Screening at the Melbourne International Film Festival, The Palace, a Cypriot-Australian co-produced short film directed and written by Anthony Maras, not only received a huge applause, but it had me walking out of the cinema to catch my breath. I returned later to speak to Anthony and to congratulate him but then I came straight home to write this review despite having a million and one things to do.
Talking film and co-production I’m always a bit wary, especially when two countries are involved, but The Palace made the entire experience seamless. In fact, from the onset I was transported to 1974, Lefkosia, Cyprus, amidst war and turmoil. Usually when I watch a film, it takes me a while to become emotionally invested, to be living and breathing in the world that the film is creating. Not here though. Spanning a mere 17 minutes and inspired by true events, the film’s biggest triumph is its ability to capture and hold captive audience emotion.
But the film goes beyond this. So many films have been made about the 1974 war in Cyprus, none as short as this that I know of. What The Palace does successfully is sum up clearly and elegantly the politics that have been brewing over the island since 1974. It does this realistically, without sugar-coating. A young Turkish officer, commanded by his Sargent to kill a Greek-Cypriot citizen responds with one line that I’m sure will stay with me for quite some time. He says ”But I’m just a drama student…” to which the Sargent repeats the order and responds with “…this is where art ends and reality begins…” The acting was at a very high standard, and I found all the characters believable beyond a doubt.
Professionally shot, with a consistent pace, The Palace not only invoked frustrations in me I keep buried regarding Cyprus, my parent’s birthplace, but it watered it down, in the space of 17 minutes, how inhumane war is, and how, at the end of the day, it’s the higher powers that manipulate, and control, using young boys as pawns, in their bigger plans for Cyprus and its strategic location in the Mediterranean. Although I was left breathless afterwards, it was only because I was confronted, in such a short space of time, by issues mirrored inside me as a Cypriot, but more importantly, as an artist, writing my own novel set in Cyprus, Misplaced, and the points and issues I want to convey in my story. I was definitely inspired by the film, and with my own plans to one day turn my novel into a film, it’s great to see co-production between Cyprus and Australia coming up with this end result: a captivating masterpiece. How Maras managed this in the space of 17 minutes highlights his talent as a filmmaker.
Five stars from me!
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Hi all out there, how are you? I have an extract of my novel below! But before I get into that, thanks for visiting my blog! It’s been a while since I wrote a personal account of what’s been going on in my writing life. Apologies firstly to all of you who were following my transformative poem but I’ve taken it down. The reason was that it was growing and growing and it’s going to be my longest poem ever and it’s going in all sorts of directions. I don’t plan to repost it here(maybe an extract?) because I feel it is too long for the internet and I may send it away to a competition and I’m also still not sure if it is a performance piece or a page poem but I think it will end up being performance so you’ll have to catch me at an open mic to hear it, or come along to one of my gigs!
Having said that, I don’t plan to gig for a bit, because I’m focusing on finishing my novel, and I can hear some of you shouting ‘Finally! Come on already!’ Okay, okay, I know some of you have been hearing about this novel since I started it in 2005 but seriously, this time, I’m going to finish. I started advanced novel writing this semester with the wonderful Toni Jordan and three weeks in it’s been an amazing experience. I feel like I’m learning so much and I’m really excited about where my novel is going. I plan to finish the novel by mid next year, but it could be sooner. I’m not going to submit it anywhere until it’s polished and edited, up to the standard of the writing I’ve posted below which is the opening pages and it has been edited and proofread. For those of you who don’t know, I lost one of my very best friends and mentor for Misplaced, Anna Kannava a few months ago. Cinema Nova are having a retrospective of her films on Friday the 11th and Saturday 12th of August, and it would be nice to see people coming together to celebrate her beautiful films. She was on my back to finish the novel and so now, I’m doing it!!
I’ve also been busy putting my poetry chapbook, Love and Fuck Poems, into book shops and I’ll start sending them out to be reviewed and hopefully something will come out of that. There’s been requests for me to travel interstate and perform and even to go to Cyprus and I wish I had more time to do all that. It’s on the cards, definitely, and please do get in touch with me if you’d like to set something up and we can take it from there. There was an interesting debate also that I started over at Overland about poetry and pornography and I learnt a lot from the discussion. It was really good to see people contributing and having their say. Ben John Smith, the poet which I discussed in the article and the poet who launched by chapbook, and I, have been discussing putting on another show and there is going to be a photo shoot he says, of me and him for his website, coming soon! I was really happy with the turn out at the launch and people who couldn’t make it are emailing me for copies of the book. I can post you one or I’ll be carrying them around at the next few poetry readings if you want a copy, or you can go down to one of the bookshops that stock them, click the link on the right bar for more details.
It was also great reconnecting with Trial Kennedy last Saturday night, the band I have been studying for my novel. It put me right back into Ella mode(my protagonists’ name). Anyway, enough babbling from me. Here are the opening pages of Misplaced, and I’m not sure about the title anymore so any suggestions and feedback would be most appreciated. Enjoy!
1
Clubbing is number one. Everything else, can get fucked. And there’s only one kind of person that doesn’t get that: an Aussie, because they can do whatever they like, whenever. Their parents aren’t stuck in wogland around the Stone Age. They don’t have to go clubbing to get some privacy. They can just be free, twenty-four-seven.
If clubbing were an alcoholic drink, like a cocksucking cowboy, I’d drink it until I was plastered, drown my problems to death. In a club I can do whatever I like and the wogs can’t see me. I can just be me, smoke, drink, whatever. It’s like right now with Josh. We’ve been flirting for the last couple weeks, and finally his tongue is my mouth, wet lips, music thumping me to the core, strobe lights outlining our bodies as we grope and meld. It’s the top floor of Metro nightclub, a red leather make-out booth just for us. He’s nibbling at my ear, one hand tangled in my long black hair, the other sliding up my thigh, at the hem of my skirt. I gently nudge it away. Friday nights at Metro are called ‘Joy’. Joy. Joy.
‘You’re so hot, Ella…’
There’s a tap on my shoulder:Milos. He’s pissed. He taps his watch.
Shit.
‘Who’s that?’ Josh asks, our limbs still entangled.
‘My cousin, sorry, I gotta go.’
We grin at each other. ‘I’ll see you soon? Next Friday?’
‘Yeah.’ But why didn’t he ask for my number? ‘See you then.’
Milos’s got his don’t-fucking-talk-to-me face on all the way to the car, until he’s behind the steering wheel, and then he lets it rip. What’s new? Fotis, Theo and Steven,Milos’s friends, in the backseat, keep their mouths shut.
‘We were looking everywhere…’ He’s gripping the wheel with one hand, shaking his hand like an angry wog with the other.
‘Sorry…’ The clock says3:20. It’s3:20. And we’re still ten from Thomastown.
‘…at least tell me when you’re gonna disappear with some guy so I know…’
I’m fucked if Mum’s up, fucked.
‘…respect yourself. Don’t kiss every guy that shows an interest…’
‘Aha…’ She’ll have me doing thoulgies all day tomorrow. But I’d rather house chores than one of Dad’s ‘what’s wrong with you’ looks.
‘Ella! Are you listening?’
We pull up the driveway.3:34am. 3:34am. I swallow.
Television flicker illuminates the darkness when I creep inside. I stop, hold my breath. He’s up. Hopefully he’s fallen asleep on his armchair. I listen in for his snore—there it is, lawnmower loud, and I exhale. Removing my heels I tiptoe towards the study, past the living room and Dad. The Greek news reader on ANT1 speaks into the stillness.
‘What time is this?’ he mumbles half asleep in Greek.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
He sighs. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why can’t I just make it home on time? I can’t see him. He’s probably clutching his forehead, shaking his head. I stare at the floorboards. Silence. Not that I’m expecting him to say anything, but you never know. The unspoken words grate at my chest. He doesn’t get me. He just doesn’t get me.
I give up and mope into the study. I connect to the internet and my cousin Anastasia from Cyprus(SexyKyprea) is online. So is George (DangerBoy), a friend of a friend of Anastasia’s. On an island the size of Greater Melbourne, everyone knows everyone. George sketches and paints like me and we exchange drawings via post every so often (my idea, of course).
‘I have news!’ I send through, and without waiting for a response, I frantically type the night’s events.
‘I think it is love,’ Anastasia sends.
‘Even though he didn’t ask for my number?’
‘This is no problem, he is shy, yes?’
Why isn’t he responding? ‘George?’ I type. Why does he do that? If he’s in the chat room he should, oh, I don’t know, chat? Or he should just log out. I’m just about to type something along those lines when he sends:
‘Finally! Epellanes mas!’ You’ve driven us crazy!
‘Relax! I don’t talk about him THAT much.’
‘Anastasia?’ George asks.
‘Well…’ Anastasia sends. ‘But this is what love is…’
‘Ithes!’ See! George sends.
Idiot. ‘Do you think it means something if he didn’t ask for my number?’
‘Elanora, do you think I have a map to Josh’s brain?’
‘But I need a guy’s opinion.’
‘Has my drawing arrived in the post?’
‘Are you SERIOUS?’ I send. ‘Stop changing the subject.’
‘Yes…I’m very serious about ART.’ He keeps going on about the drawing he’s sent me, that I’ll love it, that he used colour this time instead of grey-lead. When he asks how far off I am from sending my drawing I tell him I’ll post it on Monday then head off to bed.
***
It’s morning and I’m across the hallway at Anna’s door in my blue and white striped pyjamas, hair knotty, foggy brain. Her door’s closed of course, and the annoying, hand-written ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is blue-tacked to it. A sudden shriek shoots out the gap underneath her door, then laughter. Great, Daphne must be here. My God wog families are claustrophobic. Why does Thia Nikki have to live one street away? It’s completely insane.
I open the door anyway. ‘I have newwws.’
They’re wrestling on the bed. Anna’s got her in a headlock, black curls bouncing about the place. These girls are seventeen? No way. Grow up, I want to say, but don’t. I wouldn’t want to piss Anna off.
They stop. ‘Can’t you read signs?’ Anna says.
‘I kissed Josh!’
She narrows her eyes at me like Dad does when he’s disgusted in me. ‘Ella, you don’t even know him. It’s slutty.’
My smile deflates. ‘No it’s…’ but I can’t finish the rest of my sentence.
Daphne cackles. ‘You’re such a bitch sometimes,’ she says to her.
They watch each other, then explode into laughter. ‘You know you love me,’ Anna responds.
Daphne pinches her waist, and they’re re-engaged in combat.
‘Shut up,’ my brother Harry moans from his bedroom.
I watch them, like standing there is going to make them stop or something. Of course they just pretend I’m not there. Of course.
Back in my room I dial Sandra on the mobile. How else am I going to get a boyfriend? By being a nun? Sandra may be younger than Anna but she gets it. It’s called maturity.
‘You got time for a chingoon in five?’
‘Yeah…something wrong?’
‘Need to talk. See you soon.’
I can’t be fucked asking Mum so I lock my bedroom door, get dressed, and escape through my window—it’s just a small jump out onto the front veranda of our woggy, brick veneer house and then it’s freedom all the way.
It’s freezing, freezing. Winter! Already? I rub my hands, slide my arms inside my jumper sleeves. The sky’s moody, like me. Bloody Anna, who does she think she is? Like she’s judge of my life or something. Judge of my life!
I head to the park at the end of our street. Our orange, metallic egg bubble is at the centre of the dusty, grassless playground, between the swings and the seesaw. Sandra’s already inside, leaning against the wall decorated with messages we wrote as kids: ‘Sandy and Ella, best friends forever’, ‘Ella is a bella, my Ella-bella’, ‘Sandy the sexy beast’.
‘Hey.’ I crouch in.
‘Okay, what happened?’ She’s smoking a chingoon, pulling on strands of her blonde hair. Her feet are up on the wheel planted at the bubble’s heart. Sandra loves spinning the bubble—I get so dizzy but she doesn’t care, she thinks it’s funny when I crack it.
I quickly light up from her packet, sit opposite her, against the wall, feet up on the wheel, kiss her shoe soles with mine. ‘Oh, just shit.’ I look out at the swings.
I feel her blue eyes reading my curled in stance. We don’t speak, and we don’t need to. When she finishes her ciggie she tosses it outside. She starts humming. I try to make out the song. I think it’s ‘Like a prayer’ by Madonna. Sandra hates what she calls ‘eighties pop shit’ and is into what I call ‘grunge rock shit’, you know, the type that gives you a headache. She sings for me. I was right. I close my eyes to the world, lose myself somewhere between the chorus and the force of her voice.
‘I kissed him,’ I blurt during the second verse.
She halts. ‘And that’s bad because…?’
I cover my eyes. ‘I know, I know it’s not bad.’ I take a drag of my ciggie.
‘Then why are you covering your eyes?’
I sigh, lower my hand. Her eyebrows may as well be touching the ceiling. ‘Wait! Let me tell you what happened.’
I delve into last night in detail, finishing my ciggie in the process.
‘That’s awesome,’ she says.
‘Really?’
She digs into her backpack, retrieves the deodorant. ‘So what exactly is the problem?’ She sprays to mask the smoke.
I take a deep breath, carefully and quickly drop the word ‘Anna.’
‘Ella!’
‘I know. I know. She said it was slutty!’
She’s shaking her head, handing over the deodorant. ‘Look I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again: a) she’s probably got her period, b) she’s the biggest wog of all, the biggest, I mean seriously, she’s gonna end up with some wog guy, behind the kitchen sink going “yes, honey” I mean, come on Ella-bella. Kiss whoever you want and stuff her. Okay?’
I nod, like I agree, sort of, but maybe I should kiss whoever I want.
Maybe I fucking will.
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Screening at the Melbourne International Film Festival, The Palace, a Cypriot-Australian co-produced short film directed and written by Anthony Maras, not only received a huge applause, but it had me walking out of the cinema to catch my breath. I returned later to speak to Anthony and to congratulate him but then I came straight home to write this review despite having a million and one things to do.
New semester, new goals, new dreams
July 22, 2011 at 12:08 am (Creative commentary, Cultural writing (migrants))
Hi all out there, how are you? I have an extract of my novel below! But before I get into that, thanks for visiting my blog! It’s been a while since I wrote a personal account of what’s been going on in my writing life. Apologies firstly to all of you who were following my transformative poem but I’ve taken it down. The reason was that it was growing and growing and it’s going to be my longest poem ever and it’s going in all sorts of directions. I don’t plan to repost it here(maybe an extract?) because I feel it is too long for the internet and I may send it away to a competition and I’m also still not sure if it is a performance piece or a page poem but I think it will end up being performance so you’ll have to catch me at an open mic to hear it, or come along to one of my gigs!
Having said that, I don’t plan to gig for a bit, because I’m focusing on finishing my novel, and I can hear some of you shouting ‘Finally! Come on already!’ Okay, okay, I know some of you have been hearing about this novel since I started it in 2005 but seriously, this time, I’m going to finish. I started advanced novel writing this semester with the wonderful Toni Jordan and three weeks in it’s been an amazing experience. I feel like I’m learning so much and I’m really excited about where my novel is going. I plan to finish the novel by mid next year, but it could be sooner. I’m not going to submit it anywhere until it’s polished and edited, up to the standard of the writing I’ve posted below which is the opening pages and it has been edited and proofread. For those of you who don’t know, I lost one of my very best friends and mentor for Misplaced, Anna Kannava a few months ago. Cinema Nova are having a retrospective of her films on Friday the 11th and Saturday 12th of August, and it would be nice to see people coming together to celebrate her beautiful films. She was on my back to finish the novel and so now, I’m doing it!!
I’ve also been busy putting my poetry chapbook, Love and Fuck Poems, into book shops and I’ll start sending them out to be reviewed and hopefully something will come out of that. There’s been requests for me to travel interstate and perform and even to go to Cyprus and I wish I had more time to do all that. It’s on the cards, definitely, and please do get in touch with me if you’d like to set something up and we can take it from there. There was an interesting debate also that I started over at Overland about poetry and pornography and I learnt a lot from the discussion. It was really good to see people contributing and having their say. Ben John Smith, the poet which I discussed in the article and the poet who launched by chapbook, and I, have been discussing putting on another show and there is going to be a photo shoot he says, of me and him for his website, coming soon! I was really happy with the turn out at the launch and people who couldn’t make it are emailing me for copies of the book. I can post you one or I’ll be carrying them around at the next few poetry readings if you want a copy, or you can go down to one of the bookshops that stock them, click the link on the right bar for more details.
It was also great reconnecting with Trial Kennedy last Saturday night, the band I have been studying for my novel. It put me right back into Ella mode(my protagonists’ name). Anyway, enough babbling from me. Here are the opening pages of Misplaced, and I’m not sure about the title anymore so any suggestions and feedback would be most appreciated. Enjoy!
1
Clubbing is number one. Everything else, can get fucked. And there’s only one kind of person that doesn’t get that: an Aussie, because they can do whatever they like, whenever. Their parents aren’t stuck in wogland around the Stone Age. They don’t have to go clubbing to get some privacy. They can just be free, twenty-four-seven.
If clubbing were an alcoholic drink, like a cocksucking cowboy, I’d drink it until I was plastered, drown my problems to death. In a club I can do whatever I like and the wogs can’t see me. I can just be me, smoke, drink, whatever. It’s like right now with Josh. We’ve been flirting for the last couple weeks, and finally his tongue is my mouth, wet lips, music thumping me to the core, strobe lights outlining our bodies as we grope and meld. It’s the top floor of Metro nightclub, a red leather make-out booth just for us. He’s nibbling at my ear, one hand tangled in my long black hair, the other sliding up my thigh, at the hem of my skirt. I gently nudge it away. Friday nights at Metro are called ‘Joy’. Joy. Joy.
‘You’re so hot, Ella…’
There’s a tap on my shoulder:Milos. He’s pissed. He taps his watch.
Shit.
‘Who’s that?’ Josh asks, our limbs still entangled.
‘My cousin, sorry, I gotta go.’
We grin at each other. ‘I’ll see you soon? Next Friday?’
‘Yeah.’ But why didn’t he ask for my number? ‘See you then.’
Milos’s got his don’t-fucking-talk-to-me face on all the way to the car, until he’s behind the steering wheel, and then he lets it rip. What’s new? Fotis, Theo and Steven,Milos’s friends, in the backseat, keep their mouths shut.
‘We were looking everywhere…’ He’s gripping the wheel with one hand, shaking his hand like an angry wog with the other.
‘Sorry…’ The clock says3:20. It’s3:20. And we’re still ten from Thomastown.
‘…at least tell me when you’re gonna disappear with some guy so I know…’
I’m fucked if Mum’s up, fucked.
‘…respect yourself. Don’t kiss every guy that shows an interest…’
‘Aha…’ She’ll have me doing thoulgies all day tomorrow. But I’d rather house chores than one of Dad’s ‘what’s wrong with you’ looks.
‘Ella! Are you listening?’
We pull up the driveway.3:34am. 3:34am. I swallow.
Television flicker illuminates the darkness when I creep inside. I stop, hold my breath. He’s up. Hopefully he’s fallen asleep on his armchair. I listen in for his snore—there it is, lawnmower loud, and I exhale. Removing my heels I tiptoe towards the study, past the living room and Dad. The Greek news reader on ANT1 speaks into the stillness.
‘What time is this?’ he mumbles half asleep in Greek.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
He sighs. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why can’t I just make it home on time? I can’t see him. He’s probably clutching his forehead, shaking his head. I stare at the floorboards. Silence. Not that I’m expecting him to say anything, but you never know. The unspoken words grate at my chest. He doesn’t get me. He just doesn’t get me.
I give up and mope into the study. I connect to the internet and my cousin Anastasia from Cyprus(SexyKyprea) is online. So is George (DangerBoy), a friend of a friend of Anastasia’s. On an island the size of Greater Melbourne, everyone knows everyone. George sketches and paints like me and we exchange drawings via post every so often (my idea, of course).
‘I have news!’ I send through, and without waiting for a response, I frantically type the night’s events.
‘I think it is love,’ Anastasia sends.
‘Even though he didn’t ask for my number?’
‘This is no problem, he is shy, yes?’
Why isn’t he responding? ‘George?’ I type. Why does he do that? If he’s in the chat room he should, oh, I don’t know, chat? Or he should just log out. I’m just about to type something along those lines when he sends:
‘Finally! Epellanes mas!’ You’ve driven us crazy!
‘Relax! I don’t talk about him THAT much.’
‘Anastasia?’ George asks.
‘Well…’ Anastasia sends. ‘But this is what love is…’
‘Ithes!’ See! George sends.
Idiot. ‘Do you think it means something if he didn’t ask for my number?’
‘Elanora, do you think I have a map to Josh’s brain?’
‘But I need a guy’s opinion.’
‘Has my drawing arrived in the post?’
‘Are you SERIOUS?’ I send. ‘Stop changing the subject.’
‘Yes…I’m very serious about ART.’ He keeps going on about the drawing he’s sent me, that I’ll love it, that he used colour this time instead of grey-lead. When he asks how far off I am from sending my drawing I tell him I’ll post it on Monday then head off to bed.
***
It’s morning and I’m across the hallway at Anna’s door in my blue and white striped pyjamas, hair knotty, foggy brain. Her door’s closed of course, and the annoying, hand-written ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is blue-tacked to it. A sudden shriek shoots out the gap underneath her door, then laughter. Great, Daphne must be here. My God wog families are claustrophobic. Why does Thia Nikki have to live one street away? It’s completely insane.
I open the door anyway. ‘I have newwws.’
They’re wrestling on the bed. Anna’s got her in a headlock, black curls bouncing about the place. These girls are seventeen? No way. Grow up, I want to say, but don’t. I wouldn’t want to piss Anna off.
They stop. ‘Can’t you read signs?’ Anna says.
‘I kissed Josh!’
She narrows her eyes at me like Dad does when he’s disgusted in me. ‘Ella, you don’t even know him. It’s slutty.’
My smile deflates. ‘No it’s…’ but I can’t finish the rest of my sentence.
Daphne cackles. ‘You’re such a bitch sometimes,’ she says to her.
They watch each other, then explode into laughter. ‘You know you love me,’ Anna responds.
Daphne pinches her waist, and they’re re-engaged in combat.
‘Shut up,’ my brother Harry moans from his bedroom.
I watch them, like standing there is going to make them stop or something. Of course they just pretend I’m not there. Of course.
Back in my room I dial Sandra on the mobile. How else am I going to get a boyfriend? By being a nun? Sandra may be younger than Anna but she gets it. It’s called maturity.
‘You got time for a chingoon in five?’
‘Yeah…something wrong?’
‘Need to talk. See you soon.’
I can’t be fucked asking Mum so I lock my bedroom door, get dressed, and escape through my window—it’s just a small jump out onto the front veranda of our woggy, brick veneer house and then it’s freedom all the way.
It’s freezing, freezing. Winter! Already? I rub my hands, slide my arms inside my jumper sleeves. The sky’s moody, like me. Bloody Anna, who does she think she is? Like she’s judge of my life or something. Judge of my life!
I head to the park at the end of our street. Our orange, metallic egg bubble is at the centre of the dusty, grassless playground, between the swings and the seesaw. Sandra’s already inside, leaning against the wall decorated with messages we wrote as kids: ‘Sandy and Ella, best friends forever’, ‘Ella is a bella, my Ella-bella’, ‘Sandy the sexy beast’.
‘Hey.’ I crouch in.
‘Okay, what happened?’ She’s smoking a chingoon, pulling on strands of her blonde hair. Her feet are up on the wheel planted at the bubble’s heart. Sandra loves spinning the bubble—I get so dizzy but she doesn’t care, she thinks it’s funny when I crack it.
I quickly light up from her packet, sit opposite her, against the wall, feet up on the wheel, kiss her shoe soles with mine. ‘Oh, just shit.’ I look out at the swings.
I feel her blue eyes reading my curled in stance. We don’t speak, and we don’t need to. When she finishes her ciggie she tosses it outside. She starts humming. I try to make out the song. I think it’s ‘Like a prayer’ by Madonna. Sandra hates what she calls ‘eighties pop shit’ and is into what I call ‘grunge rock shit’, you know, the type that gives you a headache. She sings for me. I was right. I close my eyes to the world, lose myself somewhere between the chorus and the force of her voice.
‘I kissed him,’ I blurt during the second verse.
She halts. ‘And that’s bad because…?’
I cover my eyes. ‘I know, I know it’s not bad.’ I take a drag of my ciggie.
‘Then why are you covering your eyes?’
I sigh, lower my hand. Her eyebrows may as well be touching the ceiling. ‘Wait! Let me tell you what happened.’
I delve into last night in detail, finishing my ciggie in the process.
‘That’s awesome,’ she says.
‘Really?’
She digs into her backpack, retrieves the deodorant. ‘So what exactly is the problem?’ She sprays to mask the smoke.
I take a deep breath, carefully and quickly drop the word ‘Anna.’
‘Ella!’
‘I know. I know. She said it was slutty!’
She’s shaking her head, handing over the deodorant. ‘Look I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again: a) she’s probably got her period, b) she’s the biggest wog of all, the biggest, I mean seriously, she’s gonna end up with some wog guy, behind the kitchen sink going “yes, honey” I mean, come on Ella-bella. Kiss whoever you want and stuff her. Okay?’
I nod, like I agree, sort of, but maybe I should kiss whoever I want.
Maybe I fucking will.
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