Angel. Colleen McCullough

Monday, May 30th, 1960

       Monday, June 6th, 1960

       Thursday, June 23rd, 1960

       Tuesday, July 5th, 1960

       Friday, July 22nd, 1960

       Wednesday, August 24th, 1960

       Sunday, September 11th, 1960

       Monday, September 12th, 1960

       Tuesday, September 13th, 1960

       Wednesday, September 14th, 1960

       Saturday, September 17th, 1960

       Saturday, September 24th, 1960

       Sunday, September 25th, 1960

       Monday, September 26th, 1960

       Wednesday, October 19th, 1960

       Monday, November 7th, 1960

       Friday, November 11th, 1960 (My Birthday)

       Wednesday, November 23rd, 1960

       Thursday, December 1st, 1960

       Saturday, December 10th, 1960

       Sunday, December 25th, 1960 (Christmas Day)

       Wednesday, December 28th, 1960

       Friday, December 30th, 1960

       Sunday, January 1st, 1961 (New Year’s Day)

       Monday, January 2nd, 1961

       Tuesday, January 3rd, 1961

       Thursday, January 5th, 1961

       Saturday, January 7th, 1961

       Monday, January 9th, 1961

       Wednesday, January 11th, 1961

       Friday, January 13th, 1961

       Saturday, January 14th, 1961

       Thursday, February 2nd, 1961

       Monday, February 20th, 1961

       Tuesday, February 21st, 1961

       Wednesday, March 15th, 1961

       Friday, March 24th, 1961

       Tuesday, April 4th, 1961

       Wednesday, April 5th, 1961

       Monday, April 10th, 1961

       Friday, April 21st, 1961

       Wednesday, May 17th, 1961

       Thursday, May 25th, 1961

       Saturday, June 3rd, 1961

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       Friday,January 1st, 1960 (New Year’s Day)

      How on earth can I get rid of David? Don’t think that I haven’t contemplated murder, but I wouldn’t get away with murder any more than I got away with the bikini I bought myself with the five quid Granny gave me for Christmas.

      “Take it back, my girl, and bring home something one-piece with a modesty panel across the business area,” Mum said.

      Truth to tell, I was a bit horrified when the mirror showed me how much of me that bikini put on display, including sideburns of black pubic hair I’d never noticed when they lurked behind a modesty panel. The very thought of plucking out a million pubic hairs sent me back to exchange the bikini for an Esther Williams model in the latest colour, American Beauty. Sort of a rich, reddish pink. The shop assistant said I looked ravishing in it, but who is going to ravish me, with David Bloody Murchison hovering over my carcass like a dog guarding a bone? Certainly not David Bloody Murchison!

      It was up over the hundred today, so I went down to the beach to christen the new costume. The surf was running high, pretty unusual for Bronte, but the waves looked like green satin sausages—dumpers, no good for body surfing. I spread my towel on the sand, slathered zinc cream all over my nose, pulled on my matching American Beauty swim cap, and ran towards the water.

      “It’s too rough to go in, you’ll get dumped,” said a voice.

      David. David Bloody Murchison. If he suggests the safety of the kids’ bogey hole, I thought, girding my modesty-panelled loins, there is going to be a fight.

      “Let’s go round to the bogey hole, it’s safe,” he said.

      “And get flattened by kids bombing us? No!” I snarled, and launched into the fight. Though “fight” is not the correct word. I yell and carry on, David just looks superior and refuses to bite. But today’s fight produced a new rocket—I finally got up the gumption to inform him that I was tired of being a virgin.

      “Let’s