I Lost My Mobile At the Mall Read Online Free PDF
Author: Wendy Harmer
tomorrow,' says Will. 'Anyway, you know I'm not much good on the phone. I like seeing your beautiful face when I talk to you.'
And I am imagining Will's face now – his suntanned cheeks sparkling with diamonds of dried salt. His dazzling white teeth and wide smile. His soft grey eyes and those long black eyelashes – maybe still glistening wet. I imagine the sun on his curls picking out threads of pure spun gold.
'Well, I better go, but I'm glad you rang,' says Will. 'I just wanted to say . . .'
I finish the sentence for him in my head: I love you Elly, with all my heart and soul.
'. . . that it's good to hear your voice. Don't forget, you're the one that keeps me paddling back to shore.'
And then he's gone and I think that maybe he did just tell me, in his own way, that he loves me! And it's like I've bobbed to the surface again and I'm floating on a piece of driftwood in a warm and endless sea.
:'-) Sigh!
After a while the smell of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and baked potatoes sends me paddling towards Nan's dining room.
Sunday. 5 pm. PM.
We're driving back home after a really good afternoon at Nan's (considering). We looked through one of her old photograph albums. It was fun to sit around the table and turn the heavy pages, peel back the tissue paper and watch Nan swat at startled silverfish.
There were some hilarious photos of Mum in there from when she was little. My favourite was of her covered from head to toe in white powder after she had upended the flour canister on her head. You could just see her eyes looking like two little dark brown crinkled raisins. There were some real shockers from when she was fifteen, the same age as me. In one she was wearing this fluorescent blue lamé minidress, silver disco tights and white high-heeled ankle boots. She was wearing some kooky black bandanna around her forehead and her hair was sticking up in gelledback clumps – like she'd tied an electrified cat on her head. HA HA HAH!
My mum was covering her face in her hands and squealing at Nan.
'Stop it, Mum, stop it!'
But Nan just kept turning the pages and embarrassing her.
'And, Elly, this one's of your mother when she was seventeen. She tried to dye her hair blonde with peroxide and it went bright orange like a mandarin.'
Nan turned the album so I could examine the pic closely and when I burst out laughing, Nan's shoulders shook so hard with stifled giggling that one of her gold clip-on earrings fell off. Mum and I dived under the table to look for it. We bumped heads and Mum started laughing too.
I suppose it's easy to have a laugh when your life's most embarrassing moments are hidden away in an album in a cupboard and only looked at by silverfish. I wonder what Mum would think if that revolting picture of her and her citrus fruit head was out in the open for all to see.
Still, it was good to see my lovely Nan. It's her seventieth birthday soon, and she said she wants a quiet dinner party with just the family. She reckons she hasn't felt like celebrating much since Pop died two years ago. I hugged her when she said that. She tries not to show it, but I know she misses Pop. You can tell from their wedding photos how much she loved him. Even from black-and-white photos taken in 1959, you can tell.
'Nonsense, Mum, you have to have a party!' my mother nags. (She would nag the Prime Minister, I swear.) 'It's a big milestone. You have to celebrate. Eugenie's restaurant would be perfect. Marg can bring the mob down from Toolewong. All your ladies from the cards club can come, and all Dad's old friends from work.'
'I'm not sure I still have all their addresses,' says Nan.
'Don't worry, I'll track them down on the net,' Mum replies.
'With a net ?'
'No, Mum! On the internet !'
'Well, I'm sure you won't find them that way,' Nan shakes her head. 'They don't have computers and things. Some of them might be in the phone book I suppose. Maybe if I hunt out one of my old Christmas card lists.'
Things have sure
And I am imagining Will's face now – his suntanned cheeks sparkling with diamonds of dried salt. His dazzling white teeth and wide smile. His soft grey eyes and those long black eyelashes – maybe still glistening wet. I imagine the sun on his curls picking out threads of pure spun gold.
'Well, I better go, but I'm glad you rang,' says Will. 'I just wanted to say . . .'
I finish the sentence for him in my head: I love you Elly, with all my heart and soul.
'. . . that it's good to hear your voice. Don't forget, you're the one that keeps me paddling back to shore.'
And then he's gone and I think that maybe he did just tell me, in his own way, that he loves me! And it's like I've bobbed to the surface again and I'm floating on a piece of driftwood in a warm and endless sea.
:'-) Sigh!
After a while the smell of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and baked potatoes sends me paddling towards Nan's dining room.
Sunday. 5 pm. PM.
We're driving back home after a really good afternoon at Nan's (considering). We looked through one of her old photograph albums. It was fun to sit around the table and turn the heavy pages, peel back the tissue paper and watch Nan swat at startled silverfish.
There were some hilarious photos of Mum in there from when she was little. My favourite was of her covered from head to toe in white powder after she had upended the flour canister on her head. You could just see her eyes looking like two little dark brown crinkled raisins. There were some real shockers from when she was fifteen, the same age as me. In one she was wearing this fluorescent blue lamé minidress, silver disco tights and white high-heeled ankle boots. She was wearing some kooky black bandanna around her forehead and her hair was sticking up in gelledback clumps – like she'd tied an electrified cat on her head. HA HA HAH!
My mum was covering her face in her hands and squealing at Nan.
'Stop it, Mum, stop it!'
But Nan just kept turning the pages and embarrassing her.
'And, Elly, this one's of your mother when she was seventeen. She tried to dye her hair blonde with peroxide and it went bright orange like a mandarin.'
Nan turned the album so I could examine the pic closely and when I burst out laughing, Nan's shoulders shook so hard with stifled giggling that one of her gold clip-on earrings fell off. Mum and I dived under the table to look for it. We bumped heads and Mum started laughing too.
I suppose it's easy to have a laugh when your life's most embarrassing moments are hidden away in an album in a cupboard and only looked at by silverfish. I wonder what Mum would think if that revolting picture of her and her citrus fruit head was out in the open for all to see.
Still, it was good to see my lovely Nan. It's her seventieth birthday soon, and she said she wants a quiet dinner party with just the family. She reckons she hasn't felt like celebrating much since Pop died two years ago. I hugged her when she said that. She tries not to show it, but I know she misses Pop. You can tell from their wedding photos how much she loved him. Even from black-and-white photos taken in 1959, you can tell.
'Nonsense, Mum, you have to have a party!' my mother nags. (She would nag the Prime Minister, I swear.) 'It's a big milestone. You have to celebrate. Eugenie's restaurant would be perfect. Marg can bring the mob down from Toolewong. All your ladies from the cards club can come, and all Dad's old friends from work.'
'I'm not sure I still have all their addresses,' says Nan.
'Don't worry, I'll track them down on the net,' Mum replies.
'With a net ?'
'No, Mum! On the internet !'
'Well, I'm sure you won't find them that way,' Nan shakes her head. 'They don't have computers and things. Some of them might be in the phone book I suppose. Maybe if I hunt out one of my old Christmas card lists.'
Things have sure
Similar Books
Little Red Gem
D L Richardson
Rules about Lily
Angelina Fayrene
Low Town
Daniel Polansky
Dead Ends
Erin Jade Lange
The Place of the Lion
Charles Williams
A Fire Upon the Deep
Vernor Vinge
Agent of Influence: A Thriller
Russell Hamilton
Leverage
Joshua C. Cohen
Submission Under the Mistletoe
Yvette Hines
