"holds my hand and let's my hair down"

Chapter 1
A musing, if you like, or if you prefer: The beginning

It starts with a whistle.
An oblivious reiteration of your favourite childhood song mashed up with some Top 10 hit that played on the radio at about 9:15 this morning. Thoughts march through your mind in rhythmic succession, unnoticed, overlooked. The whistle drowns them out and as soon as your gut contorts from the gnawing anxiety brought on by unpaid bills, sagging tits or unrequited love, the interchanging tones of your senseless whistle dwindles all to a background drone.

While this massacre occurs in your innards the three-noted whistle distracts you from reality. For some it’s a hum, for others the bite of nail, a tug on a skirt hem or an annoying clearing of the throat. I personally indicate my attempt to evade reality with a yawn. An inadvertent yawn. As though the gesture of utter indifference will express my feelings on or attitude towards the pressing matter. No matter how pressing the matter may be.

I digress. Although I am not devoid of these constant concerns – on the contrary. This account is not of my life or my contorting innards. And however mundane this particular account may seem. Every word and angle of it has impacted greatly on the mind, actions and metrical pulse of a certain other girl’s bowels. An ordinary girl. Born into the monotony of suburban existence. Groomed to become all her parents never were. The perfect specimen. Flawless. An image of sheer brilliance. Intelligent. Responsible. Someone who wouldn’t dare appear in public with last season’s boots and who learnt to curl her superbly primed lashes with Revlon’s Extreme Exuberance Mascara at age seven. Someone to look up to, and, well, if we’re going to be completely honest here, someone to detest. I hardly hesitate to generalise at this point. We’ve all known this girl or known about her at least – depending on the enthusiasm with which one attended high school that is.