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Thursday, 12 December 2013

Screwed not Dancing.

The boss on this her fourteenth birthday takes herself and girlfriends to see The Hunger Games,  and likes it very much. "A bit darkish, maybe?" I probe, "a bit edgier than the first film?".  "Darkish, yeah. It was.  Dark.  Better.  It was great!"  Right. Better because darker then. Afterwards they eat in Eddie Rockets. That too she says was great and also better, " 'cos we like went on our own, and I mean I paid, and after we got the cab home you sent  together on our own.  And thank you.  It was you know independent,  grown up. So yeah, thank you. It was, we all felt, great."

"I mean it's an unlikely and precious thing to be given thanks, to be permitted to warm oneself a little in a rare fine glow of appreciation. Without one's own prompting! It's actually quite disconcerting!" I puzzle to my husband. "So, right, do you think  I've cracked it this time? Do you think in fact that this time maybe this one will dance with me through the adolescent quagmire. Step light with me over the bruising terrain. On this my fourth and final try?  Do you think?".  "Nope!" he said "Screwed!" he said. Just face it, baby, chances are, not dancing you're screwed".

He tells me how she'll dance me dizzy, dizzy, how she'll  twirl me round in circles till I know that everything I thought I knew about her was a story,  just a shadow of her shimmering, her solipsistic   truth. Says he wants it on the record when I find that she is leading, deftly spinning me and others that he warned me, he's Cassandra, yeah he warned me that I'd better watch my glide"!   "Yes... but... no but.. NOT this time, angel,  this time, I think dancing".  "Maybe baby BUT and for the record I think you will find, actually screwed".

Oh. Well we'll see. And he undertakes to pick up the pieces. Should the need arise.