Free Love, Nina by Nina Stibbe

of.
    But the next day, it’s a 100% accident when she throws her car keys in the bin and we’re digging through bits of saucy kitchen roll, fag ends and potato peelings (and teaspoons as it turned out).
    Someone drew something on our wall with a penknife or stick. MK thought it was a heart. I went and looked and saw a penis (scratched into the brick).
    Me: I think it’s meant to be a man’s penis.
    MK: I thought it might be a heart.
    Me: How?
    MK: An upside down one.
    AB: Like mine.
    ( Will goes out to look. )
    Me: People don’t usually draw hearts on walls.
    MK: I might.
    Sam: I’d never draw a heart or…the other thing.
    Will: ( returns ) It’s definitely a dick.
    MK: It looks more like a heart.
    AB: You’d think they’d label it.
    (AB phones later to say he saw it on the way out. It’s a penis.)
    Earlier this week. A boy in UCS uniform flicked the Vs at me while I was waiting to pick Will up from school. I flicked them back.
    Will: What did the boy look like?
    Me: Your height, dark hair.
    Will: Blue rucksack?
    Me: Yes, crossing near the pasta shop.
    Will: I think it was me. Dammit.
    Me: Why dammit?
    Will: He sounded cool.
    Amanda has another drama-school audition looming. This time she’s doing a modern piece about a female serial killer. She rehearsed at the table with our Kitchen Devil. It was the most gruesome thing I’ve ever seen (but a monologue, thank God). Mary-Kay came home and caught the tail end—piling body parts (lemons) into a sack (M&S bag).
    Me: Another audition.
    MK: I see.
    Amanda: ( waving knife about ) I’m a serial killer cutting up a body.
    MK: ( to me ) You could find her the Millers’ saw.
    At Primrose Hill Pippa surpassed herself showing-off-wise. She did a whole gym routine starting with a one-handed cartwheel and ended with a back bend and kick over. It was based on an Olga Korbut routine including the cheeky facial expressions that used to please the judges. No one was interested except in a horrified way. On the plus side, her beret fell off and we all saw the clips.
    Love, Nina
    *  *  *
    Dear Vic,
    Day out in Brighton. Boring overall.
    The best bit was when we went into an antique shop and Misty picked up a pickle fork with a pretty green jewel on the end.
    â€œHow much is this pickle fork?” she asked the antique man.
    The man said it wasn’t a pickle fork but a runcible spoon.
    Misty: What’s a runcible spoon?
    Man: One of them in your hand.
    Misty: But what’s it for?
    Man: Pickles and such.
    It was only one pound fifty, and even though Misty likes spoons and liked the little jewel, she couldn’t buy it, not knowing what a runcible spoon was. Then, on the way out, an old woman in the alleyway offered to tell our fortunes. I declined. Partly because she looked so horrible and partly because I had my palm read last week by Sam. It went something like this:
    Sam: ( studying wrong side of my hand ) I see you’re going to have a baby.
    Me: When?
    Sam: About 1988.
    Me: That’s too soon.
    Sam: 1989, then.
    Me: Too soon.
    Sam: Bloody Nora, 1990, then.
    Me: Still too soon.
    Sam: All right, 1995, but it’s twins.
    Anyway, as we walked away from the antique shop, the old woman shouted after us, “You didn’t want the spoon, then?” I said she must have been looking in through the window, but Misty wanted to be frightened (that’s how boring the day was).
    Anyway, Brighton is quite nice. Arriving at railway station is good. It’s downhill into town and you feel energetic, striding down to the sea front—as opposed to an uphill walk at the start of a place. But then, before you get anywhere charming, you’re surrounded by W H Smith and Boots and people wanting a haircut and you might as well be in Loughborough.
    Beach disappointing and the whole place pleased with itself for no real reason.
    I won’t mention my Brighton thoughts to Nunney. Sussex University is in