Notso Hotso - Anne Fine [1]
And then you think, now you’ve started anyway, you might as well scratch sideways on to this bit here…
And before you know where you are, every single bit of you is aflame.
I’m not exaggerating. I mean, AFLAME.
And no one sympathizes. They just think you’re being annoying.
‘Anthony, if you don’t stop that dreadful scratching, I’ll put you outside again, even though it’s raining.’
‘Anthony! Stop that! Now!’
Talk about a dog’s life. If it hadn’t been for Moira next door, I might have scratched myself to pieces.
‘What’s wrong with your dog?’
As if that Joshua would take his eyes off his game for a moment to glance at his own pet. ‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is, Joshua. He’s dropping weird flakes all over your carpet.’
I’m not even going to tell you about the next bit. It’s just too horrible. Suffice it to say that it involved an argument about whether or not that stuff all over the rug was actually bits of dead dog skin. And then we had to wait while Moira went home to borrow her granny’s magnifier reading glass. And then I had to put up with the two of them endlessly prodding and patting me.
‘Ugh! Yuk! That is some sick stuff floating off his back!’
‘Gruesome! You ought to tell your mum.’
‘Mum? She’d throw up if she saw this!’
Nice, eh? I expect he’s forgotten some of his own rather disgusting habits. And as for Moira, well, I’ve seen her often enough, sitting with her back to the house, doing things to her nose she wouldn’t do in front of anyone except me, and possibly Belinda, her pet hamster.
At least the two of them did something useful when my Humiliation Hour was up. They told Her Ladyship.
‘Mu-um! There’s something wrong with Anthony.’
‘Yes, Mrs Tanner. Come and look at this. It’s horible!’
So Mrs Neglectful finally ambles to the doorway, carelessly dropping cheese from the grater she’s holding. (One small bright spot in the day for me.)
‘What sort of wrong?’
‘His skin’s all coming off.’
‘Coming off?’
‘Yes. In horrible, yukky, revolting little flakes.’
(Well, thank you, Joshua. And don’t
expect any company or sympathy next time you get chicken-pox.)
‘Yes, Mrs Tanner!’ chimes in Moira. ‘He’s all poxy red underneath. And bits of him have gone gooey.’
(Fine, Moira. Just don’t sit waiting for me to waste any more of my time fetching sticks to amuse you, next time you’re stuck at home with the measles.)
The Kitchen Queen strolls over. I’m hoping she at least has the sense to put the grater down before she touches me. And wash her hands thoroughly after. After all, as I said, I wouldn’t call myself fussy. But I do like the leftovers that get scraped into my bowl to be reasonably wholesome.
Touching me, nothing! Mrs What?-In-My-House? draws back. ‘Ugh! That is horrible. That is repellent.’
Well, thank you very much. Is there anyone out there, reading this, who’s been wanting a crowd of insensitive people?
Because I’ve got a load here.
A whole set.
2: Getting Worse and Worse
PERSONALLY, I’D HAVE thought it was an emergency. But not her. Not Lady Laid-Back.
‘Is it an emergency?’ the vet’s assistant asks, down the phone.
‘No,’ she says. (Just that: ‘No.’)
And she settles for an afternoon appointment on Thursday.
However, get this. Later that day, when Mr Whoops-Sorry-Forgot-to-Pick-Up-the-Dogfood-Again strolls in from work, she orders him straight back out to buy a pack of hoover bags. ‘No, you can’t leave it till later,’
she tells him when he starts grumbling. ‘Not with flakes of dog skin all over. This is an emergency.’
Not the most sensitive bunch. And don’t think I’m making it up when I tell you I haven’t been shooed out of the house quite so forcefully or so often since that toddler with the allergies was visiting last Easter.
I made the most of it – even turned
into a bit of a sun demon on the quiet, after I’d walked past Lady Vain’s fortress of beauty mags on the landing and seen an article that claimed that – sensibly handled – ultraviolet light can work wonders with what they tactfully call ‘iffy’ skin.
Though that great snoring slug-coloured heap