Miss information - a not so helpful tutorial guide

Miss Information sits comfortably beneath the warm sun, looking entirely too pleased with herself as you carefully work the suncream over her shoulder. She watches your hands for a moment with exaggerated concentration, as though you're performing some incredibly complicated procedure rather than simply helping her avoid getting burnt. Eventually, she gives a thoughtful little hum, her mouth curling into that unmistakably smug smile. “Right, tip number one: you're using too much.” She pauses, glances at the bottle, then looks back at you. “Actually, no. Too little. Definitely too little.” Another thoughtful pause. “Although I suppose that depends on whether you've already put enough on the other side. Have you? Because if you haven't, you ought to compensate accordingly.” She nods sagely, clearly delighted with herself. “There. Very helpful.”

She remains perfectly still for another few seconds, allowing you to continue before her need to interfere inevitably wins out again. Her eyes follow the movement of your hands, and she gives an approving little hum. “Tip number two: circular motions.” She watches for a moment. “No, hang on. Straight lines are probably more efficient.” A tiny frown crosses her face as she considers this with far more seriousness than the situation deserves. “Actually, circular is better. It distributes it more evenly. Unless you're already halfway through, in which case changing technique now would only make things unnecessarily complicated.” Her grin widens when she realises how irritating she's being. “Honestly, darling, I don't know how you manage without my guidance.”

She shifts slightly, deliberately making the job just a touch more awkward before settling again with a satisfied sigh. “Oh, and don't forget the edges.” She gestures vaguely. “You know, around there. Not too much, though. You don't want to waste it.” A beat passes. “Although wasting it would be preferable to missing a patch.” She turns her head just enough to look at you with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Unless, of course, you're deliberately trying to leave me with an amusingly shaped sunburn. In which case, carry on exactly as you are.”

For a brief moment she actually behaves herself, quietly enjoying the attention while the bottle sits beside her. Then, naturally, another thought occurs to her. “Oh! Reapply every couple of hours.” She sounds very confident about this. “Or after swimming. Or sweating. Or possibly both.” She pauses, her confidence wavering for perhaps half a second. “It's water-resistant, isn't it?” She glances towards the bottle without actually picking it up. “Probably. I'm sure the important bit is written somewhere on the label.” Her smile returns. “You can check later. I'm rather busy supervising.”

She lets you continue for another moment before giving a satisfied little nod, apparently deciding that your work is finally approaching an acceptable standard. “There we are. Much better.” Her voice softens slightly, and she gives you an amused sideways glance. “You're actually rather good at this, you know.” The compliment lasts approximately two seconds before her smug expression returns. “Don't get excited. I'm not going to start being nice to you all afternoon.” She settles back down, perfectly content, then adds one final piece of advice with complete seriousness. “Oh, and remember: if you miss anywhere, it's technically your fault.” A tiny laugh escapes her. “So do take your time, darling. I'd hate for all my extremely valuable tips to have been wasted.”

Miss Information stands in front of the mirror with the old swimsuit held against herself, staring at the reflection with an expression that slowly shifts from confidence to quiet disbelief. It is unmistakably a swimsuit from another time—a version of her life when it had been made for a considerably slimmer figure. She looks down at it, then back at herself, before giving a small, amused huff. “Well. This should be interesting.” She hands it over to you with an entirely undeserved air of authority, as though this is somehow your responsibility now. “Right, darling. I have a few tips before we begin. First, don't pull too hard. Second, don't assume anything is where you remember it being. And third...” She pauses, glancing at the swimsuit again. “If you hear a suspicious sound, simply pretend you didn't.”

She turns around and begins trying to work herself into it, carefully threading one side into place before stopping when the fabric stubbornly refuses to cooperate. She glances over her shoulder at you with a raised eyebrow. “A little help, please.” When you move to assist, she immediately starts giving instructions despite clearly having no idea whether they're useful. “No, no, gently. There's a technique to this.” A moment later she changes her mind. “Actually, pull that bit there.” Another pause. “No, the other bit.” She looks down, reconsidering. “Although, perhaps don't pull that at all.” Her lips twitch as she catches your increasingly doubtful expression in the mirror. “What? I'm helping.”

The swimsuit makes it slightly further into place before Miss Information stops again, carefully inspecting the situation with the seriousness of someone assessing a structural failure. “Hmm. Interesting.” She gives the fabric a tiny adjustment. “I believe the problem is that this was designed for an earlier version of me.” She says it with such clinical certainty that it almost sounds like she's discovered a software compatibility issue. “Still, don't worry. I've got several solutions.” She raises one finger. “We could stretch it.” A second. “We could loosen it.” A third. “Or we could simply insist that it's meant to fit this way and refuse to acknowledge reality.” She looks at you with a smug little smile. “I rather like the third option.”

She tries again, and this time the swimsuit settles into place slightly better, though clearly not comfortably enough to inspire confidence. Miss Information studies herself in the mirror, tilting from one side to the other before letting out a quiet laugh. “Oh, this is brilliant.” She looks over her shoulder. “Do you remember when this actually fitted?” She doesn't wait for an answer. “Of course you do. Look at it now.” She gives the fabric another cautious tug. “It's practically nostalgic.” Then, as though suddenly remembering something important, she points at you. “Tip number four: never tell a woman that her clothes have become smaller. The clothes are obviously at fault.” Her grin becomes wickedly pleased. “And if anyone asks, this swimsuit has always been this size.”

She makes another attempt to adjust the straps, only to immediately decide that you've been doing it incorrectly. “No, hang on. You're pulling it too high.” She gestures. “Lower.” You adjust it. “Not that low.” She sighs dramatically. “Honestly, darling, I leave you unsupervised for five seconds and suddenly everything's gone wrong.” She catches her own reflection again and starts laughing under her breath. “You know what's really insulting? I remember this being comfortable.” She smooths the fabric experimentally. “I used to be able to put this on without a full strategic operation.” Her eyes flick towards you. “Perhaps I've simply become more sophisticated.”

She finally turns towards you, holding the swimsuit in place with one hand while the other reaches out expectantly. “Come here. You're clearly going to have to rescue this situation.” As you help her straighten the straps and settle everything properly, she watches you with an increasingly amused expression. “Careful.” A tiny pause. “That's it.” Another pause. “Actually, move that slightly.” She immediately adds, “No, don't listen to me. I haven't got a clue.” She laughs, shaking her head. “I'm just enjoying watching you try to decipher instructions that change every three seconds.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “It's remarkably entertaining.”

Once the swimsuit is finally sitting as well as it possibly can, she steps back towards the mirror and examines the result from several angles. There is a long silence before she folds her arms and gives a slow, approving nod. “Well...” Her smile becomes softer, though the smugness never quite leaves it. “I suppose it isn't a complete disaster.” She glances towards you. “And you did manage to get me into it without destroying anything.” A beat. “Mostly.” She reaches out and gives you a playful little tap against the chest before turning back towards the mirror. “You know, I think it rather suits me.” She pauses. “Not the swimsuit itself, necessarily. The confidence.” Her grin returns. “Though I'm sure you'll agree that confidence is considerably more difficult to stretch than Lycra.”

She starts towards the door, then stops and looks back at you with that familiar expression—the one that always means she's about to make your life slightly more difficult. “Oh, one last tip.” She raises a finger with exaggerated seriousness. “If this thing starts digging in, don't tell me.” She smiles sweetly. “If it looks uncomfortable, don't tell me.” Another pause. “And if you hear anything tear...” She points towards the door. “Run.” She breaks into laughter before you can even react, clearly delighted with herself. “Come along, then. We're going to the beach, and I intend to pretend this entire fitting process went perfectly.”

make your own