have to do is pick out the ones you think will suit you and fill in an order form saying how many you want and when you want them fitted. Only by then things will be so advanced that you won’t have to have an operation and be cut open, they will be able to change your shape simply by pointing some sort of ray gun at you which will make your body go like gloop.
Some people will even be able to do it for themselves, I shouldn’t be surprised. They will have their own personal ray guns. They will wake up in the morning and think, “I don’t like this nose. I am sick of this nose. I think I will make a new one.” Or if they are going on holiday, for instance, they will be able to use the gun for taking away all the bits of flab round their tummies so that they can wear their nice new bikinis and be attractive to men. Just zap! with the gun and all the flab will be melted.
Mum is always going on about flab. She hasn’t got any, really. Not for an ordinary person. I mean, an ordinary showbiz person. I expect if she were a dancer she would have to do a bit of toning up. I fortunately do not have problems with fatness, though Mum says I have now lost too much weight and must start to put it on again. She is threatening to feed me on nothing but pasta and chips!!! I have told her I will end up like a beach ball but she says, “That will be the day.”
When it is the year 2086 – when I am a hundred! If I decide to be a hundred – people I should think will be able to pump themselves up with special pumps if they are too thin. The pumps will inject calories into them, as many as they want. And if they are too fat they will take the calories out. It will be a bit like the sludge-gulping machines that go round the gutters gulping sludge.
It is interesting to speculate how people will say it when it is 2086. Will they say, twenty eighty-six? Or just eighty-six? Or will they say it in full? The year two thousand and eighty-six?
If they are American they will probably say two thousand eighty-six without the “and”. I have noticed that Americans do this. They shorten things. Like they say math instead of maths and wash-up liquid instead of washing-up. I expect they do it to save time, as they are always frantically rushing everywhere and talking very fast and being busy.
The way I know about this is because of Susie Smith, at school. You’d think she was American, the way she talks, but she isn’t. It’s just that she lived there for a year. So now she calls her Mum “Mom” and writes these essays about her little sister wearing diapers.
Mrs Rowe says, “Diapers, Suzanne? What are diapers?” making like she doesn’t understand. She’s ever so English, Mrs Rowe.
She doesn’t mind people speaking American when they are American, but she can’t stand what she calls “apeing”. But it’s difficult not to pick things up. Like when me and Sarah saw this film where people kept shouting “Way to go!” and it started us off saying it, so that whenever we met we used to yell it at each other. “Way to go!”
We didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded good.
We were only little, then; we were still nine. I always wanted to be nine. I don’t know why. It used to be my favourite age. And then when I got to be it, it didn’t feel all that much different from being eight, and so I decided that the next thing I wanted to be was eleven.
I never specially wanted to be ten. Perhaps it was because ten reminded me of decimals. I hate decimals. I also hate adding and subtracting and multiplying and dividing and everything that has numbers in it, including telephone numbers because I can’t ever remember them.
Gran once told me that before I was born we didn’t have great long telephone numbers like we have now. Instead of being 020 7373, for instance, you’d be a name, like Bluebell, maybe, or Elgar. Those are the only two that I can remember, but there were lots of them. I think Bluebell and Elgar are really pretty. Much better than boring old numbers.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t specially want to be ten. Or maybe it was because eleven was like a sort of goal. Like eleven was a really Great Age and if I got to be eleven I would have achieved something. Except that now I’m here it doesn’t seem like very much at all.
My present ambition is to be twelve. If I get to be twelve I am going to go to Wonderland. In America. Mum has promised.
Mum always keeps her promises; she’s really good about that. Sarah’s mum forgets. She once told Sarah she could come swimming with me and then at the last minute she said she hadn’t said it and that Sarah had to go and visit her aunt and uncle instead.
Mum isn’t like that. She always keeps her promises. So I know I shall go to Wonderland. I’ve got to. I want to so much!
It said in a book I read that if you want something badly enough you’ll get it, but only if you keep it in front of you the whole time, like a vision, and “work steadily towards it”. That is what I am doing. I am keeping Wonderland in front of me and I am working towards it.
I told this to Uncle Eddy and he squeezed my hand and said, “That’s my girl! Go for it!”
I am going for it. Definitely, absolutely, and without question. I AM GOING TO WONDERLAND. And maybe Sarah could come with us. That would be fun!
It would be lovely if Zoë could come as well, but I know her Mum couldn’t afford it and I don’t think she’d let us pay because she’s what Mum calls “proud”. That means she doesn’t like accepting charity, even for Zoë. But I could always get Mum to ask. It would be brilliant if Zoë could come! She would be so excited and we could keep it in front of us together. That would be like double determination, and then we would be bound to go.
If only one of them could come, it would have to be Zoë, because although Sarah is my oldest friend, and my best friend, Zoë is my special friend. And Sarah could go to Wonderland any time she wanted, so for her it wouldn’t be such a treat.
I think it is ever so unfair that some people are rich and some people are poor. Like it is unfair that some people are born ugly and some people are born beautiful, and some are born stupid while others are born clever.
I know what Uncle Eddy would say. He would say, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, kiddo.”
He is always using these quaint and colourful expressions. Sometimes I try using them in essays, but Mrs Rowe just puts big exclamation marks by them.
All I can say is that whoever crumbles the cookies doesn’t make a very good job of it, what with big heaps here, and little heaps there, and even occasionally just crumbs.
Even sometimes nothing at all.
Being born, I must say, is a very strange and unsatisfactory experience. Why is it, for instance, that no one can ever remember it? You would think you would remember such an amazing event. For nine whole months you live in the dark, all warm and safe and tucked away, with nothing bad happening to you, and then quite suddenly you’re pushed out into the world in really a very brutal rough fashion, like being squeezed headfirst out of a tube, gasping for breath and wondering whatever can be going on.
