August 2, 2012 · 10:03 am

Lost in Waitrose

I went for a run yesterday, and then I remembered that I didn’t have any food, so I hopped on my bike and went to the shops. (I stupidly listened to my little sister’s incessant mocking of my glorious Iceland purchases, so spent thousands of pounds in Waitrose instead).

Waitrose at 8.30pm is an odd and dangerous ecosystem. For a start, you enter at the fruit section. Now, I’m not anti-fruit. I’m not even on-the-fence about fruit. I like fruit, and I think people should eat it.

But, unless you are a fruit fly or Gwyneth Paltrow, the main thrust of a supermarket visit is not for the fruit. Nevertheless, Waitrose makes you start there.

I chucked a couple of bananas and some grapes (the grapes came in packets- they weren’t just rolling idly around on the bottom of my basket-though I believe I did see someone try to jiggle a grape free from its packet and into their mouth) into my basket, and moved away from the fruit.

The next thing I knew, I was freezing.

I was standing in front of the type of freezer conglomeration more usually found in a cryogenics lab, trying to work out which food it was that retained all its vitamins if it was frozen, but lost them all if you ate it fresh. After wavering uncertainly for a few, icy moments, I plumped for the danish pecan pie.

The rest of the trip was an exercise in ignoring the fabulously well-dressed and attractive other shoppers, who were apparently filming some sort of  Waitrose sponsored romantic-comedy.

(I refuse to believe that anyone goes to the supermarket for a baguette, some camembert, champagne and truffles. Where is the toilet roll? Do people not realise how quickly bin bags get used up?)

I hunted down a kindly Waitrose employee to discuss at length where one would put popping corn, while he subtly tried to squirm away from my well-reasoned and logical analysis of this conundrum.

I returned home at last, whereon I discovered that, irritatingly, bananas are heavy enough to squash grapes, and frozen pecan pie does not  stay frozen for the entire length of a popping corn logistics debate.

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July 31, 2012 · 12:54 pm

No-one can tell me off

‘You know,’ I said thoughtfully to my next-door neighbours, aged 7 years old and 9 years old respectively. ‘The best thing about being a grown-up is that no-one tells you off any more.’ They nodded sagely. We had met outside our houses, because I was going to my friend’s leaving dinner, and they were showing me how if you take a thorn off a rose and put it on your nose, it looks like a rhinoceros.

Their Mum came outside at precisely the moment my flatmate arrived home from work. ‘What are you doing?’ Both women asked  simultaneously. We tried to explain about the rhinoceros discovery, but they didn’t seem particularly interested. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said to the girls before I left for my dinner. ‘I can’t come over tomorrow-I’m temping for my Mother’s law firm. But I’ll come over on Thursday and show you how to do somersaults on the trampoline.’

I could tell from her expression that their Mother was as thrilled as the girls were at this prospect.

I am equally excited. There is nothing better than the adulation of small children. (Except possibly when they can’t finish their chips, and they let you eat them). I have been surreptitiously practicing headstands and forward rolls on my bed, in a hastily-devised training programme. I had to hastily dismount yesterday when my flatmate came into my bedroom.

‘You know you’re going to bounce those kids right off the trampoline?’ She asked me. ‘As in, if you bounce with them on it, they’re unlikely to survive.’

‘Nonsense,’ I replied robustly. ‘Just wait til I show them how to use a skateboard while they bounce.’ My flatmate sighed and left my bedroom. ‘Just remember you’re the grown-up,’ She told me. ‘I know!’ I replied delightedly. ‘And so their mum won’t tell me off!’

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July 27, 2012 · 11:31 am

In which I hate my parents a little less

When I was a child, there were two things I wanted most in the world. The first was the pink Barbie Jeep, which you could actually ride around in,  and the second was a trampoline. I never got either.

But yesterday, years of hatred and resentment towards my unfit parents abated somewhat. The people next door have got a trampoline.

I was getting ready to go to my lovely friend’s birthday party, and wandering round in my room absent-mindedly when I looked out the window. My neighbours (aged 7 years and 9 years) were bouncing up and down on a trampoline.

‘When did you get that?’ I yelled at them in excitement. ‘Today!’ They replied. ‘Can I come and play?’ I asked quickly. ‘Yes,’ The 7 year old said promptly. ‘Come now.’ I had left my room and was looking for my front door keys before I remembered myself. I slowly returned to my bedroom. ‘I have a party now, with my grown-up friends,’ I yelled out of my window. ‘But can I come and play tomorrow?’

I’m still on the lookout for that pink Barbie jeep.

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July 24, 2012 · 11:59 am

Iceland, and feeding my kids

I have recently discovered Iceland.

It is tremendous. It is filled with food (I would like now to dispel any preconceived notions of nominal determinism and tell you that it sells both fresh and frozen produce) and it is exceptionally cheap. It is perhaps not the food I would feed my children, but that is more because I do not see ‘feeding’ as being part of my parental repertoire. I imagine myself as more of a go-to-Mother for the Sport’s Day Mother’s Race, or lessons in dazzling put-downs and unforgettable quips. The whole ‘bringing the child up’ thing sounds much, much less fun. I will generously leave that to my husband.

Anyway, at the moment all of this is a moot point, mostly because my sister remains unconvinced anyone would want to procreate with me. (My sister is a doctor now, which has changed nothing, except for the fact that she makes spurious pronouncements with a greater air of authority, and is listened to by our parents. Oh, she is also coming soon to a hospital near you. Possibly. That one really depends on where you live). The fact remains, however, with or without my little sister’s annoyingness, that I was in Iceland alone.

There were other people in Iceland, but they were not with me. Iceland is filled with a variety of people, though I am yet to spot Kerry Katona.

I asked the checkout boy about this as I filled out my Iceland bonus card. ‘You can buy this rum for £12,’ He told me in reply. Which is as sensible an answer as any, I suppose. Or at least as sensible a reply one will find in Iceland, which must be why mums go there.

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July 23, 2012 · 9:31 am

It’s not me, it’s her

My therapist doesn’t want to see me anymore. Hang on. My therapist and I have decided that I am doing well, and there’s no need for me to see her at the moment.  We’re taking a break. Basically, it’s not me, it’s her. Or something. Anyway, I’ve been dumped by my therapist.

But not to worry, I am already deep into a plan to win her back. There are 5 stages to this infallible plan. (It’s like the Tour de France, but with less yellow. No-one looks good in yellow).

Stage 1.

Email her, asking for her back.

“Dear HL,

I do not like not seeing you. Can I come see you please?

Lucy.”

“Dear Lucy,

Is there anything you need to discuss?

HL.”

“Dear HL,

No. But I could invent  something.

Lucy.”

Dear Lucy,

No.

HL.”

Stage 2

Act cool, so she wants you more.

“Dear HL,

I’m over you.

Lucy.”

Stage 3

Let her know you’re still thinking about her, so she remembers what a nice person you are.

“Dear HL,

In unrelated news, I have made you a CD. It was going to have a photo of our faces merged  together for the CD sleeve, but I couldn’t find any photos of you.

Lucy.”

Stage 4

Start early-stage investigations into getting a new therapist. ‘Accidentally’ cc her into the email, so she is wildly jealous.

“Dear new-much-better-therapist

I would be delighted to come for a session this Thursday. I will bring cake.’

Lucy.”

Stage 5

Wait for therapist to get in contact, talking about how she has made a terrible mistake. It is nice at this point to be gracious. (Also ask for photo, so you can complete CD cover).

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July 19, 2012 · 9:23 am

I know where you live

I met my new neighbour yesterday. ‘Hello!’ I said as he tried to open our front door on his way home from work. ‘I have just moved in downstairs! I’m called Lucy! Hello!’ My new neighbour smiled politely and offered his name in return. I can’t remember what it is though, because I was busy asking him all my questions. ‘Have you seen how good our local is?’ I asked enthusiastically. ‘I’ve not been there, actually,’ Named-but-forgotten neighbour replied. ‘Oh,’ I said quickly. ‘Are you a recovering alcoholic?’ He looked a little startled. ‘Or do you just not have any friends?’ I continued kindly.

‘That’s OK, you can pop down and have a drink with us.’ ‘I don’t really drink,’ He replied finally. I was a little wrong-footed, but recovered quickly. Nothing more impolite than dropping the conversational ball. ‘You can have juice!’ I exclaimed merrily. ‘I do like cranberry juice,’ He agreed. ‘Oh no,’ I told him sternly. ‘You can’t have cranberry juice. Everyone will assume you have cystitis.’ There was a short pause. ‘I do not have cystitis,’ My new neighbour reassured me. ‘Neither do I,’ I told him in return. ‘One vagina, zero cystitis.’

‘Anyway,’ I continued cheerily. ‘Where the people who lived here before nice? Did you all get on?’ ‘I didn’t really interact much with them,’ He replied politely. ‘Our paths didn’t really cross.’ I could tell from the wistful look on his face how much he regretted not getting to know the old tenants before they moved out. ‘Oh do not worry!’ I replied quickly. ‘I work from home. We can hang out loads.’

Unfortunately, at that moment my new neighbour had an urgent telephone call, so I wasn’t able to further put his mind at ease by setting a date, but I have stuck a note to the inside of our building’s front door:

WE DIDN’T SET A DATE, BUT PANIC NOT! I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!

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July 13, 2012 · 10:54 am

I am the best housemate ever

I have started living with my little sister, which is great. This morning, I woke up at 7.15am (it’s this new thing I’m trying- but it’s much worse than getting up at 11am, so I’m stopping it immediately), and wandered into my sister’s room. ‘Hello!’ I said. ‘I’m asleep,’ She groaned. ‘But I have a very bad tummy ache,’ I said, clambering into her bed. ‘And you’re a doctor. Please make it go away.’ ‘Please make you go away,’ She replied rudely. ‘And give me back some duvet.’

I slept happily next to my little sister until she began blow-drying her hair impossibly loudly.

‘Ssh,’ I said crossly. ‘I am trying to sleep.’ The hair-dryer was so loud that my sister didn’t even hear me, and was unable to respond or stop blow-drying her hair.

‘Wake up,’ She shouted loudly the second the hair-dryer had stopped attacking my ears. ‘I’m awake,’ I protested sleepily.

I subtly slid the duvet over my head to convince her of the verity of this statement.

‘What are you doing today?’ She asked absent-mindedly. ‘What are you  doing today?’ I asked in reply. ‘Lucy,’ She said firmly. ‘You cannot continue to follow me around. It’s weird.’ ‘I’m just trying to be a good housemate,’ I replied crossly. ‘Have you sorted out the internet yet?’ She asked, irritably. ‘Well, no,’ I replied slowly. ‘But McDonalds has free Wifi. And chips. ‘ ‘I do not want to work in McDonalds,’ My little sister replied grumpily. ‘Me neither,’ I replied, quickly hiding the awesome new toys I have gained from my daily Happy Meals.

I have started living with my little sister, which is great. At least, it is for me.

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July 12, 2012 · 9:55 am

This is not a therapy session

I bumped into my therapist recently. (Several of you, who are under the entirely mistaken impression that I am pretty much stalking my therapist, will not be surprised, but I was). ‘Hello!’ I said delightedly. ‘How nice to see you.’

It was nice to see her. Or, it was at first. Talking to your therapist outside of a therapy session is a conversational minefield. I racked my brain for something interesting and innocuous to say.

‘So much rain,’ I began, inwardly cursing myself.

(My therapist is cool, and I want her to think I’m cool too. Not a socially inept idiot who is unable to hold a decent conversation. I want her to think that about her other  clients). My therapist made some pleasant remark in return, but I wasn’t listening. I was running through potential talking topics:

1. How are you?

This was out. Far too prying and personal. She would hate that.

2. Have you had a good weekend?

What am I? Her acolyte? (I am, secretly, but I was trying to play it cool). Also, as with (1), this suggested a level of intrusive nosiness that she would not appreciate.

3. Of all the clients you might have bumped into, are you most pleased to have met me?

In the end I resorted to what I usually do, and endlessly monologued about my own life. But whereas in sessions, I occasionally touch on something actually worth discussing, I was keen that my therapist did not feel that she had been conned into giving me a free session. So I talked exclusively and extensively about the most frivolous of topics.

And now, instead of thinking I’m cool, my therapist thinks I’m a self-obsessed idiot who cares disproportionately about trainer socks and Benetton adverts.

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July 10, 2012 · 10:44 am

Super Brow!

Superdrug have started doing eyebrow threading, and are offering it half-price in their stores. There are two things I care about when it comes to my eyebrows. One is that they are shaped professionally (a terrible self-plucking incident aged 15 years has had a long-lasting impact), and the second is that they are shaped cheaply.

The first concern is born out of vanity. The second is simple economics. I also refuse to pay hundreds of pounds for bikinis- because you don’t get very much for your money. Did you know that Marilyn Monroe used HGH* for so long that by the end of her life, she had a fine downy cover all over her? I am not Marilyn Monroe. I am not even Alistair Darling.

(I’m making a hairiness point here, not implying that I am regularly confused for either one).

So when I popped into Superdrug to pick up some face wipes (I wasn’t concentrating, so I now seem to be the proud owner of hundreds of nappy wipes)

I was delighted to see that Super Brow! were offering eyebrow threading for a fiver. Once again feeling thankful that I was neither Marilyn Monroe nor Alistair Darling, I went to see the brow lady.

‘Have you had your eyebrows done before?’ She asked me. ‘Yes,’ I replied cheerfully. ‘Many, many times.’ I then worried she thought I needed all my eyebrows removed, what with my insistence on repetition, so hastily added, ‘I usually like to leave some eyebrow on.’ The woman nodded uncomprehendingly. ‘I mean, obviously please remove some of the eyebrow,’ I continued. ‘I mean, otherwise what am I paying you for?’ I laughed nervously. The brow woman did not laugh.

I sat down meekly and had my eyebrows shaped.

In future, I think I will take my cue from another long-standing profession, and allow the brow woman to charge extra for talking. (Me talking, obviously she can talk as freely as she wants. I mean, just because I’m paying her doesn’t mean I own her.)

Possibly it will be better for everyone if I learn how to shape my own eyebrows.

*Human Growth Hormone. It apparently makes users feel younger, slimmer and ‘better’. Side effects as yet not fully known.*

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July 9, 2012 · 9:11 am

Gatz London (and malteasers)

I was taken to see Gatz London yesterday. Gatz has come over from a hugely successful run in the States to great fanfare- one critic, helpfully quoted on the Gatz website, describes it as ‘the most remarkable achievement in theatre not only of this year, but also of this decade’. It is, in the simplest terms, a dramatic reading of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Great Gatsby’. In real terms, it’s 6 solid hours of theatre, interspersed with intervals and a dinner break, which means you enter cheerily at 2.30pm in the afternoon, and leave the Noel Coward theatre at 10.30pm in the evening, ejected daze-like into the night.

I thought it was tremendous. My companion liked it so much he’s hoping to go again. (I liked it enormously. I will certainly not be going again. Did you not hear that it’s EIGHT HOURS OF THEATRE?)

But if you want to see it, go to the website- www.gatzlondon.com. I’m here to talk about snacks. People go to the theatre for many and varying reasons, but I’m pretty sure that everyone goes to the theatre for the snacks. There’s something special about theatre food. It’s like normal food, but better. (I assume that must be true- or else why is it 4 times as expensive?)

My companion left me to carry the snacks, so I clambered into my seat laden with boxes of malteasers and japanese rice crackers. (In separate boxes- I’m not an animal). ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to the lady sitting next to me, as I saved myself from falling by sitting on her lap. ‘Here you go,’ My friend said, passing me a large G&T. ‘I got us 2 each.’ ‘Good planning,’ I whispered in reply. ‘We’re so good at the theatre.’

We were not. We whispered loudly in delight at key dramatic moments, got up several times to go to the toilet, and realised early on that there is no food in the entire world louder than rice crackers and malteasers.

‘The thing is,’ I said to my friend. ‘It’s really not our fault. These are the only snacks the theatre sells! You know what really would be ‘the most remarkable achievement in theatre not only of this year, but also of this decade’? Quiet theatre snacks.’ My friend agreed, and asked me to stop talking to him during the play. At least I think that’s what he said. It was hard to hear over the crunch of my malteasers.

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