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, 3 April 2010

"£200,"

said my mum straight after I posted the last blog.
"What for?"
"For talking about him," mum answered, crossly. "You promised. For a year. Remember? No talking about boys for a year, or £200 goes to your sister."
"No, I didn't!"
"You did! It's right down here, in black and white."
"Right down where?" There was a pause while we both checked for back references (we both studied English Literature at University, and so we were clearly both getting ready for a text-off).
"It's here somewhere..." mum muttered, audibly and somewhat violently clicking her mouse at me while I muttered about creative freedom and the liberty to talk about what I want to talk about on my own blog.
"Aha!" she said eventually. "Here. Thursday the 13th of March. I promise...ladadalada No blogging about dating or kissing or romance or love or handholding for one whole year."
"So?" 
"So! £200!"
"Was that blog about dating, mum?"
"Well, nooo, not as such."
"Was it about kissing?"
"No."
"Was it about romance or love?"
"No. I guess not."
"Was there any mention of handholding?"
"No."
"Was it about anger?"
"Yes."
"So.... do I owe my sister £200?"
There was a pause. 
"I suppose not," my mum eventually conceded. "But that was a close call, and you're getting off on a technicality, Holly."
"Well, that's the way of the law, mum," I said. 
"You won't get away so easily next time," she added. "I'm on the ball. No talking about love, alright? And no talking about him."
"Deal," I said. "I think my pillow has taken the brunt of my communication anyway, to be honest."
"The next time, I'll make sure it's his head," my mum said fervently. And then changed the subject because my dad had just walked in and he knows nothing about any of it whatsoever because his temper makes my temper look like small fry.

Some things run in families, and I strongly suspect that a hot temper and a desire to really, really analyse writing might be two of them.