There is some fact about people walking on the grass. It states that everyone does it if no-one’s watching, or no-one does it when people are, or there is no grass if there are no people, or signs are for people who don’t watch them or something. I don’t listen particularly carefully, but the point is: people watch other people.
I know this, because I do it too. In fact, everyone does it- my friends, strangers, the man who stood up this morning to give me his seat (I was wearing a very large coat, and also clutching the small of my back, because I didn’t stretch properly at the end of my spinning class yesterday, and also I was tired, and my legs hurt from spinning, and I had sat down before I realised the implications of accepting the seat), my mother, Obama.
I took my train seat because I was tired, and sitting down is always best (there’s a reason for the sudden burst of new spinning classes in London at the moment. The Americans know that secretly, we’re just like them. It’s only a matter of time before our portion and dress sizes catch up) and also because I get my very best work done on trains.
One of my friends brought this up yesterday. ‘How’s your week going?’ he asked me, as we eyed each other warily across the table. (We were waiting for our hosts to make yet another batch of pancakes. We were both certain that the next one ought to be ours. Plus, there was only one banana. We had cut it in half, but one never knows). ‘Busy,’ I told him. ‘Lots of trains. I was in Paris on Monday, and London today, and off to Leicester tomorrow.’ (I very much hoped that this exhaustingly glamorous schedule would encourage him to let me eat his pancake). ‘I like trains,’ my friend said. ‘They’re very good for working on.’ ‘I agree,’ I yelled happily across the table at him. ‘I work better on trains than anywhere else.’
We spent the remaining pancake-waiting time discussing why trains were good for working on: the tables, the lack of distractions, the large windows.’But none of those things are unique to trains,’ my friend pointed out.’Why don’t we work just as well in libraries?’ ‘Pancake,’ our friend announced. ‘Who wants it?’ We both sat in mute politeness, until I reluctantly accepted the pancake. I had just leant over for the nutella when our host stopped me. ‘You’ve already had 4,’ she pointed out, unceremoniously re-allocating the pancake from my plate. ‘What?’ I asked in horror. ‘Yes,’ my friend continued unperturbed. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on you.’ ‘Aha,’ I said to my pancake-thieving friend, who was now happily smearing nutella over his plate. ‘That’s why we work on trains. Other people are watching.’ I then proceeded to stare at him as he ate his pancake, hoping that a watched pancake never boils, or something.
Tag Archives: friends
I’m watching you
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I hate nice
‘He is unfailingly nice,” my friend replied when I asked her about a mutual friend’s boyfriend. “Which I find alarming.” “I agree,” I replied.
There is something deeply unsettling about impeccably nice people. I say this not only because I myself would never be described thus, years of growing up alongside my entirely odd parents and a succession of less-than-normal Aussie nannies having put paid to that years ago, but because I truly believe that it is in people’s oddness that we find something to like.
The moments when I have felt true, almost painful love for the people I know have certainly not arisen from anything “normal” they have been doing. (To be fair, I doubt very much that anyone is struck with how much they love their friends whilst watching them rail futilely from the toilet about the lack of loo roll. But still.)
“Nice how?” I asked my friend, picturing scenes of unrelenting chair-offering and the giving-away of the last piece of cake.
“Just, you know, nice,” She replied. “All the time.” At this point another friend joined us. “What are you talking about?” She asked. “Niceness,” I replied gloomily. “Oh god,” She said. “I hate nice people. They make me feel deeply uncomfortable and when with them, no-one ever makes a decision, because they’re so busy considering other people’s feelings.”
“Excellent point,” I said, reaching over my friends to take the last canape. Having happily surrounded myself with oddballs and weirdos, I certainly don’t see any need to change things now.
Though given the subsequent look of anger and reproach on my friends’ faces, as I happily chewed away, I may be forced to.
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Telling tales (and how to be less boring)
‘I don’t know anyone in a successful relationship who met post-uni,’ My friend announced. ‘What about Chelsea Handler and Andre Balazs?’ I replied. (I’ve been watching endless reruns of Chelsea’s late-night chat show. I highly recommend it, she’s a hoot).
‘Um,’ My friend replied. ‘I meant in our friendship group.’ Putting aside my deeply-held belief that, seeing as I spend so much quality time with her, Chelsea Handler pretty much is in my friendship group, I tried to think about people i know in real life. Usually, I would fact-check this with my therapist, but I recently had a dream where she left me stranded with a baby, so I’m still pretty cross with her thoughtlessness about that.
I quickly realised that I probably do not listen quite as well as I could, when it occurred to me that I had very little idea when most of my friends met their boyfriends. Or, in some cases, who their boyfriends were. (That, I would like to add, is not entirely my fault. There’s a pretty quick turnover in some cases). However, as a caring and diligent friend*, I resolved to change this. Here are some helpful tips on how to make your stories less boring:
1. People have a lot going on- toilet trips, eating, staying awake, breathing etc, so remember that your anecdotes are competing with all those things, and keep them brief.
2. I personally am a huge fan of props.
3. An excellently sneaky way of getting people to listen is to substitute your actual name with the names of celebrities: So there Eddie Redmayne was, wondering why his flatmate had failed to replace the loo roll- I mean, Ryan Gosling had just left the empty roll on the holder! Who does that?
4. Some people believe that conversations follow some kind of order- that one person says something, the other responds, and so on. If you adhere to this you will simply never get to tell your great story about the time you got TWO dairy milks from the vending machine. Simply shout out.
5. If all else fails, become the type of person who listens appreciatively to other people’s stories- this has the added benefit of turning you into what I have heard described as ‘the ideal girlfriend’.**
*Factually inaccurate.*
**Under no circumstances should you do this. Continue to tell outrageously inappropriate stories, interrupt hugely and generally exist as a fully-formed sentient being.**
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Beautiful boys (and playing it cool)
My friend brought a beautiful boy to dinner last week. (Well, strictly speaking, only I was still eating, but I think that counts). Obviously, I played it cool. I ignored him when he introduced himself, and continued shovelling food into my mouth. I waited until he was deep in conversation with another of my friends before yelling across the table, ‘What’s that one called? He’s very pretty’.
We left the restaurant pretty quickly after that. I continued to ignore the beautiful boy. (He was just too pretty. It was like looking at the sun).
We popped over to The Kensington Roof Gardens in a convoy of taxis. ‘I don’t want to be territorial,’ I said to my taxi. ‘But the world’s prettiest boy is mine. Shotgun. I saw him first. Dibs. You know, for me.’ My friends laughed. ‘It’s really fine, Lucy,’ They said. ‘You can have him.’ I played it off cool, but I was secretly delighted. ‘Stop smiling so much,’ My friend told me. ‘You look odd.’
I deigned to speak to him once we were in the club (nightclubs are truly excellent places to hear people’s views on important matters).
‘You love Mumford and Sons,’ I told him abruptly. ‘I do,’ he replied slowly. ‘How did you know?’ I smiled mysteriously. (He was wearing a checked shirt. In fact, he was dressed precisely like a member of the band. Also I had overheard him telling someone else how much he liked them).
By the end of the night, we were dancing in a circle and having a brilliant time. I decided that this was my moment. I lunged across my group of friends to where he stood, merrily bopping away, and prepared to kiss him. Unfortunately, I tripped on my way over to him and fell to the floor. There’s really nothing like playing it cool.
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‘Borrowing’ friends
I am meeting my new friend for dinner and a show. I have ‘borrowed’ this new friend from my Mother, whose paucity of friends makes this pretty inexcusable. Nevertheless, I am chaining my bike outside the restaurant, and popping into the box office to pick up our tickets. I realise as soon as I enter the restaurant that I am too hot, so begin an elaborate winter-layer striptease, handing over jumpers and scarves to the bewildered waiter. I place our theatre tickets on the table, and pop to the loo. (I realise once I am on the loo that theatre tickets are eminently stealable. I am panicked. I barely touch the fancy hand moisturizer). On my return, the waiter is still there (though he has disinvested himself of my delightfully fashionable outer-wear. I assume he has hung it all somewhere. Or perhaps he has sold it. Oh gosh. What if he’s made a voodoo doll using DNA scraped off my clothes?
I surreptitiously test my limb freedom by raising my left arm slowly. The waiter looks at me and I cunningly turn it into a wave at the very last second. The last thing I wish to do is anger the voodoo-making waiter). I sit down carefully.
My new friend arrives. We are seated at a banquette, which means one of us gets to recline in comfort, and the other one of us gets a normal chair. ‘You sit on that side,’ I say generously. ‘I know old people like the comfy side.’
Things are going splendidly. I imagine by Christmas I will have appropriated all of my Mother’s friends. (Please see earlier comment. 3 and a half weeks is perfectly adequate to steal the remaining 4). We order vast quantities of food. I am thrilled. My new friend doesn’t drink, so I order a particularly expensive alcoholic beverage for myself (to even things out).
During our meal I entertain my new friend with tales from my life, carefully chosen to highlight my best qualities. ‘And then I said something so absolutely hilarious that the whole room erupted in laughter! I tried not to let it phase me though, of course.’ (This is a good one because it shows me as both witty and modest). Sometimes my new friend tries to speak, but I interrupt her often enough to show that this is not my idea of a good conversation.
I request the bill (I like to draw different famous people’s signatures in the air when requesting restaurant bills. This time I used a quill, and was William Shakespeare) so my new friend pays.
(It’s like the cooking/ washing-up divide. You only need to do half. Please pass this on, it’s saved me a great deal of trouble). We walk across the street to the theatre. As I pre-emptively tell my new friend what ice-cream she should buy me at interval, I know this is a friendship that is going to last.
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In which I am a kept woman
I’m at a literary event. I’ve brought my friend. (I use ‘brought’ in the loosest sense of the word, considering she booked and paid for our tickets. Oh god, I’m a kept woman). The evening is taking place approximately 6 minutes walk from my house. I get us hopelessly lost, and we spend 20mins walking through alleys in the dark. (I am only able to lead us on this merry dance because I have told my friend with absolute certainty that I know where we’re going. This is a lie. But one I tell in my firmest voice. The voice I plan on using to explain to my children that ‘no-one noticed that you forgot all your lines in the Christmas play’ whilst secretly planning on showing the film at their wedding).
We arrive at the event despite my best efforts. We are given pieces of paper and pens, in case we wish to write questions for the speakers. I am overly thrilled by the free pen. My friend returns her pen to the organiser, explaining she has brought her own. The organiser looks at my friend, beaming. I wander to the bar in a sulk.
‘But surely you always carry a pen?’ My friend asks me. ‘You’re a writer.’ I glare at my friend and order our drinks. I’m not sure being a kept woman is all it’s cracked up to be. (My friend pays for our drinks and I change my mind).
There’s a brief skirmish while I try to convince my friend that we should sit in the middle of the very front row. The speakers arrive and take their seats. ‘I know that chap!’ my friend whispers to me. ‘The blond one in the middle. I’ve met him before.’ I am sick of my friend upstaging me at this literary event. ‘I wonder where I know him from?’ My friend continues musingly. The host begins to introduce the speakers. It turns out the blonde chap is the lead singer of a fairly famous rock group. (I’m talking somewhere between Radiohead and Hole. Not musically, although that is a collaboration I would very much enjoy. I wonder what Thom Yorke would think of Courtney Love. Only good things I imagine, he seems like a very cheery chap). I turn to my friend. (Unfortunately in my glee I turn somewhat abruptly and spill her beer. I try not to let this undercut my sudden smugness). ‘You don’t know him!’ I whisper loudly to her. ‘He’s famous. You’re a stalker.’ I suddenly don’t mind that my friend brought her own pen and rescued us from being lost. She’s just as uncool as I am. I smile happily, and settle down to enjoy the debate.
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unfashionablylost 