The Notes of a Millennial Blogger: #2 The Italian Ruiner

I wake up to the sound of my Auntie Amandine thoroughly sanitising her nether regions. She's in the shower. I can tell she has the shower head set to 'high pressure' because I've already heard her blue ornamental trout get jetted off its fixing and smash in the roll-top bath. That trout was designed by some Turner Prize winning artist from Milan. She'll be gutted. She cherished that trout. 

I hold my breath as her hand gropes for the bathroom doorknob like a prisoner in Alcatraz. (Aunt Amandine has dyspraxia).

"Bo? Will you get your poor, dear Auntie a towel please? This one has your cat's hair on it and I'm allergic."

I slink off, letting the PC's CD-ROM drive rev up to 24x like a Boeing spooling up on the runway. 

"Where do you keep them?"

"That's part of the task, Bo. Find where I keep them."

"You're naked aren't you?"

"No I'm NOT naked. I have the bath mat round me."

I fish in cupboards 'til a bundle of off-white M&S cotton avalanches down on to my face. I grab one and extend my hand around the bathroom door, my eyes gummed shut. 

"Thanks, darling. Oh, you know Maurice is coming later, don't you?"

Maurice is my Auntie Amandine's new so-called 'boyfriend'. They met on Guardian soulmates. He's Italian and has a peculiar obsession for olives. Also, he named his son from his previous marriage after a porn-star from the eighties. 

"You named your son after a porn star?" I'd asked on my previous visit. 

"Si!" he'd replied. 

"Why?"

"Ahh, you Eeenglish, Bo! You iz so full ova-dee seriouznezz."

Maurice smokes roll-up cigarettes which he lines with tiny worm-like slivers of tobacco. I think Maurice has been in prison. 

I skulk back to my bedroom. I left the computer on all night. It is now fragrant with hot static. I wonder if -.¸¸,.-~*'FreyaButtercup¯¨'*·~- is online. -.¸¸,. ~*'FreyaButtercup¯¨'*·~- is my cyber friend-cum-(girl)friend. She has a cute fringe and wears skinny jeans. Well she might. I don't know. I've never met her. The closest I've got to seeing her was in a photo of Bath she uploaded onto MSN Messanger. I could see her shadow reflected in the mirror of Next once I'd used Coral Draw to adjust the Hue. I bet she knew. Bath looks ludicrously beautiful. The sort of place where you could imagine someone called -.¸¸,.-~*'FreyaButtercup¯¨'*·~ coming from. Oh, Freya. 

The MSN men spin their little waltz. Connected. SHE'S ONLINE! Oh, Freya! My fingers shake over the keyboard. I type, 'hiiiiii', and then delete it. Now she's seen I've typed. Bugger. Freya, mine love! If Aunt Amandine moves to Bristol, you'd be so close. A mere Box Tunnel, and Severn Gorge away. Oh, Freya. Why must it be like this? Why? 
"Bo, that's the door!" (Aunt Amandine gets me to do her bidding for her.) She's like a slave driver but her whip hand is her Slavic tongue. "Quick! Quick!" I bolt down the stairs, jumping the last two, rucking up the red threadbare Victorian stair runner. 

"Hiyaa Bo!" (It was Maurice).

"Hey, Maurice."

"Oooh yoo seem-a-dee-anxious, Bo. Tella Pappa Maurice, the problem, eh?"

I'd rather have a cactus shoved up my jacksie than confide in Maurice. Maurice is one of those people who always feign concern in your welfare. Really, he just wants shot of me. I cough as a silver wisp of his fag smoke invade my lungs. 

"Uh, you iz ill, Bo?"

"No, I'm fine. Um, I have to go."

I run back upstairs, and swing round my bedpost to the computer. She's GONE. Her little green man has gone grey. GREY. They deathly grey of an offline person. I refresh the webpage to try and revive some verdant green back into Freya's gorgeous MSN icon-man. No avail. Alas, he remains grey. And she knew I was typing. 

Well sod you, Maurice. You utter arse-bandit. Damn you and your booty call to my aunt. Your lust for her size 16 drawers. I have lost the opportunity to win the love of my life over with the bright spark of my wit. F**k you, Maurice.