1. Straight to the Norm

‘Ladies and gendlemen, you are all here looking for enlightenment’

Cretin.

‘And I’m here to show you the way. Let’s make the love work.’ Cheers went up from around the arena as Tag Waverley, his meticulously greased side-parting, radio mic and royal blue blazer and jeans combo sauntered onto the stage.

‘Together, we can make that change you so desperately need in your life. All you need is my advice and techniques’ Yeah, and all you need is my credit card. A flurry of lacy dancers bounded in with the grace of a swarm of six year-olds, scattering sparkle dust. A little of the dust found its way up my nasal cavity, forcing it to concede what I’d been pointing out to it all evening- we were sitting far too close to the front.

‘Life is a dance with rhythms and beats of its own. Sometimes we’re up, sometimes we’re down,’ I won’t test your intelligence with depiction of such choreographic mastery as was before me, it would no doubt be beyond your grasp to conceive that there is still a place for playground dances in the adult world, ‘There are joys and delights, demons to thwart and so far, my friends, you have thwarted all these demons.’ Oh really? Then why are you… ‘But what happens when you hit something you can’t handle.’


The dancers stopped and the lights swung down to pitch black. Suspenseful seconds later a shard of silver light hit the levitating figure of Tag Waverley and choral ahhhing smoothed its way from the lips of the dancers.

‘My friends, don’t let yourself go. Everybody cries. Everybody hurts sometimes. Your pain is the pain we’re all feeling right now and it’s what makes us stronger.’ A pseudo-African drumbeat thumped. Ding ding, next stop, Happy Clapping Common. ‘Take comfort in the stranger sat next to you and know. That we. Can. Make the change.’

The drumming and ahhhing reached a frenzy as the shard of light exploded across the stage. And Tag Waverley, suspended, spread his arms wide to his congregation as, what else, wings expanded from his back. I flinched as a multitude of six year old girls, presumably the same ones who the stage dancers had learned their moves from, flounced through the arena chucking yet more glitter at the awe-inspired crowd.

I glanced over at Pam. She was looking unusually earnest, clutching her denim notepad and matching pen in anticipation. Pam’s stuff never matched. This must be serious.

‘Perhaps you’re looking for love. Maybe you’ve found it, but it’s the wrong sex,’ Jesus, we’ve walked into an episode of Ricky Lake. ‘You could be moving on from an accident, heartbreak, or a monotonous routine. Perhaps you don’t even realise you need help.’ Bring out the leather couch and esoteric notebook scribbles.

‘Whatever your situation, with my unique, tailored approach to self-help you can be the master of your life again. Welcome, ladies and gendlemen to Life School.’

There we are. The first flick along a grotty pathway that would ultimately affect my sanity. Of course, I was here purely for Pam. She needed it and I’d do anything for her- it was an unwritten agreement between the pair of us since Freddie went. Tag Waverley and his circus of life-help tricks was a phenomenon sweeping Friars’ Street, East London and probably the rest of the world if I’d cared to look. Pam had begged me to come with her, so come I did.

‘Empowerment…’
Oh please.
‘…Joyful living…’
Sure, I can feel the sand between my toes already.
‘…Freedom…’
That’s right hunny, freedom from dumbass showman preachers.

‘Who can claim none of those three things appeal to them?’ The crowd gushed with adulation as more than a dozen men and women in my proximity gave birth to kittens.

This was the very first follow-the-masses thing Pam and I had done in maybe ever, so trust us to pick the culmination of everything that’s wrong with the world today. I suspected Pam was cracking. Since teenagedom we’d set ourselves aside from the giggly makeup girls and embarked on a life of alternativism, of refusing to conform, of standing out against the moronic drone of oppressive normality. We’d sworn to each other that we’d always be exactly ourselves, whatever happened around us.

When the girls at school had worn high heeled, shagmesandals, we’d gone for fat trainers with an indecipherable Norwegian brand name. When the Thrash Rock kids had been given permission to label themselves as such by carefully branded ‘rebellious’ groups from EMI records we shrugged off the lure of the ‘look at how depressed I am’ lifestyle to focus on providing members of our acquaintance with much lacking non-specific discomfort in our presence. When everyone else was picking neat university careers in medicine or engineering or history, Pam chose Vetenary Econometrics and I went for the Miscellaneous Alternative Science of Russian Folklore and Other Obscure Personality Typecasts (MASORFOOPT to its friends). Ok, so that meant inventing our own university educations, but hell, we all have to make sacrifices. When everyone else was pairing off into nice little relationships, Pam and I even pretended for a while that men just weren’t our bag. And when everyone else was exiting their angst stage, we were just revving up.

Yet there I was, sat on a plastic flip-down seat, Row D seat 22 of Wembley arena, watching my evening drain into the palms of an over-tanned, over indulged Life Guru. And if that wasn’t enough, the whole thing was sponsored by bloomin’ Stile & bloomin’ Robs, the world’s happiest nicey-nicey mess of an over controlling rip-off corporation. I had been quite enjoying my huckleberry juice until, fingering the embossed S&R on the cup, I realised it had been made from the blood of small children in Bahrain.


‘As you know, ladies and gendlemen, this whole show at Wemberley’s been put on for free just for you to spread the love to as many people as we can.’ Ah the part about money and faith, thought we’d gone a bit far without this one, ‘But before I go on, I need to see a show of faith in each one of you. I need to see that you believe in my methods. That you truly have something at stake here. Who can show me that faith?’

Ladies and gentlemen, to my left I present the simpering, lipstick-on-teeth, perfect mum club searching for more fulfilling lives than daytime TV and to my right I present the supportive, manicured couple, dressed head to foot in Stile & Robs gear, who are so devoted to Tag Waverly and chums they haven’t looked at each other in a month. In fact, all around me were young people, old people, pretty people, ugly people, even all four in one, all gazing forwards with awe, gulping down Tag Waverley’s every word like a bottle of wine on a bad first date. Every one of them reached for their wallets. And even my dear friend Pam, my partner in cynicism, was getting sucked in. ‘Marg,’ she whispered ‘We’ve got that credit card we could put in, its got £1500 on it.’ I snatched it from her and snapped it in two.
‘He doesn’t want your money.’

‘Step out today and show that you have faith in yourself, your brothers and sisters.’
‘Here it is.’ A guy stood up behind us and all heads swung to face him ‘The keypad to my Ferrari FJ9000.’ He bellowed. Dude, sit down, this is Britain.
‘I don’t want your car, or the clothes off your back.’ Tag chuckled. See?
‘See?’ I whispered back at Pam
‘No, no, I need you to look beyond your circumstances, beyond what you are and what you have. Don’t think of possessions on the journey we’re about to undertake.’
The perfect mum club nodded (em)pathetically
‘However, many of you will want to show your appreciation for the special Life School gift boxes you’ll received as you exit at the end of the show, including a limited edition t-shirt.’ The crowd cooed, ‘So, my assistants from Stile & Robs will pass round these donation bags for you. Think not of what you can afford, but think of how far you can stretch your faith’
Why you utter Bushwit, sodding menace! I leapt out of my seat, grabbed for my M440 and swung round, cutting down everyone between row D and Tag Waverley in a fit of trigger-happy elation. Tag Waverley was down, caught in the chest and I hurled myself onto the stage, pulled a wad of notes from my trousers and shoved them into his mouth. “Here you are, here’s your sodding leap of faith,” I yelled.

Well, I thought about it anyway…

‘Wow, I must say ladies and gendlemen, that I am bowled over by your support. You really are most generous tonight.’ His field of vision was stacking up with doubloons.

But before I scare you off, let me assure you that you’re not doing anything wrong by reading this. I know it feels a bit naughty having things said against Institutions like Tag Waverley and Stile & Robs, but nobody will find out. Look at the cover- just a normal story book, right? With words. Ok, so there’s a distinct lack of pictures, but anyone looking over your shoulder on the tube will just realise you’re not a Sun reader. So relax! You can’t get put into jail for reading fiction. Yet.

Something still makes me wary of scaring you off. Let me comfort you about my appearance, as I expect that’s itching at you like a Boomtown Rats record. You’re still shuddering at the thought of fat Norwegian trainers aren’t you? It’s ok, you’ve lived your whole life like that, I don’t expect you to come around instantly. Trust me on a few things; whilst my clothing is what people scoffingly refer to as ‘independent,’ and whilst I don’t even have a hand held personal multifunction organiser, let alone obey its every whim, Pam and I don’t have nose-rings, we don’t meticulously paint ourselves with blue and orange stripy eye makeup and we don’t have platted underarm hair. And no, not even we think that the Eurovision Song Contest is a good idea.

You too might even think we’re normal for a short while. That’s a mistake most people make when they first meet us, however deluded they might be proven.
‘Yes, I never could quite work out why my Stephen didn’t manage to hang onto her,’ some cooing empty nester comments.
‘Tush, such lovely girls and such a shame…’ others agrees. It’s only when, a few months, days, hours, minutes, seconds later when they learn about The Pro-Vice Chancellor Electrolysis Episode, for example, that the smug lady to the left whose son hadn’t been involved in the saga feels distinctly content that her Stephen still retained all senses of purity and normality. Only then do people begin to notice the other ‘anomalies’ that have been there all along.

And so it is that Pam and I are quite used to the Polite Smile, the Side Step, the Would You Look At The Time and other social wet slaps. We’re quite used to being the ones left cosily sheltered at the sodden barbeque because one of us has mischievously spread a herpes self-rumour. We delight at feigning oblivion to the squeals that only a good old-fashioned saga can uproot.
‘That Marg over there,’ Fanny Bristle gestures at her cornered prey with a sausage roll, scratching herself.
‘Really? Gosh, I just didn’t think she was that kind of person’
That’s the point, Pam and I aren’t any kind of people, we are Pam Due and Marg Muggleton. Beginning of story.

As Tag invited his third success story on stage to give a drivelly account of how much they’ve changed, I began to muse how much cash dear Mr Waverley (at least he didn’t dare call himself Dr- thankful for small blessings) raked in per night of his tour. I stopped counting at six figures, plus S&R’s corporate whoring, I mean sponsorship fee, assuring myself that there must be some hefty overheads I was failing to consider. Bored with conservative maths and the continuing flow of still more words from the success story whose tale must, I presumed, by the laws of averages, have been better than his hair cut, I then turned my problem-solving capabilities to the issue of how many semi-skilled field mice it would take to apply Mr Waverley’s all over fake tan, given his expected tolerance level of up to two hours wait time for completion of said tanning chore. Ninety-four. Well there we go, those kinds of extravagancies don’t come cheap. Yeesh, Tag Waverley must be quite the diva. Probably insists on trained ferrets to shine his shoes too. Now they’re maybe six to eight times larger than field mice, but well known in the trade to be less willing to please, so…

A sudden silence in the arena brought me back to consciousness.
‘Yes, it’s you ma’am. Whadayou say?’
What? I squinted into the camera light that singled me out as the intended filler of aforementioned sudden silence.
‘Please ma’am, we’re running live on national television.’
‘Erm,” I squirmed, “Yeah, I agree.’
‘With which point ma’am?’
Oh. ‘With both I should imagine.’ Ha. That’ll show ’em.

A pinprick hush fell across the arena. I nervously glanced sideways to the mums and the couple who were staring back at me either with ill concealed disgust or tentative excitement. Probably both.

‘I mean…’ Help me out here, ‘…huh… I mean, of course I don’t agree… that would be ridiculous. What I was doing was pointing out how ridiculous it would be to…to…agree with you… and on national television…’ still talking? Jesus, stop moving your mouth, ‘to agree in front of so many people… because that way… erm… we learn something more about our reactions and, um… societal…’
Pam was curled up in her seat next to me in the anonymous darkness of row D seat 23, shaking with laughter and dismay, tears streaming down her face.
‘… societal pressures and the forces of… cultural norms, when… um…’ what are you talking about? ‘when faced with such an important and pressing issue as this one…’ God, just shut up!
‘Well…’ Tag Waverley breathed with anticipation, brushing aside my spout of nonsensical jabber, ‘I must say that this is quide exceptional ladies and gendlemen. A truly historic moment. Our first volunteer for the Full Effects Programme. Ma’am if you can make your way up onto stage, let’s give enormous love for Marg and Norman, our first FFXer couple.’ It didn’t occur to me that I’d never told him my name.

Now I’m sorry to sound ungrateful, but I hadn’t gone to this rally with a view to getting lucky, so the prospect of moving my very round and very lovely bottom from an albeit not so very round or very comfortable seat, up into the arms of a gorky looking success story with a mangled weasel for hair didn’t appeal. As the crowd’s veneration continued, I stayed put. Tag Waverley’s eyes locked on me and I swear they glowed an unusual shade of red. Yeesh, the predictions of the biblical classic Terminator have finally come true. His brow furrowed and he threw a gesture into the aisle on my left. A second later I felt myself being hoisted from behind by Arnold Schwarzenegger himself and brusquely kicked up the steps to the stage.

I was used to sticking out from the crowd, and normally didn’t much mind it, but being hoisted out of the crowd was something different. I was Nelson on top of his unnecessarily lengthy column and everyone was peering with curiosity at the traffic cone on my head. Convention had let me into its, well, convention, in the most welcoming and unsuspecting manner and all I could contribute was a lukewarm vomit of inattention to gently splatter the crowd. As they picked my semi-digested pieces of social ineptitude out of their hair, not for one moment flickering in their puppy like attention, I tried desperately to judge what I’d just volunteered myself for. My reasonable side which, incidentally, is my left side, supposed just a semi-embarrassing trust exercise or similar cliché. Unfortunately, my more tetchy and far more intelligent right side; the side of doom, destruction and cataclysm, was proven the closer shot on this occasion.

The last thing I clearly remember (memory has this fantastic ability to block out traumatic events) is judging which angle to look at Tag Waverley from so I wouldn’t be entirely blinded by his pearly teeth.

***[a letter in the actual version]***

Tag Waverley
Life School
____________________________________________________________


Welcome to the programme


My friend, you are so very welcome. We’ve been expecting you for a while.

Welcome to the world’s biggest community of positive self-helpers, all united in love to make our personal world a better place. Over 42 million people have seen the benefits of the Tag Waverley Life School ® since its inception. You’ll know many of us Life School folks already, from the peaceful look in our eyes and our sense of trust and alignment with the world. Now you have elected to join our snug family.

Well done, we’re all here for you.

I must at this point congratulate you for joining our pioneering new Full Effects Programme and offer you some words of reassurance in this turbulent and uncomfortable time. We at the Tag Waverley Life School are taking every possible precaution necessary.

As you know, you have been assigned an FFX partner to guide you through the programme. This is someone who has been through Tag Waverley Life School already and is an experienced and stable springboard for you to leap from.

In the coming days we will provide you with all the tools and equipment you need to progress through FFX under tight tutelage.

Your first gift is this special edition Tag Waverley Money Pouch . At times during the programme you’ll feel a little frustrated and an expletive might fall from your lips. Every time that happens, simply pop a five-pound coin in the pouch to teach yourself self-control. Once the pouch is full we will happily take it off your hands.

Start that exercise from now.

We want you to be fulfilled- that’s our business.

Trust us.


Let’s make the love work.

Tag Waverley
____________________________________________________________


2. The morning after effect


Well, I wasn’t inundated with fan mail the following morning, as I dribbled down the stairs in search of Belgian waffles and maple syrup (yes, Belgian waffles are a legitimate breakfast-stuff, I know they’re sweet and enjoyable, but they’re most definitely in the continental breakfast category), although there was a beautifully stencilled death threat letter waiting for me on the “Yes, come in, sully my home with your putrid normality,” welcome mat.

YoU ARe gOInG tO sUfFeR. tOnIGhT. 19.30.

How nice of them to spend so much effort on it- curly writing and carefully fashioned red biro blood droplets round the edges. And how considerate to put such a specific time on it too, it prevents you from the discomfiture of being on time.

Stealing another peek at the envelope, I realised with mild disappointment that it was addressed to Kylie Blake at number 75 Friars’ Street, rather than my dear cosy number 76. Damn it, Kylie Blake in number 75- steal my limelight! A real life death threat was just what my esteem needed, and she’d denied me even that small pleasure.

Then I realised with a shudder that I’d misapprehended the situation. The letter was more sinister than I’d given it credit for. It wasn’t a death-threat at all, it was much, much worse.

I’d intercepted the seedy precursor to Kylie Blake’s Saturday night antics.

Nasty.

Who’d it be this time? Perhaps it would be Eighties Perm Guy, who always brought round his two enthusiastic springer spaniels and an armful of spirally twigs to masquerade as a romantic offering for the evening. The spaniels, I should add, were generally left tied up outside. Or maybe Beautiful Bottom, Bad Barnet a true fashion fascist of his time would make another appearance tonight? Or perhaps it would be the more recent favourite Gordon, the spruce local councillor, who had originally popped in to warn Kylie Blake that her front lawn was growing over its boundaries and had ended up seeping out of the house at 6.30 the following morning. All respectable catches, a glance at today’s “Who’s In” popup would notify me. Ah well, I guessed I’d have to wait until 7.30 to discover who tonight’s victim would be.

Despite the lack of post, hostile or adoring, my attention was jarred to a medium sized blue box basking on my sofa. Only I was allowed to sit on my sofa with the slightest exception of Gifford McKensie, The Most Attractive Man in The World, who could have my eyeballs if that meant I could spend all day gawping at him. Pam knew that, passers by in the street knew that, hell, even all the other bits of furniture had caught on by now. So what made this pretentious box think it had the right? This was all wrong.

My eyes edged to all six corners of the room. I was alone, bar a pot of bio yoghurt, organicking onto the floor. Animal masks wonky- check. Nothing caught in traps. At least that means mother’s not here. I inched closer, taking care not to disturb the blue box. An eerie gasp swept the room, troubled only by the sound of my morning-after wheeze.

The world, and Friar’s Street held its breath.

Nothing more than the sound of creaking floorboards could be perceived. Well, that and next door having an argument about net curtains – again.

I prodded the blue box with an exposed toenail.

No movement.

Sigh of relief.

I paused for another few seconds.

Still no movement.

Maybe it’s dead?

Better wait for Pam anyway. I’d learned the lesson as an eight year-old at Christmas, that opening all the presents, particularly, for some reason, the ones that don’t have your name on, before anyone else has got up, isn’t the way to behave if you want to sleep indoors for the rest of the week.

With one eye on my dubious new friend Blue Box and another eye on the health-hazard nails protruding from the “antique” floorboards, I tottered into the kitchen area in search of the yellow packet of dreams. Mmmm, two crunchy waffles drizzled in syrup and a mug of hot summer fruit barley squash. Perfect way to start a Saturday morning.

Click- on with the kettle. Squeak, cupboard door open. Domestic bliss or what? Glancing back at Blue Box whose back was to me, I put my hand out to clasp the plastic packaging on the top shelf.
Crunch.
Empty.
I whipped back round to the sofa, just catching a shuffle of blue, square movement.
‘Did you… what the… why you little… I’ll turn you into waffle’
I hurtled the empty packet in the direction of Blue Box, but only achieved the scattering of waffle particles across the floorboards.
‘Morning weirdo’ came a croaky Pam-voice from the stairs. ‘Recovered yet?’
‘Eh?’ She seemed to be wearing… a t-shirt with a big ‘FFX’ on it.
‘From last night?’ Ah. The embarrassment. The stage. The ‘drink to get through this’ plan. And the lady with the (previously) very nice handbag. And the worryingly well spoken Arnold Schwarzenegger security man. And the box.
‘That’s right, I thought I recognised you,’ I slurred at Blue Box, ‘We met last night didn’t we?’
Blue box stared straight ahead, refusing to respond.
Pam gave me one of her less-than-impressed looks and sat down on the patchwork sofa, pulling Blue Box into her lap.

It began to dawn on me that at the show we’d donated £655 for this so-called box. My fingernails had been warning me it would a bad mistake to pop to the cashpoint before going in, but would I listen to them? Brain, take a hint from the minions, they’re beating you at your own game. The complete boxset to bloomin’ Tag bloomin’ Waverley’s Life-Help Circus and the keypad to his seventh Bentley. I groaned and scrabbled for the summer fruits barley.
‘Don’t look like that,’ Pam chided ‘It’s your prize for being Tag Waverley’s new best friend and all.’ My prize? You don’t pay £655 for a prize! ‘I mean, to think of all the people who could’ve been selected from that audience it’s just sod’s law that they pick on the sod who’s so anti the whole show that she’s sat their daydreaming about rabbits playing the harmonica, right in the middle of the serious bit. That’s just… ’
‘Field mice’
‘Sorry?’
‘Field mice, I was daydreaming about field mice.’
‘… it’s typical I say. You know I was wanting to get picked for FFX and if I’d taken your seat that would’ve been me that got picked.’
Pam never sat on the left of anything, so there was no way she’d’ve taken that seat- that’s why our roadtrips abroad always had such navigation problems- but despite the evident flaw in her logic, I knew what she was saying was right. Pam had been on about nothing else but FFX since I presented her with the tickets a few months earlier as a Happy 27th August present.
‘You know what, you do my GFX programme. It’s yours.’
‘FFX.’ She corrected, ‘Don’t be ridiculous’
‘No, I mean it, last night was your present, you should have the prize. It’s much more useful to you than it is to me.’ I mustered enough energy to sound passionate.
‘I mean it. Marg, don’t tell me you were thinking about field mice when you were up on stage with Tag Waverley?’
‘Ferrets…’ I tested. Pam gave one of her most dismayed sighs.
‘If you were paying attention, you’d realise that you can’t just share around kit. It’s… insanitary… besides, it’s tailor made to respond to you. And besides besides,’ she grinned, clapping ‘Norman’s getting me one sent over, so we can do FFX together!’
There was a sudden creak-thud from above me. Had I not been lying on my side staring in the vague direction of Pam from the comfort of the roomy floorboards I would have blamed my head.
‘Pam, you old rogue,’ I smirked ‘When were you going to let on you had someone to stay last night? It’s so good to see you’re getting back into the game. Tell me the juice.’
‘I didn’t have anyone to stay last night.’ She shifted
Ah. I stared up at the trapezing ceiling, wondering whether I’d stand a better chance of making it to the cricket bat in the cupboard, or the knife in the draw. Then something in a synapse fizzed into action. Oh.
‘Pam… who’s Norman?’
Pam, as always at these crucial moments, found a way of evaporating. Stitch work class I think it was this morning.

The creak-thud evolved into a lollop-stumble down the stairs. I found myself staring up the crooked nose of a grown man who, from what I could make out, was wearing ill-fitting snake pyjamas that barely covered his calves or midriff. He seemed to be apologetically scratching his curly tufts.

Nggg. This morning was already proving too much for me.

‘Norman.’
‘Good morning Margery’ chirped he who answered by that name.
‘Marg.’ I growled ‘The name’s Marg.’ The cheerful door was slammed in his face by the snarling creature on the floorboards.
‘Um, you said it was ok for me to make myself at home, so I found these,’ Norman tugged at the pyjamas, ‘they’re very… um… comfortable.’ Norman edged around my sprawl, searching for a target of something nice to say. He picked up a piece of paper on the table, fumbled and dropped it, wishing he’d never seen what was written on it.
‘Cup of tea?’ he asked, helpfully finding himself a mug, ‘Ooh, this spoon’s scratched all over,’ I shot him a look of molten spears, ‘But… um, well, it makes a nice change eh?’ Norman reached for the cabinet door. The handle came off with it and the custard creams inside made a leap for his throat. Lurching for the scattered biscuits, Norman stammered ‘I… I’m quite good at DIY… Um… where’s the tea please Marger… Marg?’ he caught himself just in time. The snarling creature on the floorboards raised a single finger and gesticulated towards the front door.
‘That is the custard cupboard’ I said with petulance ‘The tea is in Sainsbury’s.’
‘Mmm. Well perhaps I…’
‘And what, provided you don’t mind me asking, are you doing in my house?’
Norman peered at me from beneath his flabby spectacles, or he would’ve done if he hadn’t had laser surgery like every other bugger on the planet, with confusion and hurt.
‘Marg…?’ he stared around me as if trying to contact the dead ‘Are you sure that’s you?’ Norman tentatively reached out his hand towards my face, trying most conscientiously not to disturb the particles that comprised the scene, suspecting that if he moved too fast the whole mirage would evaporate. I brought him back to reality with a sharp thwack.
‘Yes it’s me.’ I snapped ‘Now will you please tell me what is going on here and who you are?’
‘I’m your FFX partner,’ he whimpered, cradling his hand, ‘We’re on the programme together? We performed the love ritual.’
‘Love ritual?’
‘Last night’
‘Last night?’
‘On stage’
‘On STAGE?’
‘Um, yes Marg…’ he nodded, relaxing at my apparent comprehension of the situation ‘and Mr Waverley said he’d personally check on our progress every step of the way.’
‘Ah that’s right- Tag Waverley, my FFX partner, now it’s all coming back to me. Well why didn’t you say before?’ Norman stood scratching the back of his heel with the other foot, oblivious to my incredulity.
‘I see you’ve got your kit ready to go?’ he gestured at Blue Box. ‘Now that we’ve got all that silly confusion cleared up I’ll just pop and get my kit and we can…’
‘Get out.’
‘But I thought…’
‘Get out… before I take this glass of barley water and…’ nice start champ ‘…boil it and…’ ok, we can work with this ‘…make it so you can’t ever do a love ritual again.’ With that, a shrieking Norman was guard dogged out of number 76 and across our dear Boyzone shaped paving slabs. Norman stopped on Ronan’s face and turned back, but I’d already locked, bolted and hermetically sealed the front door.


***[Next page is a letter with table in the actual version]**

Tag Waverley
Life School
_________________________________________________________

Exercise One

I hope you’re settling in nicely with your partner. All life help needs its base point, so let’s lay some foundations for the house of happiness we’re going to be forging brick by brick. We’ve got the hole to pop the foundations in, that’s your life problem. We shared this before. Jot this down for me one more time. Good job. Now take some time to list the things that you like and you dislike in your life at the moment. Resist the temptation to think to too much about this, just let your thoughts flow onto the paper.

Life Problem: Onerous company such as patronising forms to fill in.

Likes:
Pecan nuts
The noise that breaking bones make
Pam Due
Wafers and Waffles and any other foodstuff beginning in “Wa” that have a cross-hatched pattern
Personal privacy, including that of my own pyjamas
Jokes about babies
Any form of hair with a talent
The first fourteen years of 21st century clothing
Ham
Water bottles without their lids
Contradicting myself

Dislikes:
Stupid people with stupid fashion
Money
Not having money
Stile & Robs, the most ignorant, money driven asses that ever made ridiculous products
The pretence that a God exists
The pretence that believing that God’s existence is a pretence is less pretentious than maintaining the pretence that love exists
People seeming comfortable, it makes me uncomfortable
Televised pet pop shows, they’re exploitative and wrong and don’t cater for the after effects of fame
Exercise One
Tag Waverley
Contradicting myself


Well done, that’s a great job. See you soon for exercise two.



Keep making the love work.

Tag Waverley
_____________________________________________________________