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It's a long time since I saw Dandy Lion. We were friends. Once. But we were
young then, carefree and in love. As much as teenagers ever are.
She was Danielle Lion, but a nickname like Dandy was too delicious for lively friends to miss. Her
ancestors were French; there was the aristocratic Daniel de Lyonne (L-Y-O-N-N-E) in medieval times.
She was proud of that.
You could feel and smell the Frenchness about her, the way she carried her tall slim-waisted body,
the tilt of the head, and there was an arrogant jaunty air as she flicked long dark tresses over
well-shaped shoulders and those gorgeous brown eyes dared you to come nearer.
I think we were in love. Well, I was.
She always had answers, and questions, lots of questions. The teachers loved her. They asked her
first: "What do you think Danielle?" They never called her Dandy. "Wouldn't it be more accurate to
say Shakespeare was telling a story of family differences when he wrote Romeo and Juliet? I mean
it's not just a love story is it?" The words rolled softly like peaches, as fruit to be savoured.
But for an intelligent girl she had, it seemed to me, some quirky beliefs. There was a fairyland
there, an ethereal unreal world, straight out of Tolkien: a belief in witches and fairies. "My room's
full of elves and pixies and broomsticks," she said. "I've had them since I was small. There's a
real spirit world out there you know. I've got wings too." And I imagined how beautiful she would
look, fluttering above my head in a pink fairy dress, waving a wand and casting her enchanted spell
over me.
Perhaps she did.
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