This is the story of the summer just gone.
It's the story of Lizzie and Star and me,
Dodo, Pram Gran, Bottom Bob and Boss Woman, Tuba Boy
and the Beautiful Stranger.
(It's also the story of Jono Watkins and my feet.)
Who's telling this story?
Me.
Emma Peek. Known to the chosen few as M.
Life has changed for all of us this summer.
Mona Basil
Basil is very draw-able and paint-able. I often pencil-draw him or charcoal him and I've done him in water-colour and pastel but he won't stay still. Basil? Still Life? I don’t think so.
At first it was Basil from memory, then from photographs. I plan to do him in oils one day and frame him in a big shiny wiggly gilt frame.
I love art. I'm quiet then. I forget everything around except the picture I'm making. Basil is excellent for my observational drawing, as well as an audience for my flute performance practice. Basil is good to draw because he doesn't chatter or say ‘Ugh!' when he sees his portrait. He is happy. Mona Basil. He wags his tail whatever you do to him. I’ve even done him in blue with one big eye. Picasso Basil.
Two seconds later Sarah leaped up and waved the paper under my nose.
Basil looked like a loo brush with a great huge grin.
`Erm...what are those, Sarah?' I asked, pointing at what looked like two big potatoes dangling from Basil's underneath.
'Those are his lumps!'
Of course. Silly me.
But from parental arguments I had overheard, I didn't think Basil would be joined on to those lumps much longer. My Mother said they had to be Seen To by the vet. She said all dogs from the home had to be castrated. She said if the lumps in question stayed intact, there would be too many unwanted baby Basils wandering the streets. I could just see them, with little knapsacks on their backs full of their wordly possessions…. Oh! My Father wailed about mutilation, female conspiracies and a dog's right to choose. I backed Dad on this one.
I wondered, What does Pram Gran’s dog look like out of the pram? What is it called?
I love Basil.
Six o'clock. I slid out of my chair and crept off to the computer.
New messages?
None. My fingers itched to tappity-tap those keys and write, 'Beautiful Craig. Give me the Time and give me the Place, PLEEEEESE!'
But all the wisdom, from friends, magazines, radio shows, television chats, even mothers as a very last resort, is, Be Ice Cool. Cooler than you ever want to be.
I controlled myself. I even got up and walked away from the computer.
So I had to revise instead.