I don’t suppose I shall have a daughter of my own now. I’m not fussed over it. It was on the to-do list, but you know to-do lists. They get longer and longer until you might as well just carve the last items on your tombstone.
Do the dishes.
Pick up gown from the cleaners.
Sign contract.
Perish.
Oh bollocks, I forgot: Have children.
Cue that sad trombone. Besides, I’m rather off marriage at the moment. First Percy, then poor Nigel Lapine—what a disaster! Remind me, my darling, loyal diary, to never again marry a man who makes love with his socks on. I don’t care how his slapstick flickies make me laugh! Diary, you must stand firm! Nigel told me I ought to quit the pictures and make babies, so I told him he ought to quit my house and make a movie with more depth than getting kicked in the balls, and I’m not the teensiest bit sorry. Comedians have no sense of humour.
Thaddeus asked me to marry him, of course. The same day that he told me Miranda had been greenlit. He does it every time he offers me a new Madame Mortimer picture, comes sailing into my parlour with a part in one hand and a ring in the other. I always take the part, but leave the ring. Saints and ministers of grace! It would seem only directors can love a girl like me. I told the scoundrel not to be absurd. He doesn’t mean it. He’s never so much as kissed me, and he never will. Thad is the Moon’s uncle, every starlet’s confessor—but never their lover. Perhaps I shall just say yes one day. That would shock the red out of his hair! But then I might have to go through with it, and I’
d rather have a half-barrel of spinach than a husband at the moment.
For that matter, I’m rather off men these days, full stop. I suppose that would make me perfect for Thaddeus. Perhaps that’s why he’s forever asking me. He knows I won’t spill his plate of beans and he won’t spill mine. We are each quite safe in the company of the other. After all, everyone needs a secret to stick in their lapel.
Perhaps I shall invite Sevvy on our little cruise. It would do her good, poor lamb. Being a teenager is always trying, for them and for everyone else, but she cannot seem to get into the rhythm of the thing. I’ve tried to tell her she doesn’t have to go into the industry. There’s every other thing out there, and a lot of it doesn’t require our sort of genteel schizophrenia. She’s just burning up with ambition, but the poor bunny’s got nowhere to put it. I don’t think the Patented Pellam System for Prevailing Over the Perils of Pubescence would be of much help.
Stop speaking to your parents
Run away from your planet
Take off your clothes as often as possible, but only while reciting Shakespeare (and being paid scale)
Buy a cat
Drink your milk
Mug your destiny in an alley and punch it until it gives you what you want
See? What use is that rot to my girl? I don’t think I will invite her. It’s hard enough to grow up without having to watch adults act like fools and monsters all the time. And it’s hard enough being a fool and a monster without a knock-kneed kid spitting responsibility into your drink.
Aha! Speak of the devil and she arrives, desperate for a proper hug.
16 January, 1930, Two in the Morning…Or Is It Three?
The Butterfly Room, Aboard the Achelois, Sea of Tranquillity
Come on, Mary, sober up! If you don’t write it down, you won’t remember it, and if you don’t remember it, somebody’s going to get away with murder and you’ll never even know who. It’s only a spot of gin, girl. Give yourself a couple of good slaps and steady your damned course.
Thaddeus Irigaray is dead!
God forgive me, I think Percy killed him.
How Many Miles to Babylon?:
Episode 1
Airdate: 24 March, 1914
Announcer: Henry R. Choudhary
Vespertine Hyperia: Violet El-Hashem
Tybault Gayan: Alain Mbengue