183 Times a Year by Eva Jordan Read Free Book Online

read my phone. I will not read my phone. Maybe I should do some Buddhist chanting and make that my mantra or maybe I could add some piano music to it and send it to Beyoncé. It would of course be a world-wide hit and I would become Beyoncé’s best friend and rich and famous overnight.
    Everyone would want to know me then. Dad definitely would, although, I’d tell him he’d have to sleep on the sofa bed in my enormous mansion if he ever visited. And Joe would definitely fancy me then and when he asked me out I’d say, “no thanks, I’m going out with Jay-Z’s brother.” I don’t even know if Jay-Z has a brother but that’s what I’d tell Joe.
    My history revision fights with my phone for my attention. Some of it is quite interesting I suppose. Women’s rights and getting women the vote really like opened my eyes. I didn’t realise how depressed, or is it oppressed (probably both) women were. I mean like, throwing yourself in front of horses or going on hunger strike was like a bit extreme but women had no voice, no rights and they were owned by their husbands. That’s like, well out of order. I’m never going to be owned by anyone. I’m strong and independent like Beyoncé. That reminds me I must ask Mum for a lift tomorrow.
    I suppose that’s why Mum says it’s important to vote. She said this bit of history is just one small part of a much bigger picture. She said that when Nan was my age I am now, she got paid half the wage of a man doing the same job. She also said abortions were illegal and you couldn’t go on the pill unless you were married. I secretly like that Mum knows and tells me all this stuff but sometimes it makes me feel different to a lot of my friends.
    Mum looks like she’s been on hunger strike sometimes. I swear she’s even thinner than normal lately. I think she does it on purpose to make me feel even fatter. Yeah thanks Mum, you can’t just put me down mentally, you have to put me down physically too, by being thinner than me. I mean really, what kind of mother does that to their child?
    I try to concentrate, not really sure if the ball of sticky tac I’m snapping between my fingers is really helping. I don’t actually know where I got it from but I find it strangely comforting to roll, stretch and snap across my notes.
    I stare at the words on the pages before me. Okay, so there’s the 1832 Reform Act, the 1835 Municipal Corporations Act, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies or the NUWSS and the Women’s Social and Political Union or the WSPU.
    â€˜Arrggghh.’ I screw the grubby piece of tac back into a ball and aim it at a blank piece of wall. I give it my best shot. I’m not very good at throwing so instead of making the part of the wall I aimed for it actually hits Ed Sheeran smack in the mouth – the poster that is. I wish Ed Sheeran was here with me, in my bedroom.
    â€˜Arrggghh, DILLIGAS! Work that one out Mr Examiner.’
    Oh shit, what the hell, I’ll read Chelsea’s stupid tweet. Then maybe I can get on with my revision proper.
    Hey ladies, do I wear the blue or the red for my fabulous party? #Dior or Chanel?
    Decisions, decisions!
    Cow.
    My phone pings. It’s a text from Pheebs.
    Hey babe. Think I may have got you an invite to the party. Laters xxxx
    Oh my actual god! Yay! Chelsea is actually really nice. OMG what will I wear?
    LIZZIE
    God I feel tired tonight. Maybe I really am getting old?
    Have another glass of wine
.
What a good idea.
    I’m happily conversing with myself because Andy is prattling on and is actually pissing me off. I didn’t realise how blinkered he is, how narrow his perspective is. He’s actually preaching the virtues of sterilising young teenage mothers.
    â€˜Well while you’re at it lets sterilise the young teenage fathers too then shall we?’ He actually ignores my comment and continues his