My Dating Disasters Diary (18 page)

Mr Ferguson seemed to know this too, and I caught
him glance longingly at the door before being forced to
focus on Mrs Conner again as she continued, 'Clearly an
informed judgement cannot possibly be reached without
first considering the social, political, historical and, I
hardly need mention, philosophical context of gender
discrimination up to and including radical postmodern
theory. Don't you think?'

Mr Ferguson muttered, 'Well, um, maybe, I'm not
sure.'

'But I
am
, Mr Ferguson. And surely you'll agree that
one cannot really have any meaningful debate about
equality of opportunity for females in sport without first
exploring the concept of gender per se, including its
relevance to the issue of identity and whether, as some
would argue, it is in fact a social construct rather than a
biological phenomenon?'

Mrs Conner paused, supposedly to give Mr Ferguson
a chance to say something. Yeah, right. Ferguson
obviously had no clue how to answer this and his openmouthed
slack-jawed expression showed it, so Mrs
Conner went on relentlessly.

I did what I normally do when Mrs Conner is off on
one of her mad ravings and thought about other things,
like what to watch on MTV tonight. Mr Ferguson wasn't
so lucky though, as she was staring at him the whole
time, scanning his face with narrowed eyes, alert for the
slightest sign he wasn't giving her his total, undivided
attention.

Even though Mr Ferguson isn't exactly my favourite
teacher, I couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him: he
stared back at her like a trapped frog eyeing a python.
He wasn't sure when she'd strike but he knew he was
doomed. Totally.

It wasn't long before she moved in for the kill. 'So, Mr
Ferguson, obviously these discussions will take some
time. Oh yes,' she added menacingly, 'I think definitely
some considerable time. Perhaps we should block out
some periods in our schedule now. Let's just take a look
at our respective diaries, shall we?'

Ferguson caved in. 'Erm, maybe it would be best if we
just gave Kelly Ann a shot with the boys' team.'

Mrs Conner beamed at him. 'What a splendid idea, Mr
Ferguson. Absolutely splendid.'

Yeah, go, Mrs Conner! Finally, yes, I'm in the school
football team – which is what I've always wanted, isn't it?

When I came out I looked for Chris to tell him the
fantastic news but couldn't find him. Instead I met Liz
and Stephanie, who didn't seem impressed at all.

Liz said, 'But you'll have to buy a whole new football
kit. The boots alone will cost forty pounds. How are you
going to save up for clothes, make-up and a mobile then?'

Stephanie was blunter. 'Ugh. Football boots and thick
socks that fall down. You can
not
be serious. And the strip
is totally the wrong shade of orange for you. There's no
way you'll ever find a lipstick or nail varnish that will go,
you know.'

'Seriously,' Liz said. 'Not many guys are going to fancy
you if they see you like that. Are you sure you really still
want to be in the team now?'

Thought about it. Did I? Actually, I concluded, not
really any more. The thing is, I like football but maybe not
enough to spend all that time and effort on it. I wanted to
spend time doing other things now. Like maybe
dating
boys instead of just playing football and PlayStation with
them. Will have to tell Ferguson I've changed my mind.
Suppose he'll be pleased. Don't think Conner will be
though.

Stephanie says we can meet her boyfriend if we want and
let her know what we think. They're going for a burger at
McDonald's today, then off to see a movie. Liz and I could
join them for the burger bit.

At first we said no, as we didn't wanted to gatecrash
her date, but Stephanie said it was cool. 'We've been
going out for two weeks. We don't need to be massaging
each other's tonsils every two seconds any more.'

I was still doubtful but Liz was too nosy to turn down the
invite so we're going. Must say, I'm a bit curious myself. Wonder what a boyfriend
of Stephanie's will be like. Probably really rich and posh, with two second
names like Legge-Burke or Fotherington-Smythe.

His proper name was Kenny but he told us we could call
him Zombie if we liked. Everyone else did apparently. He
wasn't tall but very thick. By thick, I mean his body was
wide and solid, and his arms were so muscular they
couldn't sit alongside his torso but had to be held out a
bit, while his head seemed to merge into his shoulders
without an obvious neck. He was also pretty thick in
other ways too – he seemed incapable of stringing two
coherent sentences together, grunting one-word replies to
any polite questions we asked.

Most of the time he just sat silently shovelling large
quantities of food into his mouth and demolishing them
efficiently while ignoring the conversation around him.
However, he did become very excited and enthusiastic
when he talked about his job, which seemed to be his only
real interest.

Turns out he is a trainee gravedigger – or cemetery
operator, as he called it – and was keen to tell us all about
it. Unfortunately.

Through Zombie we learned that graves were not 'six
feet under' but usually more like eighteen, especially for
a multiple family plot. Digging that far down had its
problems: in his first few weeks on the job, for a laugh his
older workmates took his ladder and left him in the grave
overnight, unable to climb out.

What were they like, his mates?

One time he'd fallen asleep in the grave and they'd
tried to lower a coffin on top of him in the morning. He'd
had to shout, 'Hawd on a minute there. I'm no' deid!'
Which shocked the mourners of course. That was the
great thing about working in the cemetery business. You
didn't half get a laugh sometimes.

Hmm.

Other facts I didn't want to know included: how
difficult it was to dig clay soil and prevent waterlogging;
how even expensive oak coffins with tassels got invaded
by various grubs over time, especially if people skimped
on the lining; how the latest trend was for eco-burials in
recyclable wicker coffins interred near surface soil so that
the bodies decomposed faster.

Thanks.

When Zombie got up to go to the toilet Stephanie said,
'So what do you think? He's gorgeous, isn't he? Mmmm,
those biceps. They're thicker than my waist, you know.'

I said politely, 'Yeah, um, very nice.'

Liz said carefully, 'He's sort of interesting, I suppose,
but not exactly what I expected.'

'Why not? What did you expect?'

'Don't know. Just thought, well, someone a bit smarter
maybe.'

Stephanie laughed. 'Yeah, he's not too bright but I kind
of like that in a guy. I mean, his bicep measurements are
probably bigger than his IQ but I'm not going to snog his
IQ, am I?'

Suppose not.

Have told my parents that I want to be cremated, but as
usual Mum treated my wishes, even on such a serious
issue, with a total lack of respect.

She said, 'Right now – or can we finish our tea first?'

Very funny.

My dad said, 'Don't be stupid, Moira. She means after
she's dead of course.'

I nodded my thanks to Dad, but he continued, 'Mind
you, once we've cremated her, she will be, won't she?'

Ha ha.

Told Ferguson about not wanting to be on the team.

'Bottling out?' he sneered.

I flushed. 'Just changed my mind.'

'Ah, a girl's prerogative,' he said, all condescending.
'I'll just inform Mrs Conner, shall I?' Then he walked off.

Almost ran after him to say I'd changed my mind again but thought
that might look even more pathetic. It hadn't gone too well. But, oh God,
what will happen when Conner finds out? She'll be furious.

She didn't say anything to me in English this afternoon so
I supposed he hadn't told her yet. However, when I went
to the newsagent's to get some chocolate after school, I
noticed Mrs Conner looking at magazines in the corner.
Was quite surprised as I didn't think she'd read anything
that had pictures and wasn't at least five centimetres
thick. Then I noticed some of the article headings: 'Expose
Your Love Rat Ex'; 'Cheating Husband? Fifty Ways to
Make Him Pay'.

She spotted me and said, 'Hello, Kelly Ann. This is
fortunate. I was meaning to speak to you earlier. Mr
Ferguson told me about your decision not to join the
football team.'

'I'm so sorry, Mrs Conner. I mean, I was really grateful
and everything but—'

'And I quite understand,' she interrupted.

'You do?'

'Of course. You merely wanted to establish that you
had the inalienable right to join the boys' football team.
And I think we made that point clearly. Whether you
chose to avail yourself of this opportunity was a matter of
personal choice. Wasn't that your point all along?'

'Um, yes, miss.'

'Splendid.'

She returned to browsing the mags. 'Crimes of Passion
– Women Who Got Away with It'.

Felt I'd just been let off too.

Bought a cheap mobile in town from pocket money I'd
saved up. It didn't have a lot of features on it but it looked
OK and had five pounds worth of free calls and texts.

I suppose I can afford it if I use my lunch money for
top-ups and just live on scraps.

Oh my God, it's fantastic having a mobile at last so I am
no longer a sad technological social outcast. Spent the
whole day calling and texting everyone I knew. Even
people I didn't know but whom people I know knew.
And received loads and loads of messages back. Finally I
am a member of the teenage community.

Got into trouble tonight for calling and texting during
dinner so was told to switch my mobile off. Put it on
silent, finished dinner quickly – or, as Mum said,
hoovered the food off my plate – and put it on again.

Was looking forward to a whole evening of texting and
calling friends but by seven o'clock I'd used up all my
credit. Was surprised when Dad came up to me while
Mum was in the kitchen and handed me a tenner. 'Here,
love, this is for your phone. You'll need to buy the next lot
from your pocket money, mind. And, erm, don't tell your
mother I gave you anything. She'll just get on at me for
spoiling you. You know what she's like.'

I said, 'Thanks, Dad.'

Dad asked me to go and make him a cup of tea. Went
into the kitchen, where Mum was sitting reading a
magazine and smoking a cigarette. Seeing me put the
kettle on, she asked for tea as well. She drinks nearly as
many mugs of tea in a night as she smokes cigarettes but
at least it was better than downing more Bacardi and
Cokes, so I agreed – not that I had a choice.

While I was waiting for the kettle to boil she surprised
me by handing me a tenner and saying, 'Here, take this
for your phone but don't tell your father. He can be a
grumpy old bugger sometimes. Tight as a duck's bum.
You know what he's like.'

I said, 'Thanks, Mum.'

Mum took her tea into the living room, switched on
the TV, sat down and lit up another fag. Dad was reading
the sports page of the newspaper, which is the only bit he
bothers with. I looked at my parents affectionately. Yeah,
they were maybe old-fashioned and knew nothing about
the modern world, but they were decent, good-hearted
people who loved me. It wasn't their fault they weren't
too smart and were totally ignorant about fashion and
modern technology. I shouldn't get so annoyed with
them. They were more to be pitied in a way. I guess it's up
to me to guide them through this new technological age.

Ah, another text. Didn't recognize the number.
Excitedly I pressed to read it: KA U R A STPD LES.

Hmm, I'm being bullied by text. I suppose there is a
downside to technology.

Texted Liz. She agreed to meet me in town for a wander
round the shops. Had a good time but then disaster
struck.

We were walking across the bridge over the Clyde
when a group of neds in trackies and baseball caps asked
us for the time. I was stupidly taking my mobile out of
my pocket to check when one of them lunged at it. I held
on fast and bit his hand. Meanwhile Liz started hitting
him with her umbrella. The other neds just stood around
laughing. 'Haw, Billy, the lassies are gonnae gi'e ye a
doin', man, so they ur.'

The ned managed to push Liz away and quickly
grabbed for the phone again. 'Gonnae jist geez it. Ahm no
gonnae go till Ah get it.'

That will be right. Liz came back to batter him some
more – he didn't budge at first and kept trying to yank the
phone from me, but I hung onto it with both hands.
Under a renewed fierce battering from Liz, which broke
her brolly, he suddenly let go. The move was so sudden
that my arm swung up and back, then – oh God, no – the
phone slipped out of my hand, over the railings, and into
the water below.

The ned ran off shouting, 'Serves ye right – an yer
mobile wiz crap anyhow, by the way.'

Tosser.

Am totally gutted as I've only had the phone for a day.
Thought about diving into the water to get it but I'm not
a very good diver, or swimmer, and anyway the phone
probably wouldn't work now.

Hmm . . . then again, maybe it would. Liz dropped
hers in the bath last November and though it didn't work
at first, when it dried out it was fine. Well, not totally fine:
her predictive text doesn't work, the camera was ruined
and she has to hold it upside down and shake it to speak,
plus the only ring tone she can access is a naff Postman
Pat theme tune, but still.

Was again considering diving in and Liz was trying to
talk me out of it when luckily we spotted two policemen
walking by. I ran over to them and quickly explained my
problem. Decided not to mention my mugger as I wanted
them to focus on getting my mobile back rather than
tracking down the criminal, especially as it would just
mean another asbo for him to boast about to his pals.