There’s quite a crowd gathered to watch the match, which surprises me. Maybe everyone is using it as an opp to be seen and check out what little talent there is in Oakdale High. I can’t say I know what the rules are, but there is a lot of tussling over the ball and scrums and shouting and running at one another. The menfolk of the school are v v vocal, particularly against the referee if they feel he’s got something v wrong, which he seems to a lot.
‘Jason Fielding looks fit out there,’ I try, hoping it’ll reignite something in Dixie that isn’t scorn.
‘Hmm,’ is all that gets.
‘And Uggs is fast, just like he said.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Dork alert.’
‘Where?’
Now I have her attention.
‘Incoming, from the left.’
‘Hello, ladies.’
‘Hi, Gary.’ Dixie gives a high-wattage beam. ‘How are preparations for Saturday’s show going?’
‘Good, thanks. A long process. It’s hard trying to decide on a number and then making sure it’s not too difficult for all ten of us to play.’
‘Fast or slow this week?’ I ask.
‘Dunno. There’s a difference of opinion about whether we should show diversity or stick with another rockin’ track.’
‘Well, I, for one, am really enjoying it. Well done.’ Dixie is full-on-charm gushing now.
‘Thanks.’ He’s not paying her half enough attention and I’m worried she’s going to latch on to this mad idea everyone has that it’s me he’s interested in. ‘What’s the score?’ he wants to know … from me …
‘Er, don’t know. We’re here for Uggs,’ I explain.
‘Do you play yourself, Gaz?’* Dixie enquires.
‘Can’t afford to at the moment,’ he says. ‘In case I injure the hands.’
‘Or the face!’ exclaims Dixie.
‘Truth,’ he says, nodding, pleased with a compliment.
Then he’s doing funny handshakes with some mates. He doesn’t seem worried those might injure his ability to play guitar.
‘Look,’ I say, pointing and trying to wrestle Dixie’s attention back. ‘I think Jason just scored.’
‘Oh, how very,’ she says disdainfully. She picked that up from some film and uses it whenever it’s a WHATEVER situation. I fear Jason Fielding may be a lost cause.
There’s a v rowdy element amongst the spectators. Firstly there’s low-level jostling, then someone starts throwing balloons full of water around. Then Hugo Pheifer proves why he is the unluckiest boy in Oakdale: he gets hit and drenched by a missile, and it’s clear that it’s a special one.
‘I don’t think that water bomb was full of water,’ Dixie says.
‘Who threw it?’
‘Mike Hussy.’†
UH-OH.
‘Not likely to be H2O, then,’ I confirm.
‘No. Not at all likely.’
‘At least it wasn’t anything more solid than, well … that.’
Small comfort to Hugo, who is now soaked with Mike Hussy’s pee. That poor guy is doomed to misfortune. It also illustrates why anyone watching a match is pleased when Mike Hussy is playing and not in the crowd. At least if he’s on the pitch, he is only a danger to the opposing team, not free range and a pest to all supporters when he’s not chosen to play.
On the way home Dixie discusses her plans for a mini makeover. ‘I’ve seen this great article about how to cut your own hair and I thought I might try it.’
I’m hoping this is a plan for some time in the distant future, but no, oh no.
‘Want to come home with me now and we can try it?’
‘Are you sure you want to cut your own hair, Dixie? Is that not best left to a professional? You’ll go mental if it goes wrong.’ I don’t add that I so don’t want to be there for the event, and blamed for supervising a disazz (opposite of pzazz!).
She ignores my protest and, much quicker than I can say, ‘I’m off,’ we are in her room and I’m looking at the magazine with this most foolhardy of beauty plans. Whoever wrote this is a v irresponsible style guru. Basically, the process involves tying your hair in a ponytail high and tight just over your forehead and then cutting straight across the hair hanging out at whatever length you judge to be good. I feel vomitous as Dix takes the scissors to her locks, and even worse as she takes the elastic band off.‡
BUT …
Wonder of wonders …
It’s OK! Somehow the shape is fine and Dixie’s barnet simply looks freshly tidied up.
‘If I say so myself, that is a total triumph,’ she says. ‘Another string to my bow.’
Just as well there are many strings to Dixie’s bow, because if there was only one and it snapped, all she’d have left is a stick, and she would Not. Like. That.
At. All.
Suddenly I am all wrung out.б Well, it’s no surprise. There’s the stress of the TFX semi-final coming up; the worry of Dad’s job and whether our SASS make-up range will do the trick; Mum’s mind;§ and Dixie’s bonkers plans for l’amour. And that’s just for starters. I’m only human. I feel overwhelmed. How many threads in this rich tapestry of life are in danger of becoming completely unravelled without some serious Jenny Q attention?
