I have a terrible habit of seeming enthusiastic when I’m not. “Would you like to help me move?” “Oh golly, that’d be tremendously fun. We can dress up in white overalls and wear bandanas*. Brilliant. Let me just cancel my movie premiere champagne reception” (well, watching those who are going to it on my tv whilst drinking some warm cava, but still great fun). As an unhelpful counter to this excessive enthusiasm I am decidedly and deliberately unenthusiastic about things I’m really rather keen on. “Just thought I’d pop by with some ice cold champagne and a home-baked chicken pie. Is that ok?” “Oh gosh, really? Do you absolutely have to? I don’t mean to be rude but there’s really no need. I’m actually pretty stuffed- just ate all the ends of the loaves that had accumulated over the last month. Afraid there’s nothing left for you, sorry. Probably better to come another time.” Luckily I don’t have long to gnash my teeth in despair as am usually pretty tired from all the moving. However, the times they are a-changing. Last night I had a splendid set of visitors who simply barrelled into my flat ignoring my feeble protests, laden with food and well-thought out critiques of this season’s Apprentice. I have resolved to change. This is what people must now expect:
1. Surly refusal to help anyone in any matter whatsoever. Lifts for those with broken legs? The walk will do wonders for your upper arms. You’ll be mistaken for Michelle in no time. Gosh- I should probably insist that they attribute thier enviable new body to me. I could be the new Matt Roberts. Or that scary woman who does Madonna and Gwenny.
*I get confused between painting and moving.