New life
Fooling around
Zenga Longmore
Last Sunday, to my supreme annoyance, I was woken up by the harsh ring of the telephone. In a fog of sleepiness I picked up the receiver and made out the voice of my actress friend Stella, breathless with excitement.
'Sorry to wake you so early, but have you read the News of the World?' Why on 'Look, there are some broken bricks and glass that aren't being thrown at the police.' earth should I want to do a thing like —' 'You're in it!' Everything began to shim- mer, and the furniture danced around before my eyes. 'Oh, it's terrible! Let me read it to you. Ah, here we are, "Home Sec David Waddington denies links with Zenga Longmore. Zenga, 38 . . .".'
'Thirty-what! How dare . . ". . . 38, who writes a column in the New Statesman, `Naff life', was unavailable for comment at her Mayfair address." Underneath is a photo of Grace Jones taken from a James Bond film, with the caption, "Zany Zenga Says No Way".'
By now I had slid to the floor having smoked my third cigarette. Is it possible, I wondered, to sue papers on legal aid?
Before I had time to say another word to the gloating Stella, Omalara started to wail from the next room, so, clattering the telephone down rather rudely, I ran to fetch her.
I had been feeling out of sorts anyway because of the latest exploits of the hippies next door. If anyone is News of the World headline material, it is they. Late Saturday night, I heard a roar outside my flat. Throwing on a dressing-gown, I peeked through the front door and beheld no less than seven hippies standing in the corridor chanting, 'No poll tax, no poll tax. Yah boo Maggie!' It appeared they were still high from the day's demonstration and could not seem to shake the slogans out of their system. Telling them all to shut up was fruitless, due to the fact they were shouting too loud for all but a short-range nuclear bomb attack to be audible. So I did the next best thing. Leaning against the door frame, arms akimbo, I pierced them all with a basilisk glare, resembling Bette Davis in one of her finer moments.
'Like hey.' One of the redder-faced ones halted his senseless incantation to throw me a swivel-eyed gaze. 'You gonna pay poll tax?'
'I'll tell you what I am going to do if you wake my baby. I'm going to. . .
'Cool it, girl. Unwind yourself. Fall apart, in my back yard.' And with that they went back to yelling slogans involving Maggie, taxes, and something or someone they called 'the filth'. Instead of standing in a Brixton tower block, I received the impression they imagined they were storm- ing the Bastille, or starting the Russian revolution. I slammed the door in disgust.
So, after a night of eclectic dreams featuring wild hippies riding Mrs Thatcher like a horse, it was no wonder I was unable to withstand Stella's shock on Sunday morning. Two minutes after I had banged it down, the telephone rang again.
'Hello, it's me, Stella. I didn't finish, did 1? It goes on to say — APRIL FOOL!'
By the time I had recovered, some 20 minutes later, it was after 12 o'clock, the hour of fooling had passed. Next year, however, Stella might find that her April Fool surprise takes the form of a letter bomb.
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