Chapter One

She lights up four candles. Each one, her eyes fixate on the bright yellow hue that glides out of the wax. Placing the lighter down, she turns around and closes her eyes, facing her palms together towards us. The energy is built on fresh lavender buds and vanilla oils thinning out around the room.  Legs crossed, back straight, eyes closed.

“Now, bow your heads and allow the spirits to guide you,” The devil woman starts to sway to the rhythm of her breathing, slow and gutsy.

“Seriously, she’s off her rockers, let’s make a break for it,” I propose.

“No! I’m really enjoying this,” Kara returns, mirroring the devil woman’s gestures; opening her palms over her head, peeling  the world out of her hands.

“Chloe’s right, this looks stupid.” Abigail looks ridiculous, with mismatched socks and a fitness headband etched around her matted hair, looking stupid should be the least of her worries.

“You look like a twat by the way, who dressed you this morning?” Kara exhales.

“Your mother did you fat s**t,” Abigail beckons.

And behold, the mess of our friendship. The one we try to salvage by doing these stupid activities to increase our bonding, our solidarity and loyalty to one another.

“F**K YOU, you look like a homeless lesbian with that hairstyle!”

“You’re vulgar.”

“You make me sick.”

“Is anyone hungry?” I suggest. The magic words.

“Oh starving!” Kara squeals!

“KFC?” Abigail recommends.

“Bargain bucket?” Kara says.

“Six pieces, four fries and a Pepsi?”

“You know it!” Kara declares.

And they stroll off together, arm in arm, yoga mats in the other.

“Are you sure they haven’t been tested for personality disorder?” Reiko enquires.

“Trust me, I’ve checked, it’s a mystery.”

We leave mid meditation with the instructor gawping at our friendship. Dysfunctional fuckers.

 

Reiko and Abigail are liabilities to the motor industry, so myself and Kara are the designated drivers. Days like this, boxed into the Ford Escort on road trips to the countryside I cherish them so much, I place them into a special section of memories, titled ‘Bunk-Off days.’

“Pump up the volume! Bass! Bass!”  Abigail bellows from the back seat.

“Why didn’t we buy a special seat for this young girl?” Reiko pats her head obnoxiously.

“You brave soul.” I call out. From the reflection of the other commuters, we look like a bunch of goats dressed in plastic beads and sunglasses, our copper hooves ‘raising the hoof’ out of the windows in a dated wave dance. We all look like we’ve been dejected out of 1984.

“Who’s great idea was it to buy this stupid car? I wouldn’t be seen dead in it,” I groan.

“Welcome to hell!!” Abigail cackles out of the bong, adding to the eerie witch guise she embraces.

“Okay, no more skunk for you,” Reiko grabs the bong to light up her hit.

Down the M11, over the junction and off the side road, we enter euphoria. The Secret Garden Party festival which, (on good terms or not) we aim to make this the highlight of our year. Streams of lights and lanterns, floats and paper mâché swaying in the wind. Naked partygoers, folk music streaming into my veins, incoherent men and women sniffing, popping, inhaling, living life as we should. Beautiful landscape gardens, sun baking our skins, mud coating them, slugs tasting them. Delicious.

As we pull up into the car park, a mystic meg impersonator approaches us and tells me a nightmare.

“I had a feeling about you, the most northern point of the sun told me to come and give you these,” She hands me four labels.

“Distribute them how you will, but deep down, only you will know the true thoughts of your destiny”.

“Well thanks Meg!” I grab the labels and park the car into a poor excuse for a space.

As we walk over to the East entrance of the site, Reiko’s curiosity gets hold of her.

“What do the labels say?” she enquires.

“Let’s see, leader, leader, follower annnd lost. Okay so you’re definitely this one.” I hand the lost label to Abigail, bless her.

“Lost, that’s deep,” Abigail accepts and places the sticker across her forehead, in between the Elton John shades and her chocolate afro.

“You better not give me the follower label otherwise I’m taking the tickets I bought with my money and-”

“-Just take the f*****g label if that means so much to you, there’s two anyway,” I tell her.

We both look behind to Abigail wandering in circles and Kara trailing behind with the camping equipment.

“Why couldn’t we be normal friends and go to a Polo tournament, Royal Ascot, Ibiza?!” I groan as I stick the follower label on Reiko’s mouth when she finally catches up.

“Because we’re truants. We bunk off work like we’re 15 again. We’re pioneers; thrusting ourselves into the next generation of partying.”

“Because we’re the worst graduates with nowhere else to goooo!” Abigail shrieks as she spins faster around on the spot, then spews bits of donuts and minestrone soup over her latex red dress.

“Let’s go and parrrttaaaayyyyy!” Kara pulls me to the entrance and we skid across the mud hippies paradise.