March Madness

Oh yes, it's happening all over again.

While most people seem to have lives and do things such as socialise with people who like them, the people who like me have decided that I should do another one of these. Wish me luck, I'm going to need it.

30. Write Your Life

30. Write Your Life

Or, An Open Letter To The People Who Kept Me Going.

Today, Wednesday 30^th November, I finished my NaNoWriMo cycle of stories.

Thank God. Now I might be able to get my academic life / my sleeping pattern back on track. Maybe. But it's not likely.

It's been an interesting journey, and I hope you all got something out of it. I know I did, between long Skype conversations and endless MSN chats and the millions of TV episodes that kept me awake.

I now know that I can discipline myself to write – well, unless I'm in Brussels, which happened in the last couple of years as well – and do it, if not well, at least decently.

I've learnt that it's damn difficult to try and find a different style to write in every day, especially if you're hanging onto your wordcount by the skin of your teeth and are writing story seventeen on day twenty. Which ends up being about seven thousand words longer than you expected it to.

ENTER THE EMOTICON! O_o

I'm sort of strangely proud of myself. I managed it. I wrote more than 87 pages in OpenOffice, more than fifty thousand words! I wrote a story for every day of the month. Maybe next year I'll try for an actual coherent novel.

Though probably not.

Would people be interested in more short stories next year? Leave a comment!

Feedback is amazing.

I have, once again, realised how fantastic feedback is. I live for it, I crave it, I log into my blog every day to check if anyone has left a comment.

If you like a story, please do comment. I read them all.

I didn't think I would be able to actually do this whole story-a-day thing because I have dropped out of NaNo in previous years. I think it was the fact that they were individual short stories that kept me going – I'm much better at short and sweet than at long, cohesive, consistent and continuous.

But the thing that really got me through all thirty stories?

You. The person reading.

Knowing that someone was looking forward to the next story is the thing that kicked my arse on the days when I was behind with my writing. And the feedback only helped.

So thank you, to all of you. But especially you, reading this right now.

What's interesting, though, is that I did exactly what this prompt is telling me to.

I wrote my life.

If you look at each character hard enough, inside them somewhere is someone I know (Spec and Sam are clearly Simon and myself when they interact).

There are daughters and sisters, friends, interpreters and Harry Potter. That's what I know.

There are dark moments that came out of nowhere and there are funny moments that had to be thought through for a lot longer than they should have been, but that is what writing is about.

Getting everything off your chest.

The best works are the ones that involve some sort of real element in them.

And I don't mean fantasy novels are bad – look at me, I mean, really – I just mean that in every good book the author has incorporated real aspects of human life. A nervous habit. A particular sentence. A way of speaking. And I tried to include that into my stories.

I tried to make my characters human, despite the fictional aura that surrounds them.

Watch me write, I use big words that mean nothing but look pretty.

Sorry, I'm just a little tired.

NaNoWriMo is over for this year, and that makes me slightly sad, despite the happiness inherent in winning and writing (oh.my.god.fiftyK.wow!).

Some of the stories were fanfiction, most of those were planned that way, and the reason for that is that not having to invent your own characters makes writing invariably so much easier, because they're characters you know really well (even if I seem to have a tendency towards drunk Weasleys). Most of the time, that is – I don't recommend writing characters that are slightly difficult (Sherlock) in a fandom you're not used to (Sherlock, BBC) doing things that you haven't written about before (solving crimes/porn – just sayin'). I'm just glad it worked!

The prompts were a mix of words thrown together and sentences, some of those inspired by people, some of them spoken by friends and written down, some of them made up when compiling the list.

From one to thirty, I am now done.

Every prompt invoked a particular image to mind, and every image was examined before being thrown aside to reveal something else, something that, hopefully, people weren't expecting from the title.

Now I'm just rambling.

I hope you enjoyed my NaNoWriMo as much as I did. I'll post more stories over Christmas – if you're not on Facebook and want to be kept updated, leave a comment and I will make sure you're kept informed.

Have a good one!

Love,

Ale*

29. Quizzical / Disparity - Sherlock BBC

29. Quizzical / Disparity - BBC Sherlock

John was sitting in front of his laptop, the little black bar winking at him on the blog upload page.

Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, either bored or playing mind games with himself, which meant he was trying to link together things that seemed completely unlinked.

Every so often he would come out with some random sentence or two.

“Social disparity between men and women is just plain stupid.” He said.

John assumed that his mind was making lightning quick connections between thoughts and that only the by-products of all those actually reached his ears.

“It is an unfortunate consequence of the generalisation made by men who are intimidated by them.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

He had been trying to think of what to write, but since they hadn't had a case in a while, he had nothing more interesting to say than they were out of milk (as usual) and eggs.

“The only person who managed to outsmart me was a woman. Not for long, mind you, but she did.”

John looked up from his laptop with interest, “Someone outsmarted you?”

Sherlock turned over on the sofa and gave him one of his looks before turning back to face the ceiling, “I was twelve, John.”

“Ah. Alright then,” he paused, almost able to feel the words wanting to spill out of his fingertips, but nothing happened, “Do you want some tea?”

Sherlock tilted his head to the right, “We have a spot of mould on the ceiling.”

“It's been there for the past month, Sherlock. Tea?”

“Hmm. Yes, I'd love some tea, actually.”

“Excellent,” said John, “then you should go and buy some milk.”

Sherlock frowned at the ceiling, “But I take my tea black.”

“Yes,” John's laptop had frozen. Perfect, “but I take mine with milk. Go on, do something nice for once. I'm sure we'll find some way to make it worth your while.”

“How?”

“We'll figure something out.”

John gently hit the side of the screen, but nothing happened.

“Try rebooting,” suggested Sherlock, getting off the sofa.

“Where are you going?”

Another one of those disappointed looks, “To get milk, of course.”

He opened the door and left.

Not a minute later he was standing in the doorway holding a two pint bottle, “OK, I'm back, with milk.”

John could hear Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs, “From the shop, Sherlock, not stolen from our landlady!”

“Quite right dear,” said Mrs Hudson, taking the bottle from Sherlock's hand and disappearing back down the stairs, “I'm not your housekeeper.”

Sherlock pulled on his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck, glared at John and headed back out.

Now all John had to do was figure out some sort of reward.

Twenty minutes later, John had decided to ignore his blog update in favour of playing Solitaire.

He was stuck when Sherlock slammed the door open and went into the kitchen, holding two (two!) shopping bags.

“There is no logic to be found in those damn self-service checkout machines! None! 'Unexpected item in the bagging area' should not be unexpected because you just told me to put it there!” The rant continued as he went into the kitchen and put the shopping away, “For crying out loud! No logic whatsoever.”

John couldn't help but smile, “You bought milk?”

“And bread, eggs, cheese, chicken, pasta and a tin of tomatoes. You're making dinner tonight.”

What night did he not?

“Alright, but it'll have to be an early one. We're going to the theatre.”

“That's the reward? A musical?”

“A play, actually. A mystery-slash-comedy. I thought you might like it.”

Sherlock shut the fridge, “A play.”

“Yes. Now pretend that you are something similar to grateful and go and make me a cup of tea.”

Sherlock scowled at him, but did as he was told, “The things I do to keep the peace.”

John was graced with a quizzical look as he snorted so hard he tipped his chair over.

That evening, they reached the Criterion Theatre at seven thirty-five.

Sherlock was bragging about being right, “I told you we would be early despite the lack of trains”

John glared, “Shut up. We're here.”

Sherlock looked up at the sign, “The 39 Steps, John? You couldn't have given me something more difficult to work with?”

“Shut up,” he repeated, handing their printed booking to the guy at the door.

But Sherlock wouldn't, “Am I supposed to be here just to have fun or to solve the crime in the story?”

“If you think you can solve the story before the cast does, be my guest.”

“You're doubting me?”

John stalked off. He ignored him until they were sitting in their seats. It was mostly empty, but this was a cold Tuesday night.

“You're here to enjoy the show. It's going to be funny.”

Sherlock shrugged his coat off, “I can do that.”

During the interval, Sherlock explained his theories to John, leaving out some of the bits that he thought would, “spoil the rest of the play” for him.

Arrogant idiot.

He did buy John a chocolate ice cream though, which made him smile.

John tugged the zip on his coat all the way up to protect him from the wind, “How could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock grinned at his from behind his scarf, “It was obvious.”

“No it bloody well was not.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and let out a breath which turned visible white in the air.

“Alright, no, it wasn't.”

“So how could you possibly have known?”

Sherlock smirked at him as he hailed a cab.

“Simple, John. I read the book.”

28. "Ron, get your drunk arse out of the fireplace." HP

What is this, I don't even?

28. “Ron, get your drunk arse out of the fireplace.” - Harry Potter

“Harry, the lights are pretty.”

“I know, Ron. You've said so already.”

This was going to be a very long night.

Harry had been woken up at just past midnight by Ron almost knocking his front door off the hinges.

He and Hermione had had a fight. And, Ron being Ron, he had gone out and drunk his sorrows away – except that alcohol is a depressant, as Hermione had told them and the rest of the Weasley brothers countless times (oh, and Seamus too), which meant that Ron had drunk his sorrows into expanding.

He had collapsed onto Harry's sofa and told him about what had happened, his words slurring every so often as Harry flopped onto the old armchair next to it.

He had come home late again, after pulling off a double shift for his partner, because Henry was ill, and Hermione was fed-up with his always being at work and never at home (not to mention the fact that her pregnancy hormones were all over the place and made her three times as irritable as usual), so they fought.

It was terrible, but Harry couldn't help thinking that it was a little bit like being back at school – hearing one side of the story while the other two clashed because they liked each other but were too stubborn to admit it.

He wondered what the fight was really about. He always checked, because Ron had the memory of an amnesiac goldfish sometimes – it wasn't their wedding anniversary, Hermione's birthday or Christmas, and the baby wasn't due for another two months.

Ron was currently lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, where the light bulb was dangling (Harry really needed to get round to buying some sort of lampshade) and swaying slightly.

“Do you think Hermione will hate me forever?”

If Harry could slam his head into the wall without waking the neighbours, he would have been sorely tempted to do so. As it was, he was more tempted to smack Ron.

“I don't think so. She's a lot more rational than that. On the other hand, she's pregnant, so it may take a while for her to see the logic in it.”

“Hmm,” Ron mumbled, clearly not listening, “because it would be bad if she hated me. I love her, you know.”

Harry didn't really care, at this point. He was tired and he had work in the morning. He loved Ron dearly, he was his best friend and the closest thing he had to a brother, but really. He needed some damned sleep, or Shacklebolt would have his head by lunchtime.

“I know. We had this conversation the night of your bachelor party, Ron. Over and over and over. You love her. I get it.”

“Yeah. Cos she's amazing, you know.”

Harry shook his head and went to the loo.

When he got back to the sitting room, Ron had his eyes closed. Thank Merlin, maybe now they would both get some sleep.

He went to get a pillow and a blanket for him, but by the time he got back, Ron was trying to Fire Call Hermione.

“Hey Harry, where's your Floo powder?”

With a sigh, Harry dumped the pillow and blanket onto the sofa.

“Ron, get your drunk arse out of the fireplace.”

“Where s'a Floo powder?”

“Ron, you can't Floo Hermione.”

“Why not? She's ma wife.”

There was that temptation to smack Ron again, “She also kicked you out because you fought.”

Ron looked shocked and upset, “Why did we fight? I love her!”

Harry couldn't stop himself. He smacked Ron upside the head.

“Bed, Weasley. Now. I will deal with you in the morning.”

About half an hour later, Harry got woken up by Ron climbing into bed and getting in under the covers.

“What the?”

“Hiya, Harry.”

Harry could almost see the smile on Ron's face, despite the lack of light and his lack of glasses. No. This was absolutely ridiculous and needed to stop at once.

“Ron, your bed for the night is in the living room.”

“S'cold,” Ron mumbled, actually cuddling up to Harry – in quite a disturbing manner, “and you're warm.”

“Go away. You're drunk and I'm sleepy.”

“Your bed s'warm. Sofa's cold.”

“Ron, no. What? No. Go back to the living room.”

There was a distinct whine in Ron's voice, “But the living room is cold and Hermione's angry with me and nobody loves me except you because you're like another brother except better because you'll let me share you bed and it's warm and you defeated Voldemort and stuff.”

No, Harry took his previous thought back, this was ridiculous.

He tried to push Ron out of his bed, but the man was larger than he was, and heavier than he looked.

“Gerroff,” he said, pushing Harry's hands away, “m'not in the mood. Wanna sleep.”

It took Harry a good ten seconds to get over the shock of that.

“Ron! This is Harry! You're in my bed.”

“Goonigh', Harry.”

Harry huffed and turned his back to Ron. He would get his revenge. In the morning.

The next morning, Harry woke up feeling shit, but once he had got out of bed and thought about it a bit, he decided he was happy in the knowledge that Ron would feel even worse.

He went to make breakfast with a smile on his face.

He wondered what would put Ron off the most.

There was a groan from the bedroom as the red haired hung over beast rose from the depths.

Excellent.

He bounded into the bedroom like an excited five year old.

“Good morning!” Harry said, in tone of voice a few pitches higher and much louder than his own and smiling, “What do you want for breakfast?”

Ron glared at him from under his hair.

Harry made sure Ron knew he was going to enjoy this particular hangover.

NOT A STORY

Hi everyone!
This is just a quick thank you from me to everyone (but especially Matt) who reads and comments.
Love you all.
I just wanted to say something:

I won NaNoWriMo! :D
And it's all (partly) thanks to you, because knowing that you were reading (Becky, Giorgia, Chloe, Lilly, lots of love to Ed) and commenting (Matt) despite the fact that some of it was fanfiction (and you're not too sure what the hell a fandom is).

Lots of love to all of you,

Moretta. NaNoWriMo Winner.

27. "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." George Santayana

27. "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." George Santayana

She refreshed the page for what had to be the sixtieth time in the past forty minutes.

“You know,” said Anthony, her older and yet so very foolish brother, watching her from behind what used to be her copy of The Sunday Times, “Einstein said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

“Fuck. Off.” She replied, “I will get these tickets if I have to stay here all night.”

The phone rang.

Anthony pounced onto it. It was probably his imaginary girlfriend – ie his best mate calling up to see if he wanted to hang out and play video games. He was never going to fool her into thinking he had a girlfriend. She knew better. He was much too boring and juvenile to have a girlfriend.

Refresh. 404.

Refresh. Nothing. Maybe she should write an e-mail to the organisers, try to get her tickets that way.

Emily, her best friend, was on the generic instant message chat service just blaspheming as she refreshed the page over at her house.

Refresh. Still nothing.

“Yes, twenty minutes. Right.”

Oh goody, he would be leaving.

The generic chat noise. Emily had sent a particularly long and creative insult on the questionable background of the people who manned the servers of the website.

Refresh. Well, shit. This was getting ridiculous.

“Where are you off to then? Over to your girlfriend's house?”

“No,” he said, putting the phone down, “that was Rick.”

Refresh. Wow, ok, the first page.

Enter your details – done. Click submit...

She quickly told Emily she had managed to get to page one.
Loading, still loading, come on, come on, and 404! What? No! Bollocks!

Urgh, Rick, the slimy friend that hit on her whenever he came round.

Refresh. Still nothing. Come on, website! Work, work, work!

“He's not coming here, is he?”

“Yeah. He managed to get tickets to InterCon.”

Refre- wait a minute.

“He got tickets to what?”

“InterCon. You know, the International Convention, where all the famous people and artists and gamers go every summer, in Florida?”

She looked up from the computer screen and glared at him.

“With all the people and fans of your favourite series, where they do panels, and question and answer interviews, and signings.”

Refresh, refresh, refresh.

“I swear, if you are making this up I am going to murder you, slowly, with a rusty fork and make it look like suicide. I hate you. I really, really hate you.”

“You're always so lovely, dear sister,” he replied, sitting back down on the sofa and opening the Sunday Times to a random page whilst trying to look suave, “I may have to tell him that he will need to find other people to come with us.”

“What?”

Refresh.

“He got four tickets. Two for us, and two for you.”

The chat noise. Emily sent her a long-winded message about “the epic and continued failure of this website” and a virtual sigh. She was unsure that they would ever get these tickets.

“You are just trying to deceive me,” she said, in her presentation voice, “and I shall not be deceived.”

Anthony put the newspaper down.

“You really don't think I would do something like that for you, do you?”

Refresh. Please? If it worked she would do all her chores for the rest of the year without complaining. No. Well then, fuck you.

“Anthony, over the past nineteen years you have done nothing nice for me unless you wanted something in return. Never. Not once.”

“That's not true,” he said coming over to the computer, “I bought you that DVD you wanted.”

Refresh.

“For my birthday. After being picked on by Mum and Dad.”

“How did you know about that?”

Refresh, please load.

Page one again, excellent, “It doesn't matter. But it certainly proves my point.”

He sat down heavily onto the chair next to hers.

“Ok, bad example. What about that teddy bear, when you were six?”

Please work, she had written all her details, please work, she would love them forever if it work.

“Which you gave to me because you were a boy and thought a pink bear was unsuitable to your masculine needs?”

Refresh.

Anthony was quiet.

She could almost hear the cogs creaking as they attempted to move after years of disuse.

“Alright. So I can't think of anything, but that doesn't make me a bad brother. I babysat you without complaining for years.”

“For money.”

Refresh.

“Stop refreshing. Those who can't remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

She stopped and looked over to him.

He was frowning at her. Maybe he felt sorry for not being a better older brother.

“You're telling me that whatever happens, if I keep checking the page where they sell the tickets, I'm still not going to get any tickets?”

“Umm. No?”

The doorbell rang.

Emily sent her a message telling her how desperate she was getting. She didn't think this was going to work. And what were they going to do if they didn't get the tickets? Would they still take the trip?

Rick walked in with Anthony behind him, holding something behind his back.

Refresh. Please? No. Of course not.

“So,” said the friend, who was looking less slimy than usual – maybe he had stopped wearing hair gel, “I hear you need tickets to InterCon?”

“That would be correct,” she said and pointed to the screen, “which is why I'm on the website.”

Rick took the seat that Anthony had recently vacated.

“I got a call, last week, from your brother. He told me you were planning on going to Florida for it, but you still needed tickets. As someone who has gone to InterCon for the past five years, I know how difficult that can be.”

She didn't know where this was going, but she didn't like it.

“But having gone to InterCon for the past five years, I've made some friends in high places,” she snorted at that, “and I have arranged for four tickets to be delivered to me.”

Anthony held out the piece of paper he had been hiding.

It was the confirmation e-mail from InterCon, telling therickman22 at whatamail dot com that he was receiving four VIP tickets.

“Are you serious? This isn't a joke?”

“Yeah. Happy birthday, little sister.”

He never saw the punch coming.

“You bastard, you've been letting me refresh that damned page for an hour now! What is wrong with you? Emily is currently worrying about the entire trip and you could have told me whenever the e-mail got sent!”

“Sheesh!” He managed to get out between punches, “I get you tickets to InterCon and I still can't anything right. What's an elder sibling to do?”

Rick left, not wanting to be a part of this madness.

26. "One word: glitter!" - The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

26. "One word: glitter!" -  The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

It was while they were on the way back to Sydney, with Adam driving Priscilla and singing along to another Kylie song while Benji bounced in time to the music, that Tick realised how much the two looked like each other.

They had the same dark hair and Benji's jaw was sure to become something like Adam's.

They also had the same juvenile sense of humour – Benj would laugh at every joke Adam made, even if he didn't understand half of what wasn't said and Adam actually thought Benji was hilarious.

“Are you sure he's your son?” He'd asked once, laughing at a joke about rabbits and nails, “Because he's funnier than both you and your wife!”

Yes, he was sure Benji was his son. That was his profile his son had. And his eyes. Not to mention the fact that Marion may be many different things, but first and foremost she was honest.

They got along really well, which was something Tick supposed he should be thankful for, otherwise this trip back would be even longer than the trip to get to Alice.

The tape ended and Benji turned to him.

“Tick, can we listen to Downtown again?”

Tick pretended to fiddle with the feathers on a dress that he had just sewn on, “Ask your uncle Felicia, she's the one driving.”

Benji had become more talkative as he relaxed around Tick. He and Adam had hit it off right away, which (he wasn't proud to admit) had made him feel slightly jealous, but Benji still hugged Tick goodnight first and clearly saw him as the figure of authority. Him! A figure of authority, when he couldn't even get the drunkards at the bar to behave!

“Adam, can you put on Downtown again please?”

“Of course, my little darling, anything for you.”

The trip had been uneventful so far, apart from the couple of pranks Adam and Benji had cooked up which meant that he now checked his bed before he went to sleep.

It was odd, but you could always tell the difference between Adam and Felicia.

Adam was a nice, if slightly effeminate, young man (who tended to shrink behind Felicia's overwhelming personality) with a somewhat odd sense of humour who sorted out practical things – like finding transport to take them to Alice and putting together costumes and dance routines. Felicia was the ridiculously flashy drag queen (who decided that 'lavender' was the right colour to paint a bus) with a wit that could poison you and a sense of protection so fierce that she would verbally slit the throat of anyone threatening a drag queen – unless she was on drugs.

Tick frowned. He still hadn't forgiven her for that, but he had thrown the little bag of white powder away and had a discussion with her about doing drugs around Benji. She had agreed, which was new.

Felicia hummed along to the song as Benji sang the chorus bits.

“...forget all your cares, downtown!”

He hoped he would find things for Benj to do once they were back in Sydney. The parts where he lived and where the club was weren't exactly the safest areas of the city, but he'd never been harassed when not in drag, so maybe they would be alright.

They might have to go flat-hunting, in case there was one in a better area, maybe near a school, if Marion wanted Benji to stay with him more often.

Tick couldn't see Felicia's face, but he could hear the grin in her voice as she gave Benji advice.

“Let me tell you something, Benjamin, because I wish I'd known this when I was your age. The road of excess is the road of faboulesness!”

Yes, sometimes Felicia could be glaringly, flouncily, flamboyantly gay.

“Only the road of excess study and excess sequins!” He said, in a warning tone.

“Of course!” She replied, “Because drugs are bad. And no getting drunk, Benjamin, because it makes you do things you'll regret. This one time, when I was drunk, I agreed to-”

“dye someone's hair bright blue,” interrupted Tick, “because the other person was drunk too.”

Luckily, ever so often Adam made Felicia take the hint, “And I got blue dye everywhere. I could still find it in the crook of my arm about two weeks later.”

An Abba song came on, and Felicia started on the wailing that she called singing.

Benji sang along to the bits he knew, dancing around – clearly something Adam had taught him, if the twirls were anything to go by.

Tick sang along too, pointing to Benji whenever the word 'you' cropped up, which made him giggle.

Benji laughed and made his way over to his father.

Oh, Frida, Agnetha, Kylie and Cher – his father. He would never get tired of saying that, not even if people started tormenting Mitzi for having a minor.

He could hear Miss Behaviour now, with all her bad jokes and barely-hidden glee at the discovery, not to mention the other dogs from the club as they laughed.“Oh Mitz, doll, how did it happen? You have a wife? Wow, now I understand. Did it happen on the wedding night? I'm guessing she was the butch one of the relationship. No wonder your track record is so abysmal.”

They could all go to hell as far as he cared, because he had this little miracle, which was something they would never have, even if they had kids.

Benji took out a fire-truck toy and started running it up and down the bus, making siren noises.

Tick pretended to panic and threw the dress to one side, “What's the emergency?”

“The casino's on fire!”

“No!” Shouted Felicia, “Someone save the showgirls on stage! They're still in the middle of their wonderful act!”

“The people are safe,” said Benji, seriously, “they've been evacued.”

“Evacuated?” Offered Tick.

He nodded, “Yes. But we still have to put the fire out.”

It was a clever little toy, when Benji pushed a button, water would spurt out a hole in the front. Benji put out the fire of red and orange sequins and saved the masks from being burnt.

After that, he went back to rifling through his bag for a different toy.

“Dad?”

Tick suddenly couldn't breathe. It was the first time Benji had called him that.

“Yes?”

“Why don't you have a boyfriend?”

The bus went quiet. Felicia even turned the music down to add to the effect, the drama queen.

“I don't have a boyfriend at the moment.”

“Will you have one soon?”

Benji sounded genuinely confused, so unlike all of the people who had previously asked him that question.

“I don't know, Benj. It depends who wants me.”

Benjamin frowned and looked up from his toys, “Why wouldn't they want you?”

“Because I'm older than a lot of them. A little bit funny looking. And I'm show business – a lot of men don't like that.”

“You're not as old as Bernadette and she has Bob,” Benji pointed out, “and you're nice – that's more important than looks.”

There were those morals Marion had been talking about. Maybe this parenting thing was easier when the kids were as amazing as Benji.

Felicia spoke up, “Yeah,and if people don't like your face, tell them to shut theirs, they'll never be as good a performer as Mitzi the Magnificent.”

That was a compliment. A real, sincere compliment with no backstabby undertones.

He didn't know what to say to either of those things.

“Especially if it's a lesbian,” she continued, “because she's just jealous you can pull off heels and a dress!”

And there was the Felicia they all knew and, presumably, loved.

“Thank you.”

“You're very welcome, my darling.”

They stopped in a little town to get some petrol and some snacks – they hadn't opened the first aid 'kit' since getting to Alice and Tick had thought of getting rid of it, but it felt like he would betray Felicia and Bernadette if he did – and when they all went in to pay, the girl at the till stared at Adam with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Anything else?”

“No, no I think that's everything.”

Benji smiled at Tick as though he knew what was going on, but he was too young to understand.

“Are you sure? Can't I get you anything else? Like my number?”

Adam blinked rapidly, looked at Benji, at Tick, down at his brightly coloured shirt and back up to the cashier.

“Listen lady, let's get one thing straight – I'm not.”

Benji giggled.

Tick paid for their things.

They were just leaving as the cashier sighed, “Pity. You look like you'd know your way with a whip.”

Tick laughed and laughed. Benji ran back to Priscilla.

Felicia was back, “What's the matter with you, then?”

“A whip! Like in Venus.”

Felicia giggled too, “I'd forgotten! I wonder if the boys miss me.”

“Probably not,” said Tick, handing him a chocolate bar and climbing into the bus, “after all, Sydney is full of drag queens with a big mouth and a suitcase full of broken make-up.”

Benji piped up from behind a pile of stockings, “Why are drag queens called queens?”

“Because princesses don't get enough respect.” Said Tick, chucking the plastic bag with the rest of the shopping at him and sitting in the driver's seat.

“Yeah,” agreed Felicia as the bus started to move, “'Drag queen' says to the world that you're so strong and tough that you can pull of showgirl feathers. What's not to love?”

Benji sat next to a feather boa, flicking at it with his fingers, staring around the bus at the various gowns and headdresses.

“And why do you love the clothes so much?”

Felicia pulled out a gown from one of the available suitcases and showed it off to Benji with a twirl.

“One word: glitter!”