Sunday, 8 June 2008

4. Funch is powerful

Funch was happy.
It was a very rare occasion when she found herself feeling tall.
This was such an occasion, and she was going to make the most of it.

She was fed up of being sidelined.
She was fed up of being pushed around.
She was fed up of feeling like some sort of sex object, to be looked at, but not worth taking the time to be understood.

She wanted to show the world what a star she could be.
She wanted to show the world she could dance!

And now she could.
She was tall.
She was capable.
She was virile.

That last one took her a bit by surprise.
She was well aware of the definition of "virility", but it felt right.
Why should men get all the powerful words?
"Let's take them back!" she thought.
This was her time, not anyone else's.
She was going to march upstairs, pick up her dancing shoes and go show Georgie Gutter-Guts that she was not "an ugly little troll" and was in fact the "dainty little princess" her dad had always told her she was.

Blowtwiddle was crouched down, fiddling with some screws he'd dropped on the floor.
Next to him lay the packaging from the brass doorknob.

Funch stood there, looking into the space above his back. She could see over him, she could see the new doorknob in place, she could see through the crack in the door, all the way up the stairs toward her bedroom.
"I feel powerful!" she said.
"What?" grunted Blowtwiddle.
But Funch would not be disuaded by his apathy.
Blowtwiddle was not the boss of her. He may cook her food, but he was not her boss.

Her mum had always said;
"Bosses don't cook you your food, darling. Only mum's do that."
So Blowtwiddle was her mum. Nothing wrong with that. But Funch was one MoFo not to mess with. She was going to walk out that door, and head up the stairs.
And that's exactly what she did.

The climb was hard, but Funch managed it, step-by-step.

A few times she felt she'd not succeed.
She fell to the floor, ending up with a mouth full of carpet.

Always, in the back of her mind, she could see Georgie's face Stendhal-ed by her performance.
That's how good she was going to be. That was her goal.

One moment Georgie would be there, the snide cow she was, and the next she was going to witness the most beautiful ginger balletic performance there had ever been. And just for a second, her heart would stop. And if we were lucky, it would never start again.

She put on her shoes. Tied them ever so tightly and collapsed onto her pink elephant bed, exhausted. She would not be doing any dancing today.