by Grace Dent
I’ve seen those paparazzi pictures of gorgeous supermodels and actresses hanging around backstage at pop festivals looking skinny and fabulous. They always wear stuff like skintight white Gucci dresses with Prada heels. How do they look so fabulous when they’re camping!?
“Pah!” remarked my mother cattily as I pored over the “Backstage Bites” photo section of JukeBox magazine trying to glean some “festival chic” tips. “Because they get dressed in their Winnebagos and live on fresh air and Marlboro Lights the rest of the year.”
“Oh, dear,” I sighed.
“You’re beautiful as you are, Ronnie,” Mum said. “And don’t you dare go changing into one of those vacant doe-eyed clothes racks or I’ll have you adopted. And I mean that.”
I should be so lucky, I thought, on both counts.
But in times of confusion, such as last Monday night, when this cruel, confused world conjures up a plethora of questions and not a great deal of answers, when my troubles are weighing me down like a wet duffel coat, I always follow the same ritual. I mooch over to Flat 26, Lister House, to ask Claudette “Clipboard” Cassiera what she reckons.
Claude always knows the score.
“Well, Ron, this is what I’m taking,” said Claudette, rustling in her Astlebury file, pulling out a list written neatly on crisp white paper. “And I took the liberty of photocopying it for you, ’cos I know how you’re a bit, er ...” Claude stopped herself.
“A bit what?!”
“A bit, er ... right, never mind, here it is anyhow.”
I would have pressed the little madam further. However, I was far too busy beholding Claude’s wonderful, majestic, all-consuming list.
It went like this:CLAUDETTE CASSIERA’S ASTLEBURY CHECKLIST
VERY IMPORTANT: Borrow rucksack from Mika (Approx. 5 kilos when empty. Remember to weigh full rucksack, as we may have to walk a long way from designated car park area to campsite.)
ABSO-FLIPPING-LUTELY DO NOT FORGET:
• 4 X Astlebury tickets
• Outdoors Venturer 4-man tent (important—check poles and waterproof roof are in bag)
• Sleeping bag
• Small inflatable pillow
• Camping air mattress
• Mini bike pump
• Camping mallet
• Flashlight
• Batteries (approx 5-hour life span)
• Emergency flashlight batteries (being in a dark tent would be poo)
• Tiny rucksack
• Chocolate (for sugar-level maintenance/or in case we need to assist festival-going diabetics)
• Museli bars (fiber to keep us “regular”)
• Vitamin tablets (not sure about nutritional value of veggie burger)
• Nuts (or other high-protein food)
• Band-Aid (note—try to dissuade Fleur from bringing stiletto boots)
• Emergency Tampax
• Emergency pads
• Emergency Feminax period pain pills
• 5 fresh thongs—all colors
• 2 more emergency fresh thongs
• 5 fresh pairs of white mini socks
• 2 bras—1 black, 1 white
• Safety pins
• Sewing kit
• 3 pairs combat trousers (khaki/camouflage/navy blue)
• 4 T-shirts (“Sleep when I’m dead.” Black tight-fitting “Spike Saunders on tour.” Hot pink Gap crop top. White tight low cut)
• 1 black bikini
• 1 sun hat
• 7 hair bands
• 1 hairbrush
• Factor 25 sunblock
• Sunglasses
• Reading glasses
• 2 large packets of all-purpose wet wipes
• Moisturizer
• Bug repellent spray
• Money (festival ATM might be far away and dangerous to use late at night)
• Notebook and pencil (just in case we need to give addresses to lush lads)
• Toothpaste / toothbrush
• Mints (in case of horse breath between tooth-brush stops)
• Headache tablets
• Hay fever tablets
• Toilet paper X 3
• Jersey
• Spare sweater
• Waterproof Jacket
• Small pack-away umbrella
• Nail clippers
• Disposable razor for legs
• Shave gel
• Shampoo /conditioner
• Deodorant
• Mini towel
• Emergency mobile phone battery
• Tweezers
• Earplugs
• Water bottle
• Print out directions to Astlebury—there and back—from MapFinder.com
• CDs for Daphne’s car
• Flag
“Wow,” I gasped. I hadn’t thought of any of this stuff.
“Oh, I just chucked anything in, really,” said Claude, trying to sound breezy.
“Yeah, so I see,” I say, stifling a giggle. “I didn’t realize Daphne was driving us there in a monster truck.”
“Hmpgh,” spluttered Claude. “I think you’ll find that the whole kit and caboodle weighs precisely twenty-one and a half kilograms. I could carry that by myself easily.” she flexed her beautifully toned ebony right arm. “Well, actually, when I say twenty-one kilograms it might be more like twenty-two ... but hey, who’s counting?”
“Right,” I smiled, folding the list and shoving it in my bag.
“Anyway, while we’re on the subject, do we know if Fleur has even thought about packing yet?” Claude asked, rolling her eyes and placing one hand on her hip. “Or are we going to end up doing that for her?”
“Oooh ... dunno,” I chuckled.
“ ’Cos that would be classic Miss Swan behavior,” continued Claude, straightening her bunches in the mirror. “I mean, I love her and all that, but at the best of times she’s as much flipping use as a one-legged man at a bum-kicking party, isn’t she?”
I tried to remain neutral on the matter, but sometimes Claude makes me laugh so much when she takes the mickey out of Fleur, I almost pee my pants.
Out of sheer nosiness, I left Claude’s and wandered up high street, past the Fantastic Voyage and over to Disraeli Road to see how Fleur’s Astlebury countdown was really shaping. Happily, the platinum-haired diva was in residence, sprawled out in a star-shaped position upon her king-sized divan, plastered in avocado face mask, downloading a new ring tone onto her mobile while leafing through Vogue.
For all Claude says, Fleur sure can multitask.
“It’s the Kings of Kong! Listen!” Fleur said, passing me the flashy handset, which was emitting polyphonic screeches not dissimilar to a fire in a petting zoo. “Only two quid a minute to download too! The numbers are in the back of Seventeen magazine.”
“Bargain,” I said, passing Claudette’s list over to Fleur for a quick gander. Fleur gave it a cursory look before promptly rolling about on her bed, kicking her legs in the air, laughing.
“Eh? What? Where is Field Marshal Cassiera taking us?” scoffed Fleur. “Are we fighting our way down the Congo or something? She’s bonkers, that woman. Hello! Paging scary organization woman!”
“Mmm, well, she likes to be on top of things,” I said tactfully, trying not to chuckle.
“Cuh, she won’t need half this stuff,” said Fleur, chucking me her own Astlebury list, scrawled on the back of an old envelope. It made interesting reading:Astlebury Stuff I Need
• Mirror
• Emery board/ cuticle stick
• Azure Dream nail polish
• Cuticle softener
• Nail varnish remover
• Leave-in hair conditioner
• Supermodel Eau de Parfum
• Nail-strengthening vitamin pills
• Cleansing wipes with vitamin E
• Sensitive-skin toner
• 2 pairs of earrings (1 dangly and 1 hooped)
/> • Underarm wax strips
• Lemon juice hair-lightening spray
• Ultrarich moisturizer
• Lip gloss with gold tint
• Cerise sun visor
• Huge sun shades
• Smaller tinted sunglasses
• Denim mini hot pants
• Cut-off combat pants
• Black mini kilt
• Black halter neck
• Silver bikini
• Four crop tops (pale pink, cool turquoise, lemon and black)
• Small muslin cardigan
• Helena’s Boudoir bra and thong set X 3
• Stiletto boots
• Black stack-heeled sandals
• Hair ribbons
• Mobile phone
• Whistle
• Angels’ wings
• Water pistol
• Sparkly deeley-hoppers
• Klaxon horn
“No sleeping bag, Fleur?” I asked, scanning the list again.
“Oooh, er, yeah, might be useful,” Fleur said, chucking me a pen, then picking up Vogue again. “Write it down for me, will you?”
Oh, dear.
eleventh hour
So here I am, it’s Thursday night and I’m in my thoroughly ransacked boudoir, counting down the nine remaining hours till Daphne and the girls collect me. Amelia Annanova and the Dropouts are blaring a succession of angst-ridden tracks out of my stereo system (Amelia totally rrrrrrocks, by the way) as I’m stuffing my rucksack nervously with bras, mascara and sunscreen.
I pull open the top drawer of my dressing table, searching for my favorite hot pink thong, only to let out a deep sigh at what I find hidden within.
There, underneath my old 32AA starter bras, lies a framed picture of Jimi and me, the one I hid from myself after Blackwell Disco.
Sometimes I have to play games with myself to get through crappy times.
This photograph was taken late last August when the LBD, Aaron, Naz and Jimi hung out down by the banks of the River Caldwell till long after dusk.
Sigh.
Jimi has his top off. His face is sun burnished from a summer spent skating, and he’s wearing a navy trucker’s cap. I’m crouching under his arm, wearing his outsized checkered Quiksilver shirt. I borrowed it after the boys decided it would be sooooo hilarious to chuck me in the water.
My eyes look really alive.
We both look really happy.
Better remember a spare sweater, I think. There’s nothing worse than waking up cold in a tent. I’ll take the big blue one, it goes with my jeans. Sneakers? Hair clips? Where are my sunglasses? Got to keep myself busy.
When it got totally dark, we recamped en masse at the Red Recreational Park behind Sainsburys. Fleur was flirting with Aaron. (She didn’t really like him, Fleur just does that sort of thing.) Claude was holding court doing daft impressions of Mr. McGraw, making everyone howl. I was sitting on Jimi’s knee on the old vandalized bench. He kept kissing the back of my head. That was a brilliant day.
I slam shut the drawer on the dresser, hiding the evidence of my sort of, nearly almost, ex-boyfriend. It’s making me feel sick.
I slump down on the bed, wrapping my arms around my giant teddy. Not a gift from Jimi, I hasten to add. Dad just thinks it’s hilarious to buy his little girl big tacky gifts on Valentine’s Day.
I stare at my mobile phone, feeling rather agitated all of a sudden.
Uggggggh! This stupid, messed-up situation is all your fault, Jimi Steele!
Not mine.
Yours!
And yes, okay, maybe I should have called you back by now and discussed our problems, and yes, it’s a bit rubbish of me going off to Astlebury without saying good-bye, but the LBD are right, Jimi, you do need to be taught a lesson. I mean, whooopity-do, last summer may have been the most wonderful time of my life. I’d managed to ensnare you, yes, beautiful, gorgeous you as my real live boyfriend, and unbelievably you were utterly besotted with me ... but by late winter it had all started to go a bit ... well, weird. Hadn’t it?
First, I started noticing your two very different faces; on one hand the “mushy-slushy can’t get enough of you” side, which made me feel like the luckiest bird at Blackwell...
... and then on the other, that annoying “Yeah, see you around whenever” side that you put on whenever your mates were within earshot.
Oooooh, that really got my goat.
Just because neither Naz nor Aaron can stay with one girl longer than a party! Has it occurred to you, Jimi, that your friends are shallow losers? And there was tons of other stuff too. Like that time I wasn’t allowed to go to Suzette Law’s eighteenth birthday party ’cos I had a 10 P.M. curfew so you went with the lads anyhow and were spotted dancing with Suzette.
Okay, I know it was her birthday and you were just being friendly, but I was absolutely livid.
And I was annoyed when you canceled dates at the last minute. And you used to get narky when you wanted to be “spontaneous” and take me out when I’d prearranged slumber parties and movie nights with the LBD. And okay, the fact that Fleur began to hate your guts didn’t help. I could never choose between you both. Gnnnnnnngn.
So, all told, it’s more than a pain in the ass that I’m completely, madly in love with you.
Especially as you don’t feel the same way.
“All set?” says Mum, poking her head, without knocking, around my bedroom door, disturbing me from my woes.
“Oooooooh, Mum! Why does nobody ever knock?!” I snap. “I could have been naked or anything!”
Mum doesn’t even turn a hair at my tantrum. “Oh, dang! Because seeing your bare ass would be such a novelty for me, wouldn’t it?” Mum says dryly. “Jeez, until you were four we couldn’t keep clothes on you. You were always tearing about in the nude.”
“Mother, I thought we saved anecdotes like that for when my friends were in?” I mutter.
“Oooh, I’ve got far bleaker ones than that,” smiles Mum, looking around my room. “So ... you’re still going then? Not changed your mind and staying home with your old, decrepit mum who loves you?”
Mum says this jokingly, but I know she’s sort of not. She’s really edgy about this whole trip.
“Nah, sorry, Mum.” I smile.
Suddenly it hits me that I should forget about all of this Jimi stuff.
There’s a whole new chapter of LBD history waiting to be written tomorrow. That’s more than a bit neat.
“I’ll give you a shout at seven A.M. then, okay?” says Mum. “Gotta go and sort the cash registers out now while Seth’s asleep. Enjoy your last night in a proper bed, cupcake.”
“Night, Mum.”
I prop my rucksack against the wall, then change into my pink cotton pajamas. Slipping under the duvet, I reach across and press “repeat play” on my Amelia Annanova CD. The first rather feisty song, “Escape,” cranks up as I examine the CD box where Amelia sits smoldering on the back of a Harley-Davidson, wearing a skintight white vest and indigo snakeskin trousers. Her long brown locks are ironed straight with blunt-cut ends dyed gold, a bright red streak falls down the right-hand side of her face, and her deep green eyes are breathtakingly beautiful.
“Sometimes you gotta ... You really gotta be on your own Sometimes you don’t need a man buggin’ you on the phone! I’m gonna run this kingdom on my own!
Get out my face, boy, ’cos I’m fine alone.
The packing has exhausted me. Quickly I’m drifting into a peaceful state. And just as I’m nearing the threshold of the Land of Nod, my phone beeps loudly on my bedside table. A text message:
I’m just about to reply when I notice that the memory on my phone is almost full and needs texts erased. I go into the in-box, scanning the list of previous texts, lingering sadly on one from almost two weeks ago.
I glare at the message for ages, really, really wanting with every fiber of my being to type back:
However, I don’t.
I switch of
f my bedside lamp. And after what seems like an eternity, I fall asleep.
hit the road, (jack)
If the incessant honking of Daphne’s car horn hadn’t dragged me to my window, then Fleur and Claude giggling and squabbling as they rearrange rucksacks in the jam-packed, newly waxed, silver Mini Cooper certainly would have. Daphne’s fabulous car, a present from Paddy and Saskia for her eighteenth birthday, is parked up in the Fantastic Voyage’s delivery area.
“Claude, dah-link? You’ve forgotten the emergency anvil!” shouts Fleur, clad in a saucy black halter neck and denim mini shorts. “And what about the kitchen sink? Were they not on your list?”
“Shut it, Swan,” Claude says primly. “There won’t be all this lip service when you’re begging to borrow my stuff.”
I open my bedroom window and yell down from the first floor. “Errrr ... am I going on the roof? It looks a bit cozy down there.”
“Hey, Ronnnnnnnie!” shouts Daphne, looking extremely pretty in army combats and faded antique silk shirt. “Hurry up, I need somebody sane to talk to!”
“I’m in the front, though!” butts in Fleur. “I’ve got the longest legs!”
“No, Fleur, Claudette is sitting in the front,” Daphne argues. “She’s good at map reading.”
“Precisely,” beams Claude. “I was top of my pack in Brownies. Anyway, Fleur, you can sit in the trunk with the other cumbersome objects.”
“Ha, and indeed, ha,” groans Fleur.
I lug my fourteen-cubic-ton (or so it feels) rucksack downstairs. Loz and Magda follow me through the back doors to bid me adieu.
“My little girl! Off by herself for the first time,” rasps Mum, pretending to sniffle. “I can’t bear to watch! Just go! Go quickly!”
“Hey, look after yourself, ladies,” Dad says sagely through the car window as I cram myself in beside Big Bird Swan and her endless miles of thighs. “And remember those rules we all agreed on, eh?” Dad says, tapping the side of his head. “Keep them up there, will you?”
