Category Archives: Uncategorized

December 13, 2011 · 12:04 pm

Small talk and small children

I had forgotten that there were no words to ‘The Snowman’. At the Sadler’s Wells performance this matters not at all because every child in the audience provides the narrative. It is tremendously entertaining. I wish everything was narrated by the under-10s. Question Time would be a great deal better.

We went out for dinner after the ballet, and my friend joined us. ‘What does she do, your friend?’ my ballet companion asked me. ‘She’s a pediatrician.’ ‘Oh, I don’t think we can go for pizza then. We should get salad or something.’ There was a short pause. I looked at my friend, who had thus far sat through the ballet in a perfectly normal fashion. ‘You do realise ‘pediatrician’ doesn’t mean ‘model’?’ I asked politely.

My friend glared at me. (To be fair, it’s pretty hard to keep up with what everyone does these days. At dinner parties nowadays I just say airily, ‘oh, I’m kind of a big deal’ and smile bashfully).

I’m not sure I really like knowing what people do for a living. I don’t know why I do this, but as soon as someone tells me what their job is, I start to compete with them. (People might be thinking now, ‘well, that sounds perfectly normal’. Just wait). ‘I’m a lawyer,’ a chap told me this week.

‘Oh,’ I said musingly. ‘A lawyer. I know a little bit about law also. Tort law. Roman law. Judges. Injunction, sure. What about you?’ I replied. ‘Um, would you like a drink?’ the lawyer asked awkwardly. (My conversation with the lawyer went reasonably well, all things considered. ‘I’m a doctor’ is the worst for me.

I start to tell medical professionals how good I am at spot diagnoses. ‘Hmm, slight swelling of the abdomen. Probably appendicitis. With just a touch of tuberculosis. I prescribe intubation’) I think in future I’m going to bypass the whole job topic entirely. It’ll make small talk much more comfortable. ‘Hi, my name’s Lucy. If you could watch any TV show in the world, and have it narrated by small children, which would you pick?’ I can’t wait to meet someone new this week.

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December 9, 2011 · 1:27 pm

Doughnut Day

I’m worried about my contractor. ‘Good morning!’ I said brightly as I wandered downstairs looking for my trackies. My contractor raised his head and grunted at me. ‘Can’t walk here,’ he said sternly. ‘By ‘here’,’ I asked politely. ‘Do you mean the whole of my kitchen?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Oh.’ (Yesterday was Thursday, which is usually doughnut day in my house. By this I mean on Thursdays my contractor buys me a bag of doughnuts.

Wednesday is pizza day. I think my contractor might be a feeder. I am supremely happy about this). ‘Are there any doughnuts?’ I said hopefully. ‘No doughnuts,’ my contractor replied sternly. He then shot me a look. I have literally no idea what the look meant, but I retreated quickly upstairs. (Although the look could have meant anything, I’m pretty certain it did not mean, ‘stay and discuss why there are no doughnuts with me please’). I wasn’t 100% certain how I was going to feed myself, what with the kitchen being verboten and an ominous lack of doughnuts. I thought I might have stashed away a slab of Cadburys a little while ago.

I began the onerous task of searching for it. ‘What are you looking for?’ my contractor asked me. ‘Um,’ I said vaguely, gesturing abstractly around my head and looking round for inspiration. ‘You know those things that people wear when they go running? On their head, to keep them warm? Like, a hat, but with the top part cut off?’ My contractor looked at me, bewildered. ‘This?’ he asked, passing me a headband.

‘Oh, that caught your eye too?’ I asked. ‘Smashing. Well, I guess I’ll be off then.’ I reluctantly put on some trainers and slowly walked out of my house. I wandered along to Tescos, thinking that even if it wouldn’t be the same, we could possibly still have some cobbled together form of doughnut day. I realised in the queue that I didn’t have any money on me. I also didn’t have my keys, so would have to rely on the contractor to let me in. I was forced to wander, doughnutless, along the streets until I felt a suitable amount of time had passed. ‘Back so soon?’ my contractor asked mockingly as I rang on the doorbell. ‘Well,’ I said crossly. ‘I didn’t want to expend any energy, seeing as I have no way to replace it.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ my contractor replied quickly. ‘I will replace kitchen floor soon. Weekend at latest.’ ‘I hope I survive that long,’ I said piteously. My contractor seemed entirely unfazed. ‘I must say,’ I added. ‘I did rather expect more from you. Last week there were 10 doughnuts. Is anything the matter?’

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December 7, 2011 · 10:36 am

I’m on a mission

My friend and I are on a mission. (It’s her mission, in that she started and suggested it, but it looked good so I’ve tagged along and am surreptitiously trying to take over. I’m pretty much exactly what you’d like in a mission partner). ‘Our’ mission is simple. We are going to de-stigmatize therapy. My friend is rather good at this. She is polite, and well-spoken, and if it is appropriate, will mention how useful she found her therapist. She will calmly answer questions in comfortable generalities, and leave the other person reassured and informed. I have taken a different approach. I am at a black tie dinner. ‘Would you care for some cheese?’ the gentleman sitting next to me asks politely. ‘I love cheese,’ I tell him proudly. ‘I would like all of the cheese.’

He dutifully passes over the cheese board, and watches in horror as I remove most of it onto my plate. ‘I really like cheese,’ I say, passing the board with its lonely morsels back to him, ‘and I really like my therapist.’ I look around for some cheese biscuits. ‘Right,’ the gentleman replies slowly. ‘That’s good.’ ‘Yes,’ I say cheerily. ‘It is, isn’t it. Though I have the sense she’s trying to get rid of me. I’d personally like to see her every day, you know, just to hang out. She’s terribly unkeen on this idea.’ The gentleman gestures to the waiter to bring us some more cheese biscuits.

‘And perhaps some more grapes?’ I prompt, helpfully. I think I have subtly proved how well-adjusted and perceptive therapy has made me, so can now concentrate fully on my cheese-eating.

It’s imperative in these things to keep a sense of momentum. The next evening I am on a date. I realise that people might be more comfortable if therapy is mentioned in context, rather than as a vaguely Tourette’s-like aside. Luckily, my date is a Kiwi. And so is my therapist. ‘Congratulations on the All-Blacks win this year,’ I say politely. ‘I think my therapist has slept with Dan Carter.’

I called my friend to see how her side of the mission was going. ‘You realise it’s not exactly a ‘mission’?’ she asked. ‘It’s more about gradually changing perceptions?’ ‘Thank God I’m the mission leader,’ I replied firmly. ‘Heaven knows what disrepute you would have dragged us into by now.’

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December 6, 2011 · 11:17 am

I should have been a smoker

I’m not a smoker. I’m not a social smoker, I’m not a drunk smoker, I’m not a stressed smoker, I am regularly offered cigarettes and I regularly decline.

I’m not any kind of smoker, and people are impressed by this, but they shouldn’t be. I should have been a smoker. All the things that smokers do, I like. Smokers get to leave any awkward or boring conversation to ‘have a quick cigarette’. (I used to tell people I was ‘popping to the loo’, but realised it seemed as though I was incontinent, so now just gesture vaguely into the ether. It’s both bewildering and rude). Smokers get to stand outside nightclubs and mock people who are still queuing to get in.

Smokers get something like 80% more ‘break-time’ than their non-smoking colleagues during an average working day, simply because no-one keeps track of those few minutes each cigarette break takes. (Presumably incontinents are also shirking). Smokers have ready made pick up lines. Smokers get to look generous rather than bewildered when people ask them for a cigarette. (I understand the question, it’s just I’ve never smoked, so I don’t understand why they don’t know that. Surely my pearly white teeth and exuberantly healthy lungs give me away?)

Smokers get to say brilliant things like, ‘I’m dying for a fag’ or ‘I’d murder someone for a cigarette’. (Smokers are often slightly frightening. This is also unfair). Smokers get to engineer perfect flirting situations by inviting lust objects to have a cigarette outside. Smokers always have lighters, so are invaluable at children’s birthday parties. And soft-rock concerts.

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December 5, 2011 · 12:28 pm

Soccer mom

I had a lovely weekend. I spent a large proportion of it pretending I was a soccer mom. (No, honestly. I went to an under 9s football game clutching a thermos of tea and holding hands with a little girl. I was picture perfect).

Although I looked the part (impeccably, some might say. No one did, but that’s really beside the point entirely), I’m not sure I’ve got the soccer mom temperament completely sorted. It seems that screeching ‘mark your man!’ and ‘give him options! What are you doing you little wretch, clear the goal!’ is not as prevalent as one might imagine. (I don’t know why. It seems real parents are not as helpful as I am). ‘Take it like a man! Do you need a toughen-up pill?’ I asked as one of the children fell to the ground.

I could tell from the alarmed glances of other watching parents that perhaps childhood first-aid has advanced somewhat since the 1980s. (I could never quite understand why it took so many years to become a doctor, seeing as the only things they ever needed to say were ‘walk it off’ and ‘stop crying’). I know that there’s more to being a good soccer mom than hurling abuse at small children, so I turned my attention to the little girl I was with.

‘Now,’ I said carefully. ‘It’s very good your brother is a football player. It means you’ll have lots of nice sportsmen to choose from.’ The little girl’s Mother looked over at me. ‘Obviously,’ I continued quickly. ‘You should be discerning. No-one’s going to buy the cow if you’re giving away the milk for free.’ The little girl looked up at me uncomprehendingly. ‘Can you pick me up and spin me round upside-down?’ she asked. I was delighted.

I haven’t played dizzy dinosaurs for months. (I got a bit over-excited and became so dizzy I dropped the little girl in the mud. Luckily her Mother wasn’t looking, so I think I got away with it. Anyway, who’s going to believe a child? I’ve got a much more persuasive vocabulary). After the match we went for lunch, and the kids let me finish their chips. I can’t wait to be a parent. Children are brilliant.

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December 2, 2011 · 10:38 am

‘Borrowing’ friends

I am meeting my new friend for dinner and a show. I have ‘borrowed’ this new friend from my Mother, whose paucity of friends makes this pretty inexcusable. Nevertheless, I am chaining my bike outside the restaurant, and popping into the box office to pick up our tickets. I realise as soon as I enter the restaurant that I am too hot, so begin an elaborate winter-layer striptease, handing over jumpers and scarves to the bewildered waiter. I place our theatre tickets on the table, and pop to the loo. (I realise once I am on the loo that theatre tickets are eminently stealable. I am panicked. I barely touch the fancy hand moisturizer). On my return, the waiter is still there (though he has disinvested himself of my delightfully fashionable outer-wear. I assume he has hung it all somewhere. Or perhaps he has sold it. Oh gosh. What if he’s made a voodoo doll using DNA scraped off my clothes?

I surreptitiously test my limb freedom by raising my left arm slowly. The waiter looks at me and I cunningly turn it into a wave at the very last second. The last thing I wish to do is anger the voodoo-making waiter). I sit down carefully.

My new friend arrives. We are seated at a banquette, which means one of us gets to recline in comfort, and the other one of us gets a normal chair. ‘You sit on that side,’ I say generously. ‘I know old people like the comfy side.’

Things are going splendidly. I imagine by Christmas I will have appropriated all of my Mother’s friends. (Please see earlier comment. 3 and a half weeks is perfectly adequate to steal the remaining 4). We order vast quantities of food. I am thrilled. My new friend doesn’t drink, so I order a particularly expensive alcoholic beverage for myself (to even things out).

During our meal I entertain my new friend with tales from my life, carefully chosen to highlight my best qualities. ‘And then I said something so absolutely hilarious that the whole room erupted in laughter! I tried not to let it phase me though, of course.’ (This is a good one because it shows me as both witty and modest). Sometimes my new friend tries to speak, but I interrupt her often enough to show that this is not my idea of a good conversation.

I request the bill (I like to draw different famous people’s signatures in the air when requesting restaurant bills. This time I used a quill, and was William Shakespeare) so my new friend pays.

(It’s like the cooking/ washing-up divide. You only need to do half. Please pass this on, it’s saved me a great deal of trouble). We walk across the street to the theatre. As I pre-emptively tell my new friend what ice-cream she should buy me at interval, I know this is a friendship that is going to last.

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November 29, 2011 · 12:14 pm

LUNCH

I have made some macaroni cheese. Well, if I’m being strictly, totally, completely honest, it’s not quite ready yet, but I’ve dutifully stirred the sauce, and boiled the pasta, and realised why butter must be kept in its packet at all times (because on the packet are little 50g demarcations!

I’m starting an anti-butter dish movement as we speak), and now I’ve shoved it in the oven and am just waiting for it to get all crispy on top. (It’s either going to be crispy or hopelessly burnt, depending on how distracted I get). I have made macaroni cheese because of my revision schedule. (I mean, it’s not strictly or even slightly a revision schedule, but it’s a schedule scrawled across an A4 piece of lined paper, so it feels like a revision schedule. There should be a word for revision schedules for grown-ups. And don’t say diary. It’s not a diary. It is a masterpiece of wobbly lines and ‘rest’ periods). The great thing about my schedule is that it tells me exactly what I’m meant to be doing at every point of my day. (Some people would hate this, but seeing as I am the creator of the schedule, I love it).

From 12-1pm, Monday to Friday, I am meant to be LUNCH. It is nearly impossible to make a sandwich that takes an hour to prepare. (Don’t say ‘add chicken’, because I have, and that only takes 15 mins to cook. Unless you’re making an Elvis-style sandwich and using an entire chicken. In which case my schedule would be no good for you because there’s no allocated ‘digestion’ time. And you have to go for a run every so often. And you can’t afford to eat a whole chicken every day. My schedule is not suitable for those who wish to emulate Elvis’ eating habits).

The only way a schedule works is if you stick to it. So I am. And seeing as I’m meant to be LUNCH for a whole hour every day, I have had to expand my meal-time repertoire. So I’ve decided to work my way through every ready-meal I usually chuck in the microwave. I’m basically the Kirstie Allsopp of cooking. I hope people are getting excited for my cookbook. It’ll be like Jamie Oliver’s 30-minute meals, only twice as good.

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November 28, 2011 · 11:24 am

Assess your personality

My friend comes over for lunch. I open the door and welcome her graciously into my home. ‘Was your therapist busy?’ she asks, laughing. I glare at her. ‘No,’ she explains. ‘It’s just I’m sure you would have tried to get her to come.’ I continue to glare at my friend, and thrust a cocktail into her hand.

(I may be cross, but I’m still an impeccable host). ‘Don’t worry,’ my friend continues. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’ I am pleased, until I unwrap the Mensa personality test. ‘Assess your personality. Are you ready to face up to the truth?’ the strapline asks mockingly.

My friend is beside herself with mirth. I wonder what Martha Stewart would do in this situation. ‘I do not wish to take this test,’ I tell my friend firmly. ‘Please help yourself to my homemade canapés.’ (I expect Martha would also ask for some stock portfolio advice, but there’s only certain parts of her career that I wish to emulate). My friend is not to be distracted. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘Your therapist is never going to come over for a ladies lunch. I thought this would be useful!’ ‘Look,’ I reply firmly. ‘She won’t come over because she doesn’t really like to go out that much. I’m thinking possibly agoraphobia.’ (I recently realised that agoraphobia is not a fear of spiders. This has forced me to re-evaluate the plotlines of several novels. It is also the only rational explanation for why my therapist does not want to come over and hang out with me).

My friend seems unconvinced by my diagnosis. I offer her a napkin, because she is flaking pastry all over my kitchen floor. ‘Ok,’ I agree reluctantly. ‘Perhaps not full-blown agoraphobia. But certainly social anxiety. Or some sort of social ineptitude. She is terribly odd in our sessions sometimes. I wanted to record her and use her as stand-up material, but she wasn’t keen. Which is a classic symptom of a generalized anxiety disorder.’ (Whenever we holiday together I take the opportunity to brush up on my medical knowledge by reading my little sister’s medical textbooks. I’m pretty much a consultant. Though I’m not sure my prescribing powers are as recognised as they ought to be). ‘You know there are rules about these things?’ my friend asks me. ‘Therapists and boundaries and so on.’ ‘I see what you’re saying,’ I say sagely. ‘I need to be more subtle, so her other patients don’t realise I’m her favourite. Understood. We might have to have next month’s lunch in a smaller location though- you know, to help reduce her anxiety.’

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November 25, 2011 · 11:31 am

I’m not sure my ego can cope

I wake up hideously early, and pop out to get a Metro. On my return, I spot my neighbour. ‘Come and have some breakfast,’ she says cheerfully. I am thrilled. Apparently there’s already been a ready-brek disaster, so we’re having Shreddies. I am happy about this, because ready-brek has a decidedly dubious texture. (See also rice pudding for food too naughty to be served in polite company). I decide to eat my breakfast at the kid’s table. This is mostly because the chairs are shaped like different wild animals. I dither, but pick the elephant. ‘Good morning,’ I say politely to my neighbour’s 2 year old daughter. She continues to eat her Shreddies unperturbed. I try to play it a bit cooler, and drink my tea. (I am keen to drink my tea as fast as humanly possible, because 90% of burns to small children are caused by hot drinks. I am determined to stay in the 10% of people who do not burn small children).

‘Look! I’ve made a tower!’ my new friend says. I hastily swallow my mouthful of Shreddies. I rarely get an opportunity to show off my tower making skills. I wait until her tower falls (rookie mistake) and grab the building blocks. ‘Look at my much bigger tower!’ I tell her proudly. She pushes it over. I resolve to teach her about not being a sore loser, and set about making the world’s tallest tower. (I was hindered only by a lack of material, not talent. I am seeking to rectify this, and think my neighbours will be delighted when the 4 kilos of building blocks arrive next week).

We have exhausted the building block possibilities (I blame my stingy neighbours, who put in a downstairs bathroom rather than a tower-building room. This kind of short-sightedness will haunt them when they try to sell the house). We move on to play-dough. Along with felt-tip pens, play-dough is a long-time nemesis. (I’d very much like to see an investigation by the Advertising Standards Association into both of these products. I cannot be the only one whose childhood was blighted by their built-in obsolescence. Although I understand that giving things which seem so full of promise only to fade almost instantly into dried up rubbish to small children does have an air of poignancy. It’s just I’m sure we can find other ways to teach them these valuable life lessons. Ways which mean they can still colour in and make play-dough shapes).

Play-dough has improved immeasurably. (It still dries out almost instantly, leaving you fuming with impotent rage and sadness, but the shapes are loads better). I made a million excellent things. ‘Look! I’ve made a plane! It looks amazing!’ I showed my 2-year old friend proudly. She firmly flattened it with her miniature hand. I’m not sure my ego can take playing with toddlers. Though she did laugh at my ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ voices. (I was trying to be scary, but really I’ll take any positive feedback). I’m spending the rest of the day practicing colouring within the lines, and hoping for scrambled eggs tomorrow.

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November 23, 2011 · 1:33 pm

‘Are you amazing in bed?’

There are many things my therapist likes about me, but I think probably the thing she likes best is how friendly I am towards her. A few weeks ago I asked her to go on holiday with me. (Well, I don’t have a huge amount of disposable income at the moment so I asked her to go on holiday with me and pay). She was not keen. So then I asked if during our session we could take a quick trip to Trailfinders. I think she saw through my cunning guise, because we did not go to Trailfinders.

I can’t really imagine my therapist has that much to do when she’s not seeing me, so I like to keep her occupied. I often send her little texts throughout the day to remind her of me. Today, for instance, I shared my joy at being taken out to breakfast. She did not reply. I often use our sessions together as a safe place for her to explore her feelings. She is not overly receptive to this. So I have been forced to adopt a new tactic. ‘I think I’ve got worse at sex,’ I begin. Her face shows nothing except amusement. I cannot tell if this is the smug amusement of someone who is fantastic in bed, or the resigned amusement of someone who has to wade through 50 minutes of non sequiturs every time we meet, trying to work out what is important. I continue. ‘So you know how sometimes you’re a bit too lazy to go on top?’ I ask her piercingly. Once again, nothing. The woman’s impenetrable.

‘Are you amazing in bed?’ I ask, exasperated. My therapist laughs. I am cross. ‘Look,’ I explain. ‘I don’t want to talk about this with you if you’re one of those people who are amazing at the sex. It’s just going to be awkward. I’ll be busy telling you about how I think I’ve got worse, at least in some respects, and you’ll be sitting there thinking about how grateful you are to be amazing at sex, and wondering why I am so terrible.’ My therapist tries to deflect. She is a master of deflection. ‘I’m not sure there are rigid measures of judgments for sex,’ she begins. ‘I do not care for your judgments!’ I shout, appalled. My therapist is somewhat baffled. I quickly re-play what she said. I apologise. I realise that my new tactic has been avoided as easily as my old tactics. My therapist is the master of deflection. It’s something we really need to work on. Well, that and the sex.

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