Fiona Scott-Norman was born in England and moved to Australia in the 1980s. She’s a writer, satirist, broadcaster and columnist who contributes to The Age, The Australian, 774 ABC Radio and The Big Issue. She edited Bully for Them, published by Affirm Press in 2014, and has also had several comedy shows that have toured the country.

Dear Fiona,

Hello! Helloooo! Your older self here! Be a dear and put that book down for a moment. I know, I know, you’re right in the middle of a good bit, but I’m worth the effort. For one thing, it’s a letter, an actual letter, and I know you’re not getting many of those while you’re at boarding school. None, right? Awful. Well, this is just one of the things I want to talk to you about – Fiona to Fiona – from the perspective of a) being a grown-up now, and b) having finally asked Mum and Dad what the actual friggety hell was with them not writing to me at school.

(By the way, I swear a fair amount these days. It’s tremendous fun being older. You’ll love it.)

So. The reason you’re not getting any letters from home has nothing to do with you. It turns out that Mum is self-conscious about writing letters because she makes spelling mistakes. Maybe a bit dyslexic. Who knew? She’s worried about being judged, probably because Dad’s super shouty. And you’re so good at English, and Mum’s very proud of that, so she kind of doesn’t want you to know that she hasn’t the foggiest when ‘e’ goes before ‘i’, etc. Crazy, huh? So, look, you’re not going to get much mail for your entire seven years at boarding school, and I know that makes you feel very lonely, but it’s not because you’re not loved. You are loved so very much! Mum and Dad adore you, they’re just English and don’t know how to show emotion.

You will eventually teach both of them to hug.

And you know how when you ring home, and Dad answers the phone, and immediately says, ‘I’ll get your mother,’ and puts the phone down and walks off? That’s not because he doesn’t want to talk to you. It’s because he doesn’t like talking on the phone. To anyone. But gosh he loves you. He thinks you’re the bee’s knees. I agree it’s hard to believe when his nicknames for you are ‘long streak of misery’ and ‘eldest unmarried’, but it’s true. He just never stopped being angry after the Second World War. If you can manage it, cut him some slack; he’s still having flashbacks to body parts and bombing raids.

You’re going to be fine. You don’t have to worry. Truly! Life will not suck like an abdominal leech indefinitely. There’s nothing wrong with you. I know it doesn’t feel like that. Your nickname is ‘Spider’, nearly everyone at school teases you, you’re a foot taller than all the boys, and it’s horrible being the most unpopular kid out of nearly 2000 students. Hanging around like limp lettuce on the edge of the dancefloor at school socials, and never being asked to dance.

(I found a photo of Andrew H a few days ago. I know he’s the apotheosis of spunkhood to you right now, but trust me, he’s a big spotty oik. You missed out on nothing.)

(Kevin B, however, was a sweetie. I suggest not defeating him that time you wrestle in the Fry House common room.)

But school will be over before you know it and, despite your fear, ‘deeply unpopular’ isn’t your brand for life. It also transpires that your giraffe-like legs are a drawcard once you grow into them.

(You will always have difficulty buying shoes, because even 40 years later a size 12 is ridiculous. However, your feet and hands are proportionate now, and no one ever laughs at them.)

Being an outsider at school, burying yourself in books, and making jokes to deflect the meanness will turn you into a writer and comedian. Everyone in your dorm marries early and pursues a safe profession, which frankly is a fate which would drive you bonkers with boredom. You, young lady, with your sharp tongue, hypersensitivity and smarts, are going to have an interesting life. I expect you’ll roll your eyes at this, but you are quite the package.

You will have breasts (eventually, they are comely and popular). You will never get a tan. Because you’re so awkward and visible, and attract unwelcome attention, you are supremely comfortable with being uncomfortable. This sounds terrible, but trust me it’s a gold standard attribute for a writer and performer. You’re going to have a long and powerful career as a theatre critic because your care factor about being highly visible and talked about is zero.

It is okay to not fit in. You try so hard to fit in, but you will not find your tribe at a middle-class English boarding school in the 1970s. F*** no. Shy and miserable as you are, you are already a boundary pusher.

You will become Australian. (You will still never get a tan.) The bolder you get, the happier you are. You will love well. Now, back to that book!

Love,

Fiona

P.S. In December 1980, invest 100 quid in Apple shares. Yes, Apple. They make computers. Don’t ask questions, just do it.