“Leave the lights on “ A piece(ideal Novel/Novella) that’s narrated from a female perspective. About young girl called Diane who’s loss her Father. Falls in love with a professor/trainer/dance instructor. It’s about the transition into womanhood, it’s about dealing with sexuality, it’s about dealing with fatherlessness, finding female role models, and how women feel in the workplace and how young girls deal with school and education.
I promise myself this, I will only fall in love with a man that is as tall, strong or as great as my Father. All other men are just props in the scenery. I love my Dad, he’s never ever left my side. He sleeps right by me in a gold frame. He stares smiling with his jacket slung over his left shoulder and his “too big for words black trousers”. Through the glass he smiles at me, whistling songs about the “bogie” and “disco”, things I hadn’t lived through to understand.
“Ahh I’m late again,” I screamed to myself, “this alarm is no bloody help”
I rushed out the royal blue quilts, bare with only my ‘thou-must-abstain’ under-garments my mother bought me. I ran through the corridor to the kitchen unannounced to me, Mum was already up, made breakfast, and was skimming through the paper.
“I‘m late – again,” I announced in frustration as I stole a loaf of my Mother’s sandwich.
“it’s a Saturday, Sweetie” she affirmed calmly.
“What?”, I interrogate as my mother continues to unravel the happenings of the news .
” Saturday the 24 of November 1990″
she points at the top right of the paper — My worries decrease.
“ummm — ooohh no Roald Dahl‘s dead!” my mother whimpered.
“who’s that?” I asked, as I sat at the table; calmed by the realisation I didn’t have school.
“You know Roald Dahl; The BFG, Charlie and chocolate Factory – ring a bell?“
“No!” I lied, as I took my chances at nabbing another piece of my mum’s egg sandwich (she mouths it before my scheme could manifest.)
“You used to love Charlie and Chocolate Factory when you were little.” she affirmed, “You’d beg your Father to read it over and over again, and again and again!” she shouted as she playfully swayed her arms up high, mimicking a hyper child with her eyes ballooned with glee.
“Hmmmm… doesn’t ring a bell” I replied.
(This is my patrimony; the stories my mum tells of my father and I) she still cares I thought to myself. I sat comfortably next to my mother and spoke about Charlie and the chocolate factory as if we were Roald Dahl’s pens.
This time I’m sure it’s a weekday. “Late again” I groused, this whole fatherless thing isn’t ganna work for me, I said quietly. This time Daddy didn’t wake me up. Every night I have this dream I’m with my Father and were reading Roald Dahl, eating jammy dodgers and discussing the important things about life, like why my Ken dolls haven’t got willies and how chocolate chips muffins are actually made in heaven and given to mothers in exchange for little children’s teeth – at the end of the dream my daddy normally wakes me up, but he hadn’t for a while, I couldn’t figure out why, maybe he understood that schools were prisons for smart girls or maybe he wanted to save me from Tina and Millie who were actually witches, disguised as children.
The Next Day