by Jo Buttner
Bah Humbug! Who needs a boyfriend anyway? I don’t need a man to define me. I huff chilly air through my lungs hoist my shoulder bag across my body. A flip of my long Dr. Who style scarf perfects the look of someone who’s done some Christmas time travelling and come out the other side wishing that he hadn’t eaten all the mince pies this year.
I sigh, hefting my bulk across the quiet London road. My mother always says,
‘You simply can’t wear that feather boa with those shorts. It is quite the wrong time of the year – besides, it makes you look fatter!
But the feather boa has always had more glamour to it than a long stripy scarf mother, why don’t you understand these things? A fella like me has to express his feminity – how else am I supposed to pull some luscious lads?
This thought catches me unawares as a drifting picture of Tom’s face slips into my mind… well not only his face, his 6ft tall rugby players hulk of a sexy man beast, with those great big hands and his even bigger –
Phwoar! That was a fast car! Look at that! That thing’s got an engine like a twin turbo purring cat. It’s a shame the weather’s not better – it would look fabulous as a convertible…
My god darling, I completely forgot you for a second then – back to Tom then. Tom is the love of my life, the light of my heart the man of my dreams… or at least he was right up until last night when I found out that he had a girlfriend.
Seriously? A girlfriend? Who wants one of those? Although… it has to be said that I had an inkling he wasn’t interested in me when I went around for tea om Boxing Day. I had of course been invited… Or at least, the invitation left on my desk that was addressed to ‘My Darling’ and inviting me over for tea, a tipple (and hopefully some titillation) seemed to suggest a certain effeminate flair that I had always found appealing in Tom, despite his masculine form.
I only found out about the girlfriend by climbing into his back garden to look through the living room window – an act of devotion which ruined my brown leather brogues not to mention my 100% silk Vivienne Westwood tie that our rich Aunt Josie gave me, which got caught in the rose bushes beneath the sickly sweet scene of – yuck, yuck, yuck!
Oh! Woe is me! In this normal street, full of normal houses, I am an exotic bird trapped in the beige life of a 16 year old!