The Year I Went Pear-Shaped by Tamara Pitelen Read Free Book Online Page B

corner-turning, transformational event! It is a watershed moment in the existence of Darla Manners! All my life has been a build up to this cataclysmic meeting. I am going to meet Gordon bloody Worsley! The man who can cause clitoral meltdown in a female corpse at 100 paces. How can you tell me to calm down!"
    Anita gazed at me disdainfully from over the top of The Australian newspaper. She was sitting at our kitchen table, her slippered feet resting on the chair opposite, crossed at the ankle.
    "Honey, I more than anyone have witnessed the murky depths that is your obsession with this second rate, soap actor. I just don't understand it. I can’t reconcile the intelligent, cynical, razor-tongued woman I know you to be with the fawning, pathetic starfucker you turn into over this man. He's just some guy you went to high school with about a century ago. Why are you so hung up on him?"
    How could I explain an irrational, illogical obsession to her in a rational, logical way?
    "I can’t really explain it to be honest, he just totally, utterly does it for me, Neets. Starfucker? I should be so lucky! Godalmighty what I wouldn’t give to get horizontal underneath him. And stop being so sanctimonious you cow, surely you've been crazy about some guy that you didn't really know, didn't you kiss any rock star posters in your teens? Or sell your Barbie doll collection to buy a CD by some hairy macho posturer who is now a zillionnaire thanks to the pocket money of an army of pubescent girls?"
    "Ok, ok, yes, it's true that at one point I would have laid down my young life for Jon Bon Jovi  but I was 12, Darla, not 34! But don't worry, I'll shut up about it and give you my total support in this insane mission. I'll even listen to your rantings and help you go through your entire wardrobe while you decide what to wear to this oh so important, mochachino appointment. But let me say just one more time that I think you're fucking nuts. But what I really don't get is why you've waited so long to meet him; surely you could’ve swung this a long time ago? God, you went to school with the guy, you could’ve figured out a way to get in touch."
    "Yeah, I know but I wasn't ready before now. I've been subconsciously building up to it and preparing myself for it at the most basic, cellular level. That kind of molecular overhaul takes time."
    "Yeah, but why bother? He's just some guy and what if you meet him and he turns out to be a real arsehole? An up-himself, arrogant, boring jerk? Would you be released from this evil spell?"
    "Well, I can"t imagine that he"ll be anything but charming, witty and personable but if that doesn't turn out to be the case, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, Neets. Anyway, shut up with your predictions of doom "cause you said you were going to be supportive so stop criticising, put that bloody newspaper down and come and help me pick out some clothes."
    Shaking her head and smiling at me, she lay the paper on the table and followed me upstairs to my bedroom where clothes and shoes were strewn all over the floor.
    "Christ, what a mess, it looks like your wardrobe has vomited all over your floor!" Anita exclaimed, clearing some space at the head of my double bed, sitting on one of my pillows and resting her back against the wall underneath the only real art I owned, which were three small hand-coloured etchings of flowers that looked like vaginas. Or maybe it was the other way round; vaginas that looked like flowers. I'd seen them at an exhibition opening held by my old friend Kate, an art gallery curator. The artist was this highly-strung, nervous woman called Irene Cooper who Kate assured me was brilliant and would "go places". I picked up the three prints for $900 each. "A steal" according to Kate, apparently I would thank her when I sold them for ten times that much. But I didn't really care whether they appreciated in value or not, I bought them because I thought they were fantastic.
    "Yeah, I've tried on just