Category Archives: Uncategorized

September 30, 2011 · 11:53 am

Stay away if you’re dead (please)

I email my therapist, and then wait, endlessly refreshing gmail, for her to reply. I tell my friend, who tries to reassure me. ‘I think she’ll reply. Therapists are pretty reliable. It’s sort of part of their MO.’ ‘But it’s been three minutes,’ I point out. ‘Perhaps she’s dead. That’s so typical of her.’ My friend politely stops talking to me.

I decide to get dressed, and am gloriously happy to find a pair of shorts I bought in 1998. ‘These are probably so fashionable again,’ I think as I put them on. The people opposite me are moving out (I have decided to take no responsibility for this), and so I watch their removal men lift heavy things from upstairs bedrooms for a while. They smile at me, and I tell them, ‘I’m just waiting for an email.’

‘I hope my therapist hasn’t died,’ I tell my friend. She doesn’t reply. ‘Oh, and I hope you haven’t died also,’ I say to appease her. Still nothing.

I do some casual lunges to test the stretchiness of my retro shorts. Still no email. I notice that the movers can see me, and wave cheerily at them. ‘It’s very important to lunge,’ I tell them. ‘Also to bend your knees when lifting heavy objects.’ They are probably surprised that my neighbours are moving out, living opposite such a knowledgeable person.

I swallow a multivitamin, and brush my teeth. ‘Look how good I’m being,’ I tell my absent therapist. ‘A person as well-behaved as this really deserves an email. Unless you’re dead. I don’t want any creepy missives from beyond the grave.’

(I have a sneaking suspicion that my therapist would be a really effective and tenacious ghost. I start to send strong ‘stay away’ thoughts to her. I quickly modify these to ‘stay away if you are a ghost, otherwise reply please’ thoughts).

Still no email, so I pop outside to chat to the movers. ‘So, what you up to?’ I say in a friendly fashion. They stare at me. ‘Well, to be honest, I don’t really need to know. I just wanted a segue-way into complaining about my therapist.’ They continue to stare at me. ‘Do you think she’ll reply? I’m sure she’ll reply. Won’t she?’ The movers say nothing, so I pop back inside.

‘Why don’t you call her?’ my friend asks. ‘Um, I don’t want her to think I care,’ I explain rudely. ‘Gosh. I really couldn’t care less. She probably won’t reply.’ ‘Maybe’ my friend says dubiously. ‘You don’t think she’ll reply?’ I shout, panicked. ‘Are you serious? Oh my gosh, this is disastrous. She’s probably dead. This is a nightmare. I’m never emailing her ever again.’ ‘Well, obviously if she’s dead you won’t be able to,’ my friend points out. ‘SHE’S DEAD?’ I race out the door to ask the movers if I can go with them. If I move, it’ll be harder for her ghost to track me down. Though considering the difficulties she’s having with email, perhaps her haunting skills won’t be as impressive as I thought.

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September 29, 2011 · 11:21 am

In which I am disappointed

I get a call from a withheld number. I am terribly excited. I think about all the people who might be calling me secretly. ‘Hello?’ I say politely. ‘Hello. This is HSBC.’ I refuse to abandon my earlier hopes. Perhaps HSBC is calling to let me know that they have randomly selected me to win a great deal of money, in a 2011 version of Charlie’s golden ticket.

I instantly upgrade my planned sandwich. Today will be a ‘finest’ day, let me tell you that for free. (I’m sorry, but I think that’s all I’m going to give away for free. Us rich have to stay rich). I wonder if I should throw caution to the wind and pop to Marks and Spencer. And let me tell you, I will not be following the ‘meal deal’. No siree, I will profligately pile things I actually want to eat into my basket. I might buy two puddings. ‘Hello, are you there?’ the HSBC man asks. It seems I have not said anything for some time. I don’t want to make the HSBC man jealous of my newfound lunch possibilities, so I keep my recent thoughts to myself. ‘You have an account with HSBC,’ he tells me. ‘That’s good!’ I say cheerily, ‘Got to be in it to win it!’ ‘Um, yes. The problem is, you haven’t put any money into the account since 2010.’ ‘Well,’ I say gleefully, ‘I’m guessing that won’t be a problem any more!’ ‘Um. No, it is.’ I presume the HSBC man has been watching too many game shows, and is trying to increase tension by pretending I haven’t won. I play along. ‘Oh, really?’ I say. ‘Would it be possible to transfer some money into this account today?’ the HSBC man asks. ‘Ooh, I don’t know,’ I say cunningly. ‘I suppose that depends on what happens today.’ ‘Um, it is important that you transfer money into this account as soon as possible.’ ‘I see,’ I say, playing along. ‘As soon as possible. Yes, I understand.’ I imagine HSBC are going to do an instant bank transfer. This is great, because I am pretty wed to the idea of my enormously expensive lunch.

‘Are you there?’ the HSBC man asks. ‘Of course!’ ‘So, do you have another account you could transfer funds from today?’ ‘Seriously?’ I ask. The HSBC man is silent. Perhaps I have misread this situation. I see my lunch reduced to the Boots Meal Deal as we speak. ‘Is that your final answer?’ I ask the HSBC man, just to check. ‘Um, yes,’ the HSBC man replies, baffled. ‘Please transfer money today.’ ‘OK,’ I say grumpily, ‘but let me tell you this- Marks and Spencer are very disappointed.’ ‘Do you have an account with Marks and Spencer?’ the HSBC man asks eagerly. ‘Not any more,’  I reply. ‘I think you know why not.’ There is a pause, while the HSBC man considers his actions. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow to confirm we’ve received the transfer,’ the HSBC man says finally. ‘And I’ll call if I receive the golden ticket,’ I tell him crossly. ‘I’m sorry?’ the HSBC man asks. ‘Oh, nothing,‘ I reply. ‘Excuse me, I think I have another call. Maybe this one will be Willy Wonka. I hope HSBC have learnt not to raise people’s hopes with their deceiving withheld numbers.’ I presume from the HSBC man’s silence that he is suitably chastened. Let me tell you, I will not be picking up when I see his number flashing across my phone. Oh, wait…

 

 

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September 28, 2011 · 1:13 pm

In which I do not look good (but I will survive)

One of my very best friends came down to visit on the weekend. I picked her up from the train station. She had an enormous bag. I assumed she had heard about my new house policy of bringing one’s own toilet paper. I was tremendously pleased.

‘Where are we going?’ ‘Oh- a good friend’s birthday party. It’s in Islington. I’m not 100% sure where, but you know, somewhere. Islington.’ ‘OK.’ We arrive in Islington. I check my invite. We pop along to a bar populated entirely by old men and drunk women. I am delighted. ‘Sit down,’ I tell my friend imperiously. ‘I will get drinks.’ I scooch past a large 60-something chap singing ‘I will survive’. I considerately remember that my friend may not have had dinner, and buy some crisps with her shots.

My little sister arrives and joins us. (We were meant to travel together, but her chicken wings didn’t arrive in time, so she stayed at an earlier bar. ‘Can’t you just get a McDonalds on the way?’ ‘Ugh. How can you eat like that?’ ‘You’ve just ordered chicken wings! I’ll see you in Islington.’ ‘Do you know where?’ ‘Yes, I just said. Islington. Gosh, stop harrassing me’). ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ she asks as she returns from the bar with a pint of water and tequila slammers. ‘Are you a camel?’ I ask. She ignores me, so I presume she is preparing to take a pregnancy test in the toilet later. I think about how much my grandparents are going to prefer me when my little sister gets knocked up out of wedlock.

I start mentally re-appropriating previously shared gifts from them. I wonder what face I should make when my sister announces her misfortune, and am subtly working on my concerned-yet-quietly-gleeful look when my friend asks if everything is alright. (See above image for approximate). I look up, puzzled. ‘Of course. Oh look- there’s my friend.’ I wave enthusiastically across the pub to my friend at the bar. He ignores me. I wave again, and shout his name. The chap standing next to him gives me an alarmed look and turns away. ‘Um, are you sure you know him?’ my friend asks. ‘Well, yes. I am sure.’ I redouble my efforts to catch his attention. ‘He really seems pretty certain he doesn’t know you,’ my little sister points out. (I think smugly about how little attention anyone is going to pay to her once she is showing. And wonder if it’s too early to ask to have her non-fat clothes). ‘This is pretty embarrassing. For you, I mean.’

I notice that my friend seems to know the chap standing next to him, and wave frantically at him, then point dramatically at my friend. He looks at me quizzically, and then turns to tell my friend. My friend, with the loyalty that comes from 10 years of friendship, looks at me briefly, shakes his head and continues to flirt with the barmaid. ‘Oh dear,’ my visiting friend says kindly. ‘There’s no party here is there. Never mind, it’s really nice to see you.’ ‘No no,’ I splutter. ‘Honestly, there is a party. With friends. My friends. Who I know.’ I look round the pub for support. Unfortunately the old man near us has started to bump and grind against the table while singing ‘I will survive’. It doesn’t look great.

At this point my friend pops over from the bar. ‘Oh, didn’t see you there,’ he says by way of greeting. ‘You were blocked by that chap singing ‘I will survive’. Odd place this, isn’t it?’ ‘See!’ I turn gleefully to my sister and visiting friend. ‘I do know him!’ ‘Congratulations,’ my visiting friend says drily. ‘I’m still not convinced,’ my little sister says. ‘I don’t want to be friends with any of you,’ I say crossly, and stomp off to talk to my new friend, Mr I will survive.

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September 27, 2011 · 11:50 am

Managing expectations

My friend has organised a lunch for us. I am delighted, because she has chosen a gastro-pub approximately 6 minutes walk from my house. I decide to cycle. It is even quicker. I arrive first, order a diet coke and pop to the loo. The others arrive a few minutes later. We mock my friend who asks for salad instead of chips with her sandwich. We point out to my other friend that her current tan will make her look wizened in 10 years time. (I may be using ‘we’ rather liberally here). Everything is trundling along nicely.

‘You still keen to run the 5K?’ one of my friends calls down the table. ‘You know, I’m not sure I could finish it,’ she replies. I’m on my second diet coke, and loudly interrupt, ‘ANYONE could finish a 5K. ANYONE.’ My friends disagree. I decide to help them. ‘Look, you’re not obese. 5K is what, 3 miles? Let’s say you run a 10 minute mile. That’s 30 minutes. You’ll certainly finish.’ There is uproar. ‘It would definitely take me longer than 10 minutes to run a mile.’ I am inexplicably furious. ‘Look,’ I begin to shout at my friends, ‘A normal human runs an 8 minute mile. I’ve given you guys 2 extra minutes! You’re basically walking!’ My friend reminds me that we are inside, so perhaps I should use my inside voice. I ignore her. ’10 minutes?! That’s absurdly slow already. I think over 3 miles I could run a 6 minute mile.’ My friends do not seem impressed. ‘No, wait. A 5 minute mile. I could probably run a sub-5 minute mile if I trained.’ No-one’s listening.

 ‘4 minutes!’ I call out desperately. ‘I’d be home in 12 minutes! I could run 5K now and our starters wouldn’t even be here yet!’ I seem to have lost my audience.

‘Fine! I’m going to qualify for the Olympics just to show you.’ My friends look at me, baffled. ‘I think you’re too old to be an Olympian’, one of them points out. ‘Not at ALL,’ I respond furiously. ‘Not for middle distance running. I’ll see you all in Rio.’ There are general murmurings about how fun a group trip to Rio would be. ‘It is not going to be FUN,’ I shout furiously. ‘I am going to be running a marathon with 4 minute splits. It’s going to be DREADFUL.’ Someone changes the subject, but I overhear two of my friends vowing to run 11 minute miles, just to show me.

A group of us are eating breakfast the next day, as Paula Radcliffe gets her Olympic qualifying time at the Berlin marathon. ‘That’ll be you in 2016,’ my friend says. I stop stealing chips and look up. ‘So, conceivably, you’ll be finishing with a 1 hr 46 min marathon time. That’s probably as long as we’ll take to run our 5K.’

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September 26, 2011 · 11:52 am

Not what I expected

I arrived early at Southwark, and called to let my Father know. ‘Walk towards me.’ ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘Yes. You know where I work? Walk towards me.’ ‘Um. I’ll just meet you outside the station. See you in a bit.’ (It is imperative my parents remain unaware of how little I listen to them. I am aiming for the level of blissful ignorance that saw a friend of mine felled by a GCSE French presentation class. ‘And what does he do, your Père?’ our French teacher asked. ‘I don’t know,’ my friend replied. ‘OK. Tell me in English then.’ ‘I don’t know in English.’ ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘Yes. I don’t know what my Father does. In English or French.’ This was really one of the highlights of my school career. I spent the rest of term making suggestions to my friend about nefarious activities her Father might be getting involved in. To be fair, none of which would have been lucrative enough to pay the school fees).

Anyway, my Father dutifully walked towards me, and we went off to the Young Vic. ‘Would you like a drink?’ ‘Oh, yes please. A vodka tonic would be great.’ ‘A vodka tonic?’ my Father said, in a contemptuous tone. ‘How boring.’ (In my family, it is preferable to be a pederast than to be boring). ‘They have cocktails here. I will order you one.’ ‘Oh, how nice. Thanks Dad.’ ‘I will order this one. It has whiskey, and schnapps, and honey vodka, and normal vodka. Oh and fresh raspberries. I will order one for myself too.’ ‘Um, OK. And perhaps a glass of tap water?’ ‘Well, obviously get whatever you want,’ my Father said, baffled.

The waitress disappeared, and returned with two glasses of tap water. My Father looked at them. ‘These are terribly plain, aren’t they? Not what I was expecting at all.’ ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘Well, where are the raspberries?’ ‘Um, Dad? This is the tap water.’

The play really had nothing on my Father’s excellent, if somewhat unplanned wit.

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September 23, 2011 · 11:52 am

In which I am Joan

This week I have been sitting in the PA room. (Not in a creepy, stalker-type fashion. It’s because I’m being a PA for a week. I’m completely allowed to be there. In fact, it would be absurd for me to sit anywhere else. No man is an island, and all that).

It’s less like being in the Mad Men secretary pool than I’d like, but I’m trying to make do. I try to flounce into the room in the morning, exactly like Joan. Except I’m pretty tired, so have been getting out of bed precisely 10mins before I need to leave the house, so my entrances have been somewhat marred by me still pulling on my jumper and putting in my contact lenses. (In fact, I’m probably more like SJP in this photo with Joan).

  I try not to let this dampen my natural enthusiasm for a job where you can keep your headphones in all day long.

I feel my real chance to shine comes at lunch time. On my first day, I came back with £15 worth of sushi, at which point my colleagues realised that I didn’t understand basic economics. I also put too much wasabi on my sashimi and quite nearly choked. (I assume my colleagues stayed at their desks and continued chatting indifferently because they know I don’t like to make a fuss).

Yesterday, I forgot to eat lunch, and at 4.30pm was so hungry I started looking longingly at the neat cordial. (I’m not sure where the water is in this office-please see earlier statement re making a fuss). Luckily, I noticed some handy biscuits next to my desk. (When I say ‘next to’, what I mean, is ‘on the girl opposite’s desk’). These were quite delicious, and I was congratulating myself on my new money saving techniques when the girl opposite returned, and wondered where all her ‘Tim Tams that I brought back from New Zealand’ were. This was a bit awkward, but I quickly swallowed and started frowning at my computer, to show her how busy and non-biscuit stealing I was. (I would have offered to replace them, but come on. New Zealand? I’ve seen ‘Lord of the Rings’. Practically no-one makes it out of there alive. Even Mike Tindall’s having a hard time down there, and he’s a lot tougher than I am).

So today I decided I would bring in lunch from home. Unfortunately, my fridge was not the well-stocked haven I wish it would become. (The only bloody thing my fridge produces is ice. I live in London. It’s plenty cold enough). I brought in what seemed to be an inexhaustible amount of spinach, a Milkybar yoghurt, some rice, an alarmingly al dente chicken breast and four large tomatoes. Unfortunately I only have one tupaware box, so I had to shove everything into it. It tasted fine, but I’m not sure how appetising it looked. (I saw the NZ girl looking pityingly at my lunch, and felt that she had probably forgiven me for stealing all her biscuits). Perhaps lunch time isn’t really my most Joan-like moment.

I think I’m channeling her best when I imperiously leave messages with people to call me. I give absolutely no indication as to why they should do so, or who I am. (I think, Joan-like, that they should just KNOW). I really think I can turn this place around. Just as soon as I get a handle on this whole lunch thing. And getting fully-dressed before I get into the office. I’ll be having an affair with my boss in no time. Oh no, wait…

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September 22, 2011 · 11:49 am

Almost Brecht

My Father called me last Saturday. I was barely alive, so I don’t remember much of the conversation. He called again on Sunday, when I was a little less hungover. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘That’s very good. We can have dinner there before. I do like Brecht.’ ‘Yes.’ I wondered what other, mysterious things I had agreed to do. I would just wait and see. It was rather exciting.

I merrily started my week, continuing to be my Mother’s PA (which I am doing either spectacularly or dreadfully it depends if she’s being sarcastic or not). The receptionist called me. ‘A gentleman keeps calling for you.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, aren’t you excited?’ ‘It’s my Father, isn’t it.’

I picked up the phone. ‘Hi Dad.’ ‘So, just to confirm, let’s meet in the foyer at 6.30 tonight.’ I was in too deep. ‘Of course! Looking forward to it! I also like Brecht! Well, I’m not sure if ‘like’ is the correct word, but yes, smashing!’ I quickly started google searching Brecht plays in London. Nothing.

I called my Father. ‘Hi Dad.’ ‘Oh hello. What’s wrong?’ ‘Oh nothing,’ I said breezily. ‘Just wondering where the theatre is.’ ‘Oh, yes. The Young Vic. It’s actually closer to Southwark.’ ‘Marvellous!’ (It is possible my Father now thinks I have some kind of over-excitement disorder, but he probably thinks Brecht will calm me down).

I popped over to the Young Vic website. ‘What’s On?’ I asked politely. ‘Disco Pigs’. I see that I am less well-versed in Brecht than I thought. I read on. ‘Pig and Runt are soulmates. They share an appetite for drunkenness, recklessness and destruction. But on the eve of their 17th birthday it is an appetite for sex that threatens to tear them apart.’

I am not sure I can watch a live performance of an episode of ‘Skins’ with my Father. I call him back. ‘Hi Dad. Obviously I’ve been looking forward to this for ages, but could you just remind me of the title of the play? It’s going to be great!’ My Father dutifully tells me we are to see ‘Street Scene’, and decides that we should meet in the foyer, rather than the restaurant. (I believe this is because he is worried about what I will order should I arrive before him).

I look back at the Young Vic website. ‘A glorious blend of Broadway musical and American opera, Street Scene won the first ever Tony Award for Weill, confirming him as one of the 20th century’s most original and popular composers.’ I’m pretty sure Brecht never won a Tony…but then I’m hardly in a position to question my Father’s attention to detail.

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September 21, 2011 · 11:21 am

Shopping with my friends

I think my therapist is cross with me, although I most thoughtfully gave her a rather lurid looking NZ sweet to try to soothe her. (This worked for maybe 3 seconds. My therapist is infuriatingly persistent. I spend much of our sessions trying to distract her with colourful anecdotes and interesting thoughts. She always wants to talk about the most depressing of subjects. I’m having to see her pretty regularly, just to make sure she hasn’t succumbed to this insatiable need for gloom).

Anyway, she thinks I should take better care of myself. I disagree, but a few nights ago I found myself eating a green tube of Pringles for dinner (green, because that’s the healthier option). Infuriatingly, my therapist might be right. So, after yesterday’s session (where I would like it to be noted that I was giving away sweets) I decided I must eat better.

I arrived at Tescos. The cashier who once mistook my little brother for my son (and me therefore for the most negligent mother one could imagine) said hello. I thought smugly, ‘Wait till you see what healthy and nutritious items I am purchasing today. That will make you re-assess your opinion of my mothering skills.’ (I’m not sure I have ever fully convinced her that I don’t have any children. Perhaps I should stop buying those delicious Milkybar yoghurts).

I grabbed a basket and strode purposefully along the first aisle. This is an aisle I don’t usually frequent, (because diet coke is on the last aisle) but it was reassuringly green. I started to throw vegetables into my basket. I wandered as close to the other shoppers as possible, so that they could admire my healthy choices. My basket was filled with what appeared to be a thieving frenzy by Peter Rabbit from Mr McGregor’s garden.

 I had no idea what meal it would be possible to make from these odd shaped root vegetables. I needed a new plan.

I spotted a very handsome gentleman, standing musingly over a lemon. Perfect. For the rest of my time, I simply followed behind him, and placed into my basket exactly what he placed into his. I probably don’t need soothing-post shave balm, but I’m sure someone will like it. I went home, and created a delicious jumble of chicken and peppers and various other things. (I’m not sure, strictly, that my chap was planning on eating everything he bought that night, but I wasn’t sure, so thought it best to). Really, it was as if I had dinner last night with this very handsome man. I think my therapist will be pleased I’m taking such good care of myself.

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September 20, 2011 · 11:13 am

Affluenza

I was 14, and my friend and I were in Barkers on Ken High Street. We were there because we wanted to try on Miss Sixty jeans, which we had coveted for months, and at £75 we were very far from getting. A gentleman walked up to us. We had become distracted, and were now simply wandering around stroking clothes we couldn’t afford. ‘Are you a model?’ I spun round, thrilled. He was talking to my friend. ‘You should be a model. I’m only in town for a few days, but I’d love you to head up the new Ralph Lauren campaign. Oh sorry, I’m the MD of Storm Models. Here’s my card.’ My friend quietly took his card and wandered off, embarrassed. I thought about running away from her in a strop but I was having a sleepover at her house that evening.

‘Let me see!’ She handed me the card. ‘Are you going to call him?’ ‘Of course not. Ooh look- there’s new Hello Kitty t-shirts.’ She strode purposely towards them. ‘Wait. You’re not going to call him? You’re not going to make millions of pounds and get free food and to meet Leonardo DiCaprio?’ (Looking back on it, I am impressed with my prescient awareness of Leo’s penchant for models). My friend was utterly unfazed. ‘Shall we ask to be picked up? We can rent a video because it’s Friday.’ Unless it was a video in which we could go back in time and make sure I never ever went shopping and was ignored and not asked to be a model while my friend was, I wasn’t that fussed.

Yesterday, I politely asked another friend how her day was going. ‘Oh my goodness. Guess what happened to me today?’ I should have stopped replying to my emails at this point. It’s as if the last 11 years hadn’t happened. ‘What?’ ‘A famous actor mistook me for an actress! He said I couldn’t possibly be an assistant, I had to be an actress because I was so pretty. Isn’t that ridiculous? People are hilarious’  People are not hilarious. I’m changing all my friends.

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September 19, 2011 · 11:19 am

I’m perfectly suited to this

So, in events not unrelated to breakfasting at the Wolseley, I pop over to discuss financial matters with my Mother. (This is to be a very quick discussion, because I have very little money to discuss. I look forward to getting on with the rest of my busy day, and allocate approximately 8 minutes to this meeting. I am excited to allocate the 52 remaining minutes to convincing my builders to perform a ‘Queen’ medley for me). ‘I don’t have any money.’ ‘Gosh, how unfortunate for you.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I recommend getting a job. Actually, my PA is away. You could come in and do her holiday cover.’

I think about this for a moment. I know nothing about being a PA. I think I will be perfect. I begin by assuming I am to start whenever I feel like it. My Mother thinks otherwise. I therefore turn up terribly hungover. The receptionist looks concerned. I airily put his mind at ease by walking into the wrong room.

A kindly lady points out where I am meant to sit. I am sitting opposite a lady who explains that she is also doing holiday cover. I do not feel reassured. She begins to tell me how dreadfully tired she is. It seems she has stayed up til 1am preparing her massage tent. I have little idea of the office protocol for dealing with these revelations.

Her boss comes in with some urgent work. The lady sighs laboriously, and explains to her boss that she is terribly tired, so cannot really cope with these urgent requests. I look up, tactfully gaping at her. Her boss keeps her temper, and explains that it is imperative that the work is done. I try to show my support for her boss through widened alarmed eyes. Her boss wonders if I am OK. I decide to tone down my support. The lady does the work wrong, and her boss reappears. The lady turns to her, ‘Look, I really can’t deal with you right now. As I said, I’m very tired.’ Her boss calmly reiterates the importance of finishing the work correctly.

I decide to go to talk to my own boss, who handily also happens to be my Mother. ‘You absolutley must come downstairs and watch this temp lady. She has lost her mind.’ Unfortunately it seems my Mother is busy, so I re-enact the scenes as best I can. I realise that this lady could not be a better new colleague for me. I am looking fantastic by comparison. And perhaps she’ll give me a massage.

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