Spud (36 page)

12:00   Wombat, wearing a black eye patch like some debauched old pirate, was at her crazy best at the infamous Milton family braai. She has somehow convinced herself that Dad is trying to kill her with poison (not a totally absurd idea). She made me taste a piece of each item of food on her plate before guzzling it herself. As you might imagine, nothing kills a friendly gathering of family faster than the belief that your son-in-law is trying to assassinate you.

15:15   Telephone call from the Mermaid. I got such a fright that I panicked and hung up. I took the phone off the hook for half an hour.

After half an hour I replaced the telephone on the receiver and it rang instantly. The shrill noise sent a Shockwave through my body. I looked around desperately before hesitantly lifting the receiver and bending my head to listen to the voice on the line: ‘Hello, lover boy’ It was Christine. I decided to take the bull by the horns and break things off. I told her I didn’t want a relationship with her because I wanted to focus on the play and because I would be leaving for Malta shortly (a lie, but it sounded good). Besides I also have a girlfriend. Christine burst into tears and hung up. I contemplated grilling the telephone in the oven for a few hours but finally decided that the pleasure of watching the wretched thing melt would pale against the punishment that followed.

16:10   Christine called in hysterics and begged me to stay with her. I said I’d think about it. Once again the famous limp-wristed Spud was unable to say what he feels and as a result he rockets all the way back to square one. Hopefully, when I finally grow some ball hairs, I’ll grow some courage as well.

16:30   Called Gecko and told him my troubles. He did that whistle again and then asked me which one I most wanted to shag. I said none, because I’m still a spud. There was a long pause, and then he told me to pick a name out of the hat and rang off. So much for my personal adviser.

Had another variation of my dream: this time Amanda offered me the hamburger, which became Christine. I
decided that the only way to solve this madness is to pull a Gecko and write out some pros and cons.

MERMAID

Pros

First love
Bewitching (when not crackers)
Beautiful and enchanting (when not crackers)
Is still technically my girlfriend
I know her mom
My parents like her

Cons

Mentally unstable
Is in England
Prone to depression

CHRISTINE

Pros

Very affectionate
Very forward
Father has a BMW

Cons

Probably also crackers
Prone to hysteria
Huge mood swings
Could be a slut (this would be a pro if I wasn’t a spud)

AMANDA

Pros

Beautiful

Sexy
Mysterious
Intelligent
Catlike (?)
Reads books
Poetic
I can’t take my eyes off her
Can’t stop dreaming about her

Cons

She is older than me
She is cleverer than me
Despite what Gecko says – not sure if she likes me
Could also be crackers

I must admit, seeing my thoughts scrawled out in front of me made things a little clearer. With nine pros against four cons, Amanda was the winner. There it was in black and white – I must be in love with Amanda. I found some of Mom’s pale blue writing paper with a bowl of fruit at the top and began composing.

I sent the letter Fastmail – she should get it tomorrow.
(I suddenly realised that when I wake up tomorrow I’ll open my eyes to those spooky old wooden rafters and hear Pissing Pete still trying to finish his never-ending slash.) It’s amazing how time flies by when you’re having women trouble. Over a steaming hot bath I decided to focus on the play and let my relationships take care of themselves.

I kissed Mom goodbye for about the twentieth time this year and stepped onto the old creaky bus that would take me back to school.

Weekend Scorecard:

05:00   The dormitory woke to complete their English homework, which The Guv had set for the weekend. The task was to read a twenty-five page short story called The Suit by a South African writer called Can Themba. Thankfully, the homework was remembered by Gecko halfway through one of Boggo’s hilarious impersonations of The Guv around midnight last night. Fatty was the only class member from our dormitory who was unable to stir himself from his deep sleep. He told us he would bluff his way through it.

12:00   The Guv cunningly worked out that Fatty hadn’t done his homework. He asked him why the writer had set the story in a brothel and gambling hall. Fatty fell into the trap and said it was all about prostitutes! (It’s actually about this guy’s wife who has an affair with another man, which made me feel guilty about the Mermaid.) The Guv lambasted Fatty in French (or what sounded like French) and he ordered our obese friend to eat his copy of the short story. It took about four seconds for poor Fatty to realise that The Guv was being deadly serious and about 1 004 seconds for Fatty to devour twenty-five pages of print. Unsurprisingly, Fatty didn’t seem too concerned about his second breakfast and chomped away while The Guv continued his lesson on South African short story writing.

Other than some serious tummy rumbling, Fatty showed no side effects of devouring his literature. (He did say that the illustrations were more difficult to
swallow than the ordinary print.)

14:30   Back in the office of Dr Zoo. I’ve come to dread these sessions. Whatever possessed me to volunteer myself as a human guineapig to this Freudian lunatic? I considered very seriously feigning some illness and heading for the sanatorium, but then thought that I might have to miss rehearsals so decided to face down the bearded whistling beast.

Thankfully, we spent the session discussing Vern. Dr Zoo is clearly perplexed by Rain Man’s behaviour, and wanted to know what he was like inside the dormitory. I took up as much time as possible with stories about my loony cubicle mate. I described in great detail his running away saga, his unnatural fondness for Roger, his bald spot and, of course, his conviction as the underpants thief.

Dr Zoo made pages of notes, often grunting and snorting (sometimes simultaneously). He explained that contrary to popular opinion, he thinks Vern was using the underpants to create a nest for Roger under the bicycle shed and there was nothing sexually deviant about his actions. (It will take a lot of explaining to convince the school that a nest of boys’ underpants isn’t a bit pervy!) He explained that there was enormous pressure from above to have Vern sent to a psychological facility. However, his mother is adamant that he should stay at school and follow in the footsteps of his late father. Rumour has it that his career at school was all but finished until his mom deposited a small fortune into the school building fund. Suddenly The Glock did an about turn and stated that Vern would leave only over his dead body. I left the session with a skip and a jump – freedom for another week.

Viking whisked me away from my geography lesson and together we cruised down to Pietermaritzburg in his old Jaguar. Away from the school, Viking was relaxed and funny and there was no sign of his infamous temper as he quizzed me about my family and various other things. The occasion was my first visit to the hairdressers. Today my long scraggly bits of hair are to be permed into Oliver-like locks of beauty. (Next Friday I return for the blond highlights.)

The stylist’s name was Bernadette and she seemed to know Viking rather well. In fact for the first ten minutes after our arrival Viking’s hand was glued to her bum. Every time he squeezed it, she would squeal and giggle and call him a naughty boy.

Bernadette set about rolling my hair up in tiny rollers before applying some smelly concoction and then placing my head in what looked like a giant toaster. After a few minutes in the toaster the excitement of it all wore off and I rifled through a few ladies’ magazines. An old woman (also with her head in a toaster) interrupted an article on something called women’s monthly flow to ask me if I was a homosexual. I blushed terribly and tried my best to sound outraged. I explained the Oliver story and after a few questions she seemed satisfied that I was innocent.

Her stylist – a thin guy called Anton, with leather pants, floral shirt and many rings and bangles – came over and adjusted her toaster settings. While he was working she leaned across and said, ‘You never know nowadays – these homosexuals are on the loose, you know. You can never tell who’s at it. Some of them look and sound normal and then suddenly – ‘ Her speech became a squeal of agony. Anton apologised profusely for nicking her with his scissors.

After hours under the toaster I was ready to see my
new look. The result was shocking. I looked completely… weird is the word. Long brown curly locks! Viking seemed happy and squeezed Bernadette’s breasts in gratitude. He told me I looked halfway to the perfect Oliver. With that we were back in the Jag and hurtling through traffic into the heart of the Natal Midlands.

18:00   The dining hall. I gathered my tray and joined the queue for roast pork, mashed potatoes and vegetables. Around me came the murmuring of boys, a few giggles, a swallowed comment. This wasn’t going to be easy. I received my dinner and stepped out into the open dining hall and was met with a wall of sound. Three hundred odd boys were bleating at me like deranged sheep. Linton Austin, the prefect on duty, leapt to his feet and thumped the gavel into the table. After he threatened to have our condiments removed, the chaos settled into whispered jibes and hideous sniggers. The rest of the Crazy Eight were beside themselves with glee. Simon ordered me not to look so sheepish which, predictably, had Rambo on the floor in hysterics. The bad news is that I have to look like a sheep for nearly four weeks. Beginning to wonder if it’s worth it.

Still no word on the culprits of the Victoria Cross debacle. Looks like The Glock was bluffing about having any suspects. Further proof that in this place honesty gets you nowhere!

11:00   Received another letter from the Mermaid saying that she’s getting better and that she misses me and is nearly ready to come home. For the first time my pulse didn’t start pumping and my palms stayed as dry as the Kalahari desert. What with the play opening in less than three weeks, and looking like a sheep, the curse of
women problems has been put on the back burner.

Rambo reckons that Gavin, the prefect under the stairs, has returned to school with a deadly venomous puffadder called Celeste. Rambo has to feed it a rat every second day, which the snake swallows whole. Gavin, the prefect under the stairs, is breeding rats now instead of cockroaches.

Still being called ‘Laaaaaaamberf wherever I go. Hoping it will wear off soon.

I apologise, dear diary, for two days of desertion but it’s been two days of slogging rehearsals. Viking’s convinced that the first act isn’t up to scratch so we’ve been repeating it over and over. If I have to sing Food Glorious Food one more time I might just move in with Dr Zoo (his house is now known as the funny farm).

10:00   The girls have arrived and they all made a big fuss over my new sheepy hairstyle. Amanda was as cryptic as ever. Gecko and I were expecting her to give me the cold shoulder and very possibly some stinging looks and glares, but being her weird self, she smiled and chatted warmly to me, completely confusing my personal adviser and me. This display continued through our duet when the former ice queen looked at me with such love and devotion that I thought my heart would tear into pieces.

Christine, on the other hand, was all over me like a sticky dog’s blanket. She gave me a huge hug and started snivelling on my shoulder. Gecko’s advised me to stay clear of her because she looks solidly unstable.

Gecko’s taken up the menial job of assistant stage manager so that he can stay close to the action and keep an eye on the girls.

Awoke refreshed after a thrilling dream about walking down a white sandy beach with Amanda. When I looked down I realised that her feet weren’t making any footprints in the sand. I tried to tell her this but when I looked up she was gone.