Page 19 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
See. That’s why I love Aziz.
‘Please!’ Ernie tugged at Arrie’s top, sort of patting her on the boob, whilst we were all cheersing Mum. ‘Please can we just open the presents?’
He had a trail of snot running from his left nostril down to his lip, his cheeks were scarlet, he looked dangerously close to bursting a blood vessel, and he was frankly quite gross, but you know, at that moment, I felt for him: the kid wanted his presents. So did I. When we were little, Mum had this whole thing about waiting until after lunch and I’d get crucified if I snuck in and opened one.
Arrie stood absolutely still and glared at him. So like Mum. No wonder she’s a dog trainer. Eventually, Ernie got the message and took his hands off her, and stood there waiting, his bottom lip wobbling.
‘One,’ she assented at last.
‘One more you mean,’ said Roger wryly.
‘But!’ warned Arrie. ‘You have to hand out one for everyone first.’
Ernie whooped and sprinted to the tree, shouting at Edwinto help and within five seconds all the adults were holding a present and there was the sound of frantic ripping of paper from the twins.
I looked down at the package in my left hand. It was wrapped in brown paper – standard Mum-fare – and shaped promisingly. A5. I tested it. It felt the right weight. Yes. I set down my champagne flute on the oak sideboard and tested the parcel in two hands. I think it was what I asked for. The problem is you never knew with Mum. She set that limit at £50 which meant she may have bought me some knock-off version.
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘Mum – is this what I think it is?’
‘I said £50,’ Mum reproved. ‘And even you can count that high.’
‘Great.’ I began unwrapping it, ready for disappointment. It’s what Mum specialises in.
It was face down when I first saw it, and yellow pleather, so I assumed it was just a cheap imitation of what I wanted. Then I turned it over and saw the wordsThe Guide: A Manifesting Journal™on the front; I got a little kick. Sure, Mum had obviously checked the price list and decided I didn’t get the pink moleskin like Radhi Devlukia-Shetty. But she’d still spent £69. Progress. And, I mean, essentially it was the same thing, just a different cover.
Quite a tasteless cover. Amy Hart fromLove Islandalso has it in the yellow pleather.
‘Well?’ prompted Mum. ‘Don’t you like it?’
‘No, no, I do! Thanks, Mum.’
I took a sip of champagne.
‘Careful!’ she said. ‘You’re spilling champagne on that immorally expensive notebook.’
I took another swig of champagne and hastily wiped the cover with my sleeve. Came right off. I guess there are some advantages to pleather.
It’s time to begin the next stage of your journey: manifesting everything you want. And if you followThe Guide™, that’s as easy as 1, 2, 3…
Open yourself to the Universe
Believe
Use The Guide’s tried and trusted journal format and enjoy extra Guide Posts™ to help you along your way
Guide Post™
Both journey and journaling have identical roots stemming from the French word ‘journee’, meaningdaily: remember that completing this journal daily is your transport towards the future life you want and deserve. So write in it as much and often as you can – your future is your priority!
Date: Sunday 25 DecemberTime: 11.47pm
My thoughts and reflections:
I’m in the ‘other spare room’ and if anything, it’s even worse than I remembered. Not only does it smell of damp but there’s some sort of acrid, pungent other odour too, almost like ammonia. Mum says she can’t smell a thing but still came in and sprayed Febreze everywhere. Well, actually she sprayed oven cleaner everywhere ‘because of the poor labelling and design’, not because she’s pissed, of course. She’s quite a defensive drunk. The small side window won’t open. Dad says it’s because of the damp and the wood has swollen and stuck. Fabulous. Plus, I can’t move without banging against all the paint pots, Astrid’s old canoe, the rocking chair – in fact half the contents of our old house that won’t fit in the new house – and now, in addition, the massive and extremely hard Peloton bike that I told Dad, correctly, he wouldn’t want past January last year. The freezer whirs constantly and the camp bed creaks and I can feel the springs.
So here I am, getting bruises and breathing problems whilst the rest of the family and their husbands and offspring and pets lord it up in the nicer rooms. Basically I’m Harry Potter. The most annoying part is, I know if I had a better-paid job or my own flat, or a husband, I’d probably be in my own bedand the twins would be in here. Literally the minute Arrie got engaged to Roger, she never had to sit on the stool for meals. Ever. And Astrid and Aziz get the soft, matching Harrods towels if they stay over, and the unchipped mugs. It’s so unfair that they move to ‘guest’ status just by being married.
Well, things are about to change.
