Thursday, 8 January 2015
Monday, 1 December 2014
In Case of Emergency Please Notify: Jet Hunter
Webook's latest release is the brilliantly hilarious Teen/YA diary-style novel
by Sarah Szabo
One of our editorial staff discovered Sarah when she posted a link to Jet Hunter on the WEbook forums. We were all immediately hooked and couldn't wait to get Sarah on board with us - luckily she was just as excited as we were and the next thing you know, In Case of Emergency Please Notify: Jet Hunter had become our newest WEbook!
Shelly rang this morning. I told Mum to tell her I wasn’t home. When we were at the movies she hinted that she wanted to come to the all ages gig tonight but I’ve my reputation to think of. Rang Nicole. No one home. Texted her. No reply. Her phone battery must be dead. Went to skate park. Not there. Went to library. Not there. The Phat Fonies are playing so I know she’ll want to go. I bet Danny will be there. There is something I wanted to ask him about the value of X when Y is something or other (I’ll look it up before I go).
Just rang Shelly’s number. She isn’t home. Texted her. No reply. Her phone battery must be dead. I’m extremely annoyed.
The phone rang while I was doing some pacing exercises in the hall. I like to pick it up by the third ring because Dad told me once that it’s a good business principle. As I was rounding the kitchen entrance, Mr Paws appeared in the doorway and I jumped over him, skidded on the kitchen floor, connected with a hand dumbbell that had been left lying on the floor and kicked it through the glass door cabinet with the fine china in it. It was Gran on the phone. Something about forgetting where she had put her keys. I couldn’t hear her over Mum carrying on about her Royal Doulton and how much it cost. I reminded her that it was her hand weight, and as she spun around, she dropped the matching saucer to the cup that had just been broken. I won’t record for posterity what she said – just file it away to tell the school counsellor next time I need to get out of school.
Mum is sending me round to Gran’s in a taxi so that I can help her find her keys. She’s in one of her ‘pre-menopausal moods’, as Dad calls them. She says she’ll pick me up in an hour. I’ve asked her to man the phones while I’m away.
Had a breakfast revelation after reading the ‘phun philosophy’ on the back of the cereal packet. What I need to do is forget the hideous shortcomings of everyone around me and focus on developing my own talents in order to maximize my personal potential
Have decided that I would like to become a competitive surfer, earning mega prize and sponsorship dollars and gaining the admiration of the wider community in general and the surfing community in particular. I know it won’t be easy but I love a challenge. The hard
part is deciding whether to go custom made (e.g. retro flames, lifesize portrait of Jet) or off the rack (classic stripe). The easy part I’ll hand over to Dad – cash or credit card. Can’t wait for Dad to get home. Told Mum all about the new me (said imagine world champ surfer Layne Beachley, except with my head and Beyoncé’s body). She said she can’t wait for Dad to get home either.
Think I hear Dad’s footsteps coming up the front steps. I’ll meet him at the door to ask him about his day, make him a cup of tea just the way he likes it (made by someone else) and ease into a discussion about maximizing one’s potential and the millions of dollars in sponsorship money being thrown at women who can shoot the curl, rip through the tube and chill out in the green room. Kowabunga! (Note to self: must find out exact location of the green room.)
Decided to get a wider perspective on the issue. Nicole thinks Dad is like really a gnarly lameass (skate slang meaning crap parent); Shelly thinks Dad is way off (ballroom dancing slang meaning little or no parenting skill); Alexandra-Rhiannon thinks that Dad is preoccupied by capitalist accumulation at the expense of lifestyle; Gran has offered to knit me a surfboard cover and someone called IAMHot4U on the surfinchiks internet chatroom thinks that Dad should chill out and support his spunky daughter in her sporting endeavours, particularly when she probably has a hot body and wears a bikini.
Found out that the surfinchiks have a chapter who meet at my local beach at 6 every morning during the school holidays. There is an open invitation to females of any age to turn up and be taught the basics of surfing (surfboard not required). You go girls. Who needs to be under Dad’s grimy masculine thumb, begging for crumbs from his overstuffed wallet while he grows grotesquely fat on the domestic slavery of his miserable female chattels (Germaine Greer, The Female Unicorn).
Dad says he’s happy to get up at 5.30 a.m. to run me down to the
beach. Sexist swine.
Tuesday, 11 November 2014