|Arrows| Emily. Ugly, Pink New Years.

27^th of December. Monday.

10:58pm.

So. This is it.

After a good long think, this was all I could come up with; a starter sentence explaining how I can't think up a proper starter sentence. How dreary.

I could go on to say that this is all my mother's conception. She thinks this ugly pink notebook from Uncle Brian should be used properly. To record my deepest thoughts. Deep, deep things, deeper than the sea. Like religion and the struggles with my overwhelmingly disturbed subconscious. Stuff like that.

How do people have time for this? My hand already hurts.

I said to my Mum, "Why would I want to record my thoughts?"

She said, "So you can reflect on them in later-life and study the changes within yourself."

I asked, "Why would anyone do that?"

"Because people enjoy studying themselves."

"But why?"

"Because we're all self-conscious buggers, okay Emily?" she said in a raised voice.

"You just raised your voice at me," I commented.

"I'll raise a fist soon."

It's all very traumatic. My hand is tired, and there isn't much else to say here except utter my confusion in a series of franticly pointed questions.

So what do I say next?

Comment on the weather?

Record some more deep thoughts?

Probing questions, perhaps?

Should I introduce myself?

But why should I? I know who I am, and I think I'll be able to remember who I was. Who else would read it? Why would they need to know me?

I think that is enough questions for now. I'm tired and I can sense that now I have fucked up the first mega deep entry in this ugly pink notebook, I shall throw it under my bed and shan't recover it for another year.

Going to bed.

11:46pm.

Cracked it. Can't sleep, and so I have figured this out. Journals don't specifically need deep thoughts. In journals you simply record every stupid trivial occurrence that runs through your mind. Pointless notes like, 'Can't sleep' and 'Need toilet'.

Easy peasy.

I bet other girls have really interesting things to record. The flirty ones out there, who have flings weekly and smell like pineapple cocktails, they must have heaps to record.

But not me. No, Sir. I am bound to my bedroom, anchored to this bed. This bed of pain.

So actually, I shouldn't own a journal. In fact, it seems like a humiliating joke on me and this ugly pink notebook if I were to own one because nothing interesting ever happens round here.

I am going to bed now, to feel sorry for myself in the dark. The freezing dark.

Night.

28^th of December. Tuesday.

9:53am.

Something interesting has happened. I wouldn't have returned if it didn't.

In the middle of the night, a small brown dog smuggled its way through the kitchen window and decided to doze off on top of the counter. Dad found it when he went out for his usual cigarette and coffee at 3am.

He woke Mum when the dog wouldn't shift from his warm little spot, and Mum's yells got the rest of us up. She was trying to nudge the dog out the back door with a broom. The poor thing thought it was a game and began chomping on the end, ripping it out of her hands and forcing her into hysterics.

Rhys tried luring it out with some old bacon, but the dog wouldn't step foot outside the door. Nobody really wanted to touch him either- he smelled awful, still does. But my God, what eyes that dog has. Huge brown ones that wrap you in.

My Dad, after a long battle with my Mum, decided to let the dog stay for the night.

Obviously the little mite was starving, because it tried eating the foil after it'd cleared out all the bacon. We gave it an old rugged blanket from the car to sleep on for the night.

Mum refused to sleep again, and watched it like a hawk in the living room. As soon as dawn broke, she made some rounds down the street, asking for any known missing dogs. No luck. Which is a good thing, because I'm getting rather fond of it. The dog kept trotting up to us while we were eating breakfast and would just look up at us with those huge eyes. I don't know how Mum can't be in love with it.

Still, that thing does reek.

But all in all, I may just have a dog. Now I am bathing the dog. Now the dog is excited by all the soap and vomits. Now the dog has slobbered the vomit all over the bath and my face. Now I hate that bloody dog.

Mum doesn't look pleased at all.

It's a boy. I think. There is definitely something there, something... unladylike. He looks like an Oscar with those eyes. I think I'll call him that. Oscar, perfect name for him.

But Jesus Christ, even after his vomit-laden bath and a good scrub, the smell emanating from him is just brutal. It could stun a bloody stallion. It's certainly done a number on Mum. She's fussing and mumbling on at the sink, saying to herself, "We just can't afford it, the money, the care, the constant attention..."

Can't afford it, my arse. If she didn't buy a new pair of shoes or a glossy new handbag every week, maybe we could buy Oscar an actual bed. She even bought herself a sparkly pair of false eyelashes last week. I mean, really?

She's just being uptight. As usual. If something isn't going her way she flies off the rail. I say well done, Dad.

But that is enough now. I'm due to meet Alice in town near the clock tower for a 'shop and market prowl' to catch up. I saw her just last week but apparently it's necessary.

For some reason I promised her I'd come again.

3:37pm.

Nothing much of interest happened. We wrapped ourselves up in woolies and took coffees into the Cathedral, sheltering from the wind.

She whispered about her old boyfriend, the Ginger whose name I always forgot. They were together for some time, though I never saw him much. Then when they broke up, badly I must say - though it is usually bad endings for Alice - she sprung back to me. Funny how that is.

It was really lovely, just sitting in the nave with my oldest, oldest friend and drinking something hot.

I didn't know you could bring drinks inside a Cathedral to be frank, but these things never occur to Alice. Annoyingly, her carelessness and brashness usually leads to a nice time.

"Do you ever wonder how big Jesus' willy was?" she whispered to me at one point.

"No, not really, Alice," I said.

"Bet it's tiny. All that 'Son of God' shit?"

"You think he was compensating for something?"

"Most definitely," she laughed.

"Alice," I was thinking aloud, "do you find it odd that almost no one believes in this stuff anymore? Even us, who attend a High Anglican school, think it's bullshit."

"Does that worry you?" she asked.

Yeah. I think it really does.

I told her about Oscar. She's dying to see him. I had to describe in full detail the mixtures of smells that create Oscar to keep her away for now.

Even so, he is sweet. When I got home he raced down the hallway to meet me, yapping and yapping. Mum yelled that all this energy means he probably needs a walk. Hadn't thought of that stuff yet.

Tried changing the subject with what type he is. She reckons he's spaniel mixed with 'God knows bloody what'. Sounds exotic.

He keeps pawing at the door, going ballistic with want, so I can hardly ignore him. I told Mum that I'd have to go to the shops first for a lead, and then come back for him. She said nonsense and buckled two belts together.

"Is that supposed to be a lead?"

"Yes, now move it," she said.

"But Mum, it's not very safe. What if he breaks free?"

"Good riddance."

The heartless old hag.

This shouldn't be hard. He's a small dog, I should be grand.

5:00pm.

Christ allbloodymighty, that dog is lethal. Small but lethal. I can’t believe just how shit that walk was.

I take that awkward belt configuration Mum made, strap it on to Oscar, open the door and BANG! We're off. He was actually dragging me along behind him. I'd be thrown into a continuous, tripping run until I could ground my feet and rein him back. I don't understand the strength of that thing.

He would race off to the nature strips, do a nice piss on someone's lawn, then shoot off to find more pissing grounds.

I was at the point of begging him, moaning, "No more, Oscar, I beg you, please," and trying to turn back home.

He'd have none of it. He just blinked at me, then retreated into squat position to leave a nice surprise on some poor buggers driveway. I don't know how to 'scoop' it so I did what any reasonable, intelligent person would do. Legged it down the road.

Reached the pet store after hours of steady negotiations to go this way or that. Knotted the belts around a lamp-post rather badly and waved goodbye for a moment or two. He almost looked saddened and I thought perhaps he was a loyal creature to me already.

Bollocks to that - found him slobbering over a group of girls when I came out, the unfaithful mutt.

Shouldn't have got a stretchy lead for him. Attached it, and he could dash off with some relief for my hands...then the lead would end and I'd get yanked into oblivion. He thinks it's freedom, so he'll start flinging his ruddy self into the path of an oncoming truck and I'd have to reel him back in and tighten the lead.

This is what happened going through Jessie Park. We were nearing home, it was beginning to drizzle, Oscar was still jumping into the air as he ran. We tramped through the grass - well, I was being hurled really - when that idiot wants to race ahead 300 hundred miles. That's fine, until the lead abruptly finishes its stretch.

Next thing, I'm on the wet ground, my arse killing me. Oscar was barking, as if yelling, "Hurry up, for fuck sake!" and so I rose to a crowd of smug laughter.

A warming group of silky-haired Bishop's bastard boys were crowded around a table, sniggering and gossiping. What a spectacle it must have been, to watched some lanky, frizzy-haired bint flying to her knees. Marvellous. Good show.

"You alright?" one called through sobs of laughter and they all set off sniggering again. Wanted to give the finger. Instead tried for a nasty glare before Oscar had me away again.

So. Never again am I walking that lousy, unfaithful dog nor showing my sodding face in this town ever again.

Goodnight Salisbury!

29^th of December. Wednesday.

11:23am.

Is my life really so scarce in interest that I spent a whole journal entry on walking the dog? I hate this journal.

It just shows me how empty my life is.

11:39am.

But really, this dog!

Seeing as Rhys is barely home these days, and Georgie's at some art school in London, the dog is my stupid responsibility. I didn't find him!

I've tried asking Rhys to just take him for a walk. He was gone five minutes before returning, Oscar having vomited all over Mr. Trencher's garden again from the excitement of fresh air.

So I'm stuck with the ruddy thing. When did he become mine?

I shall give him a bath now. Without soap.

31^st of December. Friday.

9:53pm.

New Year. Huh.

Don't think I'll even attempt a Resolution List. The whole thing is just depressing when you find it, late in September and realise you've accomplished nada.

Not much is going on. Alice tells me of some house party on Cherry Tree Street. I think I'd rather be home tonight. Mainly because I'm out of concealer and I have a raging spot or two on my chin.

But also because Oscar's ramming himself into the back door. Top notch entertainment quality.

Dad's just burst in, begging me to take him for a walk. I refuse to spend these last hours walking that nutcase. So Dad has yanked him up from the floor and dumped him into my lap. Oscar still reeks.

Maybe I should ring Alice back.

1^st of January. Saturday.

3:05pm.

This is the New Year. I don't feel any different.

Terrible, terrible, terrible night. Just terrible. Awful. Lots of Bishop's boys and the majority of the tarts who go to our school. Everyone else was from the state schools in the surrounding areas, and so slightly edgy.

All the girls looked like tarty goddesses which boys seem to go for. I came in an old dress of mine, and felt a frump. It was rather overboard for a New Years party. For some reason I figured it would be a formal thing.

No. Youths on the couches, snogging each others brains out, this awful thumping music that shattered all ears and a few too many chavs ready to shank anyone that passed.

When I arrived, Oscar seemed the most delightful pup in Wiltshire.

Found Alice 'and the gang' and she went, "Ah," when she saw the dress. Yes, it was that much of an embarrassment.

We stood by the balcony. She said I looked unique. I said I looked fat. She said no. I said yes. She said to stop being ridiculous. I said I wasn't being ridiculous. She said I looked it, in that dress.

Went to get a drink then, giving her a good snubbing. Decided to stick it out till midnight, then leg it home quickly.

I was at the drinks table, knowing I was a laughing stock already, when I reach for the punch and some loudmouth bastard across the table says, "No beer, grandma?"  He might have just been trying a joke, but I still mustered up the deadliest glare I could.

"Blimey!" He cracked a huge smile, "I saw you in the park with that dog! Haha, how're you going then?"

I should have known he was a Bishop's bastard boy. The silky hair says it all. Judging by the big flabby gob on his face, I'm supposing he was the one to yell out at me. I didn't stick around to ask, though.

I left after that.

Walked home. Missed the countdown. Heard the cheers from other houses though, and felt so sorry for myself that I sat in a deserted curb in the shadows and cried. I didn't want Mum or Dad to see me crying, did I?

I tore my dress off, back at home obviously. Acted like the party was great, wished the 'rents a happy New Year, tried as hard as I could to seem upbeat, then closed the door quietly and started ripping at my clothes.

Oscar decided to take up my entire bed, but I didn't mind. In a way it was comforting just hearing him breathing so heavily, snivelling into my sheets.

I'm not as weak as I seem. I hope not.

7:31pm.

Mum's found my dress in the bin. She started going on about the starving children in Ethiopia. I fail to comprehend what sever famine in third world nations has to do with an ugly, discarded dress.

I lied, said that I must have done it in my sleep.

She said, "Ah, as Elizabeth Gouge once said, 'When the monkeys chatter!'"

I said we don't have monkeys in England. She told me to stop being so literal and hung the dress back up.

Alice called too, asking where I went last night. Lied again and said I stuck around, she just must've missed me.

New Years do suck when you're alone. A lot.