And yet another of my old pieces - this was an assignment for school several years ago, and I dug it out just today. I love reviews, but if you whether you leave one is up to you. Enjoy! :)


I hate the texture of pages. Pages of books. Pages upon pages of poems that I must continually read aloud. Unending chapters of Keats or Milton. All of this torture is inflicted upon me every day, and made worse by the fact that I must speak all of these with six to eight marbles in my mouth. I've swallowed a few.

And now, here I sit at three in the morning, ticked off beyond belief that I must keep repeating that extremely abominable line, "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain." What is wrong with my speech? I'm saying exactly what he tells me to say! The way he makes me say it! How is my voice any different from his?

Oh, how I loathe being thought of by him as a "dirty little guttersnipe."

But this is where the smile graces my lips. Dirty little guttersnipe. I am his dirty little guttersnipe. My hate for these things are merely reflections of the shadows of my past. Dirty little guttersnipe, indeed. I take back that loathing. I love being a guttersnipe. Henry's guttersnipe. Why would I be listening with amusement as Henry tells his infamous story- my story- to our three month-old daughter, with little Robert tugging at his arm, insisting on putting his line or two into the story if I didn't?

I am Eliza Higgins of 27A Wimpole Street, formerly known as Eliza Doolittle of Covent Garden. Well, really, Lisson Grove, but that place isn't fit for pigs. I know what I want, and I set out to get it with a fierce determination. It's one of my rather distinguishing traits- according to Henry, anyways. But Henry is all I need- he and our children are all that matter to me. I can only do my best at being what I am.

As I silently observe, not really there, I am jolted out of my musings by somewhat abrupt shouting behind me. Good heavens, is that Colonel Pickering? What could he be hollering about?

The old man bustles into our sitting room, waving a paper wildly with excitement. He's nearly upset our afternoon tea, I notice, with some slight dismay. But no matter, no harm has been done. Henry's looking up at him with wide, surprised eyes, and little Lucy has begun to whimper. Robert is simply gaping at his "grandfather." Colonel Pickering is usually so much more reserved!

Henry has finally found his voice. "My dear Colonel Pickering, what is it?"

Pickering's voice is jolly and excited. "Henry, Eliza- the reviews, the reviews! They couldn't be better! They are astounding!"

The confusion etched in my husband's face clears instantly, and an excited smile lights his features- that ridiculously silly, lop-sided smile that I love. In one stride he is next to Colonel Pickering, peering at the papers. Lucy is crying insistently now, so I take her from my husband and attempt to hush her. Robert has become disinterested and is playing with his blocks on the floor.

Just as exhilarated and excited as my husband, I ask eagerly, "Henry, what do they say?" I bite my lip as I wait for him to answer, cradling my baby while half humming a lullaby.

Henry looks as if he wants to jump for joy. "I don't believe it! Listen, Eliza: 'This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force- in the face of those searching for ground-breaking reality!'"

I imagine there's a look on my face that is a cross between that of a stunned individual and that of one who has just been given the best news one could ever, ever receive. I quickly settle Lucy in her bassinet that is standing next to the divan and rush to Henry's side. Reading the reviews for our novel, my face lights just as Henry's has done.

Suddenly my feet have left the ground, and I'm in my husband's arms, whirling in a circle. "Eliza, we did it! We're a success!"

I'm laughing from joy, not really worried to keep our baby silent any longer. We did it. We've published the story of Henry's phonetic work- specifically with my contributions woven in. All the details are given, for Henry kept such meticulous, painstaking notes. How I ran off after the Embassy Ball, how Henry missed me, every insult we threw at each other, the evening of my return, up to the announcement of our engagement- all in the forms of some fictional characters I dreamed up.

I finally manage to say something. "Is it really true? Am I seeing things? Did I hear what I think I heard?" As I say this, I'm looking into Henry's eyes. However, it is Colonel Pickering who answers.

He only smiles at me as he picks up a crumpet from the table. "You did, Eliza. Quote, unquote. You're a success! You did it!"

I slowly shake my head. "No." The look of shock crossing both men's faces makes me giggle. I simply pull Henry closer for a kiss and murmur, "Let me reiterate: we did it."


Ende