I’m grumpy, because I’ve asked everyone I can think of to attend an event with me and none of them can come. (It’s 5pm. The event starts at 6pm and requires special clothing). I lie on my bedroom floor and consider my options. I hang off the edge of my bed and consider them further. Nothing, except a strange roaring sound in my ears. I get up. ‘Would you like to come to an event with me?’ I ask my cleaner. ‘No,’ she tells me. I am affronted. I stomp upstairs again. I practice headstands against the wall until my cleaner comes up to ask what I am breaking.
I untangle myself and smile winningly at her. I’m not sure I have made myself seem a more attractive proposition. I follow her to the bathroom. (She is heading there to clean it, it’s not weird that I’m following her). ‘Look!’ I say proudly, brandishing some toilet roll. ‘I got some more toilet paper!’ (I chose my words carefully, as I had actually purloined this toilet paper from the toilet at my therapist’s office).
My cleaner seemed pleased, but unmoved to accompany me that evening. I give up, crossly. My friend calls me. ‘How was your day?’ she asks politely. ‘Terrible,’ I tell her. ‘You?’ My friend draws breath to reply. I quickly interrupt. ‘No, don’t tell me. I’ve had enough bad news for this year. First, I got these awesome tickets. For free.’ I begin. ‘Um, yes?’ my friend replies. ‘And I can’t find anyone to go with me,’ I continue. ‘OK, your go.’ ‘Well,’ she begins slowly. ‘It was just a pretty stressful day on the ward. Children kept trying to die on me.’
‘Oh gosh,’ I say, shocked at my own insensitivity. ‘And now you’ve just had the terrible news about my ticket problem,’ I say sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been tough on all of us.’
I take out some plates and set the table. My friend serves our lunch on different plates. I remove the plates I have so considerately placed on the table. ‘So,’ I begin musingly. ‘You know how you promised to come with me next Tuesday to this stand-up comedy gig?’ My friend pales visibly. Though that could be because I have just poured half a litre of deliciously expensive orange and raspberry juice into my glass. 
(It’s confirmed. My friend has gone all fancy. I resolve to ask for the fanciest pudding I can think of). Unfortunately I am thinking about this so concertedly that I miss entirely what my friend is saying to me. I decide to bluff it out, and continue as if she has not said anything. ‘Well, would it be ok if I tried out some material on you?’ I asked. (Syllabub! That’s fancy. Or fancy-sounding, anyway. Perhaps a parfait, said with an endlessly open mouth and no hint of the ‘t’. ‘Parfait’ would be the perfect thing to shout in a cave. The echo would be tremendous).
This morning I popped to the library to return a book and take out another one. (I don’t want to boast, but I’ve really got this library thing down). On my way back, I noticed that my local pub was curiously empty. The tables outside it, usually filled with ‘friends I just haven’t met yet’, gleamed invitingly in the sunlight. There was a little sticker on the window: free wifi available here. I rushed home.
‘Oh,’ I said. I wondered briefly if I could take my builder’s iPhone with me to my new office, ‘the pub’. I didn’t really know what the protocol was for these types of situations. (It reminded me of the week I was convinced my cleaner was washing her knickers in my washing machine. I knew it wasn’t usual, but I wasn’t sure if it was worth making a fuss about). I decided to make some food while I considered what to do. (Winter has really upset my eating habits. Yesterday I made dinner at 5pm because it was dark, so I assumed it was 7.30pm. It’s good preparation for being an OAP I guess, but is wreaking havoc on my body clock).
unfashionablylost 