Category Archives: Uncategorized

February 7, 2012 · 11:46 am

My Mother is a nightmare

I went out dancing with my Mother and her lovely friend last month. I did not have fun. For a start, they both looked nicer than me. ‘Why are all your clothes so nice?’ I asked my Mother wistfully. ‘Can I have some nice clothes too?’ ‘Darling,’ My Mother began kindly. ‘You are laughably poor.

Of course you cannot have any nice clothes. Now stop stealing my tights, I can see you putting them on under your jeans.’ (My Mother is old. I wasn’t sure how good her eyesight was any more. Apparently, still fine). We arrived at the club. My Mother does several things (removes tights from much younger, poorer legs; stores the ‘good wine’ in secret places; pretends to be listening when I’m asking her for advice) but there are three things she simply won’t do. One, cross the road anywhere other than at an officially marked designated crossing. Two, carry anything apart from her handbag. Three, wait in the cold. It is damn near impossible to go out with my Mother. Even exiting the taxi is a nightmare. Wait til I tell you about the dancing.

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February 6, 2012 · 12:34 pm

The Eurostar

‘I’ll see you there a little after 3pm,’ My friend texts me. We are popping over to Paris to visit my little sister. (She has moved there for a month, we are completely in the dark as to why, but taking a trip is always fun, so off we go). The tube is late, and I arrive at St Pancras at 3.15pm.

I call my friend. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I begin. ‘But I’ve got my ticket and euros, let’s hurry through.’ ‘On my way,’ My friend replies cheerily. The Eurostar leaves at 3.30pm, and we haven’t been through passport control or security checks. I wait anxiously by the gate.

‘Where are you?’ I call my friend. ‘The gate’s closed already.’ ‘Oh,’ My friend replies in surprise. ‘I was just getting some peppermint tea.’ I am astonished, but have no time to reprimand her. She runs up to the gate at 3.25pm. I plead with the guard. (I do not wish to reveal what form this pleading takes). ‘OK,’ He says, relenting. (Yes, it was that form. Please move on). ‘But you can’t take that through.’ He points at my friend’s peppermint tea.

‘What?’ She says in dismay. ‘But I just bought it!’ I perfunctorily remove the blasted tea from her and shove it into the bin. ‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ I mutter darkly as the guard fast-tracks us through security, winking broadly at his colleagues.

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February 1, 2012 · 11:52 am

Kids’ TV presenter

‘I’m going to be a kids’ TV presenter,’ I tell my friend proudly.

There is silence on the other end of the phone. ‘Are you jealous because I’ve thought of an awesome new job for myself?’ I ask politely. ‘Um,’ My friend replies. ‘You shouldn’t be a kids’ TV presenter.’ I am shocked and appalled. ‘Why ever not?’ I ask indignantly. ‘Um,’ My friend dithers nervously. ‘Well, honestly? You’d try to compete with the kids. And that’s not the idea.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t compete with the kids,’ I reply. ‘There’d be no competition whatsoever. They’re kids. I’d beat them at everything.’

I begin to list all the things I’m better at than a kid. ‘Running, one-liners, breathing through my nose rather than that infuriating mouth breathing kids do, sitting on chairs and my feet touching the ground, downing drinks, remembering complex philosophical arguments, looking people in the eyes, remembering my gloves,’ I could continue, but my friend interrupts me. ‘Yes,’ She says slowly. ‘That’s pretty much my point. That’s the thing about kids’ TV shows- they’re meant to be about the kids.’ ‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t like that.’ It’s back to the drawing board- but panic not. I’m pretty sure quite soon I’m going to land upon my perfect job. Luckily it’s the perfect economic climate for new employment opportunites. (Ooh- that’s another one- ‘making politically topical jokes’).

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January 31, 2012 · 1:33 pm

Baby, it’s cold outside

I couldn’t sleep last night, and at 4am I strongly considered texting
my therapist.

(She gets up preposterously early). I decided not to,
because we’re working on boundaries. Sometimes it’s like she doesn’t
realise I have things to do, and cant spend all day talking to her. I
didn’t want to undo all my hard work by sending mixed messages,
although I was terribly bored. (I know, she’s very lucky. I’m
impossibly considerate).
Oddly, there’s very little to do at 4.18 am on a Tuesday morning. I
briefly considered going for a run, but the eerie siren call of my bed
refused to let me leave it.My bed and I like to perform the same duet every morning:

Me: “I really must go”

Bed: “but baby it’s cold outside”

“Oh,” I thought suddenly. “I could put on some laundry”.
Then I remembered smugly that I’d put a load on that morning. I refused
to be defeated. I lay patiently and waited for the muse to strike.
“Gosh,” I thought to myself. “I wonder if a whole song will come to
me, in a flash of inspiration, like ‘Yesterday’ did for Paul McCartney.”

(I have spent some time
thinking about touring, so I would be perfectly prepared. I think the
key thing is to invite some people on your tour bus who aren’t on the payroll. Your friends, for instance).

I plumped up my pillows expectantly. “I must remember
to buy some bread,” I mused thoughtfully. I wish I had contacted my
therapist. The mundanity of my 4am ideas (traditionally a time for
deep thinking and profound truths) is alarming.

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January 27, 2012 · 12:56 pm

My new builder friends

I’ve moved, and was feeling slightly bereft without the perpetual presence of my contractor. Luckily, the people at the end of my new road are renovating.

I casually strolled to their house, mobile at my ear, laughing uproariously. (Obviously there was no-one on the other end of the call. Other people aren’t that funny). I ‘hung up’ as I saw the builders, and rolled my eyes dramatically. ‘God,’ I said loudly. ‘Some people. All they do is talk. Honestly.’

The builder smiled at me vaguely. ‘I mean,’ I continued. ‘You really get the feeling they’d talk to anyone.’ One of the builders laughed nervously. ‘In fact,’ I said, warming to my theme. ‘They probably walk about all day looking for new friends. New friends to talk to.’ I looked meaningfully at the builders. I let the uncomfortable silence stretch out menacingly. ‘Well,’ I said finally. ‘Thank God we’re not like that.’ It’s early days, but I’m pretty sure we’re all going to get along famously.

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January 25, 2012 · 11:09 am

Michael Fassbender

I’ve been thinking about Michael Fassbender.

It started at a girls dinner. ‘The thing I like best about him,’ My friend began thoughtfully. ‘He has those eyes, eyes that look as though they’ve seen a lot of pain.’ I stared at my friend (with clear, pain-free eyes). ‘I’m sorry?’ I asked politely. ‘Yes,’ My friend continued. ‘He looks as though he’s seen stuff.’ ‘You like him because he’s not visually impaired?’ I asked, snorting at my own wit. My friend ignored me. ‘I’m thinking of going to see ‘Shame’,’ I tell the table. There are murmurs of agreement. I am lying. In fact, it is unlikely I will ever manage to see ‘Shame’. Let me explain.

When I was 13 years old, ‘Shakespeare in Love’ was released. I went to see it. With my Grandmother.

It was at that moment, watching Gwyneth and Joseph having the sex, and wondering why God had forsaken me, and if it was possible to crawl out of my own skin, that I vowed never again to put myself in that position. (A few years ago, Odeon created postcards which read: ‘To cover eyes in case of scenes of a sexual nature’. I still have a healthy supply). And apart from the Christmas where they aired ‘Bridget Jones’ on the TV while we were at my grandparents, I have managed.

I’m not suggesting that the only people willing to go to a film with me are my grandparents. (They’re actually much busier than I am, and far more popular. It’s fairly galling). It’s just that I don’t really like to watch sex scenes with anyone. It hurts my head. I spend all my time staring icily ahead, wondering what my face is looking like.

It’s absolutely exhausting. ‘I hear you see a lot of Fassbender’s penis,’ I say airily. ‘Yes,’ My friend agrees. ‘But you see it so often that you start looking at his face.’ Oh God, we’re back to his eyes. I doubt I would have given Michael Fassbender another thought, had I not picked up last week’s ‘The Sunday Times Magazine’. I don’t lay claim to much. But one of the funniest things I have ever introduced is the practice of referring to a low-level erection (usually called a ‘semi’) as a ‘Henman’ (after Tim Henman, who never gets past the semis). And here, brazenly, in a well-respected Sunday paper supplement, we have Michael Fassbender talking about the difficulty of getting a Henman whilst filming ‘Shame’. So, I have not yet seen ‘Shame’ for two reasons. Neither of which are to do with Michael Fassbender’s eyes.

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January 23, 2012 · 11:54 am

Visiting my little sister

I’ve agreed to go visit my little sister. ‘Lucy!’ she yells excitedly down the phone. ‘I have the best thing to do for your visit! It sounds weird, but just listen.’ I wonder if my train tickets are transferable. ‘And then we’ll sleep there, and then go to the grandparents!’ My little sister continues. It seems she has been talking while I have been on the Virgin train website. I decide to bluff my way out. ‘Great,’ I say neutrally. ‘OK!’ My little sister shouts. ‘So just transfer the £34 to my account, and it’s all sorted! Brilliant!’

We hang up, and I wonder if she’s been helping herself to the medicine cabinet whilst on her hospital rounds. I also wonder what on earth we are going to do. Because if my little sister thinks it sounds weird, I’m in trouble.

This is a person who spent 4 months of our childhood crawling around the floor pretending to be Conrad the cat. Once she went out without any knickers, a fact which was only noticed when she hung upside down on the jungle gym. A pet bird once died in her room and was discovered weeks later, rotting gently in an enormous pile of soft cuddly toys. She has been known to do the underwater dance move non-ironically.

(You hold your nose and pretend you’re underwater. It was big in the 1960s). I’ll let you know how it goes. (If you do not hear from me by Wednesday, please send help).

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January 18, 2012 · 11:16 am

Other people’s resolutions

Drink. Don’t drink.

Just don’t explain. There’s nothing worse than someone who thinks I’m interested in them. ‘I’m not drinking for January,’ someone explained to me last night. ‘I think my bed is too big so I fill one half of it with pillows,’ I replied. My friend was somewhat startled. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I thought we were sharing uninteresting facts about ourselves.’ I’m perfectly happy to drink alone. (In the same way, as a fully-functioning grown-up, I’m entirely comfortable showering alone. Though obviously it is nice to do things together. But not if you stand in front of the shower head while I’m trying to rinse shampoo out of my hair).

I’m much less happy to listen to a 10 minute diatribe on how nice it is not to be hungover/ how clear your skin is/ how much energy you now have. (Quick point on the ‘energy’- you’re substituting vast quantities of sugar for the booze you once ingested. That’s why you feel ‘so alive’). I don’t mind what your New Year’s resolution was, but let me assure you that mine was not, ‘be more interested in other people’. (For an expose of my New Year’s resolution, please check the Metro tomorrow morning).

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January 17, 2012 · 11:25 am

Morning songs

Yesterday was ‘Blue Monday’, so I spent most of the day humming ‘Blue Monday’ to the tune of ‘Blue Velvet’.

For those of you who don’t live next door to me, it was a little like this: ‘And it’s bloooo Monday, yes yes I should get up. But it’s blooooo Monday, my bed is so warm and I’ve just knocked over a cup.’ (It was a glass really, but I think artistic license should be allowed). ‘Oh bother, that’s not wwwaaaater, it’s diet coke. How apt for bloooo Monday’. I was having quite a marvelous time (apart from the spilled diet coke, naturally. That was infuriating).

My phone rang. ‘Hello!’ I said cheerily. Except I hadn’t spoken to anyone yet that morning, so rather than the optimistic greeting I hoped would fall out of my mouth, it was a slightly groggy croak. I’m not even sure I said ‘Hello’. It might have been ‘MMhum’. ‘Are you still asleep?’ My therapist asked me. ‘No!’ I said promptly. ‘I have been extremely productive this morning.’ (Luckily my therapist began speaking at this point, because I’m not sure how well-received my ‘Blue Monday’ song would have been. Sometimes, my therapist is extremely grudging about my achievements. She barely cared at all when I finalised my definitive celebrity crush top 10. It’s something we’re working on).

‘You sound like you’ve just woken up,’ she continued. ‘You know it’s 11.30am?’

I didn’t know that, actually, because I had recently spilt diet coke over my watch, so it was recovering in a bed of Kleenex. I wondered if my therapist was watching me. I pulled my duvet up to my neck, just in case. (I’m not suggesting my therapist is an uncontrollable pervert. Just nosy). ‘Anyway,’ my therapist continued. ‘I’m very sorry to do this, but would you be able to come 30mins earlier to our appointment?’ ‘Is our appointment in the morning?’ I asked quickly. ‘Because that’s when I do my best work. If not, certainly.’ I’m so accommodating. I’m also terribly excited for today’s morning song, ‘Goodbye Lucy Tuesday’

(to the tune of The Rolling Stones’ ‘Ruby Tuesday’).

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January 16, 2012 · 11:58 am

Death by cooking

‘You made a cake!’ My friend said, shocked. ‘I am extremely domesticated,’ I told her smugly. ‘Please enjoy this freshly made cocktail while I check on my steak and ale pie. Yes, I also made a pie. And potatoes. No need to feel inferior.’ Yesterday I had a little Sunday lunch. (It was not little in the slightest, it’s just a lot of you weren’t invited so I’m trying to pretend it was).

Things started smoothly. I woke up at 10am because I was so hungover I fell out of bed. (I was reaching for some water, and just slipped out). I wearily put on some running kit and went outside. I returned, slightly sweatier, a respectable 8 minutes later. I washed my hands and began to make my pastry. My Father wandered into the kitchen. ‘Is that suet?’ He asked. ‘That’s dreadful stuff. Oh, we’re having it for lunch? Lovely.’ I moved onto my cake. This is when the trouble started. I marched into my Father’s study. ‘There’s no magimix,’ I said. ‘My entire lunch is in jeopardy.’ My Father wearily followed me down to the kitchen. ‘Here!’ He said proudly. The Tardis was heaved onto a kitchen counter. ‘Um, Dad?’ I began hesitantly. ‘I’m not sure this still works.’ I left my Father jabbing furiously at buttons and examining fuses, and looked for other options. Which I found.

In my delight, I sliced my thumb across the blade. Which for a second, was perfectly fine. Until I looked down, and saw the blood, and realised I probably needed to go to hospital.

Or get a plaster. Something drastic, anyway. I called my Mother. ‘I have cut my finger,’ I whimpered down the phone to her. ‘And I hate the magimix, and I’m coming over to use yours.’ ‘I’m not at home, darling,’ My Mother replied. I am affronted. ‘You are a terrible Mother,’ I told her crossly. ‘I’m probably bleeding to death.’ The rest of my lunch preparations took on a somber hue, as I struggled to finish my impossibly delicious three courses whilst conserving enough blood to survive. I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I didn’t tell my guests. But hopefully this will gently remind them that what turned out to be a lovely Sunday lunch could very easily have been my last supper. And also that I should probably have my own cooking show.

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