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Post by [torn.in.two] on Apr 12, 2006 11:24:29 GMT -5
I've started writing The Babycham Diaries, and they're a take on personal experiences, but not a true story. There's a lot more to come, but please just be honest 
thank you Loz x
November 16th
Hi.
Is that enough to write? Probably not. Me psychiatrist put me up to this. You know, writing a diary. I’ve never done it before, so I’m not sure what to write. She told me to write something interesting. I don’t know anything interesting. Oh, I suppose I do. I know that you could put most of Western Europe in the Amazon Rainforest. That’s pretty interesting I think. She told me to write about me too. But I don’t see the point in that really, seeing as I’m the only person who reads this. What can I tell me about me? I am me, so why write about me? Ok, it’s just confusing. Well, who am I? Megan Laurence. Or Babycham. That’s what me mates call me. Don’t know why. Something to do with new years eve a couple of years back I think. How old am I? 16. Wow. Old. Last year of school, GCSE’s, mock exams. You name it I’ve probably had it. What do I look like? Hang on, let me check on this one, I haven’t looked in the mirror today. Be right back…
Ok, I’m about 5’7, brownish hair, hazel eyes, not thin but not overly round. I’m wearing a red FCUK t-shirt, no doubt one of Maggie’s. Me jeans are hanging on my hips, and there’s rips in the knees. Me feet are pink and fluffy. Well me slippers are anyway. What a state. Me hair looks like I’ve been dragged through a rose-bush. Hah. I feel like it too. I live in Newcastle. Wicked place. Not. Nothing here.
I don’t like this. Writing. It’s weird. How is writing going to “untangle my mind” as me dear psychiatrist put it. Well. I’m not writing anymore. It sucks. It gets boring too. Grrr. Why waste me time on this? Whatever.
Ciao.
November 16th, an hour later.
Ok, so I’m back again, doesn’t mean I enjoy it. It’s just there’s nothing else to do around here. I’ve got no homework, seeing as I’ve just done mocks, and the PC is packed up, so no MSN. This is really odd. Writing what I’m thinking. I guess it seems strange seeing me thoughts in action, well, words. I’m just ranting aren’t I? Yes. I’m going, there’s only so much you can write in one day…
X
November 17th.
Hey. I might as well make this daily. Got nothing better to do. And I suppose you get used to it, writing your feelings down and all.
Today, wow, what an exciting day. Wake up, go to school, come home, sleep. Oh, and visit me psychiatrist. She asked me about the diary. “Have you started writing one yet dear?” a) Don’t call me dear, you’re not me Gran. B) ok, so you put me up to doing a diary, doesn’t mean I’m telling you about it. Or mam. God no. This is for me. To help “untangle my mind.” Like there’s anything to untangle. See, this is what bugs me. I’m 16, I’ve got friends, hell, I even have a boyfriend! But mam still thinks I need to see a shrink. Huh? I’m lost here. I’m a normal girl, I got to school, I eat when I should, I’ve never been arrested, and I’ve never done drugs. So why see a shrink? Mam tried to explain it to me once. But she lost me after 5minutes. Mam and dad split when I was 13, and mam, scared I was “emotionally scarred” decided to enroll me in psychotherapy. Woot! Great idea…I think not. So yeah, here I am three years on, 6 therapists on. They can never handle me. I don’t talk to them or do anything about it. So they presume I’m a shy retiring girl who can’t expose her feelings. I’m not. Ok, maybe I am a little bit, but please, after three years and six therapists, surely I’m better? It can’t be good for me, constantly speaking to a woman who has three warts on her nose and is losing her hair. Baldylocks and The Three Hairs. Haha. Sounds funny. But it’s not original. Everyone says that, even me grandpa, and he’s 89 and in a wheel chair. He even has to have someone pick his nose for him! He can’t string a sentence together, but when a bald guy goes past he always mutters baldylocks. Says something.
Weekend tomorrow. Don’t know what I’m doing, probably sitting at home and doing mam’s ironing while she works out whether to paint the lounge terracotta or maroon. She is so spaced out. She might as well proclaim to the world “I come in peace.” Hehe. I don’t like me mam, it’s her fault dad left her. Can’t blame him. Dotty as a fruitcake. And completely off her tree. Paranoid. Everything under the sun that ISNT normal. Ok, not everything. She doesn’t have cancer or a terminal illness, but still…
X
November 18th.
Weekend. Got a letter through from the council this morning. All formal writing and envelope stuff. Mam blanched. It was from the eviction board. We’re being kicked out. Mam went freaky, with a capital F. Didn’t cross her mind we had two weeks to find somewhere to live, just focussed on the fact she’d just bought 3 tins of paint for the living room.
“ Thirty quid they cost me Meg. THIRTY QUID. And they kick us out.” She was brandishing the letter at me. I grabbed it and read it. Mam hadn’t read it. Well, not properly. It turned out the whole lot of us (the residents) at Abbey Lawns were being chucked out. See our flats are old, and the council have decided that they’re an eyesore. So their knocking them down to build some posh snobby town houses. You can imagine the type of people moving in can’t you.
“Oh mummy darling, do tell me what is for dinner, I would love to have that scrummy Eccles cake pudding again.”
“Just wait Jeffrey, dinner will be ready soon, it’s a surprise.”
“Ok, I’ll go and play with my oak-wood toy railway set.”
Posh snobs. We’re happy as we are. Anyway, Newcastle isn’t ready for them. It’s not like that here.
So I tried to tell mam this, but she wasn’t having any of it. So I looked at her going batty and thought “Why do I stay with this?” then I realised I haven’t got enough money to get out. Or anywhere to go. Neither has she at the moment. Oh god. Seems like I’m the mam around here. Maggie does nothing. Oh well. Better flick through the Herald see if there’s anything we can get into quick. Anythings got to be better than this tip, with our terracotta/maroon dotty living room. Mam and her tester pots. Our living room could be a memory of her. “A Dotty Room In Honour Of Me Dotty Mam.” Make a nice plaque for the door. A4 paper and a biro. Nothing fancy for her. When’s she ever given us anything fancy? Me and Maggie do everything for her while she flounces around like nothing matters. Well Maggie does little bits, but mam does zero. Scatty Batty people at school call her. I mean who turns up to parents evening wearing purple knee highs? Me Mam.
See ya’s later, I’m off to find us a house.
Babycham x
November 19th
Oh my god. Me and Maggie went to look at a flat earlier, we opened the door and a flipping rat crawled across the floor. We just turned and walked out. So much for the nice family flat advertised. Looked like it needed the bulldozers more than Abbey Lawns. So I started flicking through the Herald again, and see our advert. God, how could I have been so stupid? There’s a small print. In tiny letters, ie, too small for a mouse to read, it says something like “needs minor refurbishment” MINOR?!? THIS PLACE NEEDS A FLIPPING BULLDOZER. And I thought that the Lawns were bad. My god what is the council thinking of? At least our place has decent sanitation. Anyways, so we didn’t linger here, even with the optimism of refurbishment it didn’t look good. Me and Mag’s went for a coffee, we had another two hours to go ‘til our next house. And it was a house, no more flats, eh? We drank our coffees, then walked ten minutes down the road. This place looked promising all right. Quite old mind, but yeah, looked good. Mag’s knocked on the door (this was inhabited by human life) and a voice shouted through the letterbox. “Give us a minute.” Was a ladies voice. Maggie looked at me and I was like, don’t give me that look, you chose it. This old woman opened the door, and, oh my god, I could’ve fainted. Me psychiatrist was standing there, in all her Sunday best, like. Beaming at me she goes “Oh Megan dear, I had no idea it was you! Come in, come in, I’ll put the kettle on.” Mag’s looked at me weirdly, shrugged, then headed into the house. It was nice, in an old-ladies style way, you know? But the fact still remained it was hers. So, three hours later, and four cups of thin tea, we headed home, knowing the exact floor plan of the living room, and nothing else. House number two? No thanks. I couldn’t bear the thought of knowing she had used that tap, or squished her spots in that mirror. Eurgh. So that was us done for the day, me feet were killing me and I just wanted a proper cup of tea. Got home and mam wasn’t best pleased when we told her the news. “Can’t trust you girls to do anything can I?”
“Mam, we tried our best.” But the daft cow wouldn’t listen to either of us, so I just gave up and put the kettle on, singing to drown out her pathetic whining. You think you can do better you old bat? Go ahead and do it then! Whoops, sorry, forgot I’m your slave. Jesus I swear one day I’ll crack up in the house. So I didn’t get me cup of tea, the teabags were all stale and manky like, and didn’t do anything. I changed me top and went down the park, hung around with me mates for a bit, had some drink, came home. Mam didn’t even notice I’d gone. Got the lecture from Mag’s when I came home. I wasn’t drunk but god you’d thought I’d been out getting trashed for fourty eight hours the way she was ranting on. Screaming. Pointing. Jabbing me. Thought she was going to hit me. Then I realised the reason she was so flipped out was that I was wearing her best boots and had fractured the heel. I ripped them off and flung them at her. “Sorry I aint perfect. You sound more like the old hag every day! Think you’re perfect? You ain’t! Just leave me alone.” Then I stormed into me room and here I am. Gah. This game is getting out of control, no-one knows any rules, and it all ends up going wrong, then it’s the restart.
Anyways, I’m off, im shattered and me pens about to run out. Ciao. B x
November 20th
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife today, I ain’t kidding you. Mags won’t talk to anyone, and mam’s talking to everyone. She just won’t shut up. Driving me insane.
thank you Loz xNovember 16th
Hi.
Is that enough to write? Probably not. Me psychiatrist put me up to this. You know, writing a diary. I’ve never done it before, so I’m not sure what to write. She told me to write something interesting. I don’t know anything interesting. Oh, I suppose I do. I know that you could put most of Western Europe in the Amazon Rainforest. That’s pretty interesting I think. She told me to write about me too. But I don’t see the point in that really, seeing as I’m the only person who reads this. What can I tell me about me? I am me, so why write about me? Ok, it’s just confusing. Well, who am I? Megan Laurence. Or Babycham. That’s what me mates call me. Don’t know why. Something to do with new years eve a couple of years back I think. How old am I? 16. Wow. Old. Last year of school, GCSE’s, mock exams. You name it I’ve probably had it. What do I look like? Hang on, let me check on this one, I haven’t looked in the mirror today. Be right back…
Ok, I’m about 5’7, brownish hair, hazel eyes, not thin but not overly round. I’m wearing a red FCUK t-shirt, no doubt one of Maggie’s. Me jeans are hanging on my hips, and there’s rips in the knees. Me feet are pink and fluffy. Well me slippers are anyway. What a state. Me hair looks like I’ve been dragged through a rose-bush. Hah. I feel like it too. I live in Newcastle. Wicked place. Not. Nothing here.
I don’t like this. Writing. It’s weird. How is writing going to “untangle my mind” as me dear psychiatrist put it. Well. I’m not writing anymore. It sucks. It gets boring too. Grrr. Why waste me time on this? Whatever.
Ciao.
November 16th, an hour later.
Ok, so I’m back again, doesn’t mean I enjoy it. It’s just there’s nothing else to do around here. I’ve got no homework, seeing as I’ve just done mocks, and the PC is packed up, so no MSN. This is really odd. Writing what I’m thinking. I guess it seems strange seeing me thoughts in action, well, words. I’m just ranting aren’t I? Yes. I’m going, there’s only so much you can write in one day…
X
November 17th.
Hey. I might as well make this daily. Got nothing better to do. And I suppose you get used to it, writing your feelings down and all.
Today, wow, what an exciting day. Wake up, go to school, come home, sleep. Oh, and visit me psychiatrist. She asked me about the diary. “Have you started writing one yet dear?” a) Don’t call me dear, you’re not me Gran. B) ok, so you put me up to doing a diary, doesn’t mean I’m telling you about it. Or mam. God no. This is for me. To help “untangle my mind.” Like there’s anything to untangle. See, this is what bugs me. I’m 16, I’ve got friends, hell, I even have a boyfriend! But mam still thinks I need to see a shrink. Huh? I’m lost here. I’m a normal girl, I got to school, I eat when I should, I’ve never been arrested, and I’ve never done drugs. So why see a shrink? Mam tried to explain it to me once. But she lost me after 5minutes. Mam and dad split when I was 13, and mam, scared I was “emotionally scarred” decided to enroll me in psychotherapy. Woot! Great idea…I think not. So yeah, here I am three years on, 6 therapists on. They can never handle me. I don’t talk to them or do anything about it. So they presume I’m a shy retiring girl who can’t expose her feelings. I’m not. Ok, maybe I am a little bit, but please, after three years and six therapists, surely I’m better? It can’t be good for me, constantly speaking to a woman who has three warts on her nose and is losing her hair. Baldylocks and The Three Hairs. Haha. Sounds funny. But it’s not original. Everyone says that, even me grandpa, and he’s 89 and in a wheel chair. He even has to have someone pick his nose for him! He can’t string a sentence together, but when a bald guy goes past he always mutters baldylocks. Says something.
Weekend tomorrow. Don’t know what I’m doing, probably sitting at home and doing mam’s ironing while she works out whether to paint the lounge terracotta or maroon. She is so spaced out. She might as well proclaim to the world “I come in peace.” Hehe. I don’t like me mam, it’s her fault dad left her. Can’t blame him. Dotty as a fruitcake. And completely off her tree. Paranoid. Everything under the sun that ISNT normal. Ok, not everything. She doesn’t have cancer or a terminal illness, but still…
X
November 18th.
Weekend. Got a letter through from the council this morning. All formal writing and envelope stuff. Mam blanched. It was from the eviction board. We’re being kicked out. Mam went freaky, with a capital F. Didn’t cross her mind we had two weeks to find somewhere to live, just focussed on the fact she’d just bought 3 tins of paint for the living room.
“ Thirty quid they cost me Meg. THIRTY QUID. And they kick us out.” She was brandishing the letter at me. I grabbed it and read it. Mam hadn’t read it. Well, not properly. It turned out the whole lot of us (the residents) at Abbey Lawns were being chucked out. See our flats are old, and the council have decided that they’re an eyesore. So their knocking them down to build some posh snobby town houses. You can imagine the type of people moving in can’t you.
“Oh mummy darling, do tell me what is for dinner, I would love to have that scrummy Eccles cake pudding again.”
“Just wait Jeffrey, dinner will be ready soon, it’s a surprise.”
“Ok, I’ll go and play with my oak-wood toy railway set.”
Posh snobs. We’re happy as we are. Anyway, Newcastle isn’t ready for them. It’s not like that here.
So I tried to tell mam this, but she wasn’t having any of it. So I looked at her going batty and thought “Why do I stay with this?” then I realised I haven’t got enough money to get out. Or anywhere to go. Neither has she at the moment. Oh god. Seems like I’m the mam around here. Maggie does nothing. Oh well. Better flick through the Herald see if there’s anything we can get into quick. Anythings got to be better than this tip, with our terracotta/maroon dotty living room. Mam and her tester pots. Our living room could be a memory of her. “A Dotty Room In Honour Of Me Dotty Mam.” Make a nice plaque for the door. A4 paper and a biro. Nothing fancy for her. When’s she ever given us anything fancy? Me and Maggie do everything for her while she flounces around like nothing matters. Well Maggie does little bits, but mam does zero. Scatty Batty people at school call her. I mean who turns up to parents evening wearing purple knee highs? Me Mam.
See ya’s later, I’m off to find us a house.
Babycham x
November 19th
Oh my god. Me and Maggie went to look at a flat earlier, we opened the door and a flipping rat crawled across the floor. We just turned and walked out. So much for the nice family flat advertised. Looked like it needed the bulldozers more than Abbey Lawns. So I started flicking through the Herald again, and see our advert. God, how could I have been so stupid? There’s a small print. In tiny letters, ie, too small for a mouse to read, it says something like “needs minor refurbishment” MINOR?!? THIS PLACE NEEDS A FLIPPING BULLDOZER. And I thought that the Lawns were bad. My god what is the council thinking of? At least our place has decent sanitation. Anyways, so we didn’t linger here, even with the optimism of refurbishment it didn’t look good. Me and Mag’s went for a coffee, we had another two hours to go ‘til our next house. And it was a house, no more flats, eh? We drank our coffees, then walked ten minutes down the road. This place looked promising all right. Quite old mind, but yeah, looked good. Mag’s knocked on the door (this was inhabited by human life) and a voice shouted through the letterbox. “Give us a minute.” Was a ladies voice. Maggie looked at me and I was like, don’t give me that look, you chose it. This old woman opened the door, and, oh my god, I could’ve fainted. Me psychiatrist was standing there, in all her Sunday best, like. Beaming at me she goes “Oh Megan dear, I had no idea it was you! Come in, come in, I’ll put the kettle on.” Mag’s looked at me weirdly, shrugged, then headed into the house. It was nice, in an old-ladies style way, you know? But the fact still remained it was hers. So, three hours later, and four cups of thin tea, we headed home, knowing the exact floor plan of the living room, and nothing else. House number two? No thanks. I couldn’t bear the thought of knowing she had used that tap, or squished her spots in that mirror. Eurgh. So that was us done for the day, me feet were killing me and I just wanted a proper cup of tea. Got home and mam wasn’t best pleased when we told her the news. “Can’t trust you girls to do anything can I?”
“Mam, we tried our best.” But the daft cow wouldn’t listen to either of us, so I just gave up and put the kettle on, singing to drown out her pathetic whining. You think you can do better you old bat? Go ahead and do it then! Whoops, sorry, forgot I’m your slave. Jesus I swear one day I’ll crack up in the house. So I didn’t get me cup of tea, the teabags were all stale and manky like, and didn’t do anything. I changed me top and went down the park, hung around with me mates for a bit, had some drink, came home. Mam didn’t even notice I’d gone. Got the lecture from Mag’s when I came home. I wasn’t drunk but god you’d thought I’d been out getting trashed for fourty eight hours the way she was ranting on. Screaming. Pointing. Jabbing me. Thought she was going to hit me. Then I realised the reason she was so flipped out was that I was wearing her best boots and had fractured the heel. I ripped them off and flung them at her. “Sorry I aint perfect. You sound more like the old hag every day! Think you’re perfect? You ain’t! Just leave me alone.” Then I stormed into me room and here I am. Gah. This game is getting out of control, no-one knows any rules, and it all ends up going wrong, then it’s the restart.
Anyways, I’m off, im shattered and me pens about to run out. Ciao. B x
November 20th
You could cut the atmosphere with a knife today, I ain’t kidding you. Mags won’t talk to anyone, and mam’s talking to everyone. She just won’t shut up. Driving me insane.
