March 31, 1912
My horrific mother could not stop shouting at me this morning. “Move your wings into gear and don’t get them creased! Where is your wand? Have you powdered your face? Are you taking a pipe to play? Have you got enough gossamer? Your father has been waiting by the trap with a barely suitable pony for half an hour and is running out of Thimble Whiskey. If you don’t hurry up he will be too blotto to drive!”
“Yes, Yes, Yes! I know! I am coming now!”
My father, a dwarf troll from a small family near Nether Wallop, had made the wise decision to ban my mother from coming with us today to the auditions. His general feeling was that the sight of a small brown fawn in permanent fussy floods of tears would make too many people want to upchuck and the day was going to be dreadful enough. By the time I leapt into the cart and we drove away with my mother running behind us still trying to tuck my wings into my belt, I was close to plastering the entire lane with breakfast myself.
So, I suppose I do love my mother really, but I love her a lot more when her attention is focused on something else; my whining little brother, for instance. My dad is different though. I hope I never properly fall out with him because he is always just there; a real trump. He never says much, unless what he is saying is final, of course, but he does have the habit of being in the right place at the right time. That means that when I am drooling over some gorgeous blue jacket he is nowhere to be found; perfect. And yes, I am old enough, Mr. Diary! You don’t have to wrinkle your pages up at me in such a tone!
We waited in the rain for nearly six hours. Well, my father did, but I off-trotted to go and sit in a tea house for part of the time while he and other mothers and fathers did the queuing for us. The rooms where we had to audition today were some grimy warehouse, not at the actual Fairy College. It was just next to the tram lines and something had got caught in the rails which caused a squealing sound every time the tram went past. My father got fed up eventually and used the end of his umbrella to unstick the poor old Imp that had got himself stuck. The Imp hobbled off bowing with thanks, only to be squished by a beer cart ten yards down the road. Yuk!
Once into the building, our parents were told to wait outside while we were put through our paces. There were some right little trollops there today, all dolled up like china in their fal-lal and reeking of “spoiled brat” which I am fairly certain is actually a true medical condition and it certainly stinks like one. You can tell the ones that have been to the various evening schools that exist for those whose parents are vain enough; they all hold their wands in exactly the same way, pinched like they are picking up salt, and wave them around above their heads with their hands arched like swan necks. Me? I just grabbed it in my fist, pointed it straight at the nearest judge and then smiled sweetly.
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