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September 16, 2011 · 11:17 am

In which I breakfast at the Wolseley

My friend sends me an email. ‘We should have breakfast tomorrow.’ I politely ignore the email. I wake up properly when Kris (the coolest of my builders) starts singing ‘She’s got electric boobs…Be Be Be Benny and the Jets.’ I think of things I can break in my room to keep the builders here forever.

I check my emails again. I have 27 new emails on this breakfast thread. My girlfriends have electronically meandered all over London, through cafe and restaurant, and decided upon the Wolseley. I like the Wolseley. I like my friends. I am quietly thinking of ways to drop my new breakfasting-at-the-Wolseley habits into conversation. ‘How are you?’ ‘I’m good thanks. I always find the Wolseley breakfast really sets one up for the day.’ I realise why I don’t talk to people who breakfast at the Wolseley. I get one final email. ‘OK, great. Let’s meet there at 7.20am.’ I wonder why my friends hate me. I go to discuss this with Kris the builder, who tells me that we have run out of toilet paper. I realise that it might not be so normal to be a ‘we’ with your builder. I should probably go to breakfast.

I cycle to Oxford Circus. This takes 15mins. I then spend 15mins cycling up and down three  one-way streets between Piccadilly and Oxford Circus. I pass Mahiki so many times I start to believe I should just breakfast there. I arrive, late, and am nearly run over by taxis as I lock my bike outside the Wolseley. I imagine people think I’m some sort of Zuckerberg type, and their looks of incredulity are a response to this. I blunder into the Wolseley.

It is important in these types of establishments to look as if one belongs. I achieve this by slinging my coat onto the floor, opening the menu and saying loudly. ‘How on EARTH can they charge £11 for a bagel. This is ridiculous.’ My friends say nothing. I realise I must act quickly to preserve my impossibly-young-impossibly-wealthy-disguise. ‘I mean, obviously I can afford it.’ I look for a waiter. ‘I would like a large- yes, the more expensive one, glass of apple juice. I will be ordering more later.’ I can see he is impressed with my nochalant ordering skills. He quietly picks up my coat. I begin to look at the menu, and wonder if I can steal toilet paper from their loos.

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September 14, 2011 · 11:36 am

Reverse That

I got a little lost in Fulham yesterday. I was going to ask for directions, but I was intimidated by the glossiness of everyone’s hair. Between that and the gleamingly polished 4x4s, I could barely see. No wonder I was lost. Luckily, I just kept walking aimlessly until I found myself where I needed to be. (I’m sort of like a reverse Google Maps. I can’t tell you how to get anywhere, but I have total faith that places do exist. Actually, that’s really nothing like Google Maps. More like a person with no sense of direction who subscribes to normal beliefs about space and matter).

Anyway, I was in Fulham to help a friend. She’s writing her dissertation, and sent me a panicked message late one evening. ‘Would you be able to come over and read my dissertation? I’ll pay you in sweets. Or money.’ I do really like sweets. I was surprised that my friend offered to pay me at all (in either sugar or sterling). To be fair, I’m pretty much consistently surprised when people pay me. The first 6 months of paydays were thrilling. I don’t think the novelty has worn off. Last weekend I did some translation work for my Mother. She popped over on Monday at some godforsaken hour. ‘I have some money for you.’ ‘I’m asleep.’ ‘OK. I’m going to leave it on this Zadie Smith.’ I woke up a few hours later to a wad of twenties. It was like being reverse-burgled. (Yes, there are going to be a lot of ‘reverse-somethinged’ comments today. Try to keep up. Whilst walking backwards). That was pretty exciting too.

I read my friend’s dissertation (which I thought was excellent, especially once she had implemented my suggestions). ‘I’m so sorry. I haven’t bought you any sweets.’ ‘That’s OK. I’ve just come from the cinema. I spent £8 on my ticket, and £9 on pick ‘n’ mix.

Also, I’m your friend. Helping you out is part of that.’ I stopped talking to look at her meaningfully. ‘Friends don’t pay friends. But they can give them presents.’ I think she understood. It was reverse-psychology. (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself).

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September 13, 2011 · 10:27 am

Terribly glamorous and very forgetful

So I have been invited to a book launch.

I am terribly excited. I have faffed about doing ‘research’ for this event. (This research has involved me telling people I am going to a book launch and then watching their reactions for clues. I have so far learnt that book launches are terribly glamorous, full of successful people and that no-one really knows what they are. But apparently there’s drink). I look at my invite more carefully and realise it is in Bath. I am even more excited. I meet a friend for tea. (She provides no tea and fobs me off with water in a plastic cup from those water dispensers. Apparently we are having a meeting, not tea. She has booked a meeting room and everything. There are an excessive number of chairs. I wonder if she herself has been fobbed off with a storage cupboard. I politely say nothing). ‘Would you like to go for drinks next Friday?’ I am thrilled. ‘I would, but I cannot possibly go on Thursday. I am going down to Bath for a book launch.’ I quickly wonder if Bath is indeed south of London. Luckily, my friend is suitably impressed. ‘What are you going to wear?’ ‘Oh, you know.’ I flap my hand nonchalantly to suggest that this book launch is a terrible drag, but that obviously I have a wardrobe crammed with suitable clothing. ‘How are you getting there?’ ‘Oh, you know, it’s Bath.’ She nods. We are a credit to our Geography teachers.

I leave our ‘meeting’ when I realise there really is to be no tea. I log on to the national rail website (after a remarkably short detour through the national express website- this is in fact not the same thing at all) and start to book my ticket. I am offered ‘Bath Spa’. It sounds delightful. I accept. They want to know if I am returning. In all my research, no-one has mentioned book launches lasting all night, so I accept that too. Apparently, I need to tell the increasingly demanding national rail website what time I want to return. I am flummoxed. I am also wary of telling national rail my every move. (National, you know. Like the National Socialist Party. Or the National Front. I might be on the wrong website still). I decide to play it cool, and leave the website.

I am on the phone to my little sister. ‘Yes, I know. You’re going to a book launch. No, I did not want to do anything with you next Thursday so there is no need to tell me you are busy.’ My little sister is wildly jealous, I realise kindly. ‘Don’t worry. I am free next Friday. Oh no, I have a birthday thing in the evening.’ The line has gone dead. I assume my sister has forgotten to pay her phone bill. I realise that after this book launch, I most probably will forget the little people. And hire a PA, because the national rail website is impenetrable.

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September 12, 2011 · 11:42 am

Appropriate friendliness

My pharmacist is overly friendly. At first, I didn’t realise he was my pharmacist. I just thought he was a creepy customer who had a thing for people in sweatpants. I was served by a very nice lady, signed my prescriptions dutifully, and sat down to wait for them to give me my hayfever tablets and antibiotics. A swarthy gentleman strolled through the pharmacy, winked at me and said hello. I smiled tightly. A few minutes later, he called out my name. And handed me an enormous plastic bag, leant forward and said softly, ‘I have, you know, put your things inside. Inside this bag.’ And winked again. I’m sure there is an appropriate way to deal with these types of situations, so I nodded and quickly walked away from him, to a no-exit door. Apparently my pharmacy is a maze. As a business model, it makes sense. Sick people are pretty much the perfect customers, so keeping them in the store as long as possible is inspired. I myself did not manage to leave without buying some chalk (five different coloured sticks),

a family-sized bottle of TCP and some antiseptic cream. It is the height of grown-upness to be so prepared.

TCP is my Father’s answer to every medical problem.

He called me yesterday. ‘How are you?’ ‘I’m sick.’ I could hear the rustling which meant he was pulling down the ‘BMA Complete Family Health Guide’. This enormous tome has an immovable place in my childhood memories. I remember at one point my Mother threatening to throw the book at my Father if he did not drive me to the hospital immediately. My Father was affronted, because my Mother does not have a medical degree. Luckily, my little sister nearly does.

‘Can you tell Mum I’m not malingering. I’m really sick. I need to be fed. She needs to come over and feed me. You tell her, she believes you.’ ‘But I haven’t seen you. If I call her, she’ll probably guess that I’m just relaying your message.’ ‘I’m not sure. I think she went out last night. She’s not coping very well today. Anyway, just use your junior doctor voice.’

No-one brought me any food, so I assume my sister didn’t pass on the message. I went to see my GP. This led me to the overly-friendly pharmacist. What I really need is for strangers to be more stand-offish and my family to be more friendly. And a blackboard.

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September 9, 2011 · 10:17 am

Building friends

I woke up this morning because one of the builders opened my bedroom door and stuck his head in. I didn’t have my contacts in, so I can’t tell you which one. But to be fair, I was awakeish anyway- the builders like to play Magic FM to serenade me in the morning.I have never liked Adele more than when re-interpreted by a Lithuanian builder at 6.30am. The mondegreens are exceptional.*

I rolled off my inflatable bed (I have cunningly placed my own inflatable matress on top of my sisters, who is away. It’s something like sleeping on a lilo that is floating steadily out to sea. My pillow keeps falling as I move ever further away from the wall, and when I scramble across to go to the loo my weight on one side flips the whole mattress up. It’s very good for the reflexes) and popped into the bathroom. There is no lock on the bathroom. In fact, because of its recent painting, it is quite difficult to even close the door fully. So before I take a shower I check on the builders. (This is both so they are spared seeing me naked, and also because I want to be friendly).

There are three builders. They know more about me than they should. I know nothing about them, but I have not let this hamper me in the slightest. My favourite builder is called Kris (after Kris Kristofferson, of ‘Me and Bobby McGee’ fame. And some other things, probably). Kris is cool. I can tell this, because he wears his baseball cap backwards. Also, he raises his eyebrows ironically when I model various outfits for him in the morning. (I like to use Kris as my personal stylist. Please see hat-wearing comment for his outstanding credentials).

The second builder is old, and looks at me with weary, seen-it-all-before eyes when I ask why my t-shirt is being used as a mop. (My highly unsympathetic friend insists this is because my clothes are too ‘rag-like’, and it is my fault).

The third builder I have actually spoken to. The first time I met him, I said in passing that I was hungry. (I would like to clarify that I did not say this to him, but near him). ‘Go into my car.’ ‘I’m sorry?’ (I thought perhaps he was about to embark upon a brilliant rendition of Hasselhoff’s cover of ‘Jump in my car’. I was THRILLED). ‘Yes, in my car. There is pizza.’ ‘Brilliant.’ As you can see, I am having a lovely time with my new friends. Do feel free to pop by for our performance of Crystal Gayle’s, ‘Doughnuts make my brown eyes blue’.

* A mondegreen, and those of you who are here should be ashamed, is the correct term for a mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase in such a way as gives it new meaning. Famous examples include ‘Scuse me while I kiss this guy’ from Hendrix’s ‘Purple Haze’.

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September 7, 2011 · 11:51 am

Stranger Danger

I went to my great friend for dinner last night. Her boyfriend is staying with her, and she has yet to acclimatise. She keeps forgetting about him, and furiously excluding him from things such as this dinner. I’m not sure if he actually was out, or had just been summarily ordered to leave while we ate. My other friend was certain he was still in the flat, hiding nervously in the bedroom. (I have noticed people think it odd when you start opening cupboards in their bedroom so politely remained in the living room).

We had a lovely dinner. Everytime I go to someone else’s for dinner I pretend furiously that I am going to start eating better. I assumed for a long time that, like me, everyone else only ate properly when guests were over. Apparently that’s not true at all. People really do eat fish, even if it’s just them. Not everyone thinks a lump of cheese and a mars bar is a balanced dinner. (I tried to explain how comforting holding one in each hand was. This did not meet with the enthusiasm I expected).

My other friend (the one who wasn’t playing Fritzl with her boyfriend) arrived with a bottle of wine and some terribly posh apple juice. I arrived with myself. In my defence, I asked if there was anything I could bring. (It was perhaps a little late to ask this once I was in the flat). My friend was terribly gracious about the whole thing, and I made up for my lack of gift with an excess of wit. (Well, if I’m being honest, I spoke nearly incessantly about myself. I think that people like that). We were preparing to leave when my friend said cheerfully, ‘Go home soon! I mean, safe.’ I would have ignored this, except as we left, we noticed a sign on the front door (the proper front door, not the front door to my friend’s flat) that told us firmly to make sure the door was properly closed so as to refuse entry to ‘unwanted visitors’. It looked suspiciously like my friend’s writing. I do hope her boyfriend is OK.

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September 6, 2011 · 9:59 am

All grown-up

I’m quietly perving on photos of my friend’s little brother’s friend. I think this is totally acceptable. The little brother’s friend has a mustache. This means irrefutably that he is a grown-up. (Or at least that he is no longer at school. There are strict rules on facial hair at school. I’m not sure how I know this, having gone to an all-girls school, but it’s true). I’m wondering if it would be charming or creepy to friend request this mustachioed chap. Probably charming, but perhaps a little forward. Nevertheless, I have composed the ‘personal message’ I would include:

Hi! (this exclamation mark will show him how young and hip I still am)

I noticed that you are a film/ music producer! (this exclamation mark might be overkill, but hopefully he will be too impressed that I have read his ‘about me’ to notice, and will just be swept along in my cheery enthusiasm) I myself work in the industry. (This, strictly, is not true. But I have iTunes and a DVD player, so am pretty sure I can bluff my way through). I’d be really interested to hear about your latest project. (This is an outright lie. But people always lie at first. And sometimes for a long time after. I am still telling my Mother that I have simply no idea where her cashmere jumper is). Get in touch- maybe we can grab a drink x (I love ‘grab a drink’. I feel it perfectly conveys my hectic, excessively popular lifestyle. The ‘x’ is to show that, despite the business-like tone of my message, I am flexible enough to consider a more personal relationship). 

See? Charming. Oh, I’ve just noticed the boy was born in the 1990s. Maybe this is a little, just a touch, slightly creepy. Luckily, this carefully crafted ‘personal message’ can be adapted to almost anyone. Might be a busy Friday for me…not in a creepy way, obviously.

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September 2, 2011 · 5:32 am

I’m becoming a therapist

‘People are leaving their stuff in storage for longer than ever.’ (I stole that sentence, and all its punchy impact, from the BBC website). The BBC is perplexed. ‘Why are people paying to store stuff they rarely use?’ They even have a psychologist offering his insights:

“Oliver James, psychologist and author of Affluenza, says that the self-storage phenomenon can be explained by consumerism’s effect on how we view ourselves.”

I don’t mean to be rude, but I know a psychologist, and she’s nice enough, but I don’t think I would ask her for any great insights into why people do things. (Someone has pointed out to me that in fact, that is exactly what therapy is). What an awesome racket.

I might become a therapist. One of those old-school ones, where my patients have to lie down and not look at me. Because I’ll be quietly watching TV behind them, and occasionally murmuring something soothing. Perhaps I will have a sofa to lie down on too. I will tell my patient that this is because I do not like to stand on ceremony. If they laugh at my excellent pun, I will give them a small discount. Not a big one though, as I plan on being a very rich therapist. In fact, I don’t think I will give them a discount. I will smile at them though. Which is pretty much priceless. Until I get my toothpaste advert commission. I will get this from one of my patients, naturally. I will protest that I do not want to leave the world of therapists, but will quietly accept that by raising my profile (and personal wealth) I will merely be in a position to help more people.

(I know it is unlikely I will be filming this exact advert, but I hope for something similar)

I will enjoy filming my toothpaste advert immensely, mostly because of the excellent tables filled with free food. The producer will smile knowingly when I make the same gag about needing to ‘test the toothpaste’ all day. I will diagnose him with anxiety and suggest he comes to see me and lie on my sofa. I will encourage him to bring some excellent free food.

My client roster will grow exponentially after my toothpaste advert launches. (I will start calling my crazy patients ‘clients’ to encourage them to recommend me to their equally crazy friends). I imagine it won’t take long til the BBC are ringing to ask me to explain why ‘people are brushing their teeth exclusively with toothpaste’. They will be perplexed. Fear not, I will help them. I will be a therapist. I will have enormous insight:

“New psychologist and face of Colgate says that the toothpaste phenomenon can be explained by consumerism’s effect on how we view ourselves.”

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September 1, 2011 · 11:29 am

I want to be alone

I can’t work out how to use emoticons, so in moments where nothing else will do, I tend to put a ‘0’ at the end of my text. I assume people realise this is because the ‘0’ looks like a mouth open in amazement. It is therefore the perfect, low-effort emoticon. Unfortunately, I seem to be the only person sensible enough to notice this. I fear recipients of my artfully constructed texts are missing out on vital expressions of shock and horror. Then again, perhaps they have seen the zen-like simplicity of my unique emoticons and felt rebuked for their own excessive use of ‘traditional’ emoticons. It is hard to tell.

I had some time on Tuesday because buying my trainers was much easier than expected. (I don’t want to boast, but I have a perfectly neutral gait. This is similar, in running shops, to being a celebrity. In that all the staff stare at you and try to act cool. And you can get cheaper stuff than everyone else. Though not free. I mean, a neutral gait is highly impressive, but it’s not a leaked sex tape or a stint in CBB). I was walking distance from where I was meeting my friends for drinks, so I decided to head over there early. I strolled (in a orthopedically superlative fashion) up to Sketch.

The lady at Sketch told me that I should go through the dark curtains. I was understandably concerned, but figured that if things got messy I could slip on my new trainers and race out of there. (Hoping, obviously, that my perfectly neutral gait didn’t attract more attention than normal. I just want to have a private life, you know? I wish they’d all stop hounding me).

So there I was, at Sketch, alone. I decided that this was either excessively cool or tremendously not. I texted a friend to ask. He was resoundingly certain that it was not cool in the slightest. I sent him back a shocked 0. I’m not sure if that really furthered my cause. I thought about mentioning that I had my perfectly neutral new trainers with me. But I didn’t want to seem boastful. It can be hard, as an emoticon trend-setter with the perfect gait. Sometimes I just need a little time to myself.

The beautiful staff bought me over a drink. And with the drink was a napkin with a telephone number on it. I was shocked. I had tried so hard to maintain my anonymity. I looked at the napkin more closely. The number was printed on. It was part of the napkin design. 0.

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August 31, 2011 · 3:03 pm

Sometimes, silence is golden

I was at a festival a little while ago. You probably weren’t there- it was pretty exclusive. I mean, there were some other people there, obviously, it wasn’t just me and my iPod in my garden. (If that had been the case, I probably wouldn’t have called it a festival. That seems a little like calling every time you go to sleep a sleepover, just because you don’t live alone. Misleading. And hard to charge tickets for). So I was at this festival, which wasn’t in my garden, although the toilet facilities were pretty similar, to be honest. (When I was a child, our playroom often smelt of urine. The nannies were far more perturbed by this that I was- I thought everyone knew that my little brother was weeing into the plants. Apparently, this was not common knowledge, and it was incumbent upon me to tell someone). In my defence, it is often hard to know what one should and shouldn’t say.

I was at lunch with my sister and my Mother, and we were having meatballs. (I used to think one could only get meatballs at IKEA, but it seems that is no longer the case. Long live globalization).

We were chatting merrily away, and then politely looked at the floor when the bill came so our Mother wouldn’t feel embarrassed about paying. The waiter took her card and then said, ‘There is some sauce on your face.’ My Mother removed the sauce and then inexplicably rounded on her children. ‘Why did you not tell me about this?’ My sister and I looked at each other. What an odd question. Of course we would not tell her. We have learnt not to make personal remarks through very specific Pavlovian response training. Personally, I was fairly sure she was just trying out some new lipstick. Like I said, it is very hard to know what one should and shouldn’t say.

As a rough guide, I suggest the following:

1. Sometimes people have put on weight, and sometimes they are pregnant. It is important to offer no congratulations until they tell you which one it is. (If it is that they have gotten fat, sometimes a cheery ‘congratulations!’ can be misconstrued).

2. Sometimes people are trying out something new. If you have noticed this, it is undeniably because it is dreadful. I find a non-committal, ‘oh, there’s something new’ is useful. If the other person looks perplexed, explain you were referring to the omnipresence of meatballs outside of IKEA.

3. Sometimes people are too lazy to go to the toilet. Even if you are at a festival, it is OK to tell them that they should not be weeing into the plants. Making comments on festival toilet facilities is also fine, but making comments on other people’s toilets is not. (This has a fairly broad remit- people are very touchy if you ask them about the weird creams they have in their bathroom cabinet).

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