I have just started an online course which promises to give me some tips on how to write decent fiction. With two practice assignments under my belt, I am already feeling possessive and strangely secretive about what I have produced so far. Luckily, Scatterling provides a temporary smoke screen.
We have the commonality that the British Empire smeared over its former colonies to thank for the unsolicited accuracy of detail in the illustration of the following story. That, and the persistent and perverse love of cricket which the illustrator and I share, despite being girls and despite her being from Australia and my being from southern Africa originally. That my feminism is well-grounded and integrated gives me the liberty to call two grown women “girls”. Anyway, describe us how you like; the fact is that cricket is a great game for the whole family to enjoy, no matter how you look at it.
Not my sister, but the other kids and I would stand under the grand stands at cricket matches and wait for spectators to drop their cigarette butts.
We would grab them and smoke them almost to the quick, then burn holes in discarded plastic cups lying on the ground.
When asked, we always said we had been playing “tip and run” at the back. We were not convincing liars.
My sister never drank tea, either.
Not only do children smoke, they also drink alcohol even if they have come from – arguably – the most well-regulated families, as the next story shows.
At 11, I managed to get a whole bunch of kids in the 6-8 shirt size range completely drunk within five seconds flat. They were rolling about on the lawn in their swimming costumes.
What they were trying to do, was stand up. But they kept falling down and giggling uncontrollably.
It was an unintentional mixture of four parts vodka to one part red cool drink at afternoon refreshment time that did it.
The three mommies of these children were ostensibly watching me prepare and dispense these beverages.
This was the day my other aunt taught me the difference between decanters and designer water bottles.
And then, there are always frogs. I love the portrait of me here:
Once the rainy season had begun, frogs could be found in the stream, which covertly ran through the suburb near the school. I would catch them and hold them with my bare hands.
Boys are mostly cissies in this regard.
Tune in next time, when I shall deal with the fascinating subjects of Boxing, Golf and The F-word. If you cannot contain your curiosity until whenever I next get a chance to post something here, you can always purchase the book from Amazon. To order your own copy, click on the picture below:
© 2015 Allison Wright