Big Bones

by Laura Dockrill

But then why am I looking for Max’s name on the schedule? Why is he not in today? Why am I walking past the odd jumble of left-behind coats and jumpers on the hangers to pick up his fig smell in case one of them belongs to him, even though it’s full-blown summer. Why did I make myself fancy him? Get over it. You don’t need to stoop this low like some hideous fan girl. OK. Do something productive with yourself, write a novel in your head, make an album, learn how to be a scuba diver or make a wristwatch with your bare hands or become a calypso dancer … anything but wasting your days obsessing over a BOY. Boring. OK?

I thought we were all in this ‘eating what we want when we want’ revolution together but I’ve got a sneaky fear that I’m the only one actually taking it seriously.

I am proud to be a girl. Because that’s a fact. But prouder that I love myself. Because that’s a choice.

‘You’re a girl. And you can do whatever you want. The whole world belongs to you.’