but his mum was the biggest shock. On TV, she was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. Now, I noticed that her red lipstick was smeared all over her chin and her perfect blonde chignon was sticking out at a precarious right angle, revealing a grey frizz underneath. I never knew she wore a wig. ‘Jamie, get your friggin’ friends out of my house right now,’ she screamed, before falling flat on her face with her legs sticking up in the air. How disappointing, Jamie’s parents weren’t cool at all. In fact, they were almost as bad as mine.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2008

Crushed

2008-05-22T23:38:00.000-07:00

The Golf Twins

2008-05-22T22:43:00.001-07:00

When I was fourteen I was quite a good golfer. Naturally, I didn’t dare tell any of my friends what I was up to, in case they thought I had gone senile. In fact, under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have been caught dead on a golf course. Tiger Woods hadn’t been invented yet, and as far as I was concerned, the game was for old people and squares. My parents belonged to a fuddy-duddy golf club outside London, and every weekend, they used to religiously drive up there and play in matches called 'married fouresomes', whatever the weather. They repeatedly asked my twelve year old sister and myself if we wanted to become junior members, and each time we both said ‘no way’. I used to love ironing my hair before waltzing up and down Carnaby Street with my friends every Saturday, so I thought my little universe had ended when I was roped into having lunch with my parents at their stupid club one weekend.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to join?’ my father shouted, swigging back his gin and tonic and spilling soup down his shirt, while saluting a brigadier type whose nose looked like a bulging red sausage.
‘What for?’ I muttered, seething with resentment.
Then, I almost chocked on my frozen prawn cocktail.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I do want to become a junior member after all,’ I hissed.
‘What made you change your mind?’ my father barked.
But, my sister already knew, for I was staring transfixed through the dining room window in the direction of the first tee.
A pair of gorgeous blond twins were standing there, looking at least aged sixteen in their crazy diamond patterned sweaters and matching trousers.
‘The Pratchett twins have such marvellous golf swings,’ my mother said dreamily, as both of the twins whacked the ball up the fairway, not that I knew what a fairway meant in those days. And, to be honest I couldn’t care less.
‘Do you know them?’ I gasped, thinking my mother wasn’t such a bad old stick after all.
‘Everyone knows them. They’re the best players in the club,’ my father croaked.
I didn’t know one end of a golf stick from another, but all I was concerned about at that moment in time was following the glorious looking twins around the golf course, which I obsessively did for the rest of my school holidays. Every time I spotted them confidently striding towards the next hole, clutching their matching tartan golf bags, my heart would pitter-patter a little bit faster, and I’d run after them hoping they would notice me. I was hooked, until one of the twins actually deigned to speak to me when I mistakenly hit a golf ball right at his head. ‘You should have shouted fore,’ he shouted pompously, after ducking. What a drip! I never realised he had such a squeaky voice. I immediately lost interest in him and his twin brother, whom I quickly discovered had an even sillier voice. My parents were disappointed when I gave up golf on the spot. I realised it had been a complete waste of time putting the snooty twins on a pedestal, and shortly afterwards, discovered boys who smoked, listened to pop music and didn’t wear hideous Pringle sweaters.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2008

Crushed Goes Underground

2008-04-16T02:18:00.000-07:00

Art on the Underground want to use extracts from my Young Adult novel Crushed in a book called "Piccadillyland", which will be distributed at both ends of the Piccadilly line (Heathrow Terminal 1,2 & 3, Cockfoster and Uxbridge) between June and December. So, travellers who use the Piccadilly line after arriving at Heathrow and London commuters will be able to get the book for free. Extracts from my books were chosen because I happened to mention several Piccadilly tube stations in my prose. Somebody who works for the London Underground must have read my books from cover to cover in order to discover this information, info which I had completely forgotten I had written! The book will contain extracts from 120 authors in total, so I presume they all wrote about stations on the Piccadilly line in their books as well.

Inspiration

2007-12-01T02:22:00.001-08:00

I dedicated Crushed to Caroline de Lone, my niece who lives in Marin County.

Crushed Drawing

2007-11-22T12:21:00.000-08:00

I'm amazed. A friend offered to buy one of my original drawings in Crushed today. Naturally, I said yes - letting him know he could have first option to buy all my other drawings in the book!

World Book Day

2007-11-11T12:37:00.000-08:00

The Mayfair library have booked me to read from "Crushed" and to give a talk on World Book day - March 2008!

2007-11-05T04:55:00.000-08:00

Promotion

2007-08-26T07:46:00.000-07:00

I'm still promoting Crushed On Line. I do have a MySpace account but Facebook was too addictive for me. I was on it for about thirty minutes before I realised, if I didn't come off it - I wouldn't be able to concentrate on my writing.

2007-07-09T01:52:00.000-07:00

My first interview on the Net

2007-07-09T01:46:00.000-07:00

Danette Bocage was the first 'girl' (she's a 27 year old mother and book reviewer) to send me a fan letter after she read Crushed. She has just interviewed me for her blog - it looks great - and we shall be chatting during the day. She lives in Hawaii and I live in London. She's ten hours behind, so I presume, due to the time difference we shall be chatting during the evening - my end.

2007-06-20T15:40:00.000-07:00

Crushed cover artist

2007-06-20T15:30:00.000-07:00

Helen Ralli is a talented art student who designed the book cover for Crushed my YA novel .... it looks so 'grab it off the shelf' that I'm sure it's responsible for my book being out on permanent loan from the libraries. Went to see her end of her foundation course work at Camberwell College of Arts. It was an installation (a pic attached) .... went inside and it was so pitch black, it was like being blind. I felt completely disorientated. Helen got a distinction for her work during her foundation year and after her installation, was accepted onto Camberwell's 3 year BA(Hons) Graphic Design degree course next year. I hope I can afford her for my next novel!

2007-06-15T13:48:00.000-07:00

Queens Park Library

2007-06-15T13:46:00.001-07:00

After my CRUSHED talk at Queens Park Library today, the librarian told me that their last copy of my YA novel hadn't been returned by a reader. In other words, it has been stolen. I'm flattered!

Another library talk

2007-06-11T14:11:00.000-07:00

I'm going to give another library talk about Crushed on Friday. I have no idea how to get there (Queens Park Library in London), even though the librarian has given me directions. I do know that the street number is 666! It will be worth it though as they have bought two more copies of my novel for their library ..... so, all I have to do now is to find the place.

The New Book Review

2007-05-17T06:11:00.000-07:00

A five star Crushed review, which originally appeared on Reader Views Kids (twelve year old Sarah Wilborn was the reviewer) has now appeared on Carolyn Howard-Johnson’s The New Book Review online site. The site reviews POD books as well as traditional ones, so if an author or reviewer wants to post a review about a Young Adult book, study the site for submission guides.

Pimlico Children's Library

2007-05-13T09:30:00.000-07:00

Gave a talk about Crushed at Pimlico Children's Library yesterday morning. The librarian informed me he tried to borrow the book from another Westminster library, but all the copies were out being read. But all was not lost. He bought a copy off me, so now Pimlico has got a copy of Crushed too.

2007-04-23T07:02:00.000-07:00

The Best Review Ever

2007-04-23T06:55:00.000-07:00

An original and quirky writer called Brett Nicholas Moore (Tales of Brother Goose) just gave me my best ever review for Crushed on AD, the American Book Marketing site:

'Crushed' is one of the funniest books, if not the funniest, I have ever read. I thoroughly enjoyed the wit, which was razor sharp with the most hilarious unforgiving character descriptions ever penned. I don't consider myself a fast reader, especially novel size books, but it took me only a few hours to finish it because I was so hooked. I didn't even eat dinner because I didn't want to interrupt my reading. I just had to keep going to find out what was to become of Door and her odd but endearing family. There's not a wasted moment in the story. I never felt like I was being carried off on a tangent that had nothing to do with anything. Every disastrous event builds something in the development of the story and the characters. After I finished reading it, I felt like I would miss the Brevingtons. Exceptional work, Frances. I'm impressed.

Brett Nicholas Moore

The First Time I Lied To My Parents

2007-04-23T06:51:00.000-07:00

The first time I lied to my parents was when I was fifteen. I was desperate to go to Middle Earth, a new club which opened at midnight. I knew my parents would never allow me to go, so I didn't even bother to ask them. Christie, my girlfriend had a flat in South Kensington, so I told my parents I was staying the night with her. It was all pretty innocent really, because I really did stay the night at her flat. We just didn’t get any sleep that’s all, because we were out all night clubbing.

After I dumped my overnight bag at her flat, we consumed gallons of black coffee to keep us awake, then caught the last tube to Covent Garden. In those days, everyone wore bells on their fingers and toes. We didn’t go that far but we did put loads of mascara underneath our eyes, so that everyone would think we looked wasted. We didn’t want the clubbers to suspect we were healthy girls who had never stayed up all night before.

We were both really excited after we paid our money and were allowed into the cool subterranean nightclub. There was flickering strobe lighting, and I couldn’t believe I was there watching my fave rock bands play. The clubbers were waving their arms around to the music, so we immediately copied them except I did feel a bit like a windmill doing it.

Christie was a perfect girlfriend to go out with. She was so beautiful that in no time at all, we were surrounded by long haired boys offering to buy us orange juice. They quickly realised she had no conversation, so latched onto me but the music was so loud I couldn't hear what they were saying anyway. One dark haired boy with no shoes on followed Christie into the Ladies Lavatory, but she managed to shake him off.

We emerged from the club at dawn and helped ourselves to some rotting pineapples that the stallholders had thrown into the gutters. It was too early to catch the first tube tube home, but we were so elated that we had stayed up all night, we walked all the way back to South Kensington.

We decided it wasn’t worth going to sleep as I had promised my parents I would be back in time for breakfast. We made a cup of instant coffee and had a discussion about our evening. Except it wasn’t much of a discussion. Christie didn’t speak much so our lingo was all rather one sided.

The doorbell rang, just when we were wilting - we weren't used to staying up all night.
‘It’s a bit early for the postman,’ Christie slowly remarked and went to answer the door.
By this time, she was wearing her quilt pink dressing gown and also looked like a panda. She was in the middle of removing her mascara and was holding a roll of loo paper in her hand. She opened the door and was shocked to see the boy with no shoes from the club. He had followed us all the way back to her flat.
‘I love you,’ was all he said before a startled Christie shut the door on his face.
We were both amazed. Christie had her first stalker. I wished I had one as well, but as I always had to report back early to my parents after they thought I had slept over with Christie from then on, it was a bit difficult.

However, one weekend I went to the club without Christie. She had fallen in love and was refusing to go out of the flat until the boy of her dreams (not her stalker) called her like he had promised. I parked my overnight bag at her place and went out solo, leaving her chainsmoking a million fags.

At the club, a frizzy haired Italian man, who wore an outfit resembling a Greek shepherd asked me if I wanted to go back to his flat to inspect his bathroom floor. But as my parents had given me an early morning curfew, I had to decline. Anyway, I had no interest in viewing bathroom tiles. Also, I remember feeling very sick. Too much excitement and subterfuge had unsettled my stomach, I suppose.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2007

2007-04-03T13:54:00.000-07:00

Library Talks

2007-04-03T13:39:00.000-07:00

It seems like I'm suddenly on the Library circuit in London. Last week, I gave two talks about CRUSHED, my Young Adult novel at St Johns Wood Library in London. An English class of well-read twelve year olds from the local comprehensive actually asked for my autograph afterwards. They are studying "King Lear" at school. Now, Pimlico Children's Library have asked me to give a talk about "Crushed" in May. And, they are going to buy some copies of the book too. I've had such good feedback from readers about "Crushed", I intend to write a sequel. This time, the twins Door and Dee will be sixteen, so I'm asking all the eleven and twelve years I meet what their teenage brothers and sisters get up to.

Another Crushed review

2007-03-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

This review came from Danette Bocage in Hawaii.

' I truly enjoyed reading “Crushed”. It was a page turner right from the
beginning. Door and Dee were easy to relate to, I used to feel like
the outsider in my family. My daughter’s liked the drawings in the book.
I told them they could read it when they’re older. I look forward to
reading more about The Brevingtons in the future.

Thank you for the great reading.'

My best reveiw

2007-03-26T14:56:00.000-07:00

This is the funniest review I have received for CRUSHED so far:

'In our opinion we think you are a brilliant authoress and are loads better than STUPID J.K. Rowling (We want Harry Potter to die in the next book!!!!!!!!!!!!!).'

St Christina's school
London.

2007-03-12T06:58:00.000-07:00

2007-02-27T07:42:00.000-08:00

My first Adult Film

2007-02-27T07:36:00.000-08:00

When I was a preteen, two things happened to me which made me feel grown up. I saw my first 'X' film and if that wasn’t thrilling enough, I graduated from reading Mary Poppins and devoured a book for adults.

The film was called "Tom Jones", and starred Albert Finney, as ‘a presumed bastard child, taken in and raised as the child of an English gentleman.’ In those days, the word ‘bastard’ was enough to send a guilty shiver of excitement down my spine. Now, I see the movie’s rated AA, but in those days "Tom Jones" was definitely for adults only.

I was on holiday in Devon with my parents at the time, and a sister and brother act (about the same age as me) whom I met on the beach asked me if I would like to see an ‘X’ film. I had to ask my parents’ permission if I could go as they liked to know what I was up to during my parental 'off-duty' hours. They said I would never get in and to make sure I didn't, insisted I take my little sisters with me. I did my best, but they looked like miniature clowns after I smothered them with a tube of Mum’s bright red lipstick. I like to think I really did look like a teenager as I sloshed layers of my mother’s makeup on, and wore a beret jammed down over my eyes. I needn’t have bothered to make an effort as the ticket man at the cinema was obviously sloshed, for he allowed us all in without any form of interrogation. The film was disappointing – my sisters went to sleep - but from that moment in time I felt I was an adult. I had got into my first 'X' film and I was illegal.

The first grownup book I read was ‘Lord Of The Flies’, The first time I heard about it was when my father burst into my bedroom in the middle of the night, in a great state of excitement screaming ‘kill the pig’. I think he was probably drunk at the time, as in those days he used to worship his whiskey. I was only eleven so didn’t have enough pocket money to buy myself a copy, but there was no need as my father lent me the book after he finished it.

After I raced through it, my father and I used to scream ‘kill the pig kill the pig’ over breakfast before he put on his bowler hat and went off to work in the city. Our manic behaviour didn’t please my mother one bit. She was the Jane Austin type and would never have read William Golding’s masterpiece in a million years. From that moment on, I realised Mum and I had nothing in common but Dad and I did.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2007

2007-02-17T12:55:00.000-08:00

Never Go On Holiday With An Acquaintance

2007-02-17T12:43:00.000-08:00

I used to see a boy called Roger in my exercise class once a week. He was very quiet and smiled a lot. One day, he asked me to go to the local fish and chips restaurant after our workout. After we had finished gorging ourselves on our food – we had finished ourselves off with an apple crumble, he asked me to go on holiday with him.

‘I’m desperate to go away,’ he said.

‘I’m game,’ I enthused.

My parents had offered to take me to South of France for a holiday but I declined their generous offer, as nobody I knew went away with their parents any more. When I went to Nice with them when I was twelve, I liked the chocolate croissants for breakfast but loathed the rest of the French fodder like onion soup, which I vomited up after gulping it down – a bit unfortunate really, as I was having lunch on the beach at the time.

Roger and I marched into the local travel agent after we had finished stuffing our guts, and bought a package holiday to Tenerife. Neither of us had been there before, so we were both excited. My parents were dubious when I told them I was going on holiday with a boy, but when I lied and pointed out Roger wasn’t remotely interested in girls, they were happy to let me go.

I’d only ever seen Roger in his gym clothes before. Even when we went to scoff fish and chips, he hadn’t bothered to change out of his track suit. So, I had a big shock when I arranged to meet him at Gatwick airport and saw he was dressed in shocking pink jeans and a vivid turquoise shiny jacket, which was decorated with what appeared to be the crown jewels. If that wasn’t embarrassing enough, he was wearing a straw hat with the words, ‘Kiss Me Quick’ on it. Horrors!’ I tried to pretend I wasn’t with him, but he stuck to me like glue, cracking loud and obnoxious jokes to anyone who was unlucky to catch his eye. He was usually such a quiet kind of fellow but suddenly it was as if he was a gaudy butterfly emerging from his drab chrysalis. He was louder than crashing symbols.

Fortunately, my holiday companion and I didn’t see each other during the day when we were away. He went to a gym, while I played tennis with the local pro, but in the evening we would always meet up and go out for a meal. Roger was so thick-skinned he didn’t realise that everyone in the restaurant was staring at his gaudy appearance. Every night, without fail he glittered from head to toe in his gigantic pieces of costume jewellery and wore clothes garish enough to illuminate the whole of Tenerife. If that wasn’t bad enough, he would then get wildly merry on a glass of wine and insist we go out clubbing afterwards. But, luckily he had no interest in dancing with me. He was after the locals and insisted on doing a dance which he called the rum baba, gyrating his hips and gliding his nose over the floor when he drunkenly fell over, which was all the time. I wasn’t the only person who judged him a crashing bore for nobody would go near him with a bargepole.

Night after night, he insisted on staying at clubs until dawn, leaving me to walk back to our self-catered apartment by myself when I could no longer stomach seeing him make a daft spectacle of himself. After a week of this, I was ready to delete him from my address book for good. I had gone off him in a big way. What had happened to the meek and polite Roger I knew in England? And, would he ever be the same again? I would never know because after we returned to London, he informed me I was no fun at all and that I had ruined his holiday. He stopped coming to my exercise class and I never saw him again. I later heard he became a holiday rep in the Costa del Sol.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2007

2007-02-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

Misery Guts.

2007-02-02T15:13:00.000-08:00

I used to play tennis with a girl called Shirley. The only thing we had in common was Sarah Lee deserts. Once a week, we’d go to each other’s homes after playing singles and prepared the sickliest dinner we could think of. Once, we guzzled an entire Sarah Lee cheesecake between us, and I felt so full up, it kept threatening to spew out of my throat on the way home. I thought Shirley was one of my closest friends until we decided to go on a last minute cheapo package holiday together.

I knew my holiday was doomed the moment we got on the plane to take us to Minorca.
‘I hope it’s going to be hot,’ she moaned like a mantra, round and round it went in my brain.
‘I don’t care what the weather’s like. I just want to eat foreign food. ’I said. Well, I knew our friendship was on the rocks when we ended up sharing a room in the self-catering flat we rented out for the week. Shirley accused me of talking in my sleep, and I told her off for keeping me up all night, due to her grinding her teeth. It’s a wonder she had any teeth left at all.

If that wasn’t bad enough, it never stopped raining. I persuaded Shirley to hire a car so that we could explore the island. I can’t drive, so I had to rely on her to chauffeur me around everywhere. Poor Shirley. I would have felt sorry for her but she never stopped moaning. And, when we almost got arrested after she mistakenly drove the wrong way up a one way road, she flipped completely.

She screamed and swore until she turned blue in the face. Unfortunately, she wasn’t dying but stressed she was cold and hungry. We ended up in a deserted café overlooking the wind blown sea front and ordered mussels and chips. My holiday companion was in such a vile mood, she didn’t enjoy her food, which must have been the first time in her moaning life.

I only saw Shirley smile once when the sun came out on our last day. She rolled up her jeans, took off her trainers and paddled in the contaminated sea. She didn’t even bother to drown herself, but kept saying she loved the sun. When the sun went out, she sulked and sulked and didn’t speak to me until we were back in England.

I suspected our friendship was on the rocks and the way I was feeling about her after the holiday, I was delighted. However, I knew it was up to me to make the first move if I wanted to continuing being friends. I never realised she was such a misery guts until we went on holiday together. I couldn’t care less if I never saw her again. But, when she mumbled those magic words, ‘Sarah Lee’, I knew I could never dump her and those sickly dinners. We’re friends again now but we never dared to go on holiday together ever again.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2007-01-26T08:13:00.000-08:00

Be Careful Who You Go Away On Holiday With

2007-01-26T08:03:00.000-08:00

I shall always remember my first holiday abroad without my parents. With their blessing and money to pay for my first holiday without them in tow, I went to Italy with a couple of close girlfriends. One of them was Sally, my very best friend who lived round the corner. She had mini-skirts up to her eyeballs, had long black hair down to her bottom and had all the boys chasing her. She was a chainsmoker and was a barrel of laughts. Christie, on the other hand was so beautiful, that a legitimate film producer once stopped her in the street and asked her if she would like to be in his new movie. Unfortunately, she had very strict Catholic parents who forbid her to follow this opportunistic lead, and insisted she stay on at secretarial college. Christie was very quiet and never said a word, which suited me fine as I liked to do all the talking. Her beauty attracted the boys, but my chat made sure they stayed.

Unfortunately, shortly before we all went on holiday together, Sally fell in love, obsession more like it, with a cool boy who was simply not interested in her. She could have had any boy she wanted, except for this one. He did lead her on a bit though, and once asked her to go to a party with him where they danced cheek to cheek for the entire evening. He never called her again. After we bought our airplane tickets, Sally announced she didn’t want to go on holiday, as she was moping around for this unattainable boy. Like idiots, Christie and I persuaded her to come on holiday with us, saying a trip abroad without our nagging parents would do her the world of good.

What a killjoy Sally turned out to be, which just proves you don’t really know what anyone is like until you go on holiday with them. We all stayed in a little hotel by the Adriatic, but while Christie and I went out during the day and night, feasting on pasta and trying to learn the Italian lingo, Sally insisted on staying cooped up in her room, chain-smoking and constantly moaning how depressed she was.

Before this holiday, Sally had been my best friend and confidant. And, Christie had merely been a beautiful sphinx, but on holiday, Christie turned out to be a gas. We ganged up against Sally, both agreeing what a pain in the neck she was. But, we didn't let her ruin our holiday. Christie and I fell in with a gang of Italian boys, whose handbags were more chic than ours. We slobbed out on the beach with them every day and fried in the sun. 'Bella! Bella!' they cooed when we turned lobster red. Once, Sally deigned to join us on the beach, but she was so miserable, that she started to cry. She looked like a big panda after her five layers of non-waterproof mascara ran down her cheeks. 'Bruto!' our new Italian friends exclaimed with disgust.

Going to Italy without my parents for the first time was a lesson. I knew what my parents were like, so I knew what to expect. But after the Sally fiasco, I was very careful not to go on holiday with a best friend ever again, for fear of falling out with them.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2007

2007-01-18T12:07:00.000-08:00

Summer Holidays

2007-01-18T12:01:00.000-08:00

I used to go away with my parents every summer until I was sixteen. That was when I didn’t want to go away with them any more. I wanted to go away with my friends. But, I used to go on wonderful European holidays with my family while I was a child. Paris, Venice, Switzerland, Italy and many times to Corfu before it was spoilt by package holiday tourism.

Before my parents decided to explore Europe, we went to Belgium every summer for years. My two sisters and I squeezed in the back of Mum and Dad’s tiny Austin 7 (the luggage was on the roof rack) and drove all the way to Belgium after getting off the ferry. Oh, how I hated that ferry. I used to spend the entire journey being sick over the ship’s rails. I used to pity those poor fishes in the sea.

We used to stay in a hotel in Le Coq. I don’t remember anything about the hotel but I do remember Belgium chips with mayonnaise, which were the most delicious thing I had ever devoured in my entire life. But, the beach was where it was at! All the kids on the beach used to make paper flowers and arrange them in pretty patterns on the sand. And, every day there was a competition to see who had the best arrangements. Some of the paper flowers were spectacular. That was because some of the kids had artistic parents who made them. Mum wasn't an artist, but worked very hard at making our paper flowers, but none of them ever came out quite right. They didn’t even look like flowers, but resembled clumps of messy lumps of coloured tissue.

My sisters and I couldn’t speak French, let alone Flemish, so we felt a bit out of it. Most of the other children on the beach were Belgium and couldn’t speak a word of English. However, when my cousins and their parents (my aunt and uncle) joined us on holiday, my sisters and I were suddenly part of the In crowd. For, my cousins lived in Brussels and could speak fluent French, so they acted as our translators. Even their parents, my aunt and uncle were bilingual which suited me fine. For my aunt used to manage to barter all of Mum’s home made paper flowers on the beach, not for shells, but for gigantic portions of chips and mayo.

It was the perfect holiday, especially when a gorgeous looking blond boy called Francois set up his flower patch next to ours. We immediately became best friends and I actually learned to speak French in order to communicate with him, my first crush. Also, his paper flowers on his patch were easily the best on the beach. He made them all, and created new ones every night. He had to, for his flowers always sold out during the day. I thought I would be friends with him for life, but when I returned to England, we didn’t write to each others as we promised. If we had met in the digital age, we undoubtedly would still be corresponding by Skpe, Chat or e-mail. However, whenever I see some paper flowers, they always remind me of him, and the purple paper water lily he used to wear in his long, blond hair.

Copyhright; Frances Lynn, 2006

2007-01-14T09:16:00.001-08:00

The Clunky Red Shoes

2007-01-14T09:11:00.000-08:00

When I was about twelve, Mum bought me a pair of hideous red shoes which I loathed with a passion. They were so clunky, I doubt that even Little Red Riding Hood would have worn them. Nowadays, they would probably be really fashionable, but in those days they were the kiss of death. I remember being in love with a dainty pair of black patent high-heeled shoes which were really grown-up, but Mum didn’t like them. She said they looked cheap and nasty. My grandmother had bought them for me when she took me shopping once. I don’t know if it was because Mum hadn’t forgiven grandma for buying me a cheap dolls pram, which had sliced my face open when my sisters pushed me into it, or what. But, she hated these shoes so much, she forbid me to wear them Out. That’s the reason why she bought me those hideous red shoes to wear. I never had reason to be devious before, but Mum made me act behind her back for the first time in my life. When she used to drive me to friends’ tea parties, I’d hide my black patent shoes in my big bag, and dutifully wear the red clodhoppers. Then, as soon as I’d get to my destination, I’d change my shoes in the loo, before anyone could see me in them. Then, just before Mum came to collect me, I’d secretly change back into my red clodhoppers and wait for her to pick me up outside the house. Twice, my crafty plan went wrong. Once, my friends caught me out wearing the red shoes before I had time to change them, and when I confessed Mum had bought them for me, they laughed themselves stupid. And the other time, Mum arrived early at a party to pick me up and caught me out wearing my black patent shoes, while I was playing a game of 'Hide The Parcel'. That was when she discovered I had lied to her for the first time. And, it wouldn’t be the last time either. For when I discovered boys, I had very good reason to lie to Mum, as she hated some of the boys I had a crush on, as much as I hated those ghastly red shoes.

Copyright: Frances Lynn 2006.

2007-01-10T15:13:00.001-08:00

The Gang

2007-01-10T15:07:00.000-08:00

I used to be part of a large gang who consisted mainly of boys from the local school. But, I had my fave raves. First, there was Steve, a supercilious, cool blond who was too high and mighty to ask a girl out. He didn’t have too, as all the girls were crazy about him, and asked him out all the time. He always abruptly said no. Then, there was Roger, an intellectual communist who looked like a shrivelled monkey, and last but not least was Rob, a sardonic and sarcastic Madonna of the masculine sex. He was rude and cynical and all the girls were terrified of him. He was also a bit of a devil. Once, he told me to meet him at a party in the suburbs on a Saturday night, so I got my dad to drive me there, but when he dropped me off in the middle of manicured lawn nowhere, the parents at the supposed party venue informed me there was a mistake. There was no party there. Thank you Rob, I don't think, especially as I had to bus it home dressed up in my priceless, stolen Biba trouser suit.

Every Saturday night, the gang would all, without fail meet outside the local coffee bar, and swap addresses for parties to crash. If I was lucky, I would get to ride on the back of Steve’s souped up scooter, or if I wasn’t lucky, get squashed in the back of Roger’s mother’s filthy mini. Once, I even had a boy-friend who had a jeep, and sometimes twenty of us would clamber in, and roar up and down Kings Road. It’s amazing we were never arrested, especially as one poor young boy couldn’t hold his liquor and would consistently vomit noisily out of the window, splattering the human peacocks on the streets. Yes, those were the days, but I had to cool it with that crowd, when late one evening, my boyfriend somehow managed to crash into a pond near Hampstead Heath. That was the end, as we were stopped by the police. Actually, I would have continued to ride around in the jeep, sitting in the front seat like the Queen of Sheba for longer, but my boy-friend allowed a sly blonde girlfriend of mine to hog the front seat instead. I was so jealous, that I asked Steve, Roger and Rob to help me climb up the drainpipe to her bedroom window, in order to cut off her pony tail while she slept. But the boys told me they didn’t think it was a good idea. ‘We’re not mountaineers,’ they sneered.

Copyright; Frances Lynn, 2006

2007-01-09T14:28:00.001-08:00

My ex-boyfriend

2007-01-09T14:27:00.000-08:00

I once had an eccentric boyfriend who tunelessly played sitar and was a Macrobiotic nut. He tried to educate me to his way of hippy drippy thinking, saying I was ‘yang’ and should eat ‘ying’ food. I didn’t know what he was going on about, but pretended to be wildly enthusiastic at his eccentric views on eating. He was very good looking, so I just looked at his double eyelashes, smiled and said nothing. I even pretended to worship the disgusting grub at the local Macrobiotic restaurant he used to drag me to, which was full of longhaired men and women who all looked like they were dying of consumption. And, they way they greedily tucked into their brown rice, they behaved like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. ‘You’re a true Macrobiotic, because you eat such small mouthfuls,’ my boyfriend used to say admiringly. Little did he realise that the reason I pecked daintily at the food, was because I thought it was truly revolting. Give me a juicy steak and French fries any day, but naturally I kept my mouth shut when I wasn’t elegantly thrusting dainty globs of mushy muck down my throat.

I wasn’t concerned about not having a good meal when I went out with him, because as soon as I returned home that evening, I devoured the contents of the fridge to make up for my lack-lustre meal. He was very hippy-drippy, for he loved to predict his fortune every day by throwing some rusty coins on top of his smelly copy of the I Ching, which he described as the book of changes. I didn’t understand why he did this on a daily basis as I could have told him he would never change. I didn't have to be a fortune teller to predict what his future would be: twanging his sitar in bed and picking fungi mushrooms out of his nylon bed sheets. If all that wasn’t dreary enough, he also quoted long incomprehensible passages from another hippy trippy book, “The Tibetan book Of The Dead’ in a reverential tone like he was in a cathedral. If he had recited chapters from a chick lit novel, I would have been interested, but I concealed my boredom by removing a chiffon scarf from his lampshade and wrapped it round my head, so he woldn't see me yawning. But, he was so gorgeous – he had long curly blond hair and saucer big blue eyes - I forgave him everything, and that’s why I went out with him for a week. I might have gone out with him a bit longer, but when he started to light joss sticks, kneel down and chant for hours like a demented, howling wolf, that was the end forever.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2007-01-06T09:59:00.001-08:00

Pep Pills

2007-01-06T09:35:00.000-08:00

I fantasised about becoming a beatnik after I left school, even though beatniks ‘dug’ jazz and were so old fashioned, they were already stagnating in the dodo-dead Age of bebop. I visualised myself wearing a black and white striped Matelot top, a black beret and long black dirty hair, while reading extensionalist literature, lying down on my unmade bed. It really was all a fantasy, because I don’t have black hair. I could have dyed it coal-black I suppose, like Goths do nowdays. But, my hair was mousey, and I wanted to be a platinum blonde. At school, I poured a bottle of peroxide over my head, which made my hair go a luminous green. In the sunlight, it looked like I had a frizz of spinach on my head.

I used to be bonkers about pop music, and loved to read about pop stars in the cool teen magazines of the day. I had no intention of taking drugs like my idols did while I was at school, but I must have been very influenced by their illegal habits. For, I do remember buying Pro Plus pills to help me keep awake all night while I was cramming for my exams. And, when my mother was trying to lose weight and went to one of the fashionable slimming doctors in Harley Street, without her knowing, I helped myself to some of her prescribed slimming pills. As a result, I was speeding for days, which was very convenient, as to Mum's delight, I fanatically cleaned my bedroom for hours.

After I left school, it was the vogue for teenagers to go to slimming doctors too, especially if they had become engaged and wanted to look svelte on their big wedding day. I’ve always been slim, but I never felt skinny enough in the Sixties, so once without Mum knowing, I made an appointment with an expensive slimming doctor, whom all my friends recommended. What a quack. He injected me (with what I never knew) through my tights and gave me some slimming pills, which unfortunately weren’t as powerful as the ones I had stolen from Mum. By this time, her slimming doctor had been struck off, and this doctor I went to soon got struck off as well, shortly after my appointment in fact. And, I’m not surprised.

I was ordered to eat grapefruit and hard boiled eggs for a year, which I did for almost one day. But, I was so ravenous that after midnight, I sneaked down to the kitchen and wolfed down the remains of Mum’s Cordon Bleu chicken pie, which she had served at her dinner party the night before. And, I didn’t even like her fancy pie, what with all that yucky, gooey mushroom sauce she drenched the shredded chicken in. So much for that fancy slimming doctor. I felt very bad tempered and jittery after I went to see him, and couldn’t stop eating for a week. I only forced myself to stop when I went shopping and saw my podgy reflection in the changing room mirror. But, a good thing came out of it. I was never tempted to take another slimming pill for the rest of my life. There was no need, especially when I discovered Macrobiotics. I discovered that if I only ate brown rice for a week and smoked like a chimney, I might not have been able to walk up the hill, but I looked pleasingly skeletal.

Copright: Frances Lynn 2006

2007-01-03T08:04:00.000-08:00

Giving Up Sugar

2007-01-03T07:20:00.000-08:00

I should have done a PhD on Chocolate. I knew more about chocolate bars than anyone I knew. I was a chocolate fiend and gourmet. I knew exactly how long it took to fry a Mars Bar to perfection, so that it became almost too gooey to eat. Once when I went swimming with a chocoholic friend, we had a competition. Whoever named the most chocolate bars, while we were ploughing up and down the pool in the fast line, would win a chocolate bar of our own choice. I won (a rich Cadbury Creme egg) easily. ‘Galaxy, Caramac, Turkish Delight, Cadbury's Fruit & Nut, Rolos, Lion bars, Curly Wurlys, Bounty, Milky Bars, mint Aeros, Walnut Whips,’ we intoned. But when I said ‘Crunch’ on our final lap, I knew I was the victor.

I’ve always had an uncontrollable sweet tooth, so the year after I miraculously managed to stop smoking, I decided to cut out sugar. I was so used to clutching a cigarette, that I found I didn’t know what to do with my hands when I was no longer waving my cancer stick around in the air for dramatic effect, or shoving the cigarette into my mouth for another salacious puff. I also discovered another disadvantage after quitting nicotine, cold turkey. I was actually tasting my food for the first time in years, savouring every mouthful. My escalating daily consumption of cheap chocolate tasted so yummy, I became obsessed with the delicious stuff. At hourly intervals, I would slope off to the local newsagent and stock up on all my favourite candy bars, then guiltily devour them before I returned home. ‘Oink Oink Squeal Squeal’ should have been my middle name.

Chocolate didn’t make me fat, but it gave me peculiar side effects. After compulsively stuffing my face on sweets, I found myself unable to think. I also developed loads of unappetising, bulging red spots on my face. Not a pretty sight. And, although I thrived on my immediate sugar rush after gobbling my contraband chocolate, a short time later I would usually feel so lethargic, I had to force myself to consume another Bounty bar or an equally sickly chocolate bar to rise my energy levels. Unfortunately, chocolate wasn’t the only sugary food I was addicted to. I was mad about cakes, and craved biscuits so badly, that if there was a packet of my favourite custard creams in the house, I was unable to rest until I had consumed the entire packet. Just before I had made up my mind to cut out sugary food from my diet for life, I binged on as many chocs I could sink my decaying fangs into. Then after that fatal New Year’s Eve when I obliterated sugar from my existence, I felt so poorly, I was forced to lie down in a darkened room for a week with a blinding headache. I wasn’t afflicted with a brain tumour. According to my doctor, my rocking head was due to all the toxics coming out of my body. Yuck!

I'm extremely proud that I no longer devour sweets, but I make an exception to Belgian chocolates at Christmas, which must be the sickliest chocs known to a demented sugarholic, like myself.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2007-01-02T11:20:00.000-08:00

New Year's Resolution

2007-01-02T11:08:00.000-08:00

This year is the first January I haven’t made any New Year resolutions because for the first time in my life, I can’t think of any. When I used to smoke, at every New Year’s Eve party I would luxuriously take my last desperate puff on a cigarette one second before midnight, shlurp from a proffered glass of champagne, then feel so light-headed from the bubbly, would mindlessly accept a cigarette. Having completely forgotten I had vowed to stop on the stroke of midnight, I would mindlessly puff away, scattering the ash on bystanders’ hair, before realising with horror I had already broken my new year’s resolution, knowing that I would be psychologically unable to stop the filthy habit until the following New Year’s Eve.

I finally did manage to kick the disgusting habit when I was grown-up. I started smoking when I was at school, because I was convinced that if I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to eat anything. I’ve always been naturally thin, but when I was a schoolgirl, being thin wasn’t good enough. In those far off days, Fashion dictated that you had to resemble a fragile elf in order to squeeze your shoulders into a garment cut so small, that the arms were no larger than a thimble.

I smoked for years, but unlike some of my hooked contemporaries never inhaled the smoke into my lungs, but instead puffed furiously away, which made me permanently look like a demented shuttlecock. Funnily enough, I was never a fan of smoking, because I was always conscious that my hair and clothes used to stink like an old ashtray. But, luckily for me everyone else used to stench like an old ashtray too, because in the Old Days, everyone smoked. If you didn’t have a cigarette drooping out of your mouth at all hours, people thought you were a drip and a weirdo.

Naturally, I didn’t tell my parents I smoked. Dad was glued to his pipe and as a result, all the ceilings in the house were stained orange from the nicotine, but he didn't care. Mum stopped smoking when she watched a scary programme on TV, which proved that smoking gives you lung cancer. She would have been furious if she realised I was secretly puffing away in my bedroom while blowing the smoke out of the window. Unknown to her, I used to wake up first thing in the morning, retch my guts out, then light up a cigarette before breakfast. I was so addicted that even when I was afflicted with bronchitis and was unable to walk up the stairs, the doctor warned me if I didn’t stop smoking, I would die. But, his prophecy of doom didn't stop me puffing away. When I used to smoke during my teens, it was impossible to give up. Smoking used to be allowed everywhere: on the tube, upstairs on buses, in restaurants, pubs, and in every public place imaginable which included the cinema. I recollect with gruesome nostalgia that when I went to the movies, I could just make out the screen during a fog of blue tinged cigarette smoke. Those were the days - not! But, after I finally stopped smoking by sheer will power, I blew out as I compulsively substitued grub for nicotine. After I had stopped smoking for a year, my next New Year resolution was to stop gobbling chocolate, which was the hardest thing, I ever had to do.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-12-16T08:09:00.000-08:00

Christmas

2006-12-16T07:20:00.000-08:00

I used to love Christmas, especially when I woke up on Christmas day and saw a bulging stocking at the foot of my bed. Even when my grumpy middle sister informed me Father Christmas didn’t exist, I continued to be excited. Before I realised that boys were a different species, one of the best and worst Christmases I ever had was when Mum and Dad gave my two sisters and myself a hoola hoop for Christmas. The hoola hoop craze had just hit the United Kingdom, and it was one of the happiest moments in my life when I woke up and saw my shocking pink hoola hoop lying at the foot of my bed. My sisters were also given one, and Mum even bought one for herself. So, there we all were hoola hooping like crazy and whooping like there was no tomorrow.

After all the excitement, Mum cooked the most enormous goose, and a bucket of roast potatoes cooked in goose fat for lunch. If all that wasn’t stomach churning enough, dad then poured so much brandy over the Christmas pudding, it caught fire and for a horrible moment I thought that we would have to call the fire brigade. But luckily, dad ran out into the concrete garden, carrying the flaming pudding, still on its silver tray and threw the pudding onto the ground. Mum was furious as she had made the pudding herself, and we all ended up eating tinned peaches, but I didn’t mind as I didn’t fancy burnt pud, thank you very much.

In the evening my two sisters were chasing me round the room and pushed me on top of a dolls pram, which my grandmother had bought me for Christmas. It must have been very cheap as the pram had knife-sharp edges, and although I didn’t know it at the time, the side of my face sliced open like a split watermelon. Funnily enough, I didn’t feel a thing, but I knew something was disastrously wrong when I ran into the kitchen and saw Mum drop the frying pan (she was warming up the chestnuts).

Poor Mum almost had a heart attack. She was so shocked, she couldn't even scream, but looked all peculiar - like she had seen a ghost. She had the sense to turn off the gas, and then wrapped my face in a tea towel. Luckily, she had a doctor friend who lived in the neighbourhood, and called him up pronto. Even though it was Christmas day, he agreed to see me straight away. Poor Mum drove like a maniac to the doctor’s house, managing to hold my face together with the tea towel. She probably would have been arrested these days, as she only had one hand on the steering wheel.

The doctor was very nice and cracked stupid jokes, while he stitched me up. He said I was very brave and gave me a huge helping of homemade Christmas pudding, which he said was full of coins. I found loads of them and was so happy, although Mum wasn’t, as the doctor had stitched up the side of my face like it was a piece of leather or something. In fact, Mum and Dad wanted me to have plastic surgery to make the bumpy stitches look smoother, but I was having none of it. Nobody could see my stitches anyway unless my face blew out after I had eaten a lot of walnut cake. Then, they bulged along my jawbone like a pink row of mangled chewing gum.

After the accident, my parents made a huge fuss over me, and my sisters were full of remorse. They even gave me their precious packets of lemon sherbet which had been stuffed in our Christmas stockings as a treat. So, all in all it had been a very profitable Christmas even though I must admit, I did end up looking a bit wonky.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-12-11T11:33:00.000-08:00

Tap Dancing Karma

2006-12-11T11:28:00.000-08:00

I was so hell-bent on becoming a good tap dancer that I secretly attended the beginner’s tap class at the Dance Centre. It was held at the same time as the advanced class, but the advanced class was held in a big studio on the first floor, while the beginner’s tap class was held in a tiny studio in the basement. It was really like having a private lesson, because there were only four of us in the class. The middle-aged teacher was a patient man, and didn’t get angry when we couldn’t master the steps or the simple routines he tried to teach us. Beverley and Stacey, my school friends didn’t know I was learning how to tap in secret, and once when I bumped into them in the changing room, they asked me what I was doing there. I lied and said I was going to do a modern jazz class. Luckily, I hadn’t put my new tap shoes on yet. I was so enthusiastic about learning tap, that I had begged my Mum to buy me a pair of red tap shoes from Gamba for Christmas, even though it was nine months away. They were my prized possession.

Soon, I had enough confidence to infiltrate the advanced tap dancing class, and sure enough when I made my grand entrance, there were Beverley and Stacey hogging the front row.
‘What are you doing here?’ Stacey sneered.
‘The same as you,’ I replied.
The last time I disgraced myself in the advanced class, I wore a pair of shabby jeans, but this time I made sure I was dressed in proper dancing gear: black knitted bell-bottoms and a shiny black leotard top - another early Christmas present from Mum. So, here I was harmoniously blending in with the In crowd.

I still wasn’t confidant to stand at the front with my old school friends, but stood in the row behind them. Let them look at my reflection I thought, but just before the class started, a late arrival, an extraordinary creature who was at least six foot tall, barged in and stood directly in front of me. He was dressed up like a daffodil, and had ringletted hair which stuck out at a one hundred and degree angle, so that I was unable to see the teacher – but looking on the bright side – she couldn’t see me. The creature must have been a pop star or something as Beverley and Stacey were all over him, but he was very cool and ignored them. I don't think he intentionally meant to be rude. It was like he was from another planet.

The class went very well and I was delighted I could keep up with the tap toe steps, then at the end – the teacher told us all to partner up. I was amazed when the creature turned round and asked me to team up with him. Beverley and Stacey’s mouths hung open, and they didn’t seem too happy when they were stuck partnering each other. The creature and I then tapped together in front of the whole class, and everyone, apart from Beverley and Stacey applauded. After the class, the creature asked me out for a cup of tea, but I didn’t ask my old school friends to join me. After all, they hadn't invited me out after I had embarrassed myself, when I was a complete beginner in the advanced class.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-12-08T08:56:00.000-08:00

My Old School Friends

2006-12-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

Stacey and Beverley were my two best friends at boarding school, but when I left, I didn’t think I would see them again, as they lived in the Midlands and I lived in London. But how wrong could I be? A few months later, I bumped into Beverley in High Street Kensington one afternoon. She still had long blonde hair, which she was swishing all over the place like a big pendulum, but she had changed. She no longer chewed gum, but smoked furiously instead, and had her head on one side, while fluttering her eyelashes at the boys who were passing by. I thought she was behaving like a daft monster, but the boys all smiled at her, so I thought she must be doing something right. After we had finished flinging our arms around each other, she stamped her feet on the pavement a few times.
‘Did you tread on some chewing gum?’ I asked.
‘No. I’m practicising my tap. Do you want to come tap dancing with me?’ she asked.
Naturally, I said yes, even though I didn’t possess any tap shoes.
‘Do you see Stacey at all?’ I asked.
‘Of course. All the time. Her father got her a wonderful job in London in public relations,’ she said.
That’s funny, I thought. Stacey used to be stout and have red hair, and I couldn’t picture her having a glamorous job.
‘She’s going to be at the tap class, so we’ll all have a class reunion,’ Beverley said.
At the Dance Centre, I borrowed a pair of tap shoes which were much too big for me, and stood at the back of the class so I could copy everybody. When the teacher arrived, she stood behind me, which I thought was a bit peculiar.
‘Everyone turn round and face me,’ she announced.
I could have died with embarrassment, for I was now in the front row and had nowhere to hide. Also, I had nobody in front of me to copy. Mind you, there were big mirrors on the walls, and I saw that Beverley was right behind me, so I decided to copy her reflection in the mirror. I just prayed that nobody would realise I was a complete beginner.
‘You! Are you a beginner?’ the teacher shouted, pointing at me.
‘Yes,’ I mumbled, flushing bright red.
And, then I saw a flash of red hair behind me. It was Stacey who was pushing her way to the front row until she was standing next to me. I hardly recognised her. She had lost a lot of weight and looked like a fashion model.
‘Long time no see,’ she sneered, slowly looking me up and down, which was unfortunate as I was wearing a pair of faded jeans. Everyone else in the class was wearing professional looking dance costumes. Stacey's hair was redder than ever, and she had an enormous pair of gold hoop earrings clipped in her ears. She had masses of makeup plastered over her face, and was dressed in a scarlet shiny leotard, with a pair of matching coloured leg-warmers clutching her thighs.
‘You look so different,’ I gasped.
‘I had a nose job for my birthday.’
‘One, two, three!’ boomed the teacher.
I had no idea what I was doing, and tried to copy Stacey out of the corner of my eye. She was a natural, and was such a good tap dancer she could have partnered Fred Astaire. I could also observe Beverley‘s smug reflection in the mirror, and saw that she knew what she was doing, which was more that could be said for me. I was a disaster, and after I had banged into Stacey for the twentieth time (she actually swore at me), the teacher took me aside.
‘You don’t belong here, this is an advanced class. Go to the back,’ she said rudely.
I swore that Stacey smirked, while Beverley looked at me with condescending pity. It was at that moment in time, that I realised my school days were definitely over, for I could see the girls were no longer my best friends, especially after they sneaked out to have a coffee together after the class without asking me.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-12-06T09:40:00.000-08:00

Walking The Dogs

2006-12-06T09:31:00.000-08:00

I used to take Honey and Sophy for long walks round Regents Park, which is a good fifteen minutes from where I live. Us three always used to go by foot to the park (we never caught the bus), but I didn’t mind as I knew that walking on the pavement was good for the dog's toenails. There were dogs of all shapes and sizes in the park, and Honey and Sophy used to know them all. They all used to run towards each other, wagging their tales and barking, except Honey and Sophy didn’t bark much – they were too refined! I used to know all the dogs’ owners in the park. Paul McCartney has a house nearby, so he was always there walking his sheepdog. He was nice and friendly and always smiled at my dogs and I always used to smile at his dog, who seemed nice but was not nearly as delectable as my whippets. Paul even asked a friend of my mum’s to go with him someplace in the country so they could run their dogs around there, but my friend’s Mum was an old fogey who didn’t realise he was a Beatle so turned down his invitation. She thought he wanted to get off with her, which was ridiculous as Paul was young enough to be her son. I even got friendly with an old gangster in the park – well I didn’t know if he was a real gangster, but he wore knuckle-dusters, and had huge Great Danes which he said guarded his house day and night.

Mum loved our whippets so much, she even raced them outside London. She had quickly dumped her dreams of showing them at Crufts dog show, when she was told that their ears stuck up too much. They weren’t pedigree enough. Honey and Sophy loved racing, and so did Mum, as she was the only lady who raced her dogs. All the other whippet owners were men who wore caps, drank out of hip flasks, and rolled up their cigarettes with a vengeance. Yes, it was great having dogs as you always had a wonderful excuse to speak to other people who had four legged best friends. Mind you, the owners never looked at each other, but just looked at each other’s canine pets all the time.

After Honey died in his dog basket during the night (I still can't bear to think about it), Sophy got a bit peculiar and hated being left alone in the house by herself. She used to cry and cry until one of us returned to give her another bowl of water and a doggy chocolate drop. All the neighbours used to complain about Sophy’s crying but there was nothing we could do about it.

I used to look after some black lurchers (they were a cross between greyhounds and whippets), who belonged to some friends who lived up the road. Once I even slept in their house while they were away. It was bonfire night, so I went out to a fireworks party, but felt very worried about leaving the lurchers alone in the house, especially as I knew that the eldest dog hated fireworks. In fact, I had a intuition that something was wrong, so I left the party early and hurried back to the house. My worst fears were realised. The police were outside. Apparently, the dogs had gone berserk and had somehow managed to set off the alarm bell, which had been ringing since I left. They were so relieved to see me and I was so relieved it wasn’t a burgulary – the police had come in with me to check that nothing had been stolen, I cooked a filet steak which was festering in the fridge, and gave it to the dogs for their dinner. I then fed them both loads of doggy chocolate drops and allowed them both to sleep in my bed. Luckily, they weren’t sick. After the owners came back, I bumped into them in the street. They were with the lurchers who jumped up all over me and cried and sobbed when the owners led them away. I used to love those lurchers, but they weren’t nearly as adorable as Honey and Sophy.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-12-04T11:19:00.000-08:00

2006-12-04T11:17:00.000-08:00

My Pet Whippets

2006-12-04T11:08:00.000-08:00

The first dog that my parents had before I was born was a black cocker spaniel called Sammy, who swallowed a stone and died. Mum wasn’t sad as she said he was a stupid dog and used to run round in circles all the time. Also, she never forgave him for leaping up onto the dining room table, and devouring the Christmas lunch one year. After Sammy died, Mum said she never wanted a spaniel ever again – she wanted a dog with brains, so the next dog she got was a whippet. She and Dad drove out to the country to look at a litter of puppies and came home with a male pup which Mum, and Dad named Honey. Honey was a noble dog and I loved him to bits. Mum then got another whippet to keep Honey company, but he was a naughty dog and got knocked down by a car. Luckily, he only broke a leg, but kept chewing at his bandage and got gangrene, so he had to be put down. Then, Mum bought another whippet but she couldn’t stand it. It had a beastly temperament, so Mum gave it away. Then, Mum and Dad hit the jackpot and bought a bitch that they christened Sophy. Both our whippets were brindle coloured and they loved each other. Every morning and afternoon, without fail – Mum used to take Honey and Sophy out for a walk round Regents Park. But, bystanders didn’t like it when they chased after and caught squirrels. ‘They’re rats with a tail,’ Mum used to say. Mum loved Sophy the best, but I adored Honey. He was an asristocratic dog and was very distinguished looking. Sophy was a mummy’s dog. She glued herself to Mum’s side all the time. Even when she was in the park, she always used to return to Mum’s side after chasing another dog or running in and out of the lake.

One morning, I woke up to hear a terrible crying. I went downstairs to find Sophy lying on top of Honey’s body, crying the house down. My favourite dog had died of a heart attack. He was only seven. Seven must have been our dogs’ unlucky number because Sophy was only seven when she later died of some illness that made her too weak to walk. In the end, she just lay on Mum’s bed, feeling too wretched to even wag her tail. After Mum took Sophy to the vet to have her put down for dog-humane reasons, she was too upset to get another dog again. But, she said that if she did, she would get a greyhound from a greyhound rescue centre, who would need lots of love and affection.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-12-01T03:18:00.000-08:00

School friends

2006-12-01T03:02:00.000-08:00

When I was at boarding school, I had two best friends, Stacey and Beverley. Stacey had red hair and was rather stout, but Beverley was skinny and had long blond hair, which she swished around a lot. My boarding school was in the Midlands but as I lived in London, I didn’t see my parents very much during term time. They usually managed to take me out for one weekend during term, which used to be a real treat. They usually stayed in the local hotel and always treated me to a slap-up dinner. One weekend, they even brought our two whippets, Honey and Sophie, but unfortunately the dogs managed to get into a private field and chased a sheep. The farmer was furious and wanted to shoot our pets on the spot, which would have made me very sad, but Mum and Dad talked them out of it, I don’t know how. My parents said they would never live in the country, as you couldn't take your dogs for a walk without somebody threatening to kill them.

Unfortunately, Mum and Dad were unable to take me out often, as it was inconvenient for them. It was a long drive up from London, so I had to rely on my friends to take me out on exiats, which was no hardship. Beverley lived next door to the Morgan car family, and if only I had been interested in cars then, I would have been impressed to see the handsome young Morgan heir tinkering underneath his Morgan sports car. She also used to live in Stratford, and knew everyone when we went for walks through the town, and that included the Shakespearean actors, which I found terribly exciting even though Beverley didn’t seem to think so. She just swished her long hair and furiously chewed gum. Stacey’s parents were ‘nouveau riche' as Mum described them, but I had no idea what it meant as they had an indoor swimming pool and always took us out to expensive restaurants.

My other best friend at school was an American girl called Laurel. She lived with her parents and older brother in Knightsbridge. In the holidays, I once stayed at her family’s penthouse flat which was really glamorous, especially as her brother was dating a pop singer called Twinkle. Her mum even took us out to Harrods for lunch, and I had a Knickerbocker Glory, my favourite meal in those days. It was a bit embarrassing though, because when I invited Laurel back to stay at our house, I was desperate to give her a good time. But, David, the ‘clever dick’ round the corner refused to invite us to his fifteenth birthday party. He said we were too young , even though we were only one year younger than him. I suspect Laurel got rather fed up with walking round Regents Park and feeding the ducks with Mum’s stale Cordon Bleu chicken pie. After all, she used to walk round her local Hyde Park a lot. Also, Mum and Dad didn’t take us out to a restaurant, but made us eat Mum’s French muck at home. Laurel must have been bored stiff staying at my place, as she never invited me to stay in Knightsbridge again, and even stopped sitting next to me in Maths at school.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-11-29T03:00:00.000-08:00

School Food

2006-11-29T02:51:00.000-08:00

Food was the most important thing at boarding school because you didn’t get enough of it. Well, you did if you were passionate about stodge. After every measly portion of congealed meat and veg at mealtimes, there would be a dish of stodge to fill you up. ‘Stodge, glorious stodge,’ we used to sing tunelessly when it was dished up time and time again. Today, I would surely gobble up similar deserts that my school dished out on a regular basis, but in those days I didn’t appreciate the relentless steam puddings that the cook made with her own hands. But, at least stodge was edible compared to the tadpole muck which the school habitually dished out after the slimy fish on Fridays, for your sins!

At the start of each term, Mum used to lovingly pack my trunk with loads of sweets, commonly known as ‘tuck’. But, as soon as I arrived at school, my housemistress would confiscate my goodies, dishing out my sticky sweets to me once a week, usually on Sundays. There wasn’t any opportunity to munch in-between meals.

I used to beg Mum to make me a gooey cake on my birthdays. In those days there was a scrumptious “Fuller’s” walnut cake, which had a thick layer of ski slope white icing. Mum was a very good cake maker when she wasn’t experimenting with her Cordon Bleu yuck, and at my request, always tried to recreate this famous cake for me. It was yummy, but it was not quite as perfect as the real thing. However, when Mum posted me my birthday cake, which usually arrived in crumbs, my friends and I were allowed to devour it on the spot. If there was some of it left over, we used to have a midnight feast in my dormitory and if one of us had managed to steal some cold sausages from the larder, we were laughing.

On rare occasions, we were allowed to go for a supervised walk into town on a Saturday. I used to spend all my rationed pocket money on a slab of Edam cheese and was compelled to devour it before I got back to school, even though my teachers considered it a crime to eat food in the street. It was a shame I was unable to resist guzzling my newly bought cheese on the spot. It would have jazzed up the stale, sliced white bread which was dished up for tea every day. In winter, we played games straight after lunch, and in summer, we played games after tea, but whatever the season, all we could think about was food. But, we all tried to starve ourselves when the fashion suddenly dictated that teenage girls should be ultra thin. Quite a few pupils developed bulimia, especially the stupid girls who would stick their fingers down their throats and vomit up the sticky buns which were doled out at elevenses. One girl, who was so fanatical about not eating anything fattening – she even refused to eat the pastry on her pork pies - lost so much weight, she expired in her sleep. After that, the teachers tried to force-feed us at meal times. At kindergarten, I ingeniously stuffed the detested orange swede up my nostrils in order to avoid eating it, but at boarding school, it was difficult to avoid food at mealtimes. I was permanently starving, but resisted filling up with stodge, as I craved to be skinny. Once, I even threw my bowl of tinned fruit-salad at the girl opposite me, after I discovered the cook had put sugar in it. But, even though I tried to avoid fattening fodder like the plague, I still wasn’t as thin as Twiggy when I left school. That’s probably because I could never resist gobbling up my tuck when it was doled out at weekends.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-11-28T03:37:00.000-08:00

Games

2006-11-28T03:22:00.000-08:00

If you wanted to be popular at school, you had to be good at games. Luckily, I’ve always been sporty. At my first school, we used to do high jump in the summer and I once jumped so high, the games teacher ran out of holes on the poles for my next jump. I think that was my finest hour in sport. I enjoyed swimming, and even though I was unable to do the crawl and did breaststroke, I was always in the fast lane and God help anyone who got in my way. I might not have been the fastest swimmer in the school, but I was always picked for the school’s diving team. Not because I was a graceful diver, but because I had a secret weapon. I’ve got double-jointed arms, which meant I could never have been a ballet dancer, not that I ever wanted to be one. But, having funny looking arms came in very useful when I dived. I would climb up onto the diving board, slowly lift my arms up high above my head and pause for effect. Everyone would gasp with horror, and the judges were always so disturbed at the sight of my peculiar looking arms, they looked away, not seeing me bellyflop into the pool. I always got top marks.

I hated hockey because I was no good at it, but lacrosse was what I lived for. What a shame I never played it after I left school, but the lacrosse moves now come in very handy when I weave through the crowds on Oxford Street. When I was at school, we didn’t wear head shields when we played team sport. Mum was terrified I would get my teeth knocked out, and insisted I wore a gum shield when I played lacrosse, because she didn’t fancy paying a fortune at the dentist. But, I refused to wear one, as I didn’t want to be considered a sissy, but nobody ever broke my teeth or my nose. However, I broke several noses and cracked opponents’ heads as I charged around the field, like I was a crazed foot soldier on the battlefield. I even dislodged one girl’s row of teeth, poor goblin. She had frizzy hair and was stunted. Needless to say, she was useless at games and was the most unpopular girl at school. There she was, standing open mouthed in front of the goal, and I charged towards her and flung the ball out of my lacrosse stick. What a goal! The ball zoomed straight into her mouth. She wasn't wearing her gum shield, so looked even more grotesque after she had her false teeth fitted.

If I had dreamt about algebra equations instead of lacrosse, I might have done better in the dreaded Maths. But, I used to get such a thrill when I heard the headmistress read my name out aloud after morning prayers, when she was laboriously announcing the teams. But, the main bonus of playing in the school team was when you went to other schools to play, and devoured their fancy teas afterwards. All we got for tea at school was white, stale bread and mouldy jam. I always used to be ravenous after playing games, and once devoured an entire loaf for tea. Yes, my first love was lacrosse and I’ve still got my lacrosse stick to prove it.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-11-24T14:25:00.000-08:00

My Teachers Never Taught Me Anything

2006-11-24T13:13:00.000-08:00

The reason why Mum sent me away to boarding school was because her parents sent her away too. I was quite happy to leave the parental home when I was twelve, especially as Mum and Dad bought me a huge trunk to put all my school uniform, mufti, and a home made walnut cake in, which Mum made for me especially. Mum and Dad thought I was going to get the best education that money could buy. And, even though English boarding schools didn’t cost nearly as much as they do now, the fees were still quite a lot. My poor parents. They could have bought a holiday home with all the money they squandered on my private education. If they had foreseen that my sentence at public school was a complete waste of time and money, they would have erupted like Pompei.

My year was full of naughty girls who were away from home without parental supervision for the first time in their lives, and like me they were making the most of it. They were no longer the repressed, well-brought up little twerps like I was at the family residence. Now, we were all rebelling like there was no tomorrow. Our weak housemistress was used to looking after well-behaved ladies, not rabid, uncontrollable hooligans like us lot. After we put glue on the bannisters and raided the larder one night, she promptly had a severe nervous breakdown, and our matron had to stand in for her during her lengthy absence. From then on, there was blissful anarchy in our house, and we played pop music all night long. It was a miracle, we managed to dress ourselves in our dreary grey and maroon uniform each bleary morning, before we lurched like a chain gang through the town, to the school’s main building for our daily lessons.

Little did poor Mum and Dad suspect that being educated at my public boarding school was a complete fiasco. Our moronic teachers were completely useless. I have no idea which black hole the school’s governors dragged them out from, but I do know that none of them could teach for toffee. I specialised in languages at school, but my teachers were so hopeless, they might as well have resorted to communicate in sign language from the very start. Our German teacher was young and very wet. She was such an inadequate drip, she couldn’t teach us a thing, and after half a term, she had turned into a gibbering wreck, and was literally carried out of the classroom on a stretcher. ‘Ich liebe Sie nicht,’ she screamed after we drove her to clinical despair. Naturally, we all looked up what she had just yelled in our German dictionaries, because thanks to her bogus teaching, we didn't have a clue. ‘I don’t love you,’ we translated, which was fine by us, as we certainly didn’t love her one teeny-weeny bit. Although, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt a little guilty that we had forced her into a life of involuntary exile from the classroom.

My Latin teacher was made of sterner stuff. Her nickname was Latin Silly, and was such an antique, she was even old when she taught Mum the dodo dead language at school. Poor crone. She might have terrified my mother into parrot learning "The Iliad" off by heart, but by the time she tried to teach my contemporaries and myself, she was senile. However, I realised she was not that senile when she caught me reading a copy of ‘Teach Yourself Latin’ in class. In fact, she was very hurt and wept noisily on my shoulder, not a pleasant sensation as all her dandruff from her wiry grey hair fell onto my shoulders like a pyramid of dusty salt.

But, the worst teacher of all was our racist scripture teacher who had a wooden leg, wore an eyepatch and warned us that anyone who was a pagan should be burned at the stake. My friends and I kept very quiet, and after her excruciating class was finally over, bolted out into the school grounds and hugged a tree. Yes, I loved school, but not the teachers. They were all a load of charlatans, but I never told my parents, in case they sent me to another institution where I wouldn't get away with letting off stink bombs in Maths.

Copyright: Frances lynn, 2006

2006-11-22T16:10:00.000-08:00

My dyslexic cousin

2006-11-22T16:00:00.000-08:00

My middle-aged cousin is dyslexic, but when she was a young girl in the Sixties, no one really knew what that meant. All she knew was, she couldn’t read until she was fifteen. Her parents didn’t know what was wrong with her. They even sent her to a female child psychologist who didn’t spot her chronic dyslexia. This stupid woman even said that my cousin’s father was to blame for her inability to read, which was a ridiculous diagnosis as he was a kind old soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly. If my cousin's dyslexia had been diagnosed at the time, her life would have been very different. She could have gone to university and studied geography like she had always dreamed of doing. Her parents tried everything and sent her to lots of different schools, hoping she would learn something, but she couldn’t even read the blackboard. As far as she was concerned, the words were a big jumbled blur. In desperation, her parents even sent her to a private tutorial school, where the pupils were taught on a one to one basis, but even they didn’t spot what was wrong with her. My cousin was only there for a term and hated every moment of it. She just couldn’t grasp what she was being taught. She begged her parents to let her leave school altogether, as she was sick and tired of the whole trying to learn process. By this time, she was fourteen so her parents allowed her to leave. I was incredibly jealous that she didn’t have to do any more homework, or to sit exams. While I was slaving away in the classroom, she got a fun job working in the local market, selling second hand clothes to pop stars.

She was lucky, because she was finally taught to read by Mum's new cleaner, an out of work of actress, who suspected she wasn’t an imbecile, but was dyslexic. (Her daughter was dyslexic too). My cousin could have gone back to school if she had wanted to, but she started to educate herself by reading books on geography, and went on to have a successful career as a lecturer on cruise ships which went all over the world. What did she lecture on? Dyslexia of course. Although, she was now able to read fluently, due to her condition, she had a problem learning her words, so she made sure she taped all her lectures beforehand and learned them all parrot fashion. In the end, she also got married to a teacher whom she met on one of the cruises. He taught at the first dyslexic school in England. And, when she had children, the first thing she wanted to know after counting their toes, was – did they take after her? Were they also dyslexic? Because if they were, she wanted to make sure they wouldn't have to suffer at school like she did.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-11-22T15:27:00.000-08:00

2006-11-22T05:11:00.000-08:00

Other Peoples' Parents

2006-11-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

2006-11-15T05:26:00.000-08:00

Hunting

2006-11-15T05:01:00.000-08:00

I used to be mad about horses before I discovered boys. I learned how to ride at a riding school just outside London (the Hyde Park stables was too expensive). Mum thought she had gone to heaven when she discovered it. In my school holidays, she used to dump me there every morning and go off and play golf nearby. She also insisted on giving me a packed lunch, consisting of Cordon Bleu grub. I used to beg her to make me sandwiches like the other kids at the riding school had, but oh no! She had just completed her Cordon Bleu cookery class and refused to cook anything else. Naturally, I fed her muck to the horses as soon as she drove off. They seemed to appreciate it, but not my horse. On every riding course I did, I landed up with Nicholas, the slowest beast in the world. But, after I discovered he loved Turkish Delight, he would get lively and gallop along without my having to whip him on his big heavy flanks. Sometimes, I used to think that fat slob Nicholas was a reincarnation of Edmund in “The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe” – the boy who was corrupted by the Wicked Witch with Turkish Delight. Soon, Nicholas grew to love me. Every time he saw me, he threw back his head and whinnied loudly, Wendy, the butch riding instructor who shouted all the time, thought he was ill and never suspected I was feeding him Turkish Delight instead of carrots or sugar lumps.

Soon, I was judged an experienced enough rider to go hunting with The Pony Club. Naturally, Mum was terrified I would fall off and break my neck, but I persuaded her to let me go after I asked her to pack me a lunch of chicken Cordon bleu burgers, which she had just discovered how to make. On the great day, Mum dropped me off at the riding stables and I was glad I had bought along a box of Turkish Delight, as I was dumped with Nicholas again. We all got on our horses and followed Wendy on her Palomino pony – she was so heavy – it was a miracle the elegant beast didn’t collapse underneath her – to the nearest pub. All the braying grownups were dressed in red jackets, and the hounds were barking and yapping round the horses’ ankles. It was all quite exciting, especially when I was given a glass of sherry by one of the waitresses who was running around with little glasses of the stuff on a silver tray. I had never drunk alcohol before and immediately felt very happy, even though I was stuck with Nicholas. However, after I gave him a square of Turkish Delight, he perked up a bit and swished his long tail.

After we followed the Master, a grim looking man into the nearest field and started to hunt the poor little fox, Nicholas actually sailed over some high stone walls without tossing me off. But, I got carried away and fed him the rest of the chocolate all at once. Nicholas went bonkers and started to bolt – and with me clinging onto his neck for dear life, raced past the Master. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the most serious crime a rider can committ in the sport of hunting. ‘Stop!’ I heard Wendy bellow, but there was nothing I could do. Nicholas was bolting and whinnying, but I was unable to enjoy the ride. What would Mum say if I fell off and became paralysed, I kept thinking? Luckily, Nicholas slowed down after the effects of the Turkish Delight wore off, and although I didn’t have a clue where I was by this time, he seemed to follow the sound of the hunt’s bugles and made his way slowly back to the stables with me still on top. I felt exhausted by my ordeal, but at least I didn’t have to see the fox being torn apart into little pieces by the hounds.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-11-12T07:55:00.000-08:00

My First Snog

2006-11-12T07:25:00.000-08:00

I have no idea what I was wearing when I met my first snog. That’s probably because it was a long long time ago. I was thirteen, and had gone to Scotland on holiday with my parents so that they could play golf. Any excuse, and they whipped out their golf clubs faster than you could say ‘hole in one’. That was the year when my parents began to get on my nerves. I wished I was anywhere, but with them.

One evening, there was a stupid fancy dress competition at the hotel. I went as myself, but my younger sister dressed up as Edna Sharples, a character from Coronation Street. She wore a hairnet and an overall and never looked so ugly, but she was the one who went up to collect her prize, not me. And, she was welcome to it. I just kept wishing that I belonged to another family, not the boring one I belonged to. (I knew I wasn’t adopted because I had seen my birth certificate).
‘Why are you so round-shouldered,’ Mum constantly interrogated me.
‘Stand up straight. Don’t walk around with your head on one side,’ my dad kept saying, but I was beyond caring. I just kept wishing they would go away to Timbuktu and leave me all alone. Then, two days after our holiday began, a new family arrived at the hotel, and were seated at the table next to ours in the dining room. I didn’t notice the parents, but I noticed their son all right. He seemed suave and sophisticated and had a floppy fringe, which he flicked out of his eyes from time to time. He kept staring in my direction, and at first I thought he was looking at the girl behind me. But, when he gave me a big wink, I knew it was me he was looking at, so I gave him a big wink back. Mum and Dad kept telling me I was self-conscious and unnatural, but he didn’t seem to think so. In fact, he took quite a shine to me, and after dinner, asked me to go for a walk with him along the beach. I was fed up with Mum and Dad accusing me of thinking about myself all the time, so I said yes. Anything to get away from my boring parents, I thought.

Lover boy was called Laurence and was a year older than me. He seemed really grownup, especially when he lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring in my face. ‘Do you want a fag?’ he asked seductively, but as I didn’t know how to smoke, I sensibly declined. He kept winking at me and first I thought he had something in his eye, but I soon realised he was a cheeky imp. ‘Let’s lie down,’ he said smoothly, laying his sports jacket on the sand. I had nothing better to do, so did what he suggested. And, then out of the blue, he snogged me, and I snogged him right back. I think all that practising I did, kissing my pillow, pretending it was my favourite pop star helped me know what to do. Laurence snogged me for a long time, but I didn’t mind even though he tasted of scrambled egg which he must have gobbled for supper. I kept excitedly thinking I couldn’t wait to tell all my school friends I had kissed a boy, because I knew they hadn’t. But, horrors! Unknown to me, my parents and sister were looking out of the hotel’s bay window and saw me snogging away. I would never have known, but when I staggered into the hotel with sand in my skewiff hair, my sis told me what my family had witnessed. Luckily, my parents were too embarrassed to say anything. That’s probably because they had discovered I was a grown-up, even though I was still a pubescent. Funnily enough, they never accused me of being self-conscious ever again.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-11-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

My Favourite Outfit

2006-11-07T07:25:00.000-08:00

My favourite outfit of all time was a chocolate brown, crushed velvet trouser suit, which I bought from Biba. Mum and Dad gave me the money for my fifteenth birthday. Normally, Mum went clothes shopping with me, but this time I flatly refused. No way was I going to end up with one of those hideous tweed suits she always insisted on buying for me.

In those days, I had a very naughty friend called Trixy, who was a terrible influence on me, but, she was good fun. She always wore the most fashionable clothes, and I sometimes wondered where she got the money from, as her mother wasn't rich. In fact, Trixy once confided that her mother had been on benefits since her father had run off with an eighteen year old girl from our school.

When I asked Trixy to help me pick out a dress for my birthday, she was so excited that she dragged me all the way to Biba, not that I ever needed to be dragged there, as it was my favourite store in the universe. Mind you, at the time I hadn't been further than Belgium.

When we got there, the first thing that Trixi did was to plonk a pink cowboy hat on my head, and wrap a matching pink feather boa round my neck. It fitted me like a python. She then helped herself to an armful of outfits and ignoring the disinterested shop girls, dragged me downstairs to the changing room. It was a big communal room, and the lighting was so dim, you could have been in the black hole of Calcutta for all you knew. Trixi yanked me behind a discreet Japanese screen, and when she took off her big coat, I was surprised to see she was only wearing a bra and pants underneath.
‘Aren’t you freezing?’ I asked, but she ignored me. She was too busy wrapping all the outfits she had taken from upstairs around her waist, before putting her coat back on. She looked about fourteen months pregnant after she had finished. ‘Here, take this,’ she said, passing me a delicious brown, crushed velvet trouser suit with the tiniest arms I’d ever seen. I excitedly tried it on. Trixi said I had never looked so skinny, and that was a huge compliment coming from her, believe me.
‘I’ll go upstairs and pay for it,’ I said, keeping it on.
‘Are you mad? Aren’t you going to steal it?’ she screeched.
For a moment, I was really tempted. Everyone used to shoplift from Biba in those days. It was the trendy thing to do.
‘If you don't pay for it, think of all the black Biba lipstick you can buy with the money you’d save,’ Trixi said. For a moment I imagined she had horns sprouting out of her red haired head, but for once in my life I didn’t do what she wanted me to do. It wasn’t so much the moral dilemma. I was terrified at being caught! So, while Trixi was greedily trying to wrap more outfits around her waist, I went upstairs to pay for my trouser suit. I felt very pleased with myself for not shoplifting it, and went outside the store to wait for my partner in crime. A few minutes later, she came out, trying to look nonchalant which was difficult, as she now looked twenty months pregnant. We walked for about a block, and once she realised she wasn’t going to be arrested, she pulled me all the way down the rest of Kensington Church Street, screaming and shrieking.
‘Don’t you feel guilty about stealing?’ I asked, feeling rather smug that I hadn’t succumbed to temptation.
‘Do you?’ Trixi asked,.
‘Why should I? I didn’t steal anything,’ I said indignantly. Then, I noticed my reflection in a shop window. I was still wearing the pink cowboy hat and matching pink feather boa. I contemplated returning them to Biba, but my contraband accessories looked so good with my new trouser suit that I guiltily decided to keep them. I had shoplifted by accident, but that was the last time I ever did it.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-11-06T09:30:00.000-08:00

2006-11-02T07:08:00.000-08:00

Squashed Blancmange

2006-11-02T06:47:00.000-08:00

If I was hoping for a reunion with Julia, I was in for a major disappointment. We went to the same bording school but we might have existed on different planets, as we hardly ever saw each other. We lived in different houses, and we weren't even in the same class. She did domestic science class which was for dummies only.

Everyone at boarding school was always starving. That's because the food was inedible as it consisted mostly of stodge. All we thought about was food. One night, all the girls in my dorm were bored stiff with having midnight feasts, consisting of white sliced bread and lumps of lard, which we had saved up from tea. 'Let's go swimming,' Ursula, the swat with glasses suggested. Like sheep, we all put on our ugly school coats over our pyjamas, furtively sneaked out of our house, and made our way in single file to the main school building, where we broke into the swimming pool. We dived in, careful not to make too much noise and furiously swam up and down in the water in the pitch dark, trying not to giggle.

All that exercise must have given us a gigantic appetite, as we were suddenly hungrier than ever.
'Didn't the girls in domestic science do their cookery exam yesterday?' Ursula asked.
'You're a genius!' I exclaimed.
I wasn't lying. Everyone knew that Ursula was a whiz at geometry. Luckily for us, the domestic science building was next to the pool, so we stealthily made our way there, and unaminously decided to help ourselves to a biscuit or two. ‘No one will ever know we’ve been here,’ we all reasoned, groping our way around in the dark, feeling our fingers sink into mushy stuff, all of which tasted yummy. I swore my finger sunk into what felt like an apple pie, but we were all very careful not to disrupt any of the food. ‘I feel like an ant eater,’ I said as I hoovered up some strawberry tasting blancmange type substance up into my mouth, like there was no tomorrow.

We were all extra careful not to leave any evidence behind, and after we had finished sampling all the delicious food in the dark, made our way back to our house. We sneaked back into our dormitory, and after congratulating ourselves that we hadn't been caught, lay down in our beds and blissfully went to sleep. But, little did we suspect that our crime hadn't gone undetected.

After prayers the next morning, the headmistress solemnly informed the entire school that intruders had broken into the domestic science hall and had destroyed all the pupils’ cookery dishes, which hadn't yet been examined. The teachers didn’t know what to do, so gave all the girls top grades for their ruined cookery dishes. I knew Julia suspected I was partly responsible, although she was unable to prove anything. As far as the school authorities were concerned, thieves from off the street had devoured the food. But, something positive came out of my breaking and entering. Julia actually spoke to me for the first time since losing her eyelashes in the blast. ‘I passed my cookery exams, thanks to you, ‘ she whispered and gave me a bald wink - not a pretty sight without her lashes.

Copyright: Frances Lynn, 2006

2006-10-29T14:05:00.000-08:00

The Missing Eyelashes

2006-10-29T13:43:00.000-08:00

Julia was one of my best friends at school before the tragedy. She wasn't at all academic, but had the most incredibly long black eyelashes, which she believed compensated for her inability to concentrate on school work. She was extremely proud of them and used to cut off the tips of her lashes every week, announcing that they would grow faster and curlier. She also used to lovingly coat them with layers of Vaseline before she went to bed each night, believing that this bizarre beauty tip would make her lashes look even more luscious than ever. Sometimes, she smeared on too much of the gluck, which gave her a curiously droopy bloodhound look, but she didn’t care. She was too skinny with blotchy freckles on her noses, and had masses of unappetising black frizzy hair, but she sincerely believed that her lashes helped make her look beautiful.

The dim girls at my school were forced to take domestic science classes, but in our first year, all the girls including the committed bluestockings were forced to participate. Julia was my cooking partner, which was unfortunate for her, as although I was in the top stream in Latin, I was an imbecile when it came to doing anything domestic. Poor Julia. During our first domestic science class, the teacher ordered us to turn on the oven and light the gas. Simple, I thought. I turned on the gas full blast, but instead of chucking a match inside, something stopped me. I took my time in sauntering across the room before asking Julia to light the oven for me.
‘Why can’t you light it yourself?’ Julia asked, absent-mindedly stroking her long lashes.
‘I’m scared. You do it,’ I answered.
Julia slowly walked over to my oven, expertly lit the gas with a match, and was rewarded by being blown across the room. Luckily, she wasn’t hurt but the way she screamed, I thought she had been seriously maimed. So did she. Her prize and joy, her precious eyelashes had been blown to smithereens. She lost them all in the blast and tragically for her, they never grew back as long as she lived. She never spoke to me again. It was just as well we were separated soon afterwards. She was doomed to domestic science hell for the rest of her school days, while I was groomed for more studious things. Whenever I did have the misfortune to bump into her in the school corridors in-between lessons, she would would automatically scream full blast at me, accusing me of trying to murder her eyelashes.

Copyright: Frances Lynn 2006

2006-10-26T09:23:00.000-07:00

Midnight Curfew

2006-10-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

Midnight Curfew

2006-10-23T06:52:00.000-07:00

My father's nickname was 'Good God’, because every time he opened the door to one of my teenage friends, he used to exclaim, ‘Good God!’ That’s because my all my friends were dressed in funny clothes, and had long hair, both the boys and the girls. My friend Tam was the only one who didn't have long hair, so Dad just about tolerated him. He went to the local grammar school and was older than me.

Tam collected me on a Saturday night in his sports car, which his rich dad gave him for passing his exams. He was also wearing a tie.
‘Perhaps you should put on that nice Jaeger suit I bought you for your birthday last year,’ Mum said anxiously. I could have hit her! If she thought I was going to go out with Tam, dressed in that awful tweed suit, she had another thought coming.
‘There’s no need, I think she looks fine as she is,’ Tam said quickly, shielding his eyes from my neon-green, nylon mini dress, which I had recently bought in Carnaby Street with my saved up pocket money.
‘Her curfew is midnight, so bring my little girl back before then,’ Dad ordered.
I cringed. I’d always be Dad’s little girl even when I was fifty, I suspected.
‘You can count on me, sir,’ Tam replied smoothly.
Just when we were halfway out of the door, Mum had a fit.
‘It’s the middle of winter. You can’t go out without your coat,’ Mum screeched.
‘Oh yes, I can,’ I snapped, pushing Tam outside, before she could order me to wear the hideous winter coat she bought for me on one of our doomed shopping trips together.
‘Don’t forget to bring my darling daughter back home before midnight,’ Dad shouted after us with fake good cheer.

‘First stop, the Coffee Cup,’ Tam said, after we had escaped. He removed his tie, and I I carefully climbed into his sports car, careful not to show my knickers while I did so. If my parents knew that Tam hadn’t been invited anywhere, but was planning to gatecrash parties all night long, they would never have allowed me to go out with him. I tried not to smirk when pedestrians gawped at Tam’s swank car on our way to the Coffee Cup, a haunt where teenagers gathered outside every Saturday night. Mum was right though. It was freezing, and by the time we zoomed up to our destination, I felt and looked like a frozen ice-lolly. My lips were so blue, I could hardly speak.
'Cat got your tongue?' Tam sneered.

He got 'millions' of addresses from the crowd milling around on the pavement, and off we went, driving around London, looking for parties to crash. I was getting colder and colder by the minute, which was a tragedy as I was trying to read the A-Z, the same time as giving Tam directions. ‘Left, right, right, left – no LEFT,’ I dribbled through cracked lips. Tam skidded to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road, and the car behind us crashed into the back of us.
‘It’s like a domino effect,’ Tam sneered, seeing all the cars behind the one behind us crashing into each other. Luckily, nobody was hurt, including us, and off we drove to a peculiar party in Chelsea, where all the guests were dressed up as vampires and were sloshed.
‘What time is it? I’ve got to be home by midnight, remember?’ I said anxiously. By this time, Tam was having the time of his life, dancing nose to nose with a very tall, female skeleton, who had fangs and was dressed in a black cape.
'Killjoy!' Tam shouted, but I was past caring.
'I'm so cold,' I moaned.
By this time it was half an hour before dad’s deadline, so Tam bundled me into his car, and off we zoomed, him acting like he was participating in the Grand Prix.
‘We’ll easily make it back before midnight,’ he chortled, when suddenly I heard a funny noise. I turned round and saw the back right wheel flying off down the street. Tam swore and yelled, and managed to stop the car in the middle of the empty road.
‘It must have happened when those cars bumped into us,’ Tom said grimly, not seeming at all concerned that we were going to miss my Midnight curfew.
‘Dad’s never going to believe me,’ I wailed as Tam spent ages trying to put the new wheel on.
'Are you being slow on purpose?' I asked.
He didn't reply. I suspected he couldn’t care less if he never saw me again, which was probably just as well because by this time, I never wanted to see him again either.
‘Dad will never believe me,' I moaned, after Tam finally managed to put on a new wheel. I was right.
‘Good God!’ Dad exclaimed when Tam delivered me home well after curfew, minus his tie. Tam didn't even apologise, so I was never allowed to go out with him ever again. I didn’t know who was more relieved. Him or me.

Copyright: Frances Lynn 2006

2006-10-19T04:27:00.000-07:00

The Missing China Plates

2006-10-19T03:47:00.000-07:00

When Mum and Dad felt they could trust me again, they went away for the entire weekend, leaving me in charge of the house. By this time, I was fourteen and a half, but nobody can turn over a new leaf, especially an irresponsible teenager like me.

As soon as I saw my parents drive down the road, I called up Ricki, my new best friend to tell her the good news. She lived round the corner from me, with her father and step-mother (whom she hated) in a basement flat. She had waist length, white blonde hair and wore mini-skirts up to her chin. All the boys thought she was beautiful, but she didn’t notice as she was too busy worrying about her weight. She used to go on big eating jags, then would starve for a week, existing on a brutal regime of coffee and cigarettes.
'You've got to have a party, especially as I want to try out some of that chicken pie your Mum left for you in the fridge,' Ricky said.
'I thought you weren't eating for a week?'
'I'm not,' Ricki insisted.

I never wanted a party ever again, seeing what a disaster my thirteen birthday party had been. But, as it so happened, I had arranged to meet a gang of boys at the local café – all of whom were Nathalie’s rejects. When I blurted out that I had the house for the weekend, my friends all said it was too good an opportunity to miss.
'Come over for chicken pie, but don't tell anyone else,' I said.
That evening, which was a Saturday night, Ricki arrived at my house, reeking of nicotine. She hadn’t eaten anything for two days and was starving. I was really excited, because I had a crush on one of the boys who was coming, and tried to get rid of my spots by rubbing Ajax on my face - one of Ricki's stupid beauty tips, which made my spots look redder than ever. I smeared a thick crust of Clearasil all over them and dimmed the lights.

In no time at all, the house filled up with loads of people, because the boys whom I had invited, had told all their friends I was having a party. To be on the safe side, I took down Mum and Dad’s precious Chinese plates off the shelves in the living room and carefully laid them down on their big double bed, then locked their bedroom door. I didn’t want any accidents, I thought. I couldn’t tell if the party was any good or not, although for years afterwards, strangers would come up to me in the street, and enthuse it had been the best party they’d ever been to. Ricki also thought the party was a huge success because she discovered her favourite packet of Muesili in the kitchen cupboard and gorged herself, devouring the lot in a few minutes only.

Ricki had agreed to stay the night, but even she was shocked the following morning. When I unlocked my parents’ bedroom, I saw with horror that some of the Chinese plates were missing, and the ones which remained on the bed were broken.
'But, I locked the door,' I screamed, terrified at what my parents would say.
‘One of the guests must have got drunk, climbed up the drainpipe, and jumped up and down on the plates,' Ricki reasoned.
We spent the whole day trying to glue the priceless plates back together, before putting them back on the shelves in the exact place where they had been orignally. We also spent hours cleaning the house, which looked like a bomb had hit it, and spent hours wiping all the muck off the walls. I was dreading Mum and Dad’s return and prayed they wouldn’t notice anything was wrong. Unfortunately, they did the moment they walked in through the front door.

They went ballistic when they discovered the house was not how they left it, and when they discovered the glued broken China plates, they called the police who arrived immediately. I don't know why, but the police went through the trash outside and discovered remains of marijuana joints. ‘Arrest her,’ Dad screamed. I had no idea that people were smoking drugs in the house, although I had noticed a peculiar smell in the kitchen. The police drove Ricki and myself to the police station, and although we both stuck to the same story, the police told my parents afterwards that I was the culprit, who had smashed the plates. They also suspected I had stolen the missing plates, which was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard.

Although, I furiously denied the police’s allegations, Mum and Dad didn’t believe me and said they would never trust me ever again, which was a crashing bore, as they never once left me alone in the house for the rest of my teens, even, when I had friends over for tea. And, that's another story!

Frances Lynn: copyright 2006

2006-10-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

My First Teenage party

2006-10-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

I used to have a best friend called Nathalie. She lived next door with her funny family – her dad was a V.D. specialist and her mum was the biggest snob that ever walked this earth. She was originally a cleaning lady in the hospital that her hubby worked in. Mum told me 'in strictest confidence' she snared her husband by helping him clean his office after working hours.

My friend Nathalie wasn’t a snob. She was promiscuous, but I didn’t know the meaning of that difficult to pronounce word then. We were the same age but she looked much older than me. She wore French bras that made her bust stick out like a platform, and wore skinny rib polo sweaters all the time so that her bust looked even bigger than it really was. She was very proud of her breasts. 'Boys like big boobs,' she used to swank tactlessly, knowing that I was flat as a collapsed pancake. She used to stick her breasts out whenever she saw a boy she fancied, which was all the time. She was also very sly and secretive, but I didn’t know that then, even though my Mum kept telling me!

Anyway, Mum and Dad allowed me to have a party on my thirteenth birthday, and told me to invite all my friends. I went to an all girls' school, so didn’t know any boys except for the sons of my parents’ friends and they didn’t count. Mum wanted to know how many friends I was inviting, so that she would know how many people to cook for. I had no idea how many people were going to come, as Nathalie had invited loads of boys she kept meeting in the High Street – she didn’t even know them, but promised me they were all good looking. I didn't tell Mum that Nathalie had invited a load of strangers, but lied, saying that ten of my best school friends were coming with their older brothers.

Mum had just learned to cook chicken pies – not the frozen kind you buy in a supermarket, but yucky French ones she had learned to cook on her fancy Cordon Bleu cooking course, which she went to with Sally’s snobby Mum. Although I kept telling Mum I didn’t like French food - I liked baked beans and fish fingers and scrumptious stuff like that, but Mum insisted that my friends would love it. Five chicken pies later, the day of my birthday party arrived. Nathalie was so excited about all the boys she had invited, that she spent hours on the big day, doing a dress rehearsal in front of her bedroom mirror, sticking her breasts out to kingdom come. I was surprised she didn't stick tassles on them and swirl them around like bejewelled girls in the circus do.

Mum and Dad decided to go out to the cinema for the evening, so that they wouldn’t embarrass me. At first, it was really nice with all my school friends arriving, but then – all these strange boys kept ringing the doorbell. They must have all been about fourteen (most of them were covered in zits) and weren’t interested in Mum’s chicken pies at all. They were more interested in Nathalie. She was like a vivacious magnet, surrounded by all her new admirers. I didn’t mind, because the boys who couldn’t get near her, spoke to me out of politeness, I suspect.

Then, some more boys came and more and more boys, until the party was so crowded you couldn’t breathe. That's because everyone was smoking cigarettes and stubbing the fag ends out on the furniture. I tried to stop them, but they ignored me. 'You don't have any ashtrays,' they sneered, grinding their smelly butt ends on the floor. That's because my parents stopped smoking after seeing a TV programme which said that smoking gives you cancer.

Naturally, Nathalie was in her element playing Postman's Knock, and kissing all the besotted boys. All my school friends were thrilled. They hadn’t seen so many boys in their entire lives, ever! But, then the party got out control. Some of the boys helped themselves to a whisky bottle in my parents’ cupboard and glugged away like it was tap water. One girl pretended she was a whale, and gargled the booze into a fountain, then threw up chicken pie all over my parents’ priceless rug they had once brought back from Morocco.

I was so frightened at what my parents would say, that I ran away and hid in Nathalie's garage next door for the rest of the party. When my parents returned home, they were so shocked at seeing their home invaded by spotty drunken strangers of the opposite sex, they called the fire brigade! 'Everybody out!' They screamed. Then, they grounded me for a year, advising me to become a nun, because they would never allow me to speak to a boy ever again.

Everyone said it was the best party of the year, except for Nathalie. She was too busy dating all the boys to even speak to me. Mum was right about her after all. She was sly - a vixen.

Frances Lynn: copyright 2006

Crushed Diaries

2006-10-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

Extra-curriculum

2006-10-15T11:44:00.000-07:00

My friend’s daughters were forced to participate in a hectic extra-curriculum existence of piano lessons, dancing lessons, saxophone lessons, horse riding lessons, archery lessons - you name it – they had every useless lesson imaginable on top of their all-day school lessons.

If the girls had their own way, they would have just chilled out in a heap of exhaustion after school.
'I get out of breath, trying to blow down the saxaphone.'
'I can't shoot an arrow,' they both used to moan.
But, their mother was determined that they wouldn’t be left out of London’s thrusting social swim. There was nothing strictly social about doing all these daft activities after school, but all the mothers were very competitive when it came to their offspring. They would rather emigrate to Siberia than not enrole their precious children in the current fashionable past-times.

The mothers were all frothing with concealed social ambition, anxious that their kids wouldn’t be left out of anything. More to the point, the mothers didn’t want to be left out of anything themselves. Through their children, they had a busy social life, inviting all the other like-minded parents (whom they carefully cultivated at the school gates) to innovative dinner parties, so that they could all boast and swank how well their children were doing at school.

The girls couldn’t care less if they never saw another extra-curriculum activity for the rest of their lives. For, when did either of them have an interest in archery? And, what with all these expensive past-times their mother insisted upon driving them to all over London, they were exhausted 24/7, for they had to fit their home-work in too. 'It's all very well being dragged around to all these stupid things after school, but we have to pass our exams too,' they whined. Their mother tried to help them with their school work, but as far as she was concerned, it was all gobbledegook! And, as for maths, it had all changed out of recognition since she had been at school.

The girls didn't realise how privileged they were, but the reason why their parents had the finances to enrole them in all these useless classes after school, was because they saved themselves thousands and thousands of pounds a years, having their kids educated for free. 'Why pack them off to expensive boarding schools and be poor?' my girlfriend said to anyone who would listen. At times, the girls would have given anything to go away to school, just to get some peace and quiet.
'I forbid you to come home with a cockney accent,' my girlfriend ordered the girls. They couldn't care less if they spoke in Hindu like a lot of the Asian girls at school did. They were just thankful that they lived in Central London, and were able to participate in clubbing without their mother's cloying supervision during the weekends.

Copyright: 2006

2006-10-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

Crushed Diaries

2006-10-13T06:44:00.000-07:00

I used to be very friendly with an eccentric family who lived in London. The father was a normal businessman, but the rest of the family were very artistic. My friend, the mother didn't have to go out to work but loved to paint at home for fun. As a result, she was always splattered from head to toe with oil paint, even when she went out for dinner to smart restaurants with her husband.

Her daughters were always drawing, painting or making jewellery out of wire coat-hangers and beads. In the summer, they even used to cover an orange box with florescent coloured paper and put their home made jewellery on top of it. They used to sell their home-made, fake jewels to friendly passers-by who willingly gave them coins for their pretty peculiar stuff. The grown-ups didn't seem to mind either when their newly purchased earrings deteriorated as soon as they inserted them in their ears. They admired the girls' initiative. They also respected the girls for being so creative and not wasting their youth glued to the television like a lot of their friends did. The girls would loved to have watched TV all day long if they had their own way, but as their mother wouldn't allow a televison in the house, they had no choice but to be artistic at home.

The youngest daughter looked like an angel, but she was a Leo with a terrible temper. If she didn't get her own way which was most of the time, she used to stramp her feet and scream. When she wasn't being bad tempered, she used to dress up in little spangled skating costumes and ice-skate in the local ice-rink, that her mother drove her to every weekend. She wanted to be a professional ice-skater when she left school.

The eldest daughter was unusual looking, was a good-tempered Libra and wanted to be a cartoonist. But, unlike her younger sister who used to love dressing up and put on makeup, she was a bit of a tomboy and couldn't care less what she looked like. Similar to Door in "Crushed" she was tall and thin, and could easily have been a teen fashion model if she had wanted. But, she couldn't be bothered to look tidy. Maybe, it was because her Mum kept nagging her all the time to make an effort with her appearance, but the eldest daughter wasn't interested in clothes and would have been happy to go to parties in a food-stained plastic bin-liner if she had been allowed to.

Both girls were completely different. They had different interests, went to different schools and didn't share the same friends. But one thing they did have in common was having crushes on pop stars. Their bedroom wall was splattered with posters of their favourite idols.

I used to play tennis with the mother, and often used to go to her house afterwards for a meal. One day, while the whole family and I were eating a Chinese takeaway, my friend suggested - wouldn't it be wonderful if I wrote a book based on her family? What a genius idea I thought, and felt so inspired, that I went away and wrote "Crushed" very quickly - in the space of a few months only. And, considering the book is 250 pages long, that was quite an achievement, believe me.

"Crushed" was definitely inspired by this family, but I made the girls in the book completely different. First of all, in real-life, there wasn't any sibling rivalry between the girls, and in the book they are non-identical twins. Also, in the book, Door loves to play the drums, while Dee in the book is a ballet dancer.

Even though the Brevington family in "Crushed" is completely different from the family in real life, the charachters in the book seem realistic, even though I made them rather mad and eccentric. I think it's always best if you write about what you know, even though it's not the exact truth. After all, writing fiction is a bit like being a fantasist. However, I couldn't resist putting real stuff about the family in the book, like the girls going to different schools, and detail stuff about their bedroom walls being covered in pictures of their current pin-ups. I suppose that's why the girls recognised themselves in the book, even though I was very careful to make them appear completely different.

Copyright: Frances Lynn 2006