Phoebe's Diary
December 31, 2004

New Year commitments...

  • Find extraterrestrial life. Keep searching for that signal
  • Stop biting nails
  • E-mail political prisoners on Amnesty list
  • Try P (perfect drug, no side effects, just fun - and legal)
  • Start writing film script. If I leave it much longer I'll be old, like 17 or something. Must get Mum to talk to Veronica at TeenTalk
  • Negotiate higher childcare rate for looking after T after school
  • Stop spending so much money on clothes from shopping village web sites which don't fit and which make bum look big
  • Reduce bum. Mum's new digital exercise chair (thermostatic control designed to raise metabolic rate, currently being used to dry underwear)?
  • Think not. Persuade Dad to pay for PFR [permanent fat removal]? YE-ES! (Complain aura damaged due to uneven weight distribution.)

    Well, last year's commitments seem pretty feeble now.

    "Help Mum more with online shopping" - the woman needs no help from me.

    Her smart card is hot with misuse. Last week she ordered four pairs of recycled jeans and a Hussein Chalayan hemp jacket, and the lot had to go back.

    I could have told her, hemp is so passé. So now she's using Global Women, where the clothes are modelled online by multi-ethnic, multi-aged (ie old) models who will try everything on for you before you buy.

    Yet every week she forgets to order the Organichannel stuff, so there's nothing to eat in this house that isn't practically radioactive.

    Have decided if I'm ever going to reach my full intellectual potential I'm going to have to take responsibility for all our food deliveries.

    Had the most bizarre conversation with her re my childhood the other night.

    I can't believe she used to feed me something disgusting called Chicken Nuggets and then she admitted - get this - she spent her entire pregnancy scoffing Cheesy Doodahs and nonorganic carrots, which must have been heaving with toxins.

    And then she laughed.

    Like this was some kind of joke.

    Tacitus, who was born on a windy hillside in Wiltshire specially chosen for its ley lines, has been fed like a little hothouse flower.

    And he had the benefit of hand-picked intellectually graded sperm - I mean, how fair is that?

    God, reproduction was so basic in the 1990s.

    Not only was there no selective prenatal gene therapy for me but my hopelessly misinformed mother didn't even have to attend parenting classes.

    It's a miracle I survived at all.

    If news of my diet got out she'd have a parenting order slapped on her for sure.

    Had a totally crappy Christmas; this ban on teenage movement after dark is really getting to us all.

    No drugs, then, but lots of virtual interaction.

    Had online party with Naïma and loads from school inc Saffron, Alice, George and Harry.

    Harry dominated all talk-time by declaring undying love for Alice, which was embarrassing as she's really hooked on this guy she's e-mailing in Nicaragua.

    Got some fab presents, though.

    Mum got a Dictafriend - she thinks "talking" to her computer is going to cut her working time down by half but all she does is contradict herself then argue with it when it types up everything she says as she says it.

    It's driving her mad and I have to keep going down to the workpod to sort her out.

    Tacitus got Tinker, a smart teddy with a (micro) chip on his shoulder - he does infant syllabus with T so Mum doesn't have to. (Like she ever has time to read with him anyway, what with work and all.)

    T's a high-maintenance child - don't think she realises how hard it is looking after him, doing homework and maintaining rewarding social life.

    Must, in a reasonable and mature manner, press for more dosh.

    Must on no account lose temper, otherwise she'll flip and start threatening me with caring, sharing communal living again.

    But back to the prezzies.

    I got an MCC [mobile communication centre].

    At last! Alice has had hers since they came out and I bet she got the micro version this year.

    She's so spoilt.

    Anyway, I really like mine.

    It's quite small, shaped like a shell (actually I wanted the fish but never mind) and, best of all, it takes aural mini messages so I can e-mail my friends while I'm on the street.

    It'll be really useful as a security device too.

    We've been getting more and more hassle from the girl gang at The Dump [nearby sink school].

    Some of them are so thick they can barely fasten the Velcro on their combat jackets.

    Disadvantaged in utero for sure.

    Last week, the biggest saddo of the lot stole my smart card and after trading stacks of units for P, ran up a huge debt at the Organic Planet Café.

    Two things preying on mind at moment.

    At school we're having talks re personal protection from nuclear fallout due to situation in Russia.

    Unfortunately, understand v little and Mum no help.

    She starts muttering about Greenfield? Greenum? - somewhere she used to hang out billions of years ago with Naïma's mum.

    Then she looks sort of wild and helpless, which is v scary indeed.

    Dad also a big worry.

    He's living in this vile place (1990 suburbia revisited, complete with brand-new village pond, for God's sake) with this vile woman who wears black all the time (so's not to confuse her chakras) and revolting red lipstick which was prob v fashionable in 1995.

    Dad says he's finding himself after years in the shadow of my mother.

    Says he's sick of feeding his inner child and wants to make friends with his primeval urges.


    He'll be joining Jack's dad at that new masculinist community near Reading next.

    Caroline Scott

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