Lisa Clark - Livin’ la Vida Lola

“Oh great. What stupid ideas is she filling your head with now?”

I think mum is mad at Lullah for leaving. Not because she’s gone off to NYC to do a fancy shmancy job with celeb types, but because she’s now left home alone with a daughter she doesn’t even know.

But mum doesn’t hang around to hear about what ‘stupid ideas’ Lullah may be filling my head with, she picks up her bag, throws it over her shoulder and tells me my tea is in the fridge.

Which is good, because I don’t want to argue with the parental.

Right now, she’ll either shout really loud or cry.

I don’t like either version of my parental a whole lot, and ideally would like to trade her in for a carin’, sharin’ version, but apparently, that’s not an option.

Before leaving the room, mum pauses at the door.

“Lola Love, you’re such a dreamer.”

She always says my whole name. It’s like she has to remind herself of who she’s actually talking to.

I say, “What’s wrong with that?”

She shakes her head and mutters something inaudible as she shuts the door behind her.

It’s true, I am a dreamer girl. Wouldn’t you be if you had a life like mine?

I dream huge dreams and I store them in my journals.

Not a blog diaries or a live journals or anything like that, I mean the good ol’ fashioned kind where all the really good stuff gets written. I’ve collaged it with 60s icons and gorgeous glam-girls from the silver screen. Then inside, I turn the blandness of my everyday life into multi-coloured movie scenes. In my journal, my life is a cinematic blockbuster full of magic and spontaneity and there’s never, ever a dull moment.

If you took a sneaky peek in my journal, you’d see that I’m an Oscar-winning starlet.

And…

I’m an editrix-in-chief of my very own magazine that doesn’t, and never, ever would, draw rings around celeb-girls’ bad bits.

And…

I am proud that I have the body of a 1950s pin-up girl with shocking pink hair borrowed from a punk-princess.

And…

I rock out in a kick-ass girl band making holes in the knees of my faded, low slung jeans when I skid across the pink, sparkly stage during a screechy guitar solo.

And…

I eat vinegary chips on a seaside pier before riding on the back of a scooter, with my arms tightly wrapped around the waist of my very own ruby-lipped, angel boy.

Sigh.

Y’see, dreaming, wishing and hoping are my most favourite of all past times.

In fact, every night without fail, I wish upon the sparkliest star in the inky, midnight sky. I wish that when I wake up, my life would become the sugary sweet, candy-covered movie that it really ought to be.

It will happen. It has to happen. Lullah said so.

Seriously, who needs a summer of re-invention when you’ve got a whole Audrey back catalogue to catch up on?

Surprisingly, as much as I heart Audrey, I’ve never watched Funny Face. In fact, my entire love for Audrey is based purely on Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and while personally, I think that’s more than justifiable, I’m all about expanding my Audrey knowledge, which is why I’m kinda glad that Lullah had no room for the box set in her filled-to-the-brim luggage.

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