I’ve been living alone this month. In fact, the people opposite have moved out, so this is probably the most isolated I’ve ever been. (Once again, the rapid turnover of people living opposite me is correlative, not causal. I have been telling the estate agent this for weeks. I’m close to winning him over). Although too much solitude can make some people excessively odd, I’ve noticed that living alone is great.
I’ve created a life for myself that is remarkably convenient. In the morning, I lean the right side of my body precariously out of bed and pull up my blinds. I then judge by the sunlight if it’s time to get up. (The clocks going back has really hindered me- yesterday I was barely up by lunchtime). If it all looks rather grey and gloomy, I put on my eye mask and go back to sleep. (My eye mask is not one of those fancy silk affairs sported by the likes of Paris Hilton. I picked it up from economy class on a long haul flight in the 1990s. I actually think it may be giving me a rash).
I wake up refreshed but slightly itchy and get out of bed. On my way to the bathroom I prod my music system with my big toe, and KISS FM blares into my face. (And the faces of my neighbours, if anyone new should ever decide to move in opposite). I dance merrily to the bathroom and brush my teeth. (I also take this opportunity to test various facial expressions in my mirror. Today I experimented with ‘a tiger is chasing you run!’ and ‘oh no I ran over your tiger, I’m so sorry’).
I wander downstairs still in my pajamas and remove some clothes from my tumble drier. (I am using my tumble drier as a wardrobe. I still don’t know why they don’t market them like this). I don’t have any ‘traditional’ breakfast items, so often start my day with a handful of slightly stale crisps and a mouthful of Loyd Grossman pasta sauce. (I do the voice, obviously. It’s tremendously fun. When my neighbours were still here I would often greet them like this).
It’s very important to exercise regularly, so I make sure to wear sports shorts as much as possible. (I assume wearing sports clothes and doing sports have the same effect. It certainly explains Nike’s prices). It’s not good to spend too much time alone (although as you can see I’m managing splendidly) so at about 3.30pm I pop over to one of my remaining neighbours for an after-school snack. ‘Off for a run?’ They ask me. I smile knowingly. Living alone is great.
‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘That won’t be enough. I always eat excessively before I travel anywhere. You know, just in case. It’s why I can’t go on tour. I’d be enormous.’ My friend politely chose somewhere else for us to eat. And bought me 6 Millie’s Cookies for my journey, which I ate before we had left the station. She was trying, bless her, but ‘excessive eating’ involves a great deal more than 6 over-sized cookies).
I am pleased my friend has internalized the ‘Just say No’ campaigns of our childhood. I text back. ‘Of course I can. Drop the keys round before you go to work. I will be in my pajamas.’ (I had decided that the jeans and fascinator combo might be a little much for 8am in the morning. Don’t worry, it’s still in the pipeline. There’s bound to be the perfect occasion just around the corner. Perhaps my little sister’s upcoming graduation ceremony. ‘What? This old thing?’ and ‘Yes, I do have a fascinator on my head. Thanks for noticing. Also very proud of sister’).
Later that afternoon, I pop round to her place. She’s got a new mirror, which is lovely, and what might possibly be the world’s largest TV. Obviously I have no idea how to work it, but it looks terribly impressive. I pour myself a glass of wine and settle down to wait for this sofa. My friend emails me. ‘He’s going to be there in 30mins. Here’s his number, in case you want to call him. (I don’t know why but maybe…)’ I am delighted. This whole sofa thing is clearly a ruse. My nice friend is setting me up with the sofa delivery man. I am impressed by the lengths she has gone to, and resolve to take her out to tea. I do wish she’d warned me though. I would have put on my fascinator.
I practice walking on my knees, just in case. My friend was right. It is tricky. I think of another slogan. ‘Feet: better for walking than your knees.’ I hope my friend realises how much the children are missing out on. I guess I’ll just have to wait for Easter.
I can tell from their snide tone that Sandra is their current, unimpressive boss. I imagine she doesn’t care if people are having a bad day and don’t want to work. I am sure she will have given much thought to helping her former employee leave her job in a ‘supported manner’. ‘It’s just very important to be supported when you are leaving a job. Or else you could have an existential crisis.’ Finally, I’ve got my perfect Overheard Everywhere quote.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it was certainly more than the blurry map graffitied with disproportionately large golden arches. What the app really taught me was that there are lots of McDonalds in London. Which is pleasing, but hardly life-enhancing. The very best iPhone apps embody the very best of what Steve Jobs brought to Apple- beautiful, helpful, interesting products.
‘The thing about car seats,’ I say to myself, ‘Is that surely they are all safety checked before they are allowed to be sold. So really, it makes sense to buy the cheapest one.’ I am immensely pleased with my thoughtful reasoning. I wonder if I should hire myself out as a financial advisor to new parents. I decide to pop into Companies House once I have left the bike shop. ‘Just thinking about what to call my financial advisory services,’ I call out to the gentleman who doesn’t work at the bike shop. He smiles worriedly. I wonder if perhaps he himself is a financial advisor, and resolve to register my company name as quickly as possible. I pick up the cheapest helmet, and walk to the desk. ‘I’d like to buy this please,’ I say. ‘Who is it for?’ The sales chap asks me. I am affronted. ‘Well, it’s for me. I did use to have a helmet, of course, but my little sister stole it. Then I watched the James Cracknell YouTube video of him talking about his bike crash and remembered I needed to get a new one. 
I also have some questions about that video.’ The sales chap interrupts me before I can ask my questions. ‘Um, this is a child’s helmet,’ he explains. ‘Oh,’ I reply. ‘Is that an absolute rule? Or would I be able to fit my head into it? Because last week I bought a Nike boys t-shirt and it fits fine. Though perhaps that’s because of the rising levels of childhood obesity. What do you think?’ The sales chap stares at me. ‘I’m afraid you really do need to buy an adult-sized helmet,’ he tells me. ‘OK,’ I say reluctantly. ‘But only because I do really need to get to Companies House. In fact, do you have a little sat-nav for my bike? I’m not certain where Companies House is.’ I leave the bike shop several hundreds of pounds poorer. I’m well on my way to becoming a very successful financial advisor. I wonder if James Cracknell would like to do a YouTube video for my new company. ‘Be safe, but also don’t be poor’, he could say in it. Whilst wearing a bike helmet, of course.
‘For my popcorn,’ my sister said gleefully. I popped off to the loo, and returned to see my little sister clutching a box of popcorn the size of her face. (She is one of those people with a disarmingly large face). ‘Do you know what screen we’re in?’ I asked her enormous box of popcorn. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Let me check.’ The popcorn wavered alarmingly before being thrust into my hands. ‘Don’t eat any,’ she told me sternly. ‘I’m saving it for the movie.’ We found the screen, and sat down. One of the earliest scenes is of Toni Collette sitting on her sofa, eating a tub of ice-cream the size of my little sister’s face. (Toni Collette has a normal sized face). ‘Aha!’ I said to my sister. ‘It’s all over now, baby blue. Gosh, I am so like Cameron Diaz. It’s ridiculous.’ I began humming Queen’s ‘We are the Champions’ to myself. Unfortunately at this very moment in the movie Toni Collette started singing to herself. My sister rounded back on me, presumably to declare the likeness too uncanny, but failed to account for the enormity of her popcorn, and threw most of the tub over us both. Amidst the whispered admonitions to be quiet, my little sister and I glumly accepted that the competition was still on.
I ask sensitively. My therapist changes the subject. ‘So,’ she says. ‘Have you had a good week?’ ‘I really have,’ I tell her. ‘I might go on a date with someone I met yesterday.’ My therapist asks me a few questions about this chap. She is unconvinced. ‘It’s only a date,’ I explain kindly. ‘You know you don’t have to marry someone just because you go on a date with them.’ My therapist is silent, and I remember that she herself has recently got married. ‘Um,’ I say awkwardly. ‘I probably should have mentioned this earlier. Sorry about that. Well, I think we both have a lot to think about. Speak soon!’ My therapist tells me that she’s at a conference for the rest of the day. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say reassuringly. ‘This is a safe space. I’ll call you tomorrow.’ (I know that when people feel threatened, they tend to retreat into established patterns. For my therapist, this is pretending she is an actual therapist). It’s early days, and we’ve still got a lot of work to do, but I think we’re making progress.
I am flicking through a book when she arrives. ‘Now,’ she says firmly. ‘We know stealing from the hospital is bad. Put the book back, and we’ll go for lunch.’ (My new friend is so funny. And also ethical).
My new friend stares at me. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks. ‘Oh, yes. I’m a bit sick, so I’ve been taking this Calpol,’ I tell her. ‘It’s really delicious. Don’t worry, I know it’s for under 6 years old, so I’ve adapted the dose.’ My new friend takes the bottle from me disbelievingly. ‘You know you would have to drink this entire bottle to get even one adult dose of paracetemol?’ she informs me. ‘But it’s so delicious!’ I tell her earnestly. ‘But you’re an adult,’ she replies. (My new friend is so perceptive. I think that’s why we get on so well- lots in common).
My name is not Emma. My name doesn’t even sound like ‘Emma’. I do know an Emma though- my little sister. Who was standing, utterly bewildered, next to me. Now, in her place, I would have committed to the misunderstanding wholeheartedly, and used a new name when I had to introduce myself. Unfortunately, my little sister is not as quick-witted as I am (Middle-child syndrome and so on). Staring at me in alarm, she held out her hand. ‘Hello,’ she said slowly. ‘Nice to meet you. My name is Emma.’ The au-pair’s friend looked at us confusedly. My little brother’s au-pair looked at us even more so. ‘Well,’ I said politely. ‘Lovely to meet you and all that.’ I grabbed my little sister and went home. ‘Look,’ I explained to my little sister. ‘It’s fine. We just have to avoid that friend for the rest of our lives.’ (I’m a solutions person). Unfortunately, I will be seeing this new lady again, so can’t rely on the same solution. I thought briefly about how odd it would make me look to explain, and have decided instead to adopt a 5 year old. 
You know, just to make things easier. I suppose I’ll call her Emma.
unfashionablylost 