I bet you can tell a married woman from a single one, just by the state of her underwear. Mine is tragic. Rather worryingly, this thought occurs to me while I am trying to draft a reply to Johnny's last email - the one in which he mentioned massage.
I'm hoping that he was so distracted by the oil spill that he forgot he was writing to me, and thought he was emailing his wife instead. Now I can't decide whether to mention his suggestion, or to ignore it and, after a few clumsy attempts at a reply, I abandon the idea and phone Dad instead. It is Father's Day, after all - even though Connie seems oblivious to the fact that this does actually apply to Max.
I am in Dad's good books due to being the only one of his many children who has remembered to send a card - or to phone - until the subject of Facebook comes up. Then he insists that all his young Thai women "friends" are just neighbours.
He gets quite cross when I question the likelihood of this, on the basis that: a) he lives in a really small village, and b) it's in Dorset. Then he says he's not interested in women since Stepmother Mark III left him, so I ring off as quickly as I can and phone Dinah.
"Can you set Dad up with one of your friends' mums?" I ask.
"Why? What's he up to?" says Dinah. (We have a sisterly shorthand which avoids the need for a lot of explanation, which is lucky as she talks so much that I often can't get a word in edgeways.)
"He says he's not interested in women again," I say. "And that the Thai girls are all his neighbours."
"Christ!" says Dinah. "I'll get onto it straightaway. In the meantime, why don't you write something off-putting on his Facebook wall?"
"Like what?"
"Like asking him if his willy's still bendy, for a start," says Dinah.
There is a triumphant tone to her last comment. I wonder if this is how most daughters discuss their fathers?
After all that, together with yesterday's revelations about Chris Huhne - where do the LibDems get all this sexual energy? - I start wondering if Max fantasises about starting all over again with someone new, probably half my age, and also probably from another continent.
Then I decide that I don't want to know if he does, but I'm unsettled for the rest of the afternoon anyway. I keep finding myself staring at him, until he notices and says,
"What's up? Have I got a bogey hanging from my nose or something?"
It's odd how you don't really notice the person you've been married to for aeons, until you start to consider how attractive they might appear to another person. Which brings me right back to the question of my underwear. I seem doomed to spend my life going round and round in circles.
Mind you, this would be preferable to my life spiralling down the plughole, which is how it sometimes feels when I contemplate all the unused gold stars in the kitchen drawer. Now I'm stuck here with Connie for the evening, as Josh is taking Max out "for a Father's Day drink" - at a lap dancing club, for God's sake.
Honestly, is there no end to the pressure? Now I shall probably have to learn to pole dance. Bloody hell.
Showing posts with label Gulf Oil Spill. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gulf Oil Spill. Show all posts
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Disappointment And Delusional Co-Dependency (Whatever That Means)
Mr Meeurghn has been convicted of murder. To add insult to my injured faith in human nature, it transpires that he can't have his passport back because he is on bail and, anyway, he doesn't need it to go home - because he can't go home. His country of origin won't let him back in. God knows what he did there. My faith in the public has taken yet another blow.
I email Greg and tell him that I don't care if he is still traumatised, I need him back at work tomorrow to save me from plunging into a suicidal depression.
There is some good news, though. The Boss has approved a new security measure! Just the one, mind you - and that's a replacement door for the one Steve Ellington broke on his way out this morning.
The viewing panel's shattered, and the frame is all bent out of shape - even though there wasn't a mark on Steve's forehead. I'm pushing for toughened glass to be fitted in the replacement but, if it's more expensive than the ordinary stuff, I'll be out of luck.
Steve's clash with the door isn't the only shock of the day. Johnny sends me an email in which he says that he loves my photo, but that I look tired and "in need of a massage." What on earth? Maybe the oil spill and Obama are messing with his mind, and he and I are locked in a delusional co-dependency.
I have no idea what any of that last sentence means, but I quite like the sound of it. Sam told me that one of his internet dates said it to him, immediately before dumping him. (I have warned him over and over again to rule out any woman who lists "self-help books" in the Preferred Reading category of their dating profile, but he won't listen.)
Max certainly isn't co-dependent this evening, or not with me, anyway. He barely says anything and looks very tired, so I leave him in front of the TV and catch up on personal correspondence at the computer instead. This doesn't include Johnny, as I still haven't decided how to respond to him yet, but Greg replies to my earlier suicidal email thus:
"What about drinky-boos and a little outing after work tomorrow night? To include pizza and gin, then gin, gin and gin? I have a pent-up rage that needs dealing with, and minority groups will no doubt suffer. "
I ask Greg where we're going, but he won't say. He just tells me to put together a list of all our craziest constituents. (He defines these as the people in whose company I hear The Twilight Zone theme.) No doubt I'll find out tomorrow why he needs it - mine is not to reason why.
When I tell Max that I have a date with another man, he seems unbothered, presumably on the basis that he thinks I wouldn't be tempted by an American Psycho lookalike half my age. Maybe he'd think the same thing about Johnny, the oil-rich Putin lookalike, too - but Max doesn't know about him.
Even so, I don't know whether to find his faith in me touching, or arrogant. Maybe he thinks that it's irrelevant whether I'd be tempted or not, as no-one would be tempted by me?
I email Greg and tell him that I don't care if he is still traumatised, I need him back at work tomorrow to save me from plunging into a suicidal depression.
There is some good news, though. The Boss has approved a new security measure! Just the one, mind you - and that's a replacement door for the one Steve Ellington broke on his way out this morning.
The viewing panel's shattered, and the frame is all bent out of shape - even though there wasn't a mark on Steve's forehead. I'm pushing for toughened glass to be fitted in the replacement but, if it's more expensive than the ordinary stuff, I'll be out of luck.
Steve's clash with the door isn't the only shock of the day. Johnny sends me an email in which he says that he loves my photo, but that I look tired and "in need of a massage." What on earth? Maybe the oil spill and Obama are messing with his mind, and he and I are locked in a delusional co-dependency.
I have no idea what any of that last sentence means, but I quite like the sound of it. Sam told me that one of his internet dates said it to him, immediately before dumping him. (I have warned him over and over again to rule out any woman who lists "self-help books" in the Preferred Reading category of their dating profile, but he won't listen.)
Max certainly isn't co-dependent this evening, or not with me, anyway. He barely says anything and looks very tired, so I leave him in front of the TV and catch up on personal correspondence at the computer instead. This doesn't include Johnny, as I still haven't decided how to respond to him yet, but Greg replies to my earlier suicidal email thus:
"What about drinky-boos and a little outing after work tomorrow night? To include pizza and gin, then gin, gin and gin? I have a pent-up rage that needs dealing with, and minority groups will no doubt suffer. "
I ask Greg where we're going, but he won't say. He just tells me to put together a list of all our craziest constituents. (He defines these as the people in whose company I hear The Twilight Zone theme.) No doubt I'll find out tomorrow why he needs it - mine is not to reason why.
When I tell Max that I have a date with another man, he seems unbothered, presumably on the basis that he thinks I wouldn't be tempted by an American Psycho lookalike half my age. Maybe he'd think the same thing about Johnny, the oil-rich Putin lookalike, too - but Max doesn't know about him.
Even so, I don't know whether to find his faith in me touching, or arrogant. Maybe he thinks that it's irrelevant whether I'd be tempted or not, as no-one would be tempted by me?
Sunday, 6 June 2010
Wardrobe Essentials & The Perils of Flirting
My toes have suddenly gone all funny. Like Mum's - white wrinkly slugs attached to my feet. They're repulsive. I didn't realise that was due to age - just thought it was a peculiarity specific to my mother. Now I'll have to stop wearing sandals - is there no end to the parts of your body you have to keep covered once you pass a certain unpleasant birthday?
No showing the tops of your arms or any leg above the knee, not to mention the baggy knees themselves. No wrinkly necks, no ageing hands and, now, no toes as well.
I might as well become a Muslim and wear a burka, as at least that would cover everything in one go. If you used all the cover-ups the magazines suggest, you'd look a right twit. Gloves; an artfully-draped scarf or huge necklace; a long skirt (with opaque tights); long sleeves segueing neatly into the afore-mentioned gloves. Bloody hell - soon it'll be a hat to obscure the bald patch or a balaclava to cover the incipient beard.
And soon wearing trousers will be out, too, as Mum says that, one day when you're least expecting it, your arse suddenly slips sideways and becomes flat and wide. I might as well just go to bed and stay there.
This is all the more bothersome as Johnny is emailing me more often these days. He says talking to me "puts a smile on his face" and that even his staff have commented on his change of mood. I suppose any distraction from the oil spill would be welcome, but it's flattering all the same.
I do wish he wouldn't keep referring to that business behind the Science block, though. I still can't remember what it was, but says he had to take his watch off because it was getting in the way. God knows what he means, but I bet it'll be embarrassing.
I really must find my diary for that year, although what's the point in flirting with someone when you'd have to keep everything covered if you ever met and took things further? That's probably why people stay married - to avoid the horror of having to disrobe in front of someone who isn't inured to disintegration via familiarity. Those who can't afford a personal trainer and plastic surgery, anyway.
Now I'm even more suspicious of Max's half-hearted attempts to get fit
No showing the tops of your arms or any leg above the knee, not to mention the baggy knees themselves. No wrinkly necks, no ageing hands and, now, no toes as well.
I might as well become a Muslim and wear a burka, as at least that would cover everything in one go. If you used all the cover-ups the magazines suggest, you'd look a right twit. Gloves; an artfully-draped scarf or huge necklace; a long skirt (with opaque tights); long sleeves segueing neatly into the afore-mentioned gloves. Bloody hell - soon it'll be a hat to obscure the bald patch or a balaclava to cover the incipient beard.
And soon wearing trousers will be out, too, as Mum says that, one day when you're least expecting it, your arse suddenly slips sideways and becomes flat and wide. I might as well just go to bed and stay there.
This is all the more bothersome as Johnny is emailing me more often these days. He says talking to me "puts a smile on his face" and that even his staff have commented on his change of mood. I suppose any distraction from the oil spill would be welcome, but it's flattering all the same.
I do wish he wouldn't keep referring to that business behind the Science block, though. I still can't remember what it was, but says he had to take his watch off because it was getting in the way. God knows what he means, but I bet it'll be embarrassing.
I really must find my diary for that year, although what's the point in flirting with someone when you'd have to keep everything covered if you ever met and took things further? That's probably why people stay married - to avoid the horror of having to disrobe in front of someone who isn't inured to disintegration via familiarity. Those who can't afford a personal trainer and plastic surgery, anyway.
Now I'm even more suspicious of Max's half-hearted attempts to get fit
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Nasty Constituents, Oil Spills and Heavy Breathing
What on earth do the girls in the Westminster office do? Are they completely hopeless? In the morning, I receive an email from Carlotta saying that she's booked Mr Beales in for tomorrow's surgery, as Greg and I aren't answering the phone.
Wrong, you dingbat. Greg and I are screening the calls - which is a completely different thing - with the sole aim of avoiding having to give Mr Beales another surgery appointment so soon after his last one. We do try to leave the odd slot free for people with real problems, but it's constant battle, even without the London-based girls being pushovers. Marie-Louise is even more of a wimp than Carlotta.
To add insult to injury, Carlotta says she is going to complain to The Boss about it.
"I should not have to speak to people who are so rude that they make me cry," she says.
Mr Beales? Rude? He's a rank amateur compared to most of the usual suspects - and Carlotta doesn't seem to realise that she wouldn't have a job if it weren't for those "nasty constituents"?
"Those people are for you and Greg to deal with," she says. "I have Andrew's speeches to write."
"Carlotta, Andrew's a back-bencher, for Godsake, and no-one in the Chamber ever listens to a word he says."
This doesn't go down very well, and Carlotta does one of those exaggerated Spanish sighs that she's so good at.
It's not just that the girls are largely decorative: I wish they'd use pseudonyms too, because constituents are constantly moaning about why The Boss only employs "foreigners" in his Westminster office. He doesn't, but he does insist on long legs and an appearance which won't embarrass him at the Cinnamon Club.
Greg's so cross about the Mr Beales incident, that he decides to get his own back on Carlotta. He waits until lunchtime, then phones the Westminster office and leaves 25 "messages" on the answer-phone while the girls are out for their no-doubt glamorous lunch in the House.
The messages involve little more than heavy breathing, coupled with the odd menacing grunt and barking noise. I really hope Greg remembered to press 141 before he dialled.
Things don't get any better in the afternoon. Miss Chambers phones again, this time to complain that the Police aren't taking her latest incident report seriously and "are trying to imply that she has made a lot of enemies."
She goes on to say that she has never upset anyone. This is so delusional as to be almost funny - except that then she asks what kind of madman would post dog-poo through her letterbox? I don't tell her that I am sitting in the office with exactly such a man.
In the evening, I get another email from Johnny. I don't tell Max, as I'm not at all sure that Johnny's not flirting with me now. It's very odd. You'd think he'd be too busy trying to sort out the Gulf oil disaster - all hands on deck in an emergency and all that.
Also, we have nothing in common, except being the same age and having been to the same school aeons ago, so I can't see what's in it for him - it's not as if The Boss can wield any influence over Obama. Or anyone, for that matter.
Johnny's attached a photo, but it's a bit of a disappointment. He's definitely not the dark-haired blue-eyed one from the school bus, but (just my luck) the mousy paperboy. And he's sitting in a mid-life crisis-style car, grinning inanely, and looking disturbingly like Vladimir Putin - though I suppose if you live and work in Russia, it's quite a good idea to look like someone who's well-connected. I wonder if Johnny looks as good as Putin in a judo suit.
I can't believe how pedestrian my life is, in comparison to his. He seems to be on a plane almost as much as on land, and says he's working flat-out so that he can retire at fifty-five. I haven't even decided what I want to do when I grow up, and my pension's going to be worth nothing, especially now that IPSA's making The Boss pay for it. (I'm expecting a nasty surprise on that one anytime soon.)
On top of that, I bet Max will trade me in before much longer - probably for Annoying Ellen if the sit-ups and mooning around in the garden are anything to go by. Then I won't even get half of his lousy pension and will have to work 'til I drop (or The Boss does).
At that point, I'll probably have to euthanase myself when I can't face another day without heat or food, spent wrapped in a blanket and wearing an incontinence pad. And all while Johnny will be sunning himself on the deck of the architect-designed home he's building for his retirement, and admiring his flash-git car collection.
Mind you, it's quite nice to have an International Director of a Global Oil Company flirting with me. It makes a change - though I do wish I could actually recall whatever it was we did together behind the Science Block.
Wrong, you dingbat. Greg and I are screening the calls - which is a completely different thing - with the sole aim of avoiding having to give Mr Beales another surgery appointment so soon after his last one. We do try to leave the odd slot free for people with real problems, but it's constant battle, even without the London-based girls being pushovers. Marie-Louise is even more of a wimp than Carlotta.
To add insult to injury, Carlotta says she is going to complain to The Boss about it.
"I should not have to speak to people who are so rude that they make me cry," she says.
Mr Beales? Rude? He's a rank amateur compared to most of the usual suspects - and Carlotta doesn't seem to realise that she wouldn't have a job if it weren't for those "nasty constituents"?
"Those people are for you and Greg to deal with," she says. "I have Andrew's speeches to write."
"Carlotta, Andrew's a back-bencher, for Godsake, and no-one in the Chamber ever listens to a word he says."
This doesn't go down very well, and Carlotta does one of those exaggerated Spanish sighs that she's so good at.
It's not just that the girls are largely decorative: I wish they'd use pseudonyms too, because constituents are constantly moaning about why The Boss only employs "foreigners" in his Westminster office. He doesn't, but he does insist on long legs and an appearance which won't embarrass him at the Cinnamon Club.
Greg's so cross about the Mr Beales incident, that he decides to get his own back on Carlotta. He waits until lunchtime, then phones the Westminster office and leaves 25 "messages" on the answer-phone while the girls are out for their no-doubt glamorous lunch in the House.
The messages involve little more than heavy breathing, coupled with the odd menacing grunt and barking noise. I really hope Greg remembered to press 141 before he dialled.
Things don't get any better in the afternoon. Miss Chambers phones again, this time to complain that the Police aren't taking her latest incident report seriously and "are trying to imply that she has made a lot of enemies."
She goes on to say that she has never upset anyone. This is so delusional as to be almost funny - except that then she asks what kind of madman would post dog-poo through her letterbox? I don't tell her that I am sitting in the office with exactly such a man.
In the evening, I get another email from Johnny. I don't tell Max, as I'm not at all sure that Johnny's not flirting with me now. It's very odd. You'd think he'd be too busy trying to sort out the Gulf oil disaster - all hands on deck in an emergency and all that.
Also, we have nothing in common, except being the same age and having been to the same school aeons ago, so I can't see what's in it for him - it's not as if The Boss can wield any influence over Obama. Or anyone, for that matter.
Johnny's attached a photo, but it's a bit of a disappointment. He's definitely not the dark-haired blue-eyed one from the school bus, but (just my luck) the mousy paperboy. And he's sitting in a mid-life crisis-style car, grinning inanely, and looking disturbingly like Vladimir Putin - though I suppose if you live and work in Russia, it's quite a good idea to look like someone who's well-connected. I wonder if Johnny looks as good as Putin in a judo suit.
I can't believe how pedestrian my life is, in comparison to his. He seems to be on a plane almost as much as on land, and says he's working flat-out so that he can retire at fifty-five. I haven't even decided what I want to do when I grow up, and my pension's going to be worth nothing, especially now that IPSA's making The Boss pay for it. (I'm expecting a nasty surprise on that one anytime soon.)
On top of that, I bet Max will trade me in before much longer - probably for Annoying Ellen if the sit-ups and mooning around in the garden are anything to go by. Then I won't even get half of his lousy pension and will have to work 'til I drop (or The Boss does).
At that point, I'll probably have to euthanase myself when I can't face another day without heat or food, spent wrapped in a blanket and wearing an incontinence pad. And all while Johnny will be sunning himself on the deck of the architect-designed home he's building for his retirement, and admiring his flash-git car collection.
Mind you, it's quite nice to have an International Director of a Global Oil Company flirting with me. It makes a change - though I do wish I could actually recall whatever it was we did together behind the Science Block.
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