Seven Writers.

Neroli's pained expression was evident as she asked, "Why can't you go to the Football with me tonight?" I felt a wave of discomfort, like I was drained of energy, as it surged to switch on my electrical fence. Growing up, I had overly permeable boundaries, so the thought of another pained barrage of begging triggered the beginnings of a headache. Instinctively, I contracted my body, much like a day flower without sunlight or a butterfly diving back into its used chrysalis. 

I couldn't bear to meet her gaze, knowing how intense she could be. "No, I don't want to," I thought. And in those few seconds that a thought takes, those few seconds of no response seemed to increase Neroli's resolve. She snubbed my vibes and draped a red and yellow striped jersey over me. She almost tucked it under my laying body on the couch, like a mother putting her child to bed, presumably to check if the size was correct,"Yes, this will work for you." I gasped and tossed the aberration onto the coffee table, adding, "Honestly, you don't take no for an answer, do you?" She pleaded, "Please, no one else can go tonight?" 

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Can't you go alone?" As soon as I said that, I felt guilty, and I knew the adversary had gauged me when she tried her soft ploy, "Come on, I don't want to travel on the train alone," She added, “And besides, I will be alone looking scary in that stadium.” Exasperated, I answered, "So, I'm supposed to be your bodyguard?" She shrugged her shoulders, "Yes and No." I knew she had hooked me on the first, the safety concern and the second, the fear of being scorned as the strange lone figure at the game. And yet I would be the intellectual heretic, not the hero, attending such derelict entertainment. I laughed insanely like Vincent Price. Yes, I mulled, that football match is reminiscent of the curious circus within the term ‘bread and circus’. Words flew out my mouth like an eagle diving for its prey, “Just give it a miss, or sell them online. Anyway, the train rides will be crowded and uncomfortably warm and stink of sweat and alcohol.” 

Stung, Neroli's resolve became more robust. She had to apply a different tactic. She grew very tall and spindly. She towered over me like a cucumber stick held above cheese and chive dip. Her eyebrow arched with the trickery of a cartoon villain; it lifted like a hairy caterpillar, rearing up on some of its hind legs. "Hmm, how about I treat you to the next abstract theatre production by Criss-cross Players?" she suggested, her voice tinged with drawl and high-pitched intrigue. Stubbornly, she marched like a soldier to her phone on the kitchen divider. She tapped her screen, eyes widening, 'Ah, let me see, 'Life and Death of Almost Everyone: A Play by David Campton.' Oh, there are still seats available there, darling!" How did she know? Then I remembered how I had come home late one night, filled with the energy of the theatre, regaling the night's highlight. She looked so cute, with messy hair, walking half-asleep in her soft pink dressing gown, the belt dragging behind her like a tail to turn on the kettle.

Unfortunately, she has morphed from a placid, fluffy, pink creature to a ferocious beast. She teased me, knowing my weakness, parading the possibility of another perfect night at the theatre for a pound of my flesh! I honestly was defeated with a capital dee! When I said, "Okay, I'll go with you to the football tonight", I became the betrayer of my reality. If the loss of my dignity, ' the football match attendee' was not enough, Money bags wanted blood too. She looked in the opposite direction from me. picked up the jersey off the coffee table and dropped it on top of my head, singing, “Rah, Rah, Devils, Dah, dah.” Most of the time, I like Neroli’s dry humour, but right now, I'm not sure if I hated that or hated her. I only mumbled, "I'll wear it!" Hearing that, she knew I was in complete submission. She speared the PayPal button with her pointer false nail and completed the purchase.

It was more than three hours later when the henous shock finally wore off. Everything felt surreal. My diminished self-respect sported a bright red wig and wore yellow war paint stripes on my cheeks. It was a strange moment when I realised I was sitting in a football stadium. The fine line between pleasure and pain occurred when my phone pinged! Checking my email alert, yes, there it is, the antithesis of my discomfort! Neroli had delivered her promise, her temptation. That July 28th bus ticket to the Toowoomba Garden Festival of Flowers had arrived! Neroli smirked at my rippling mood and sniggered to the stranger beside her, "Everyone has their price, darling!" 

Neroli was always picking up strangers and making them immediate friends for life. She met me at a bus stop, and we've been flatmates for yonks, so I know the sort of magnetism she carries. Neroli giggled with her new friend, “Hey Harriet, this is Ganita.” Ganita exaggerated her closed-mouth smile and waved her hand next to her waistline. Neroli winked at her and wrapped her arm around me. She pulled my head close to her shoulder. I was startled as a flash came from her phone. 

My eyes squinted as Neroli contorted my body flash after flash. I rubbed my eyes to focus on her downloading the photos to Instagram. Her perfect poise, puckered lips, and beautiful face coupled with several of mine looking like a dehydrated shrimp trying to scream my swan song on a hot BBQ plate. Now she was drunk and in cohorts with strangers, mocking me, "Ohh, Nelly,” I pouted, “My name’s not Nelly!” She continued adjusting my wig, “You're expanding your, almost medium, mind dear! Think of this night as a personal growth experience."

This time, there were several sniggers from the girls next to Neroli and Ganita; I guessed they were all in on the joke (me). The sadism was cut short by a loud announcement, “Please stand for the Australian national anthem.” Steaming, I spoke, “You're enjoying this!" From behind me, a spectator tapped my shoulder, “Shhh!” Centering, I recognised the nervous young singer, she had won the 'Australia's Got Talent' show a couple of years ago. She began, "Australians all let us rejoice, for we are young and free." Her voice sounded melodic. I think her name was Saleem Andrews, a New South Wales contestant. Her sequined long dress glittered. Some crowd sang, some mouthed the words, and some stayed silent during the, Anthem. 

No sooner finished, the referee blew the whistle, and the two teams rushed at each other, the ball darting back and forth between them. I observed this joyfully because I had less than two hours to endure it! I pledged to myself, "I will never, ever learn the intricacies of football rules," and grinned directly at Neroli and her brand new companions, projecting "No, never." I looked dumbed down and they ignored me. 

The sudden silence brought my attention back to the game, to the crowd; they seemed tense. Those donning blue jerseys sat on the edge of their seats. A reddish player skidded across the end line with the ball, and I think that was a goal. The red and yellow-clad supporters leapt up from their seats, bursting into fervent cheers. Now it was Harriet’s time; revenge is sweet when served up in small doses. Casually, I reached into my handbag and discreetly retrieved my hidden monkey grinder. Standing up with the item, I deliberately rotated it leisurely. I used a flat voice, "Oh yeah, oh yeah, rah, rah, dah, dah, devils." As I continued my mockery, those behind me, the back of the congregation, darted confused looks at each other. I pulled out the following item from my handbag. I blew the party whistle, creating a dull, whimsical "burro, burro" sound, the spat breath blowing a short stream of coloured paper outwards. Still standing, I pronounced, “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi!" Ganita frowned, “Now that’s embarrassing!” Neroli leaned in to whisper, "Stop it." I responded softly, "It's too late, darling. I have all your gifted tickets now."

Mist rolled onto the playfield. The spotlights strobed. I threw a heavy and plaid 'Onkaparinga' blanket over my shoulders. I had an escape plan. The new level of cold provided me with an excuse. I could find the toilet and buy food to waste this boring nite away. I proclaimed to Neroli and her friends I wanted to go to the bathroom. I asked if the girls wanted me to get anything from the canteen. Neroli grabbed my blanket to pull me close. She said, “Hey, wouldn't you guess? I went to school with Ganita’s brother” She dug her elbow into Ganita’s arm, “Hey, Gan?” Ganita nodded. Pixie (I was later to find out her name was Pixie) agreed! Pixie added hurriedly while the Ref followed through on what I think was a penalty at the sidelines, or God forbid the game was seeping to the back of my mind, “My older sister was in Ganita’s art class, Grade Eleven and Twelve.” Ganita and Pixie squealed with a girl squeeze. I wanted to go, “Would you like anything to eat or drink?” Their attention diverted to the game. They muttered and gave incoherent answers as the football soared through the air, landing in what I think were the blue wingers' arms. I made an executive decision: a couple of sauced hot chip cups and hot dogs would be on the menu without breaking the bank.

To waste time, I chose the longest bathroom line. I mused at the Roman Empire girls shivering for their vanity as I stayed dowdy and warm under the blanket. Within the Colosseum, roars burst open on the players drenched in their pheromones and acidic competitivenes hoping for victory, glory, honour, and the spoils of war. The lined women, in the image of Venus, wore short skirts and tights hugging curved muscled butts, they had freshly bleached hair contrasted with dark eyeliner, topped with fake eyelashes, and you can’t forget those red puffed lips. 

Good, as I washed my hands, I presumed the horn sound meant half-time. There might be throngs of people. Would you be surprised if I told you I am about to chose the longest line at the cafeteria? 

Returning to Neroli and her new-found companions with the hot food, they expressed their heartfelt thanks, exclaiming, "Hey, thanks, so hungry." The board displayed the match had 15 minutes left (I grinned to myself). I read a blog, "Was Shakespeare Seven Writers?" I looked up when the crowd erupted. No sooner were people gathering their belongings and the mass exiting the gates. Long story short. I had finished the deal. I took off my wig and rubbed off the stripes with spit and tissue, with flattened hair, I went home alone. Neroli stayed back and partied with the girls and the boys. 

You might ask, who won the football match?