Lisa Clark - And the Rainbow Hearts

And while it shouldn’t have worked, it absolutely did. Proof that the saying opposites attract is 100% factuality. I don’t mean hooked up romantically, btw—ick. That’s just wrong. They’re adults, remember?

No, they became hang-out buds, stopping each other from residing permanently in Lonelyville. The parental still gets a re-occurring case of the grumps every now and again, which is why her face sometimes looks a lot older than she actually is, but since hanging with yoga dad, she’s switched to herbal tea so she’s not as jumpy as she used to be, and she doesn’t shout twelve octaves louder than the rest of the human population. Well not on hourly basis at least, which for anyone within a five mile radius of Chez Love will tell you, is good news all round.

But while the ma-parental has definitely shown real signs of visable chillaxation, she still has a lot of work to do on her ‘tude.

“What are you wearing, Lola Love?” she barks as I walk down the stairs to join her at the breakfast table.

See? It’s not like she’s blind, she can see what I’m actually wearing. If I were to critique my parental on this particular piece of dialogue, which, don’t worry, I’m really not silly enough to actually do, I think a more appropriate question to have asked me would be something along the lines of, ‘now that’s an interesting outfit, what made you choose that Lola Love?’ therefore giving me the opportunity to describe in detail today’s creation from the treasure chest that is Aunt Lullah’s old wardrobe.

I swish the skirt of the 1950’s style prom dress, which I’ve customised with a rather cute frou-frou bow and a pair of black biker-girl gloves.

“Well, it’s a dress, mum,” I say with a slightly risky amount of sass, “it used to be Lullah’s, don’t you like it?’

“You look ridiculous Lola,” she informs me.

If my parental had gone to charm school, which clearly she did not, she would have scored herself a big, fat ‘D’.

“So, where are you going dressed like that?” She asks, switching direction, obviously choosing to now take her own advice of ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.’ Her questioning, as always, is relentless and not dissimilar to a sergeant major in both tone and delivery. I seriously think that she missed her calling.

“Angel’s back, and the girls and I are going to meet her in town.” I tell her. As an ed-girl of my very own zine, Think Pink , I am now also able to edit my own vocab as I speak. It’s a total talent. Y’see, my deletion of the line ‘and we’re going shopping’ has now saved a whole lot of unnecessary ear ache about how I should ‘save my money’, yada, yada.

Yay me!

The parental has always really liked Angel. She would always comment on how ‘polished’ she was, not like a doorknob, but in actual appearance. The parental said that only people with money can be ‘polished’ and that all I had to do was look at the celebrities in pages glossy magazines to see that. It obviously has nothing to do with the fact that those celeb-types have been airbrushed to within an inch of their lives by someone with a fancy-schmancy computer programme then, non?

I’m not exactly sure from what, or where, my parental plucks her golden nuggets of deep, thought-out life deductions, but this, mes pink amies , is just one of the classics that you will hear if you hang out in the wonderful, mixed up world of my parental.

Thank goodness I am a pink-thinking diva of fabulousness and am able to rely on my gal-pals to make life sweeter. A girl could really go crazy around here.

“A band?” she asks as she puts another slice of bread in the toaster. She has already burnt two, the remnants of which, even Cat turned her nose up at. “What kind of band?” she asks watching me pour milk on my cereal.

“A rock/pop band,” I tell her between mouthfuls. “‘Y’know, like The Pipettes or The Sahara Hot Nights—we’re going to write songs that will make girls want to throw shapes, write songs and be pleased that they’re a girl!” My parental looked at me and smiled. This was definitely a new addition since hang-time with yoga dad. Her face looked so pretty when she smiled, she should do it much more often.

“Sounds like fun,” she said, saving the toasted bread just in time. Fun is a severely under used word that I was pleased to see making a new entry in the parental vocab.

“It’s deffo going to be!” I tell her. She took a bite of her toast and looked at me with misty-eyes.

“Your Aunt Lullah and I used to want to be backing singers,” she announced. “Y’know, like Pepsi and Shirley.”

“Pepsi and what now?” I had asked, which was a total mistake because I then had to endure a whole hour-long discussion about how ‘Pepsi and Shirley’ were in fact, the ‘bees knees.’ Other such irritatingly parental vocabulary was used in the describing of how they sang with ‘George Michael’, whoever he is.

Now I dig musical history as much as the next all-things-retro-lovin’ girl, in fact, I love, love, love all things that aren’t now, but Pepsi and Shirley? Well, they did not sound like they needed to be added to my inspir-o girl wall anytime soon. But parental in not-freaking-out-about-Lola-being-in-a-band shocker!

Who’d have funked it, huh?

Today is the offical start of Sadie’s new project.

We L-O-V-E a project, and this one, like all the projects before it, has yet another really snappy, roll-off-the-tongue title.

Are you ready?

It’s Project Win-The-Contest-Bag-Tootie-Cuti.

Don’t you just love it?

The project is deffo one of Sadie’s best yet. There is nothing not to love about this project. Nothing.

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