said out loud.
‘Nothing,’ said her landlady, appearing around the door without knocking. ‘It’s normal. We should all try to be normal,’ and she put down the sardines on O’Brien’s kitchenette, and left.
‘Nothing wrong,’ thought O’Brien, ‘but what is right for me?’
She lay awake through the night, listening to the radio beaming out songs and bonhomie for Christmas. She wanted to stay under the blankets forever, being warm and watching the bar of the electric fire. She remembered a story she had read as a child about a princess invited to a ball. Her father offered her more than two hundred gowns to choose from but none of them fitted and they were too difficult to alter. At last she went in her silk shift with her hair down, and still she was more beautiful than anyone.
‘Be yourself,’ said O’Brien, not altogether sure what she meant.
At the still point of the night O’Brien awoke with a sense that she was no longer alone in the room. She was right. At the bottom of her bed sat a young woman wearing an organza tutu.
O’Brien didn’t bother to panic. She was used to her neighbour’s friends blundering into the wrong room.
‘Vicky is next door,’ she said. ‘Do you want the light on?’
‘I’m the Christmas fairy,’ said the woman. ‘Do you want to make a wish?’
‘Come on,’ said O’Brien, realising her visitor must be drunk. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said the woman. ‘This is the address I was given. Do you want love or adventure or what? We don’t do money.’
O’Brien thought for a moment. Perhaps this was a new kind of singing telegram. She decided to play along, hoping to discover the sender.
‘What can you offer?’
The stranger pulled out a photograph album. ‘In here are all the eligible men in London. It’s indexed, so if you want one with a moustache, look under “M,” where you will also find “moles.” ’
O’Brien had a look. She could think of nothing but those booklets of Sunny Smiles she used to buy to help the orphans. Seeing her lack of enthusiasm, the stranger offered her a second album.
‘Here’s one with all the eligible women. It’s all the same to me.’
‘Shouldn’t you be singing all this?’ asked O’Brien, thinking it was time to change the subject.
‘Why?’ said the fairy. ‘Does conversation bother you?’
‘No, but you are a Singing Telegram.’
‘I am not a Singing Telegram. I am a fairy. Now what is your wish?’
‘OK,’ said O’Brien, wanting to go back to sleep. ‘I wish I was blonde.’
Then she must have gone back to sleep straightaway, because the next thing she heard was the alarm ringing in her ears. She dozed, she was late, no time for anything, just into her red duffle coat and out into a street full of shoppers, mindful of their too few days to go.
At work, on her way up to the Pet Department, she met Janice from Lingerie, who said, ‘Your hair’s fantastic. I didn’t recognise you at first.’
O’Brien was confused. She hadn’t had time to brush her hair. Was it standing on end? She went into the Ladies and peered into the mirror. She was blonde.
‘It really suits you,’ said Kathleen, from Fabrics and Furnishings. ‘You should do more with your make-up now.’
‘Do more?’ thought O’Brien, who did nothing. She decided to go back home, but in the lift on the way out, she met the actor who had come to play Santa …
‘It’s awful in the Grotto. It’s made of polystyrene and everyone knows that’s bad for the lungs.’ O’Brien sympathised.
‘Listen,’ said Santa, ‘there’s two dozen inflatable gnomes in the basement. I’ve got to blow them up. If you’ll help me, I’ll buy you lunch.’
For the first time in her life O’Brien abandoned herself to chaos and decided it didn’t matter. What surprises could remain for a woman who had been visited in the night by a Non-Singing Telegram and subsequently turned blonde? Blowing up
‘Nothing,’ said her landlady, appearing around the door without knocking. ‘It’s normal. We should all try to be normal,’ and she put down the sardines on O’Brien’s kitchenette, and left.
‘Nothing wrong,’ thought O’Brien, ‘but what is right for me?’
She lay awake through the night, listening to the radio beaming out songs and bonhomie for Christmas. She wanted to stay under the blankets forever, being warm and watching the bar of the electric fire. She remembered a story she had read as a child about a princess invited to a ball. Her father offered her more than two hundred gowns to choose from but none of them fitted and they were too difficult to alter. At last she went in her silk shift with her hair down, and still she was more beautiful than anyone.
‘Be yourself,’ said O’Brien, not altogether sure what she meant.
At the still point of the night O’Brien awoke with a sense that she was no longer alone in the room. She was right. At the bottom of her bed sat a young woman wearing an organza tutu.
O’Brien didn’t bother to panic. She was used to her neighbour’s friends blundering into the wrong room.
‘Vicky is next door,’ she said. ‘Do you want the light on?’
‘I’m the Christmas fairy,’ said the woman. ‘Do you want to make a wish?’
‘Come on,’ said O’Brien, realising her visitor must be drunk. ‘I’ll show you the way.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said the woman. ‘This is the address I was given. Do you want love or adventure or what? We don’t do money.’
O’Brien thought for a moment. Perhaps this was a new kind of singing telegram. She decided to play along, hoping to discover the sender.
‘What can you offer?’
The stranger pulled out a photograph album. ‘In here are all the eligible men in London. It’s indexed, so if you want one with a moustache, look under “M,” where you will also find “moles.” ’
O’Brien had a look. She could think of nothing but those booklets of Sunny Smiles she used to buy to help the orphans. Seeing her lack of enthusiasm, the stranger offered her a second album.
‘Here’s one with all the eligible women. It’s all the same to me.’
‘Shouldn’t you be singing all this?’ asked O’Brien, thinking it was time to change the subject.
‘Why?’ said the fairy. ‘Does conversation bother you?’
‘No, but you are a Singing Telegram.’
‘I am not a Singing Telegram. I am a fairy. Now what is your wish?’
‘OK,’ said O’Brien, wanting to go back to sleep. ‘I wish I was blonde.’
Then she must have gone back to sleep straightaway, because the next thing she heard was the alarm ringing in her ears. She dozed, she was late, no time for anything, just into her red duffle coat and out into a street full of shoppers, mindful of their too few days to go.
At work, on her way up to the Pet Department, she met Janice from Lingerie, who said, ‘Your hair’s fantastic. I didn’t recognise you at first.’
O’Brien was confused. She hadn’t had time to brush her hair. Was it standing on end? She went into the Ladies and peered into the mirror. She was blonde.
‘It really suits you,’ said Kathleen, from Fabrics and Furnishings. ‘You should do more with your make-up now.’
‘Do more?’ thought O’Brien, who did nothing. She decided to go back home, but in the lift on the way out, she met the actor who had come to play Santa …
‘It’s awful in the Grotto. It’s made of polystyrene and everyone knows that’s bad for the lungs.’ O’Brien sympathised.
‘Listen,’ said Santa, ‘there’s two dozen inflatable gnomes in the basement. I’ve got to blow them up. If you’ll help me, I’ll buy you lunch.’
For the first time in her life O’Brien abandoned herself to chaos and decided it didn’t matter. What surprises could remain for a woman who had been visited in the night by a Non-Singing Telegram and subsequently turned blonde? Blowing up
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