Georgia Watson has never been good at change. Which is why suddenly moving house after her parents find better work elsewhere is a huge step for her. Not only leaving her friends and everything she has grown up with behind but her memories as well...
I will never understand Dad's weird obsessions with waking me up in the morning, using the oddest techniques ever. Your Dad probably gives you a gentle poke or perhaps a yell from downstairs, making his whereabouts as discrete as possible but my Dad? Well, let me tell you.
"Georgia!" I heard my rather abruptly spoken Father, shout from downstairs at the top of his lungs. "Georgia!" he yelled again. In my unconscious state, I said nothing. Using the last granule of energy I have in my body, I let out a low grunt. This requires a lot of energy. The energy that could be used for more productive activities such as sleeping. Although that certain sound does require a lot of energy it is enough for him to understand that: I am awake and I hear his call. So, on I go for another 20 minutes dreaming about well the most random things my brain can come up with.
After my precious sleeping time has passed, I hear stomping heading straight for my room. Then my door swings open revealing Dad, his hair all messed up, his breathing sounds like Darth Vadar and the bags under his eyes have some kind of pocket forming just sitting there on his face. How lovely.
"Mmm," I say tucking my head into the pillow.
"Georgia get up. This is ridiculous!"
"Mm."
"This is your last chance."
"Mm."
"Fine that's it!"
It's my fault for getting myself into this situation. Although I can imagine what is about to happen. Yes, he is going to do his famous bed lift.
So, he grabbed the bottom of my bed and strained to pull it up. Now his arms were extended above his head and my whole body is now slowly falling up the bed towards the floor. Oh, that hot sensation of all the blood rushing towards my head 30 minutes before school is my favourite.
Note the sarcasm.
"Dad, what the fuck?" I shouted at him, instantly regretting it. Why does my brain not think about the things I regretfully do. I am so dumb.
"I beg you pardon?" Dad said now dropping the bed so it banged furiously on the floor. "Did I just hear what I think I heard?"
"No," I said, as I was surprisingly more conscious and approaching my chance to sit up. But yes, my bad for saying 'fuck'. Come on, I'm 16, give me a break. I have hormones and shit flying everywhere. Damn, I said 'shit'.
