Momo wasn’t technically in the dartboard game. She was above it — like Switzerland, but with hay in her hair. She was Kizzy’s best mate, which meant she knew more about my love life than I did, and wasn’t shy about updating me on the league table.
She was wiry, sunburnt, and smelled faintly of hoof oil. Her hands were always scuffed from reins or drawing pins pilfered for Kizzy’s corkboard. When she spoke, it was usually with the authority of someone who had spent three hours convincing a Shetland pony to walk through a gate.
Momo didn’t date boys. She assessed them, the way you’d assess a gelding at auction: teeth, posture, temperament, ability to carry weight. I always suspected she thought I’d fail on “ability to carry weight.”
Her house was an academic jungle — books stacked like Jenga, teapots always half-full, and a faint smell of lentils. When I visited, she made me sit on a beanbag while she and Kizzy dissected my diary entries like they were decoding enemy signals.
“Robbie says Cece smiled at him in Woolworths.”
“Could’ve been wind,” said Momo, without looking up from plaiting a bit of string.
She had nicknames for everyone:
– Sharon was Lips McNicotine.
– Tracey was Snooker Loopy.
– Donna was The Vicar of Ale.
And me? I was The Goose on Wheels. (Not even roller skates. Just wheels. Undefined.)
Momo didn’t kiss me, didn’t tease me, didn’t throw a dart. But she kept the whole circus honest. Whenever I claimed a victory, she’d raise one eyebrow and mutter, “I’ll believe it when I see dental records.”
That was Momo. Pony whisperer. Friendship bracelet queen. The stern commentator of Easter ’78, armed with hay on her jumper and sarcasm on her tongue.
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