Every night, I ask my daughters how their days at school have been. #2 generally just dismisses my question with an OK, fine thanks, which is enough to satisfy me, but #1 launches into a blow-by-blow account of who has affronted her, who has fallen out with whom and who has committed the cardinal sin of looking twice at her geeky boyfriend. For a 12 year old, she is having an awful lot of trouble with this young man, whom she believes doesn't appreciate her, doesn't understand her, and puts computer games before her needs. I'd like to tell her that this is life, get used to it, but I don't want to shatter her illusions of hearts and bells and romance just yet.
To be honest, I think 12 is rather young to be 'in lurve' and exchanging gifts of over £30 in value this festive season. I know I will be lucky to get a bag of tea lights and a card from her, so for this spotty oik to be on the receiving end of some designer fragrance irks a little.
I was a rather reluctant High School girlfriend if truth be known. I would occasionally be asked out by boys, consider it briefly and then refuse resolutely, preferring to 'concentrate on my studies', being the gurlie swot that I was then. Sometimes, though, I felt obliged to bow to peer pressure and would spot a chap who appeared to be able to string a fairly coherent sentence together and get one of my friends to ask him out for me (this was the way things were done at my school).
One particular chap, Russell, was a bit of a favourite of mine at the time and indeed, only a few years ago, we did have a brief fling which was great fun while it lasted. He was witty, good looking and we attended the drama group together every night. I also did all my chemistry experiments with him in class, and as we were both as dreadful as each other, we had some rather hair-raising experiences, which seemed to me to be as good a reason as any to have him as my boyfriend. Best friend was duly despatched to ask him out on my behalf and returned to me nodding her head. I was quite chuffed. At least, for the next two hours until I got cold feet and decided this wasn't meant to be.
Best friend was nowhere to be found to dump him for me, so I bit the bullet and marched up to him.
Russ, I declared, I'm really sorry, but I don't want to go out with you any more. The look of bewilderment on his face was astounding.
But I'm not going out with you, anyway, he replied, still confused. I don't fancy you.
Ahahahahaha! I cackled. It was only a joke! I was just testing you out.
Weirdo, he responded.
Best friend got a whip-lashing for deceiving me. Her plaintive cries that she knew it wouldn't last just didn't ring true to me...
A few weeks later, Keith invited me to be his girlfriend. Keith was a very handsome older boy who was a leading light in the drama group, and I felt quite privileged that he had picked me to be his current squeeze. I accepted quite readily, thinking this would all be fairly easy - no commitment, see him at drama, and bask in the glory of having such a good-looking boyfriend.
What I didn't bank on, was that, as he was older than me, he expected me to be seen with him outside of school and do the proper boyfriend/girfriend thing. Anathaema to my soul.
He invited me to town with him on the Saturday and arranged to meet me outside the Superdrug where the bus dropped off its shoppers. I was really not a happy Agnes about this at all, and felt sick to the pit of my stomach all through the bus journey. What made it even worse was, on the return journey, he tried to kiss me, much to my extreme horror. I swerved my face as quickly as possible and heard Keith lip-smack to thin air. He didn't look pleased. He then stretched out one arm behind me as I sat next to him like a coiled spring waiting to go off. I turned to face him, caught a glimpse of his arm pit and realised that he shaved under his arms.
Oh No! No way! I was NOT going out with a lad who shaved under his arms. That was Just Not Right. At All. I still had four stops to go before my village, but that was four stops too many to sit with this person. I stood up, rung the bell, and garbled as I retreated, Sorry. Don't like you. Go away! and legged it...That was a lucky escape.
My first serious boyfriend came when I was nearly 16. Just before I was about to sit my O'level exams - you know, the ones your parents really, really want you to pass because they are the start of greater things to come? The ones which you really shouldn't screw up if you can help it? The ones my teachers anticipated I would pass with all As and Bs?
Serious boyfriend threw my head into a whirl and all studies went out the window. He was 21 to my 16 and came from a very well-to-do local family: Daddy was a popular GP and Mummy was a senior sister at the local maternity hospital. It was my dream to have a doctor related to me so I could ask all sorts of interesting questions such as, Why do I have cellulite? How do I get rid of these spots on my chin? Do you recommend liposuction on teenagers?
Rob studied and lived in digs at Liverpool University, so I had my first foray into student life at quite a tender age. Spending nights in a houseful of drunken adults was a bit of an eye-opener for me and I was somewhat confused by the importance placed on building a curtain of beer cans for the living room and getting told off when I crushed my cans. Most of the time, all I wanted to do was hole up in his room and try out the latest Jackie Collins techniques on him. He was cool with that for a bit but then the lure of drinking, fishing and rugby would beckon and I would be left pent-up, frustrated and vowing to read Pasternak from thereonin.
O level results came and went. My parents refused to speak to me all summer due to the dreadful grades I 'achieved' and Rob and I split up because his mother deemed me too stupid to be his girlfriend and advised him to get rid. I was a bit cheesed off by this, knowing that she had only got a handful of qualifications during her lifetime and she was on the receiving end of a fair few hexes for many years to come. Particularly when, much to her horror, I served her in our local shop where I worked on a Saturday and purposely short-changed her. She didn't have the backbone to query her change and left rather rapidly. At least she would have been able to inform her best beloved oldest son that his former girlfriend really was thick as she couldn't give change from a pound coin correctly.
I didn't care. I bought myself a Mars bar with the money I pocketed and thoroughly enjoyed it.
So, in retrospect, I guess #1 has all this fun and games to come and even if it cannot be considered character-building, at least she might do as I do and blog about it when she is old enough to realise that there is a world outside of MSN on the computer. As she's a bit of a silly girl, though, I shan't hold my breath.
I don't know. Teenage love, eh? Excruciatingly painful at the time, but what a laugh it can afford you when you revisit it as an adult. Give me Pasternak any day...
Showing posts with label teenage angst. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teenage angst. Show all posts
Friday, 14 December 2007
Saturday, 8 December 2007
Never Send a Man To Do A Woman's Shopping
Saturday.
It's a day of many flavours: some people spend the day in bed; some go out into the garden; and some wake up and decide what to do depending on their mood.
After a disappointing morning consisting of a lack of kinky boots in the post for Agnes, a lack of anything exciting in TK Maxx, an utterly wasted journey to find Stinking Bishop cheese, and getting my backside handed to me at Scrabble, things mainly got worse.
I think the turning point was the Scrabble. I could say that I had a poor run of letters. Indeed, during the first few turns I had nary a vowel to my name. Marque, Marquees and Ozone killed me off though, and I was comprehensively beaten. Agnes (like the rest of the Mildew clan) is quite competitive. Although Agnes loses to me at Scrabble more than she would like, winning today provoked such a visible euphoria in her, that I felt, all in all, it was worth it to suffer the gloating I would surely now receive.
As Agnes gave me her best grin, the finger and thumb formed an L on her forehead. "You'll have to go round like this for the rest of the day now," she proclaimed, chuckling.
So, in addition to signing the scorecard indicating I "had my arse kicked", I had to go out to the
shops to get a pair of tights, a face pack and some wine. I added some headache tablets to the list as all of Agnes's dancing and singing was giving me motion sickness and a mild buzzing behind my eyes.
Into the car I sloped as Agnes went off to have a 'long victorious soak'.
The local village shops have always annoyed me. There is parking outside the shops, but invariably this becomes a traffic jam at busy times with people stopping to "just pop in" and causing mayhem in their wake. Apparently 3pm on a drenched Saturday afternoon is just such a busy time. Indeed, it seemed that the entire village had turned out just as I had arrived for my few essential supplies. You remember the list? Aspirin, Tights, Face pack and Wine. Good.
I found a spot to park at the very end of the parade of shops. The last spot. Gratefully, I reverse parked into the space and jumped out of the car. As I walked towards the cash machine I cast a sideways glance into the launderette. A lone man was visible through the part-steamed windows. Hugely obese, he sat with his back against the industrial dryer fishbowl windows. A baseball cap perched tenuously on the back of his head, his tattooed arms resting on his prodigious belly and shovel-sized hands supporting his chin as he stared thoughtfully into space. To what was he going home? I wondered as I hurried past, collar turned up against the foul weather. Probably a crisp butty was the later reply from a still good-humoured Agnes.
As I stood under a leaky gutter and drew out some cash from the hole-in-the-wall, I planned my visit. Pharmacist for everything except the wine, then Tesco. Back to the car, then back home to present the no doubt still-gloating Agnes with a mud face pack and a non-laddered pair of tights.
The warmth of the air-conditioned pharmacy was a welcome respite from the howling gale and torrential downpour outside, but only for a moment. It seemed as though the entire village had not only come down here to shop, but all needed the pharmacy. The queue was a mile long. The in-store radio was playing music even the Cheese Police would be offended by, and a group of spotty teenagers were crowded around the lipstick and skincare section giggling to each other as they primped and preened themselves with free makeup from the samples on display. The staff were harried and disinterested and everyone was wet and steaming, and judging by the look of them, suffering from some ailment that was, without doubt, contagious. I walked around the shop, studiously avoiding the most diseased, looking for tights. Couldn't find them. I huffed and puffed near the teenagers, looking over their shoulders at the display, searching desperately for anything looking like a face pack. No joy. I then did what every good Englishman does under these circumstances. I queued.
Time passed, my life slipped away, and idly, I listened to the voice of the bright young woman broadcasting on Pharmacy FM. What qualifications are required for this job I wondered? Doubtless she would be sat in a warm comfy studio somewhere. The lone girl behind the counter was giving an elderly gentleman loud and sagely advice on the use of an anal cream. She looked about 12 and I watched as she spoke to him in a calm and even tone, giving application advice and warning against him putting his fingers near his mouth afterwards without washing. The rest of the people in the queue were unmoved, each in their own little world. Probably hoping to God that something would strike them down so that they wouldn't have to queue any longer and listen to the dreadful George Michael singing about his Last Christmas. Oh why couldn't that just be true?
Eventually, I made it to the front of the queue. "Do you sell tights?" I asked.
"No." The answer was delivered with no apologetic look and my ire rose.
"What about face packs?" I rubbed my hands against my cheek as if that would somehow help illustrate what they were. She just looked at me with a look clearly reserved for what she believed to be idiots.
"No."
I asked for my aspirin.
"Have you ever taken these before?" the girl enquired.
I was mildly annoyed at this point, and briefly considered saying "It's f*cking aspirin. What do you think?". Instead, out of a mild and masochistic curiosity, I said "no". This is why I lose at Scrabble. I am that stupid.
So now, with the Parsnip-Anger-Meter hovering at around 4, I walked out into the rain again and went to the local supermarket. Agnes had mentioned that the Co-Op sold tights, so in I strolled. I found the tights within a few minutes and then spent a further 15 minutes wondering what a denier was, and whether 15 of them was good. White, Tan or Black? Long or Medium (no 'short' option, which I found odd...). I picked up what I thought was right, and wandered down the aisle.
Pausing at the shower gel/toothpaste/hair dye section, I had a quick look for face packs. None. However the Saturday part-timer, a snotty youth of indeterminate age, looked up and gave me some Co-Op customer care.
"Looking for anything particular mate?"
"I'm looking for face packs." I did the face rubbing thing again (big mistake - don't ever do this) and the lad grinned lasciviously, glancing at the tights in my hand.
"Oi Dave!" he yelled to his colleague at the other end of the aisle. Needless to say the entire shop was now privy to this conversation. "Do we sell face pack thingies?" His grin threatened to split his face and he nodded at me, clearly believing I was about to rush home, don a pair of 15 denier, almost black tights and cover my face in mud. Anger meter = anger meter +2, and I considered smashing my fist into his face. Were it not for the legal repercussions, I would have had no restraint.
Dave sniggered, shrugged and shook his head.
As I stood in the lengthy queue that had clearly migrated from the pharmacy to the Co-Op and as I left to walk out into the pouring rain, I decided that Tesco would be my last stop. Wine. I needed wine.
The Tesco shopping experience was much better. No face packs, but plenty of wine. The queue, however, had been following me and was now beyond the guide ropes and down one of the aisles. One of the sales assistants piped up, saying to me that the self-service tills were just as fast for those who didn't need cigarettes or contraceptives, and as I fell into neither of those categories, I hurried to the lone empty machine.
Unfortunately, Lady Luck was on the toilet, and I was underneath. One man made it to the machine before me, and I stood dutifully behind him, smiling smugly at the queue and the jealous looks being fired my way. It looked like I was going to make it home whilst still on solid food.
I was wrong.
The gent in front of me had a hand basket crammed to the handles with stuff. Slowly and ponderously, he placed his basket on the side and began to read the instructions on the screen.
"SCAN YOUR FIRST ITEM AND PLACE IT IN THE BAG". Even I could read the instructions on the screen from six feet behind him. He paused, held up a bottle of urine and asked the assistant, "What do I do with this?"
"Just scan it sir and put it in the carrier bag."
He nodded slowly and placed the bottle in the bag. I stood there and watched as the queue for the human tills went down, but not in proportion to the shopping in the basket of the man in front of me. The same assistant walked up and smiled brightly. "It might be quicker if you went over there," she said, indicating the now non-existent queue.
Anger meter = anger meter +3.
Back in the car, I glared at the tail-lights of the moron parked two inches from my front bumper, squeezing into a space that only existed in his tiny bereft-of-intelligence mind. I turned my headlights on, hoping against hope that the bull-necked, shaven-headed thug would pull forward a few inches to let me get out. I was still out of luck.
Furiously turning the steering wheel back and forth, I eventually made it out of the space, glaring at him from the safety of my car. If I had possessed a shotgun, murder would have been added to GBH for me that day. Maybe not murder though, maybe manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility.
As I sit here typing this now, I feel the anger has totally dissipated. Writing is definitely cathartic, and in this instance Agnes, you were right.
Cheers!
It's a day of many flavours: some people spend the day in bed; some go out into the garden; and some wake up and decide what to do depending on their mood.
After a disappointing morning consisting of a lack of kinky boots in the post for Agnes, a lack of anything exciting in TK Maxx, an utterly wasted journey to find Stinking Bishop cheese, and getting my backside handed to me at Scrabble, things mainly got worse.
I think the turning point was the Scrabble. I could say that I had a poor run of letters. Indeed, during the first few turns I had nary a vowel to my name. Marque, Marquees and Ozone killed me off though, and I was comprehensively beaten. Agnes (like the rest of the Mildew clan) is quite competitive. Although Agnes loses to me at Scrabble more than she would like, winning today provoked such a visible euphoria in her, that I felt, all in all, it was worth it to suffer the gloating I would surely now receive.
As Agnes gave me her best grin, the finger and thumb formed an L on her forehead. "You'll have to go round like this for the rest of the day now," she proclaimed, chuckling.
So, in addition to signing the scorecard indicating I "had my arse kicked", I had to go out to the
shops to get a pair of tights, a face pack and some wine. I added some headache tablets to the list as all of Agnes's dancing and singing was giving me motion sickness and a mild buzzing behind my eyes.
Into the car I sloped as Agnes went off to have a 'long victorious soak'.
The local village shops have always annoyed me. There is parking outside the shops, but invariably this becomes a traffic jam at busy times with people stopping to "just pop in" and causing mayhem in their wake. Apparently 3pm on a drenched Saturday afternoon is just such a busy time. Indeed, it seemed that the entire village had turned out just as I had arrived for my few essential supplies. You remember the list? Aspirin, Tights, Face pack and Wine. Good.
I found a spot to park at the very end of the parade of shops. The last spot. Gratefully, I reverse parked into the space and jumped out of the car. As I walked towards the cash machine I cast a sideways glance into the launderette. A lone man was visible through the part-steamed windows. Hugely obese, he sat with his back against the industrial dryer fishbowl windows. A baseball cap perched tenuously on the back of his head, his tattooed arms resting on his prodigious belly and shovel-sized hands supporting his chin as he stared thoughtfully into space. To what was he going home? I wondered as I hurried past, collar turned up against the foul weather. Probably a crisp butty was the later reply from a still good-humoured Agnes.
As I stood under a leaky gutter and drew out some cash from the hole-in-the-wall, I planned my visit. Pharmacist for everything except the wine, then Tesco. Back to the car, then back home to present the no doubt still-gloating Agnes with a mud face pack and a non-laddered pair of tights.
The warmth of the air-conditioned pharmacy was a welcome respite from the howling gale and torrential downpour outside, but only for a moment. It seemed as though the entire village had not only come down here to shop, but all needed the pharmacy. The queue was a mile long. The in-store radio was playing music even the Cheese Police would be offended by, and a group of spotty teenagers were crowded around the lipstick and skincare section giggling to each other as they primped and preened themselves with free makeup from the samples on display. The staff were harried and disinterested and everyone was wet and steaming, and judging by the look of them, suffering from some ailment that was, without doubt, contagious. I walked around the shop, studiously avoiding the most diseased, looking for tights. Couldn't find them. I huffed and puffed near the teenagers, looking over their shoulders at the display, searching desperately for anything looking like a face pack. No joy. I then did what every good Englishman does under these circumstances. I queued.
Time passed, my life slipped away, and idly, I listened to the voice of the bright young woman broadcasting on Pharmacy FM. What qualifications are required for this job I wondered? Doubtless she would be sat in a warm comfy studio somewhere. The lone girl behind the counter was giving an elderly gentleman loud and sagely advice on the use of an anal cream. She looked about 12 and I watched as she spoke to him in a calm and even tone, giving application advice and warning against him putting his fingers near his mouth afterwards without washing. The rest of the people in the queue were unmoved, each in their own little world. Probably hoping to God that something would strike them down so that they wouldn't have to queue any longer and listen to the dreadful George Michael singing about his Last Christmas. Oh why couldn't that just be true?
Eventually, I made it to the front of the queue. "Do you sell tights?" I asked.
"No." The answer was delivered with no apologetic look and my ire rose.
"What about face packs?" I rubbed my hands against my cheek as if that would somehow help illustrate what they were. She just looked at me with a look clearly reserved for what she believed to be idiots.
"No."
I asked for my aspirin.
"Have you ever taken these before?" the girl enquired.
I was mildly annoyed at this point, and briefly considered saying "It's f*cking aspirin. What do you think?". Instead, out of a mild and masochistic curiosity, I said "no". This is why I lose at Scrabble. I am that stupid.
So now, with the Parsnip-Anger-Meter hovering at around 4, I walked out into the rain again and went to the local supermarket. Agnes had mentioned that the Co-Op sold tights, so in I strolled. I found the tights within a few minutes and then spent a further 15 minutes wondering what a denier was, and whether 15 of them was good. White, Tan or Black? Long or Medium (no 'short' option, which I found odd...). I picked up what I thought was right, and wandered down the aisle.
Pausing at the shower gel/toothpaste/hair dye section, I had a quick look for face packs. None. However the Saturday part-timer, a snotty youth of indeterminate age, looked up and gave me some Co-Op customer care.
"Looking for anything particular mate?"
"I'm looking for face packs." I did the face rubbing thing again (big mistake - don't ever do this) and the lad grinned lasciviously, glancing at the tights in my hand.
"Oi Dave!" he yelled to his colleague at the other end of the aisle. Needless to say the entire shop was now privy to this conversation. "Do we sell face pack thingies?" His grin threatened to split his face and he nodded at me, clearly believing I was about to rush home, don a pair of 15 denier, almost black tights and cover my face in mud. Anger meter = anger meter +2, and I considered smashing my fist into his face. Were it not for the legal repercussions, I would have had no restraint.
Dave sniggered, shrugged and shook his head.
As I stood in the lengthy queue that had clearly migrated from the pharmacy to the Co-Op and as I left to walk out into the pouring rain, I decided that Tesco would be my last stop. Wine. I needed wine.
The Tesco shopping experience was much better. No face packs, but plenty of wine. The queue, however, had been following me and was now beyond the guide ropes and down one of the aisles. One of the sales assistants piped up, saying to me that the self-service tills were just as fast for those who didn't need cigarettes or contraceptives, and as I fell into neither of those categories, I hurried to the lone empty machine.
Unfortunately, Lady Luck was on the toilet, and I was underneath. One man made it to the machine before me, and I stood dutifully behind him, smiling smugly at the queue and the jealous looks being fired my way. It looked like I was going to make it home whilst still on solid food.
I was wrong.
The gent in front of me had a hand basket crammed to the handles with stuff. Slowly and ponderously, he placed his basket on the side and began to read the instructions on the screen.
"SCAN YOUR FIRST ITEM AND PLACE IT IN THE BAG". Even I could read the instructions on the screen from six feet behind him. He paused, held up a bottle of urine and asked the assistant, "What do I do with this?"
"Just scan it sir and put it in the carrier bag."
He nodded slowly and placed the bottle in the bag. I stood there and watched as the queue for the human tills went down, but not in proportion to the shopping in the basket of the man in front of me. The same assistant walked up and smiled brightly. "It might be quicker if you went over there," she said, indicating the now non-existent queue.
Anger meter = anger meter +3.
Back in the car, I glared at the tail-lights of the moron parked two inches from my front bumper, squeezing into a space that only existed in his tiny bereft-of-intelligence mind. I turned my headlights on, hoping against hope that the bull-necked, shaven-headed thug would pull forward a few inches to let me get out. I was still out of luck.
Furiously turning the steering wheel back and forth, I eventually made it out of the space, glaring at him from the safety of my car. If I had possessed a shotgun, murder would have been added to GBH for me that day. Maybe not murder though, maybe manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility.
As I sit here typing this now, I feel the anger has totally dissipated. Writing is definitely cathartic, and in this instance Agnes, you were right.
Cheers!
Thursday, 19 July 2007
Hex Your Folks!
Now I know a large proportion of our readers are under the delicate age of 16, so I shall try not to use too many rude words, but forgive me if I slip accidentally...
As you enter adulthood, that murky time which you call adolescence and us parents call, 'Oh God, he's at that stage now', you lot go all strange, spotty, smelly and moody. And all of a sudden, you think us parents just don't understand!!! Well, as a mother of five children: Greebo, Rastus, Flo, Britney and Farquhar, I can tell you that I do. They range from 13 to 17 and all of them are twins, so you can imagine how hard I worked to get these cherubs out after Mr Mildew had his wicked way with me...dirty old beggar...
Your first problems may lie with members of the opposite sex. You may have parents who get rather over-protective when it comes to 'opposite sex' relations and are rather sniffy about it. When our Rastus brings a girl home and wants to commune with her, I sling them into the outhouse passageway. It smells of catfood and has flies buzzing around, so they don't stay there long. But at least I allow them their privacy.
You may be tempted to try a bit of osculation at some point in this new relationship. Well, there are a few warnings attached to this you know. First, if you have braces, watch you don't razor-wire your beloved's tongue off. Second, make sure your own and your beloved's breath smells sweet as there is nothing worse than smelly slobber dried all over your face and finally, didn't you know that you can get pregnant* from kissing too much? Wear a cardigan with leather patches on the sleeves and this will stop you walking round with a kid for the next 20 years of your life. And this warning goes for both boys and girls...
Bodily secretions! Up until recently, the only time your body secreted anything was when you were salivating for more lard and chips. Now it seems every pore in your body is leaking. Yes, you will get smelly and your parents will point this out to you repeatedly, telling you to get a wash. I was a very smelly teenager, unfortunately, as, being the middle child of 15, I didn't fancy hopping into the kitchen sink after my seven older brothers had been in there lathering up and doing all sorts of odd things with the nail brush, so I would run to Tesco, buy some air freshener and squirt it around my armpits**. It stings a bit, I must admit, and did leave me with some rather interesting scarring from where it burnt, but Glade smells infinitely better than BO.
However, if you have the use of a shower, please jump in it from time to time as there is nothing worse than telling off a minging teenager as you can't get close enough to them to wag the finger under their nose...just spare a thought, eh?
And please...pick up your crusty undies and stick them into the wash tub...last time our Greebo left his grunts lying on the floor, I used them to wipe down the mirror in the bathroom. I can't get rid of the smears now, despite trying lighter fuel and bleach.
Spots! Well, spots are some of my favourite friends. I like nothing better than having a jolly good pick at mine. I was quite disappointed not to be on the receiving end of a good dose of acne when I was a teenager...I have since made up for it now that I am 166. Don't hate your spots - Rejoice in them! Form a Spot Appreciation Society (S.A.S) or the Acne Rules Society of England (A.R.S.E). Have competitions with your peers to see who can squirt their pus onto the mirror furthest. Your first time will be a shocker, but you will soon get over it and be aiming with the care of a marksman.
Mood swings! Well, mood swings happen to the best of us, don't they? Do they? No, they don't. Yes, they do! SHUT UP! I HATE YOU!! When you are in a foul mood, go and fester under your blankets for a few days, please, as it is boring. When you are in a good mood and want the world to know, you've come over all Julie Andrews because some beloved has asked you to go to the chippy with him/her, DON'T come asking me for money. I gave you a fiver last week.
Money worries! There's just never enough, is there? As a teenager, I was permanently skint, despite working a paper round, helping to gut pigs at the weekend for Mr Mildew's Dad, serving pints in the Ferret & Frogspawn and running laxatives across the borders. There is a simple answer to your skintedness...STOP TEXTING STUPID THINGS LIKE: LOL, L8TRZ, GR8, which all cost anything from 10p to 20p. Get your money's worth out of a text and bullet point it, so you can easily incorporate at least five questions/statements. That's saved you at least a pound, now, hasn't it? I never send texts - I use smoke signals; infinitely cheaper.
Studies! Your parents will nag you incessantly to do well at school. Well, I can only advise you that this is exceptionally important. You MUST study hard. Can you imagine, if I hadn't worked hard at my 11+ when I was 14, do you think I would have got my apprenticeship on the fish counter at Tesco? No sirreee! I would have ended up picking up the dog poo for the local council Parks & Gardens division. Parents nag you to study because we want you to be able to earn lots of money so we can retire and you can look after us.
Well, I hope this can make all you grunty adolescents realise that we, as parents, do understand and can sometimes even empathise with your plight. I hated being a teenager as I was the ugliest girl at school, didn't have a boyfriend, worked very hard and had no spots. Now, I am still ugly, still don't have a boyfriend, still work very hard, but have lots of spots. So I really am in a position to help you all out.
Write to me with all your worries***, and I shall try to help you in my capacity as Auntie Agnes, World Famous Agony Aunt. If I am busy, leave a message and I shall reply to you if I think you need my help. If I think you need psychiatric help, I shall just call the local loony bin.
Disclaimer to all you divs who might think this is serious:
*This is a joke. You don't get pregnant from kissing. But go further than that and you might.
** This is another joke. Use soap and water like normal people.
*** You think YOU'VE got worries? I have five teenagers - that's a 'WORRY'...
Disclaimer #2
RESPECT YOUR PARENTS AND DO AS YOU ARE TOLD AT ALL TIMES. WE ALSO TAKE HEXING ORDERS FROM PARENTS, YOU KNOW...
As you enter adulthood, that murky time which you call adolescence and us parents call, 'Oh God, he's at that stage now', you lot go all strange, spotty, smelly and moody. And all of a sudden, you think us parents just don't understand!!! Well, as a mother of five children: Greebo, Rastus, Flo, Britney and Farquhar, I can tell you that I do. They range from 13 to 17 and all of them are twins, so you can imagine how hard I worked to get these cherubs out after Mr Mildew had his wicked way with me...dirty old beggar...
Your first problems may lie with members of the opposite sex. You may have parents who get rather over-protective when it comes to 'opposite sex' relations and are rather sniffy about it. When our Rastus brings a girl home and wants to commune with her, I sling them into the outhouse passageway. It smells of catfood and has flies buzzing around, so they don't stay there long. But at least I allow them their privacy.
You may be tempted to try a bit of osculation at some point in this new relationship. Well, there are a few warnings attached to this you know. First, if you have braces, watch you don't razor-wire your beloved's tongue off. Second, make sure your own and your beloved's breath smells sweet as there is nothing worse than smelly slobber dried all over your face and finally, didn't you know that you can get pregnant* from kissing too much? Wear a cardigan with leather patches on the sleeves and this will stop you walking round with a kid for the next 20 years of your life. And this warning goes for both boys and girls...
Bodily secretions! Up until recently, the only time your body secreted anything was when you were salivating for more lard and chips. Now it seems every pore in your body is leaking. Yes, you will get smelly and your parents will point this out to you repeatedly, telling you to get a wash. I was a very smelly teenager, unfortunately, as, being the middle child of 15, I didn't fancy hopping into the kitchen sink after my seven older brothers had been in there lathering up and doing all sorts of odd things with the nail brush, so I would run to Tesco, buy some air freshener and squirt it around my armpits**. It stings a bit, I must admit, and did leave me with some rather interesting scarring from where it burnt, but Glade smells infinitely better than BO.
However, if you have the use of a shower, please jump in it from time to time as there is nothing worse than telling off a minging teenager as you can't get close enough to them to wag the finger under their nose...just spare a thought, eh?
And please...pick up your crusty undies and stick them into the wash tub...last time our Greebo left his grunts lying on the floor, I used them to wipe down the mirror in the bathroom. I can't get rid of the smears now, despite trying lighter fuel and bleach.
Spots! Well, spots are some of my favourite friends. I like nothing better than having a jolly good pick at mine. I was quite disappointed not to be on the receiving end of a good dose of acne when I was a teenager...I have since made up for it now that I am 166. Don't hate your spots - Rejoice in them! Form a Spot Appreciation Society (S.A.S) or the Acne Rules Society of England (A.R.S.E). Have competitions with your peers to see who can squirt their pus onto the mirror furthest. Your first time will be a shocker, but you will soon get over it and be aiming with the care of a marksman.
Mood swings! Well, mood swings happen to the best of us, don't they? Do they? No, they don't. Yes, they do! SHUT UP! I HATE YOU!! When you are in a foul mood, go and fester under your blankets for a few days, please, as it is boring. When you are in a good mood and want the world to know, you've come over all Julie Andrews because some beloved has asked you to go to the chippy with him/her, DON'T come asking me for money. I gave you a fiver last week.
Money worries! There's just never enough, is there? As a teenager, I was permanently skint, despite working a paper round, helping to gut pigs at the weekend for Mr Mildew's Dad, serving pints in the Ferret & Frogspawn and running laxatives across the borders. There is a simple answer to your skintedness...STOP TEXTING STUPID THINGS LIKE: LOL, L8TRZ, GR8, which all cost anything from 10p to 20p. Get your money's worth out of a text and bullet point it, so you can easily incorporate at least five questions/statements. That's saved you at least a pound, now, hasn't it? I never send texts - I use smoke signals; infinitely cheaper.
Studies! Your parents will nag you incessantly to do well at school. Well, I can only advise you that this is exceptionally important. You MUST study hard. Can you imagine, if I hadn't worked hard at my 11+ when I was 14, do you think I would have got my apprenticeship on the fish counter at Tesco? No sirreee! I would have ended up picking up the dog poo for the local council Parks & Gardens division. Parents nag you to study because we want you to be able to earn lots of money so we can retire and you can look after us.
Well, I hope this can make all you grunty adolescents realise that we, as parents, do understand and can sometimes even empathise with your plight. I hated being a teenager as I was the ugliest girl at school, didn't have a boyfriend, worked very hard and had no spots. Now, I am still ugly, still don't have a boyfriend, still work very hard, but have lots of spots. So I really am in a position to help you all out.
Write to me with all your worries***, and I shall try to help you in my capacity as Auntie Agnes, World Famous Agony Aunt. If I am busy, leave a message and I shall reply to you if I think you need my help. If I think you need psychiatric help, I shall just call the local loony bin.
Disclaimer to all you divs who might think this is serious:
*This is a joke. You don't get pregnant from kissing. But go further than that and you might.
** This is another joke. Use soap and water like normal people.
*** You think YOU'VE got worries? I have five teenagers - that's a 'WORRY'...
Disclaimer #2
RESPECT YOUR PARENTS AND DO AS YOU ARE TOLD AT ALL TIMES. WE ALSO TAKE HEXING ORDERS FROM PARENTS, YOU KNOW...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)