Free Withering Tights by Louise Rennison

imagine that.
    I left the house a bit earlier than I needed to, so that I could get to the pub and maybe accidentally on purpose bump into Alex. But Vaisey was already sitting on the wall waiting for me. Just as well, really, I would have probably said something insane and fallen over a leaf if I’d seen him.
    And to be honest, he only said I had a cool name.
    We mooched to Dother Hall and as it loomed intoview I remembered that we had Dr Lightowler for two hours. The roof still had its bit of old blanket flapping about. Mrs Rochester is not a highly-skilled worker. I hope for the girls’ sakes it doesn’t rain anytime soon.
    After registration we crowded into the studio for Bob’s ‘talk’ on music and music technology.
    I couldn’t help noticing that his ponytail, burnt off in the dorm inferno, seems to have grown back. Twice the length.
    I whispered to Flossie, “He’s wearing a false ponytail.”
    Bob gave us the benefit of his many years ‘on the road’ with bands.
    “Listen up, dudes. Yes, I’ve toured with some of the greats. The legends. I’ve done all the big gigs: Wembo, Glasto.”
    Glasto? Wembo?
    Bob looked at us.
    “The Glastonbury.”
    Vaisey said, “Which bands did you do?”
    Bob was twiddling with knobs and put his feet onthe mixing desk. He was wearing leather Cuban-heeled boots. He put on his shades.
    “The lot, the big boys – Floyd, Purple, Zep, Heap.”
    We looked at him. Who were Zep Heap? Or did he mean Purple Zep?
    He let us bang a drum and rattle some maracas. It was exciting when he showed us the sound booths and asked if anyone wanted a go. Vaisey and Jo sang a bit from Grease and Flossie and Honey did “Oo-oo-oooos” in the background.
    “You’re the one that I want…”
    “Oo-oo-oooo.”
    They were good, actually.
    Jo had to stand on a little box to reach the mike and Vaisey was moving her bottom around in time to the music.
    Bob recorded it and then he did ‘multi-tracking’ so it sounded like fourteen people singing. This is more like it.
    I said to the girls, “I feel like part of this great big crazy world of showbiz, now!”
    Bob said as we left, “The Jones are coming into lay down a few tracks. It’s not my sort of stuff, not heavy, just more indie landfill, but they’re local so…you might want to come on down, chill out and get your ears on.”
    Get our ears on?
    I said, “Did he say ‘chill out’? It doesn’t seem right coming from a man with a false ponytail.”
    Anyway, I will not be going to see The Jones for love or money. In fact, if it is at all possible, I will never see any of the Hinchcliffs again.
    Cain in particular.
    We walked along to the small theatre space for the dreaded Dr Lightowler experience.
    Dr Lightowler swished in in her cloak. I wonder if she has a summer cloak and a winter cloak?
    As part of the background for our end of summer school performance of Wuthering Heights , Cloakwoman was telling us about the appalling life of the Brontës.
    She said, “It’s hard for you spoiled modern girls toimagine the evenings in that forsaken place, Haworth Vicarage…Cooped up, imprisoned by the forces of nature, no escape, because of the weather, but also because they were women.”
    Dr Lightowler was going on and on, swishing her cloak about as she talked. I wonder if she goes to bed in it?
    “Now, girls, get up and start moving about in the space. Imagine that you are the Brontës. It’s a dark winter afternoon…” She snapped off all the lights and said, “I’ve got some torches here, girls, some of you come and take one and shine them in an improvised way.”
    She put on a torch in the dark and handed more to Honey and Vaisey and some others I couldn’t see. She held a torch under her chin so it lit her up really weirdly.
    She said in a spooky, guttural voice, “The light is gone by three, and the wind howls around the draughty cold house, making the candles gutter and cast strange shadowy shapes on the wall. Could some of you