HOLLY MIRANDA SMALE

Writer, photographer, "rapper" and general technophobe takes on the internet in what could be a very, very messy fight. But it's alright: she's harder than she looks, and she's wearing every single ring she could get her hands on.







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Saturday, 30 May 2009

A bit of fresh air

My parents are trying to move me out into the garden.

They're not being very subtle about it. This morning, at about 8am, they both knocked on my bedroom door.
"We're going out," mum shouted. "Do you want to come?"
"Depends where you're going," I said from underneath my duvet. 
"The garden centre. We're going to look at patio slabs. Want to join us?"
"Not even a little bit," I shouted back, and then I curled myself back into a ball and went back to sleep.

When they returned a couple of hours later (this, apparently, is how long it takes to look at patio slabs), they had bought me a present. 
"Come and have a look," dad beamed at me. "It's in the garden."
I ran through the house - tail wagging - and then I stared at the clingfilm wrapped gift outside for a few seconds.
"It's a deck-chair," mum explained eventually.
"I can see that it's a deck-chair," I said. "Wow. I don't know what to say. Thanks for the deck-chair, mum and dad."
There was a pause, and then mum nudged me with her elbow.
"Well, are you going to open it, then?" 
"Obviously," I stated flatly. "Because otherwise I won't be able to sit in it."

Once my brand new deck-chair was on the grass, I went to dutifully sit on it.
"Not there," dad said. "A little further down the lawn."
I moved the chair, and then made to sit down on it again.
"A little further," dad called. "There's a nice sunny spot on the other side of that trellis."
I moved the chair to the other side of the trellis, and then went to sit on it. You can't even see the house from there, so I'm guessing that the house can't see me either.
"Very nice!" dad shouted. "Do you like it?"
"Mmm," I answered.
Mum and dad then poked their heads through the trellis at me. 
"We've been looking at sheds too," mum said chirpily. "There's a big one with a porch and everything. You can put the lawnmower in the back, and then there's room for a writing table and a chair and stuff in the front."
"We thought we might get it for you," dad said. "As a present."
"What for?" I said. "I don't need a shed."
"You could write out here," mum said. "You know. Away from the house."
"I only write on computers," I pointed out. "You know that."
"We'll get a long extension lead."
"What if it gets cold?"
"You've got a jumper, haven't you?"
"There are a lot of spiders."
"You like spiders. You've always liked spiders. It'll be fun. A bit of company."
There was a shocked pause, and then I snapped: "Do you want me to bloody sleep out here as well? Because I've got a sleeping bag under my bed if you think I might need it."
Mum and dad looked at each other for a few seconds, and then beamed at me.
"It's just big enough," dad eventually said, "but we measured it and we think you'll fit."

So there we go. If I was a little more sensitive, I might think I had outstayed my welcome.