Oh.
People of blogland, last night I dreamt that my Place Of Work had decided to tighten up the dress code (as it is, it hasn’t been changed since 1901) and issue a list of Appropriate Under Garments.

Long brown knickers and matching tops.

So with my sternest face, I declared that is was really taking things too far and that I was quitting on the spot. Then I marched out.

It’s one of those nightmares I can’t properly shake off, though. Perhaps because it’s only one shade away from reality.
Do you know, last week, a workmate was told off because her skirt didn’t quite cover her knees when she sat down?

(I know.)

Sometimes, I bake

You know these brownies you gave me the other day ? asks Abi.
The special brownies, yes of course, I reply.
Mmmm. The Special Brownies. I didn’t realise just how special they were, she adds.
But I told you! I said: here are some Special Brownies. I did!
… so, on Monday I went home for lunch, and I wanted something sweet, you know? And I thought, perfect, chocolate brownies…

By this point I’m biting my fist trying not to laugh.

..right, so I took a bite, and thought, oh these taste a bit funny, maybe they’re off, but I won’t say anything, I don’t want to hurt Y’s feelings, and I drove back to work, and all of a sudden my hands were HUMONGOUS….

I nod, laugh and cry at the same time.

….I had to put my head down on my desk, and someone said ‘you look like you’ve smoked’ and then it clicked; and I had two meetings in the afternoon, and you know how hard it is to not giggle when you’re stoned?…

Tears of joy are running down my cheeks.

..so, when can I have some more?


Finally, my talents as a baker get the recognition they deserve.

There is a new coffee machine in the House of Y

Yesterday, people of blogland, J got himself a new, state-of-the-art espresso maker thing, with shiny parts and foaming implements.

(I’m not sure I’ll get permission to use it.)

This afternoon, after much fussing, he made me a latte. I should say he designed, created, perfected a latte. I had to bow before I was allowed to drink it.
It’s a professional one, you know, he said smugly. Just like in real coffee shops.
Would you like my loyalty card? After ten cups, you get a slap.

I have a very harmonious home life.

Sweet grapes

People of blogland, I have to tell you about last Sunday.
My Special Lady Friend was visiting. I’m very fortunate, because she often visits. If I plead and wring my hands in a sufficiently convincing manner, she even spends the night. (I won’t tell you what she agrees to do when I get down on my knees.) So, yes, my SLF was visiting, we were in the middle of some serious hanging out, when she foraged into her bag and said, casually – oh by the way, I have a present for you. Before I had time to do my usual little excited dance she’d pulled out a bottle – I might not be materialistic, yet the word ‘present’ is nearly pavlovian- ‘Here’, she said with studied nonchalance.
I gasped.
How?
Where?
Wow!
I nearly got down on my knees then, you know.
Vendanges Tardives, the best goddamn wine in the whole world, people!
She’d found some.
She made it sound like it was easy. Just something she’d picked up after work.
After I tied her to the chair and threatened to torture her, I got the whole story. She’d been trying to trace it for weeks, had ordered it online and had just gone into an infinitely posh shop to collect it.

We drank it then we went for a walk along the river.
We met six months ago, you know.
Santé.

Today’s Life Lesson

When frying potatoes in a shallow pan for lunch, it is not wise to attempt to stir said potatoes when in the nude, just because you’ve just had a shower and are trying to multitask.

Mater

1. One day when my brother was 6 or 7, my mother found a little booklet under his pillow, with the title ‘Girls that I have loved’.
Inside were four or five names, the inevitable hearts. She laughed and showed it to me. I didn’t laugh. I made her promise to put it back where it was and never, ever mention it to him. Even when he’d grow up to be 20, 30, whatever – just, never.

2. My mother has never been good at either respecting her children’s private life, or taking them seriously. Growing up was a painful business. I will always remember my 12th Birthday party, when she came back from the shop with a packet of sanitary towels and placed it on my dresser with the words ‘you’ll be needing these soon’. In front of all my friends. She didn’t want to humiliate me; she tried so hard to play it down she made it huge.

3. You’re right, in Californian psycho lingo, I think it’s called a lack of boundaries, or something.
She would read my letters instead of ask questions, then bring up the finer points at dinner: ‘what’s that about buying condoms?’ she’d drop, out of the blue, with a snigger. She would smirk a bit, use euphemisms. ‘That boy friend of yours’. I learnt to keep my letters well out of reach; and not under the pillow.

4. There has been progress though: from never knocking before coming into my bedroom, she now gives a perfunctory rap, and immediately barges in. Just before you ask if I’m still living at home, no I’m not; I left 12 years ago, and burnt all the old letters.

5. Six months down the line, I still haven’t told her that, yes, I have met someone, and that it’s good. I wish she would ask, but she doesn’t. I can’t just volunteer the information. I’ve tried. I’ve done role-plays. How can I drop it casually enough, but not so casually that she doesn’t smirk? Why doesn’t she ask, for the sake of Pete?

6. It’s the sniggering. It’s the euphemisms. I could defend my brother, but I can’t seem to be able to defend myself from her embarrassment at realising that her daughter has a life.

7. Six months, and it’s good. Mom, can you hear me? And no, it’s not a man with a good job, who knows lots of things and can teach me stuff.

Kind of domestic

1. Today, people of blogland, I bunked off work. This responsible, adult professional was sitting in the kitchen having her breakfast at 6am this morning, and just could not do it. The energy and the resolve failed me. And the mist was holding promises of blue skies and autumn sunshine later on. So I blamed it all on the Lurgy and slithered back into bed next to my Special Lady Friend. She also bunked off, and later we went for a walk in the autumn sunshine. I’m trying hard to not feel guilty. I don’t like lying.


2. In an attempt to compensate, I made pancakes, and put a lot of effort into my Spanish homework.

3. People of Blogland, I have to go. I have to phone my grandma and thank her for the long, long knitted scarf and the matching socks she sent me by post. She said knitting socks was boring, but she’d do it for me (I’m her favourite granddaughter) in pure new wool. I’m sure they won’t smell for very long. It’s the new wool, you see. It tends to smell of wet sheep, barns in winter. Lovely.

4. One day perhaps I'll tell you about my grandma, because she's worth it.

Today’s highlights

1. 6.45am; just out the shower, I slither back into bed next to my Special Lady Friend. The room is hot and so is she. She doesn’t complain that I’ve pulled back the covers. I have 15 minutes before I have to leave home. Yay.

2. 6.45pm; at the end of a 2 hour 15 minute meeting, we reach the bottom of the agenda and ‘any Other Business’; buttocks clench up, breaths are held, but mercifully no-one pipes up. At this point one of the Work Trolls usually launches into a 15 minute diatribe about the lack of staples/ the state of the staffroom, but today the trolls aren’t in. Yay.

3. People of blogland, I can’t wait to go to bed.

Uncomfortable

1. I swirled around the Petit Bateau shop, frowned at the price tags and left promptly. At the cross roads, an unknown woman in a mini skirt ran up to me – excuse me, she said, looking me up and down. Yes? Excuse me, she added, breathless. Yes? And then I realised she was the shop assistant, running after me. I’d left so promptly she thought I’d nicked something. Faced with my icy glare and raised eyebrow, she retreated. No, nothing. I waved off her crumb of apology and walked away like an offended queen. I don’t know what was stronger, the indignation, the shame of being suspected, or my total and utter inability to shoplift. Perhaps the thing that made me look shifty was the fact that……

2. …I walked around all day with a massive hole in my tights. In the crotch. And that’s the kind of uncomfortable situation that you cannot fix in public.

3. I have to go now. There is Spanish homework to be done.

Ayer, gasté tiempo en mi clase de español.*

1. Hola, la profesora says as she enters the room in a tidal wave of books.
‘She’s a character’, George on my right whispers. Really Spanish.
I consider the tall, gangly woman, the trousers at the ankle and the too-short sleeve, the wiry shoulder-length hair and matching grey cardigan, the yellow socks, but I can’t see how the teacher is really Spanish. In fact I remember having an English teacher at school cut out on the exact same pattern..
It’s a look, you know.
The pile of books crashes to the floor. The six of us look at one another, half amused, half worried.

2. Communicative grammar, she says in heavily accented English, is about learning grammar in context. She seems to have forgotten about the books, doesn’t introduce herself, doesn’t seem to care about our names. I was all poised, ready for the customary speech about my likes and dislikes, pets, favourite colour, shoe size and possible allergies. She’s clearly not interested. On with a military-style drill. Communicative, then.

3. So we’re practising the perfect tense. Sally next to me claims to have eaten a pussy last night. For a minute I believe she’s saying she’s talking about oral sex, and cheer silently inside both at her linguistic prowess and her candidness; but it transpires that she merely got the verb the wrong way round and fed her cat. Disappointment.

4. We’re subjected to 3 hours of an intense lack of organisation and focus. Clearly this character never plans a lesson, and has no idea how to engage her students. This is going to be a struggle. La profesora gives us homework for next week and offers to prolong the class by 15 minutes, but we all have somewhere to be.

5. ay ay ay ay, amigos. Wish me luck.

*yesterday, I wasted time in my Spanish class.

Cartwheel

1. September, 1979, Wednesday morning.
I’m plaiting my long blonde hair, carefully, symmetrically, making sure the parting is impeccable and the bangs just right. I pause and look at my reflection in the mirror; I consider adding little red bows. This afternoon is important, I’m going to my very first gymnastics class. I wonder if they’ll like my hair.

2. Wednesday afternoon.
The gym is crammed full of 5, 6, 7 year olds wearing red leotards and white gym shoes. No one gives a shit about my plaits and their little bows. I can’t even do a cartwheel yet, I’ve so lost my edge. I can’t bear the thought of not being special but I won’t cry. When I go home at 4, I’ve lost the bows anyway.

3. October, 2005, Tuesday morning.
What to wear, what to wear. This afternoon, my Spanish class is starting.

4. Some things never change.

1.Yesterday, people of blogland, I went to see You and me and everyone we knowwith my special lady friend, and I don’t know which bit I liked best; it reminded me of Punch Drunk Love, but better. I developed a little crush on Miranda July’s gangly, awkward, neurotic, quirky character.

2. Then we walked around Covent Garden for a bit, and over the bridge to the South Bank, racing through the autumn air.

3. I’m at peace and happy, although the inside of my nose is black with fumes and general London pollution, and I’m wondering what I could hose it all out with.

4. Last night I dreamt that I had two cats, one called Science, one called Religion. They kept fighting a lot. As I woke up, I laughed at my 20th Century dream.

5. I'm off to wake up my Special Lady friend. Have a good day.