Category Archives: Uncategorized

March 1, 2012 · 4:13 pm

Reverse Mary Poppinism

My little sister stayed with me on Sunday. ‘I’m going to put you in the guest room,’ I tell her. ‘It’s so nice in there.’ I try to imply that her stay in the guest room is an honour, rather than a punishment. It’s not. It’s because my sister has a very particular yet incurable disease. I like to think of it as reverse Mary Poppinism. Let me explain. You know how Mary Poppins has an enormous bag so all her things can be neatly stored away?

And how she has magic powers which enable her to tidy a room brilliantly? My little sister has the exact opposite qualities. She has what my Mother terms ‘bag vomit’, which means that wherever she is, the contents of her bags lurch out of their container in a manic bid for freedom.

She also has the ability to turn a just tidied room into a toxic waste site. It is safer for everyone if we do not share a room.

‘Oh,’ My little sister replies. ‘But, we can still hang out before we go to sleep, right?’ ‘Of course,’ I say magnanimously. I pop to the toilet. My little sister upends the contents of her bags onto my bedroom floor.

I return to the toilet, and remain there for several minutes, breathing deeply and humming to myself ‘A spoonful of sugar’. ‘I thought we agreed you were going to sleep in the spare room?’ I ask my little sister, who is now ensconced on the desk chair I want to sit at. ‘Of course,’ My little sister replies cheerfully. ‘Ooh,’ She says, picking up a squidgy banana the nice chaps at Go Ape sent me. ‘Can I have this?’ ‘Certainly not,’ I reply crossly. I potter around organizing some of my stuff. ‘Lucy!’ My little sister says suddenly. ‘Guess where I’ve hidden the banana!’ I can sing songs from ‘Mary Poppins’ as well as anyone, but it’s going to take a little more than a ‘spoonful of sugar’ to help this medicine go down.

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February 29, 2012 · 3:37 pm

Eastbourne. And my therapist.

There are many infuriating things about my therapist, but the worst one is how little she talks about herself. Usually, I just fill in the gaps myself. ‘I’m going away,’ She tells me. ‘So let’s see each other before I do.’ I pop along for a very helpful session.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask her. ‘I don’t actually know,’ She tells me. ‘My husband has organized a surprise trip.’ ‘Hmm,’ I reply thoughtfully. ‘Probably Eastbourne.’

My therapist stares at me. (She does this a lot, but this is a particularly startled stare). ‘I don’t think it’s Eastbourne,’ She replies slowly. ‘I’m pretty sure it is,’ I tell her kindly. ‘Eastbourne is lovely. A bit cold, but lovely.’ I can tell from the look of horror on my therapist’s face that I have not yet convinced her of Eastbourne’s charms.

‘You can go for long bracing walks on the sea,’ I explain. ‘And they have mini-golf. And it rains a lot.’ ‘I haven’t been on holiday for a while,’ My therapist begins. ‘I’m pretty sure my husband knows I would like to see some sunshine.’ ‘There is a small possibility of sunshine in Eastbourne!’ I reassure her happily. ‘At least for a few hours.’ Later my therapist emails to confirm our next appointment. ‘Great,’ I email back. ‘Enjoy Eastbourne!’ I feel that we have made a real break-through. I imagine in the future my therapist will be much keener to talk about her personal life with me.

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February 28, 2012 · 3:29 pm

Kew 159 and how I survive

I am on a covert and possibly lethal mission in Kew. I have made my way to Kew successfully, and exited the tube station as unobtrusively as possible. I smile politely at the builders, eating their sandwiches in the sun. I look around furtively for a cashpoint. There are two greeting card boutiques, a pet store and a gift shop. There is no cashpoint.

I wonder what I am meant to do. It occurs to me that Kew has possibly abandoned the usual British financial systems and is relying instead on the exchange of absurdly ornate handcrafted goods in an elaborate barter arrangement. I am worried, because all I have with me is a much-treasured Nike compression shirt, and my debit card.

I wander slowly back and forth in front of the resting builders. I whistle, to let them know that nothing out of the ordinary is occurring. (I cannot whistle, so I simply purse my lips and act as if sound is issuing from them. It fools almost everyone).

In a flash of genius (which, I might add, took its own sweet time in arriving), I realise that there are two exits to Kew Gardens tube station. Waiting patiently at the other exit is my cashpoint. Glancing around me, I withdraw some cash. (I have stopped pretending to whistle by this point. It is too hard to concentrate on everything).

Girding my loins, I saunter off to my destination. 159 something, I mutter to myself. It is imperative that I do not focus on the menacing TW10 of the postcode. ‘You still have mobile reception,’ I whisper reassuringly. ‘And it’s still on the district line.’

I am meeting a friend of a friend to get what in my opinion is the nicest snood I have ever seen.

(It’s a totally legal snood*, sold by the nice people at Kew 159, but I’m getting it “from source” so it feels terribly naughty and daring. Also, I am in Kew).

I get to 159. It is a private home. I do not let this bother me in the slightest. I ring the bell. I wait. Jokingly, I try the front door handle. The front door opens.

I begin to panic. ‘Hello,’ I call into the house. ‘Um, I’m here about a snood?’ No-one will believe me, I realise, as I admire this family’s extensive trainer  and hiking shoe collection. I’m going to go to prison for a snood. I can only imagine the psychological torture visited upon prisoners in the suburbs. I have watched ‘Desperate Housewives’.

I will not survive.

I leave the house as quietly as possible. In an effort to calm down, I walk down the road. I see a large sign: Kew 159. I follow it to a large office building. It occurs to me that I might possibly have been at the wrong place before. I meet my friend’s friend (who is lovely) and she gives my the snood. I wait til I am a suitable distance from the road before I begin my run home. (Which was planned, but given the circumstances I fear might hint at guilt). I get home, and lovingly unwrap my snood. ‘One day,’ I whisper to it. ‘I will tell you how you came to be here, and the adventures I went on to get you.’ I realise how foolish I was to worry about going to prison. I would certainly have been let of on grounds of reduced mental capacity.

*http://www.kew159.com/fcp/product/womens-clothing/scarves/Twisted-Snood/99902926*

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February 22, 2012 · 11:01 am

Beautiful boys (and playing it cool)

My friend brought a beautiful boy to dinner last week. (Well, strictly speaking, only I was still eating, but I think that counts). Obviously, I played it cool. I ignored him when he introduced himself, and continued shovelling food into my mouth. I waited until he was deep in conversation with another of my friends before yelling across the table, ‘What’s that one called? He’s very pretty’.

We left the restaurant pretty quickly after that. I continued to ignore the beautiful boy. (He was just too pretty. It was like looking at the sun).

We popped over to The Kensington Roof Gardens in a convoy of taxis. ‘I don’t want to be territorial,’ I said to my taxi. ‘But the world’s prettiest boy is mine. Shotgun. I saw him first. Dibs. You know, for me.’ My friends laughed. ‘It’s really fine, Lucy,’ They said. ‘You can have him.’ I played it off cool, but I was secretly delighted. ‘Stop smiling so much,’ My friend told me. ‘You look odd.’

I deigned to speak to him once we were in the club (nightclubs are truly excellent places to hear people’s views on important matters).

‘You love Mumford and Sons,’ I told him abruptly. ‘I do,’ he replied slowly. ‘How did you know?’ I smiled mysteriously. (He was wearing a checked shirt. In fact, he was dressed precisely like a member of the band. Also I had overheard him telling someone else how much he liked them).

By the end of the night, we were dancing in a circle and having a brilliant time. I decided that this was my moment. I lunged across my group of friends to where he stood, merrily bopping away, and prepared to kiss him. Unfortunately, I tripped on my way over to him and fell to the floor. There’s really nothing like playing it cool.

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February 21, 2012 · 12:34 pm

Grow Up

I would like to start this post by stating categorically that I really really like pancakes.

(I like eggs and carbs the most, and this combines both of them). I have no issue with sweet or savoury pancakes, thick or thin pancakes, overdone or undercooked pancakes.

If pancakes were a political party or a sexual preference, I would be a card carrying member of their club. What I hate is pancake day. Guess what? You’re a grown up! You get to choose, every single day, what you put into your mouth. You can eat nothing but pancakes all year long if you so choose. Or never let their fluffy, comforting goodness anywhere near you. The only thing you cannot, in good conscience do, is squeal like a 5 year old on Christmas morning over the idea of a day where you can only eat one food product. You people make me look back on Valentine’s Day with nostalgia. And worry terribly about what you will be like on Halloween.

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February 20, 2012 · 12:31 pm

London Fashion Week

Last Friday, I went to my first ever fashion party. I was moderately excited, until my friends started calling. ‘What shall I wear?’ One asked. ‘What’s the dress code?’ Another emailed. I crossly sent a group email. ‘I can help not at all with the dress code, so please stop asking me.’ There was blissful silence. Friday afternoon, my friend texted me. ‘I don’t care if you don’t know what you SHOULD wear, just tell me what you are GOING to wear.’ (I think my friend didn’t realise that capitals means shouting. I have noticed that a lot of people don’t know this. My Mother, for instance). ‘I don’t know why you’re fussed,’ I replied. ‘We go out all the time.’ ‘But this is different,’ My friend moaned. ‘This is a FASHION party.’ I ignored her at the time, but she was right. Fashion parties are different to normal parties. They’re much worse.

We arrived a little early, and stood in the cold waiting for the doors to open. A somewhat stretched looking older woman strode past us. ‘I do not queue,’ She said to her much younger assistant. ‘Luckily,’ I replied quickly. ‘I do. So if you could just wait behind us, that’d be great.’ People who think plastic surgery reduces one’s facial movement did not see the withering glare this woman shot me. I responded with my own, much practised look, which involves opening my eyes very widely. If you are scared of particularly gormless, shocked looking humans, you would be terrified. Otherwise, not so much.

We entered, got drinks, and chatted amongst ourselves. The party filled up. We continued to drink and talk. It was rather fun. There were lots of curiously dressed people to look at, and unbelievably fancy Belvedere vodka to drink.

(We were very much like Charlie and his Grandpa in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory). Except for one, vital difference. There was nothing to eat. Not a single, blessed thing. When we couldn’t bear it any more, we crossed the road and went to a dumpling and noodle bar, where I blissfully ate 13 dumplings and took off my heels.

‘In future,’ I said to my friends. ‘Instead of fussing about the dress code, we’re going to make dinner plans.’ ‘With that kind of attitude,’ My friend replied. ‘I doubt there’s going to be any future fashion parties for you.’ If you hate food, think queues are beneath you and like to ‘express yourself through your outfit’, you will love fashion parties. You can come and tell me about them if you like-I’ll be in that delicious dumpling bar.

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February 14, 2012 · 11:58 am

CheckSafetyFirst.com

I have found my new favourite website. CheckSafetyFirst.com. They’re the guys who go round places and check safety. (I assume they wake up early, and get there first.

You know, in a time when an orange-flavoured drink substitute which contains more sugar than a bag of Haribo sweets can be marketed as a healthy juice for children, it’s pleasing to see something so appropriately named). So usually, the CheckSafetyFirst guys pop into hotels and lurk around the swimming pool counting the number of dive-bombs and mean older sisters pushing little brothers into the water (He doesn’t have any big brothers! We were trying to toughen him up! I really think our parents should have been more grateful).

 They also check food safety, which reminds me of a school project to ‘find the dirtiest part of the school’, where ‘kitchens and all food areas were out of bounds’. And this Valentine’s Day, they’re helping people at home. CheckSafetyFirst have done a study on ‘takeaway risk’. (Did you know that 1 in 4 Brits plan on celebrating Valentine’s Day with a takeaway? I am furious. I bloody love takeaway. Although it is Tuesday, which is Domino’s ‘Two for Tuesday’ day; or as I like to call it, ‘The day I eat Two large pizzas and am delighted’ . Really every Tuesday is Valentine’s Day for me). 

For those of you who are not so loved-up as I am (Dominos regularly texts me, just to see how I am. And make sure I’m not hungry/ eating other pizzas. Some people might find them a little possessive, but I like how much they care), be wary when ordering your romantic takeaways. Firstly, CheckSafetyFirst tells me, beware of special offers. It could mean the restaurant has lots of out-of-date stock that they are hoping to foist onto their unsuspecting customers. (Two for Tuesday doesn’t count; because it happens 52 times a year. Honestly, anything that happens 52 times a year is not a special offer. It’s more Katie Price’s novels.

Always on special offer). Secondly, don’t accept any lukewarm meat. Thirdly, beware of leftovers. (If you have leftovers, you don’t deserve to have a takeaway. I’m regularly getting through 28″ of pizza. You lot aren’t even trying). Do look at CheckSafetyFirst.com if you’re feeling blue about Valentine’s Day- they’ll tell you how likely your loved-up friends are to survive their romantic break. It’s stupendous.

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February 13, 2012 · 12:46 pm

Jury service

I’ve been thinking a lot about jury service. This is because I’ve been watching far too many episodes of ‘The Good Wife’,

 and now think I know how to influence a jury. I don’t. I have no idea. If I were in a jury I would spend most of my time trying not to fall asleep and wondering what the judge was wearing under their gown. Not in a creepy way, just as a point of interest. Is it pajamas? Or are they wearing a suit? Are they allowed to control the temperature of their courtroom? Because if I were a judge, I’d just crank the heating up skyhigh and sit comfortably in my underwear. The positives to this would be enormous. Firstly, I’d save my clothes from everyday wear and tear. Secondly, I’d reduce my morning routine by half. Thirdly, it would be metaphorically and literally apt that those in the stand should sweat.

I can see no downside whatsoever to my plan.

I assume that in order to be a judge one has to perform at least one session of jury service, so I’m keen to get mine out of the way. (I imagine you also have to take a few classes on gavel banging and wig wearing; but I can slot those in later). I am already totally prepared for my jury service. I will begin by saying nothing, and cultivating an air of mystery and wisdom. This will be easy, because I will be peering intently at the judge, trying to work out what sartorial choices he has made. When it comes to the crucial decision making debate, I will emerge from my shell of mysterious wisdom and quietly make my pronouncement. Which will be received with the gravitas it deserves, and followed by everyone. Like I said, I imagine jury service is the main training ground for our judges. I wonder if I can attend in my underwear?

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February 10, 2012 · 11:46 am

Pilates

‘You know,’ My friend said to me thoughtfully. ‘I really think Pilates is one of the few things that will actually change your body shape.’ She then pointed out that one doesn’t wear shoes in a dojo. She was being surprisingly helpful. I normally avoid gym classes at all costs (as my little sister will certainly point out under this post-I’m not 100% certain which is my Left and Right, which makes them fairly hazardous experiences for me) but my friend had been very reassuring. I strode confidently into the dojo. (This is a normal room but with mirrors on the walls and a padded floor. It’s interior design, as realised by The Playboy Mansion).

‘Um,’ My friend hissed at me. ‘We take places along the side, not in the middle of the room.’ Apparently this was a very strict Pilates class. I quickly scuttled to the back of the room. The teacher looked like all Pilates teachers do- brilliant in lycra.

‘Stop staring at the teacher,’ My friend whispered. ‘I’m watching to see what position we’re doing,’ I whispered back. ‘The class hasn’t started yet,’ My friend pointed out. ‘She’s asking if we have any injuries.’ ‘Oh.’ I was suitably chastened. I had been very pleased with my performance in the class up til then. ‘Pilates is terribly easy,’ I had been thinking to myself. ‘It’s just standing around in lycra and chatting. I will be brilliant at this.’ The class started, and it seems Pilates is not at all about standing around and chatting. I hobbled out an hour later.

‘You’re right,’ I told my friend in the changing room. ‘Pilates is one of the few things that will actually change your body shape. For instance, I can’t move my legs.’

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February 8, 2012 · 12:55 pm

My 3 faces

‘Are you ready?’ My friend asked me. ‘It’s time to get your game face on.’ I wish she hadn’t reminded me. I have three truly terrible faces:

1. The mirror face

This is when I surreptitiously check myself out in the mirror. My face oddly re-composes itself into a hideous mockery of Princess Di’s coy eye lift. This makes it almost impossible to see what I actually look like. It is the most inconvenient of all my faces.

2. The sleeping face

I like to sleep in the same position wherever I am. Face down, with the pillow pushed up so I’m just clutching on to its left corner with my face, while the rest of it keeps the top of my head warm. You know those beatific photos people take of sleeping lovers/ victims/ children? Even when I’m only pretending to be asleep, I look hideous. This is the most disappointing of all my faces.

3. The game face

Whenever I’m really concentrating, no matter what the activity, I have the same face. It’s appalling. It has ruined every single action shot that has ever been taken of me.  Occasionally, my tongue slips a little bit out of my mouth. This is the most embarrassing of all my faces.

(There is a reason there are no images in today’s post)

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