Oh, my God. I've got over my hangover, just in time to starve to death.
"Don't eat that," says Max this morning, when he spots me about to make some toast. "Can't you see the mould on that bread?"
"No," I say. I must be wearing the wrong glasses, again. "Can you get some when you go to Sainsburys? I think we're almost out of milk, as well."
"Um, no," says Max. "I've been meaning to talk to you about buying food."
Then he gives me that look. The one that involves not looking at me. It's much, much scarier than a glare would be.
"What is it?" I say, as all my muscles tighten, and my digestive system grinds to a sudden halt.
"I can't actually go shopping."
Max grinds to his own halt - but I'm not sure if that's the end of the sentence, or whether there's an explanation to follow, so I stand still and wait to find out. It takes ages, but eventually he carries on:
"We haven't got any money left, you see."
"Oh," I say. "Ah. Okay. Well, we'll just have to economise then, won't we? We knew this would happen now you've lost your job. How much is actually left in the account?"
"Nothing," says Max, very slowly and deliberately. "That is what I am trying to tell you."
I know I should be practical, and positive, and find a creative way out of this situation, but I think I may have to sit down first, and have a fag.
Oh, Christ. Have a fag. If there's no money for food, then there's none for tobacco, either, is there? And the incidence of violent crime in Northwick may be about to rise.
Showing posts with label Hangover. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hangover. Show all posts
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Saturday, 7 May 2011
An Extended, If Muddled, Metaphor About Chickens, And Their Tendency To Steal Their Parents' Drugs.
I'm dying, and there is no paracetamol in the house.
Josh must have used it all up to treat his multiple hangovers, though he's kindly put the empty packets neatly back into the box. I'd kill him, if the room didn't keep spinning around whenever I get out of bed to go and find him.
It's all The Boss' fault for making me drink so much last night. Does he have to be so argumentative?
First he fell out with those young people who'd voted yes to AV - the ones who described most of the UK population as "clueless apes" - and then it was Pete Carew's turn.
He came into the pub halfway through the evening, presumably intending to celebrate having held on to the leadership of Northwick Council. (He can't have been intending to celebrate the referendum result, seeing as he too had voted yes.)
"Evening, Andrew," he said, nodding to me, Greg and Vicky, as if there was an economy drive on words.
"Sixty-nine percent said, 'no'," said Andrew, by way of reply. "Didn't see the way the wind was blowing on that one, did you, Pete?"
"Neither did you, until Molly and I warned you what would happen," said Greg, but Andrew wasn't listening to him, and nor was Pete.
They stood squaring up to each other like a pair of fighting cocks - rather bedraggled ones, so bantams might be a better comparison, except for the fact that they are female.
That's probably why they look so shitty compared to the males: they don't have time to spend on their appearance as they're far too busy laying eggs. (Which turn into chicks, who hang around far too long in the nest, and then use up all their parents' paracetamol without so much as a by your leave.)
I know just how they feel, but now I've lost my thread. How many brain cells did I kill last night? Oh, yes - Andrew and Pete, and the argument.
"Well, at least I gave our leader my support," said Pete, jutting his chin out and loosening his tie.
"More fool you," said Andrew, who wasn't wearing one, and whose chin isn't visible due to his beard. "You might as well have voted no like sensible people did. I know we put AV into our manifesto, but only as a bargaining chip to bribe the LibDems into a coalition with us."
If there was ever a time to kidnap one or more politicians, this would have been it, but Vicky was nowhere to be seen, and both Greg and I were too tired to make a pre-emptive strike.
Instead, we just sat back in our seats, sipped our drinks, and watched in horror while Andrew and Pete had a stand-up row about AV; the meaning of party loyalty; the relative importance of local versus national politicians, and whose fault it was that we're now in opposition.
All in front of a rapt audience of constituents, who were obviously listening to every single word. (They weren't even pretending to talk to each other, like well-mannered people would.)
Eventually, the whole thing just became too much, not to mention that we'd finished our drinks.
"Someone should stop them," I said to Greg. "It looks terrible, them arguing in public like that."
"I know," he said. "Come on. Grab your bag and follow me."
I thought we were just going to the bar but, once we got there, Greg dumped our used glasses on the counter, and then made a sharp turn to the right, pulling me along behind him.
"Keep your head down," he said, as we negotiated our way past various groups of drinkers, all of whom spilled at least part of their drinks onto my head.
"Why?" I said. "Where are we going?"
"Tesco Express," said Greg. "For a bottle of gin, some tonic and lemons. Then we are going to your house, to drink it all. I trust that you do have ice."
Which may be what I need for my head, in the absence of any pain relief.
Josh must have used it all up to treat his multiple hangovers, though he's kindly put the empty packets neatly back into the box. I'd kill him, if the room didn't keep spinning around whenever I get out of bed to go and find him.
It's all The Boss' fault for making me drink so much last night. Does he have to be so argumentative?
First he fell out with those young people who'd voted yes to AV - the ones who described most of the UK population as "clueless apes" - and then it was Pete Carew's turn.
He came into the pub halfway through the evening, presumably intending to celebrate having held on to the leadership of Northwick Council. (He can't have been intending to celebrate the referendum result, seeing as he too had voted yes.)
"Evening, Andrew," he said, nodding to me, Greg and Vicky, as if there was an economy drive on words.
"Sixty-nine percent said, 'no'," said Andrew, by way of reply. "Didn't see the way the wind was blowing on that one, did you, Pete?"
"Neither did you, until Molly and I warned you what would happen," said Greg, but Andrew wasn't listening to him, and nor was Pete.
They stood squaring up to each other like a pair of fighting cocks - rather bedraggled ones, so bantams might be a better comparison, except for the fact that they are female.
That's probably why they look so shitty compared to the males: they don't have time to spend on their appearance as they're far too busy laying eggs. (Which turn into chicks, who hang around far too long in the nest, and then use up all their parents' paracetamol without so much as a by your leave.)
I know just how they feel, but now I've lost my thread. How many brain cells did I kill last night? Oh, yes - Andrew and Pete, and the argument.
"Well, at least I gave our leader my support," said Pete, jutting his chin out and loosening his tie.
"More fool you," said Andrew, who wasn't wearing one, and whose chin isn't visible due to his beard. "You might as well have voted no like sensible people did. I know we put AV into our manifesto, but only as a bargaining chip to bribe the LibDems into a coalition with us."
If there was ever a time to kidnap one or more politicians, this would have been it, but Vicky was nowhere to be seen, and both Greg and I were too tired to make a pre-emptive strike.
Instead, we just sat back in our seats, sipped our drinks, and watched in horror while Andrew and Pete had a stand-up row about AV; the meaning of party loyalty; the relative importance of local versus national politicians, and whose fault it was that we're now in opposition.
All in front of a rapt audience of constituents, who were obviously listening to every single word. (They weren't even pretending to talk to each other, like well-mannered people would.)
Eventually, the whole thing just became too much, not to mention that we'd finished our drinks.
"Someone should stop them," I said to Greg. "It looks terrible, them arguing in public like that."
"I know," he said. "Come on. Grab your bag and follow me."
I thought we were just going to the bar but, once we got there, Greg dumped our used glasses on the counter, and then made a sharp turn to the right, pulling me along behind him.
"Keep your head down," he said, as we negotiated our way past various groups of drinkers, all of whom spilled at least part of their drinks onto my head.
"Why?" I said. "Where are we going?"
"Tesco Express," said Greg. "For a bottle of gin, some tonic and lemons. Then we are going to your house, to drink it all. I trust that you do have ice."
Which may be what I need for my head, in the absence of any pain relief.
Monday, 17 January 2011
In A Dry Season: An Absence Of Saliva And Conversational Skills.
I have no idea what nonsense I've written on behalf of any of the constituents today, as I can't stop wondering where the hell Max was on Friday night. Or how I'm going to find out without causing an enormous row.
Max leaves early for work this morning, so it's as if he knows I'm about to ask a very awkward question. Sometimes male intuition is under-rated, although it doesn't seem to apply to teenage boys, unfortunately - as becomes only too apparent when I ask Josh if he knows where Max was that night.
He says that he hasn't a clue, because he was at Holly's that evening, and didn't get home much before I did.
"Dad was here when I arrived, though," he says. "And, anyway, why do you want to know?"
"No reason," I say. Probably in a totally unconvincing manner, but luckily Josh is in a hurry, so he doesn't press me for an explanation.
In retrospect, this is a wise decision: unlike male intuition, explanations are vastly over-rated, if you ask me. Seeing as I think I may have just got one.
I'm on my way home, when I hear footsteps running up behind me, and someone says,
"Hey, Molly! Wait up."
Oh, God, it's Ellen. The very last person in the universe I wanted to see while I'm trying to work out what my husband's up to. I do manage a smile, which feels like a rictus and probably doesn't look much better, but Ellen doesn't seem to notice.
"Did you hear about Susannah York?" she says. "Very sad, isn't it?"
"Yes," I say. "A great campaigner, and she was in some really good films in her day."
Ellen's fallen into step beside me, so it looks as if I'm going to have company all the way home. Just what I didn't need. I light a cigarette in an effort to cope, and refuse to think about what Nan used to say about people who smoked in the street.
"She was a beauty, too," says Ellen. "Lots of people say I look like her, you know."
"Oh, do they?" I say. "You remind me of someone famous, but I don't think it's her."
It's a good job people don't have speech bubbles coming out of their heads, or mine would be shouting: James Blunt!
"You do too," says Ellen. "Remind me of someone famous, I mean. Now who on earth is it?"
I have no idea so I just wait for Ellen to decide. It doesn't take long - more's the bloody pity.
"Lena Zavaroni!" she says. Then she sees my face. "Before she got sick, of course."
"So we both look like dead people, then." I say.
Given that Ellen is claiming to look like a sex symbol, I can't dredge up much enthusiasm for being likened to a child star who died of anorexia, so that's all I can think of to say. Not that my reticence makes any difference. The woman is oblivious to disapproval.
"Oh, we've got more in common than that, Molly," she says. "That's why we get on so well."
Then she winks at me, which is very disturbing indeed. What sort of woman winks at another, for God's sake?
I'm still considering the answer when we turn into our street. Up ahead, I can see Max, who is in our garden putting the recycling out. He looks up, spots me and Ellen, and scuttles back inside the house. Hardly the behaviour of an innocent man.
"How's the head?" says Ellen. "Did the paracetamol help? Sorry I could only lend you a few, but I had a terrible hangover on Saturday morning too, so I needed the rest of the packet myself."
"Big night, was it, then?" I say.
"Oh, not really. Just went for a meal with the man I've been seeing. At that restaurant in Stalborough that was in the paper. You know, the one that's just got the Michelin star?"
I don't reply for ages, until I realise that Ellen's starting to look a bit unnerved but, even then, I only grunt in answer to her question, as I can't seem to form any actual words. Probably because I suddenly have no saliva, and my tongue seems to be stuck.
I probably look brain-dead, too, even though my mind is racing - with the thought that Ellen was in Stalborough on Friday night. The same Stalborough that's only a couple of miles from where Max bought the petrol.
Luckily, seeing as the silence is getting embarrassing, there's not much further to walk and, when I reach our gate, I open it and hurtle up the path leaving Ellen standing on the pavement outside.
"Bye, Molly," she says. "See you for coffee soon?"
I nod, wave and let myself into the house. It's a pretty minimalistic way to say goodbye, but all my energy is concentrated on what the hell I'm going to say to Max.
"Hi, darling," he says, as I walk into the hallway. "Sorry I didn't wait outside when I spotted you, but I'm in a hurry. Got to nip out."
As he leans forward to kiss me on the cheek, I notice he's already got his coat on, and a bag in his hand.
"What?" I say. "Why? You've already finished work. Where have you got to go?"
"Mrs Bloom's," he says. "She bought a big display unit from us and it was damaged when the deliverymen unpacked it. So she's not a happy bunny and I've got to go and try to make it usable until its replacement can be made."
"What?" I say again. "Why? I mean, why now? Why not earlier?"
Repetitive and inarticulate, I know, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances. Max doesn't seem to notice, anyway, as he just jingles the car keys and says:
"She had a hospital appointment this afternoon, so she couldn't be there to let me in until now. I came home early and prepared tea, but now I've got to go. Bye!"
He's out of the house before I can say the words "petrol" or "Friday night" - so now there's nothing to do but wait for him to come back before I can ask him what on earth he's been up to.
Except to try to recall the rest of my vocabulary, I suppose. And remove my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
Max leaves early for work this morning, so it's as if he knows I'm about to ask a very awkward question. Sometimes male intuition is under-rated, although it doesn't seem to apply to teenage boys, unfortunately - as becomes only too apparent when I ask Josh if he knows where Max was that night.
He says that he hasn't a clue, because he was at Holly's that evening, and didn't get home much before I did.
"Dad was here when I arrived, though," he says. "And, anyway, why do you want to know?"
"No reason," I say. Probably in a totally unconvincing manner, but luckily Josh is in a hurry, so he doesn't press me for an explanation.
In retrospect, this is a wise decision: unlike male intuition, explanations are vastly over-rated, if you ask me. Seeing as I think I may have just got one.
I'm on my way home, when I hear footsteps running up behind me, and someone says,
"Hey, Molly! Wait up."
Oh, God, it's Ellen. The very last person in the universe I wanted to see while I'm trying to work out what my husband's up to. I do manage a smile, which feels like a rictus and probably doesn't look much better, but Ellen doesn't seem to notice.
"Did you hear about Susannah York?" she says. "Very sad, isn't it?"
"Yes," I say. "A great campaigner, and she was in some really good films in her day."
Ellen's fallen into step beside me, so it looks as if I'm going to have company all the way home. Just what I didn't need. I light a cigarette in an effort to cope, and refuse to think about what Nan used to say about people who smoked in the street.
"She was a beauty, too," says Ellen. "Lots of people say I look like her, you know."
"Oh, do they?" I say. "You remind me of someone famous, but I don't think it's her."
It's a good job people don't have speech bubbles coming out of their heads, or mine would be shouting: James Blunt!
"You do too," says Ellen. "Remind me of someone famous, I mean. Now who on earth is it?"
I have no idea so I just wait for Ellen to decide. It doesn't take long - more's the bloody pity.
"Lena Zavaroni!" she says. Then she sees my face. "Before she got sick, of course."
"So we both look like dead people, then." I say.
Given that Ellen is claiming to look like a sex symbol, I can't dredge up much enthusiasm for being likened to a child star who died of anorexia, so that's all I can think of to say. Not that my reticence makes any difference. The woman is oblivious to disapproval.
"Oh, we've got more in common than that, Molly," she says. "That's why we get on so well."
Then she winks at me, which is very disturbing indeed. What sort of woman winks at another, for God's sake?
I'm still considering the answer when we turn into our street. Up ahead, I can see Max, who is in our garden putting the recycling out. He looks up, spots me and Ellen, and scuttles back inside the house. Hardly the behaviour of an innocent man.
"How's the head?" says Ellen. "Did the paracetamol help? Sorry I could only lend you a few, but I had a terrible hangover on Saturday morning too, so I needed the rest of the packet myself."
"Big night, was it, then?" I say.
"Oh, not really. Just went for a meal with the man I've been seeing. At that restaurant in Stalborough that was in the paper. You know, the one that's just got the Michelin star?"
I don't reply for ages, until I realise that Ellen's starting to look a bit unnerved but, even then, I only grunt in answer to her question, as I can't seem to form any actual words. Probably because I suddenly have no saliva, and my tongue seems to be stuck.
I probably look brain-dead, too, even though my mind is racing - with the thought that Ellen was in Stalborough on Friday night. The same Stalborough that's only a couple of miles from where Max bought the petrol.
Luckily, seeing as the silence is getting embarrassing, there's not much further to walk and, when I reach our gate, I open it and hurtle up the path leaving Ellen standing on the pavement outside.
"Bye, Molly," she says. "See you for coffee soon?"
I nod, wave and let myself into the house. It's a pretty minimalistic way to say goodbye, but all my energy is concentrated on what the hell I'm going to say to Max.
"Hi, darling," he says, as I walk into the hallway. "Sorry I didn't wait outside when I spotted you, but I'm in a hurry. Got to nip out."
As he leans forward to kiss me on the cheek, I notice he's already got his coat on, and a bag in his hand.
"What?" I say. "Why? You've already finished work. Where have you got to go?"
"Mrs Bloom's," he says. "She bought a big display unit from us and it was damaged when the deliverymen unpacked it. So she's not a happy bunny and I've got to go and try to make it usable until its replacement can be made."
"What?" I say again. "Why? I mean, why now? Why not earlier?"
Repetitive and inarticulate, I know, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances. Max doesn't seem to notice, anyway, as he just jingles the car keys and says:
"She had a hospital appointment this afternoon, so she couldn't be there to let me in until now. I came home early and prepared tea, but now I've got to go. Bye!"
He's out of the house before I can say the words "petrol" or "Friday night" - so now there's nothing to do but wait for him to come back before I can ask him what on earth he's been up to.
Except to try to recall the rest of my vocabulary, I suppose. And remove my tongue from the roof of my mouth.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Multiculturalism In Action: Coming To A Car Park Near You.
God, what a day. Who'd have thought a car boot sale could turn out to be so hazardous? I could kill Max for suggesting it, though he blames me. No change there, then.
"If you hadn't got so drunk on Friday, and given yourself a two-day hangover, we wouldn't have to do a car boot to get the money to buy you Paracetamol," he says.
"Well, if Josh hadn't refused to go back to Ellen's to borrow some more, it wouldn't be an issue," I say. "I don't know why she only gave him two tablets when he asked her yesterday. She should understand a hangover better than anyone, after all."
Max rolls his eyes, as if I have no reason to dislike Ellen. Honestly - talk about a short memory!
"I'll go and ask her, then," he says, but I'm not encouraging that. The less Max sees of Ellen the better, as far as I'm concerned. Even when she is wearing clothes.
"Josh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you went back for more," I say. "Go and ask her. Please. I can't face a car boot at this time in the morning."
"No, I won't," says Josh. "I am not your drugs mule, and Ellen scares the pants off me. She's got a thing for toy-boys, remember? And I meet the criteria, unlike some people."
Josh looks pointedly at Max, who scowls in response and then sulks until we've finished loading the car with all the rubbish we could find during a hasty search of the loft last night.
His mood doesn't improve when we arrive at Northwick Park'n'Ride, and realise that we haven't got enough money to pay for the pitch. I have to negotiate with the man at the gate to let us in, and to come and collect our fee in an hour's time.
"Christ knows if we'll have managed to raise £7:00 by then," says Max. "Or ever, given the crap we've brought - and all the stalls that are already here. Too much competition for limited customers, by the look of it."
"Well, we'd better unpack as fast as we can, then, hadn't we?" I say. "As soon as we get set up, you can go into super salesman mode, make some money and I can finally get rid of this bloody headache."
Things never go according to plan, though - do they? The minute we open the boot of the car, four or five Eastern European guys appear from nowhere, and start rummaging through the boxes. It's like a swarm of black leather jackets and jeans worn with proper shoes.
"What are you looking for?" Max asks the apparent leader of the pack, in a weak attempt to regain control of the situation.
"Mobile phones?" says the man. "You got mobiles in here?"
As soon as I say that we don't, the men disappear - as quickly as they arrived. In fact, it's almost as if they were never there at all and, for one very disconcerting moment, I wonder if I imagined them. Maybe I've got alcohol-induced hallucinations, or something?
"For God's sake, Mol. Stop standing there and help me with this," says Max. "You look like a Guppy with your mouth open like that."
I rise above the insult and do as I'm told, but only because I can't think of a cutting rejoinder. And because I don't have a choice - though I bet a certain International Director of a Global Oil Company isn't spending his Sunday morning wrestling with a folding table and a mound of boxes in a car park.
As soon as we've got the table set up and we begin to unpack, we start arguing again. Why don't men appreciate the importance of arranging things to their best possible advantage? That's probably why they can't see the point in make-up, now I come to think of it.
"Do you have to just chuck everything on the table willy-nilly?" I say. "I'm trying to make our stock look attractive."
"It's a car boot, Molly," says Max. "At 6:00am on a Sunday morning in a car park. So I don't think window dressing is really necessary."
I decide to prove him wrong by virtue of a controlled experiment - which involves an artistic arrangement of the things on the left-hand side of the table while leaving those on the right-hand side in a total mess, to see which of us is right; but my scientific approach is ruined by the inconvenient arrival of some more customers. Honestly, why can't people ever put things back where they found them?
Now I know how the staff in Benetton used to feel when I kept unfolding jumpers and then making a crappy job of folding them back up again - back in the days when all my clothes didn't come from Primark. Not that folding's much of an issue there, is it? Maybe customers chucking everything on the floor is just a reflection of their bargain hunting mentality.
I really must get this telekinesis thing under control. No sooner have I begun thinking about bargain hunters, than our stall is suddenly surrounded by a large group of dark-haired men, again all wearing jeans but this time with trainers on their feet. They're pulling suitcases with wheels on, and their burka-clad wives follow behind, watching closely as the men pick up various items and ask us, "How much for this?"
"A pound," says Max, as one of them inspects a brand new wireless router we bought by mistake on eBay last year.
"No, no, no," says the man. "Too much. I give you ten pence."
He throws a coin onto the table and makes as if to move away, though he's still holding the router.
Max starts to say something, when he's interrupted by a booming voice from very close by. It's the guy manning the stall next door to ours.
"Tell 'em to fuck right off," he says. "Bloody load of f*cking vultures."
"Too right, George," says another man, in a horribly-familar voice. "Don't know who these people think they are. Coming over here and trying to rip off hard-working Brits like us."
Oh, dear God, what the hell is going on? And how on earth have we been caught up in a potential race riot? Max and I look at each other and squirm, but luckily everyone's forgotten about us anyway.
Our customer abandons the router as he and his friends leave our stall and head next door, where they square up to the stall-holder and his partner-in-crime. Who, incredibly, turns out to be Reg Bloody Beales. Is nowhere safe?
There follows a lot of pushing and shouting, while I take the opportunity to open the car door and to throw myself face down onto the back seat.
"What on earth d'you think you're doing?" says Max. "You can't go to sleep now. I'm not dealing with this mob by myself, even if you have still got a bloody hangover."
"Ssh," I say. "Mad constituent. Got to hide."
I'll say this for Max, he doesn't ask for details during an emergency. Instead, he walks back to the stall and carries on without me, while I lie very still and try to become invisible. I may have dozed off for a while, actually, as I nearly jump out of my skin when Max knocks on the window.
"You can come out now," he says. "They've all gone, and even the stall-holder's packed up and is about to leave."
"Oh, thank God for that," I say. "I thought there was going to be a fight. It certainly sounded like it."
"There was," says Max. "But after the guy with the blue suitcase landed the first punch, his mates pulled him away and the bloke that you know did a runner. Well, not a runner, exactly: am I imagining it, or did he ride off on a horse?"
Oh God, so Reg has replaced his lorry with a horse and cart, though I'm not sure the roads will be any safer for that. Or any public spaces, actually. And why can't I ever escape the usual suspects - even on a Sunday - no matter where I go?
Mind you, things could be worse, I suppose. I could be a diplomat. It's been like the United Nations here in Northwick Park'n'Ride today, and no-one seems to understand each other at all. Not even me and Max.
"How much money have you taken?" I say. "Can we go home yet?"
"Enough to pay for the pitch and some painkillers," he says. "As well as food for the next couple of days. So we won't starve just yet, no thanks to you."
I feel suitably guilty until Max drops me off at Sainsburys to buy some Paracetamol, but then I'm still so puzzled by how we ran out of money so quickly, that I get a mini-statement from the cash machine. Now I wish I hadn't.
It shows that the last person to make a withdrawal from the account was not me - the unjustly accused - but Max. At a petrol station somewhere miles away; and on Friday night, while I was at the Party social and I thought he was at home.
It's going to take all my diplomatic skills to avoid mentioning it until I've had some time to assess the situation. At which point I bet Max will wish that he was the one who travelled by horse. At least they don't leave a paper trail.
"If you hadn't got so drunk on Friday, and given yourself a two-day hangover, we wouldn't have to do a car boot to get the money to buy you Paracetamol," he says.
"Well, if Josh hadn't refused to go back to Ellen's to borrow some more, it wouldn't be an issue," I say. "I don't know why she only gave him two tablets when he asked her yesterday. She should understand a hangover better than anyone, after all."
Max rolls his eyes, as if I have no reason to dislike Ellen. Honestly - talk about a short memory!
"I'll go and ask her, then," he says, but I'm not encouraging that. The less Max sees of Ellen the better, as far as I'm concerned. Even when she is wearing clothes.
"Josh, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you went back for more," I say. "Go and ask her. Please. I can't face a car boot at this time in the morning."
"No, I won't," says Josh. "I am not your drugs mule, and Ellen scares the pants off me. She's got a thing for toy-boys, remember? And I meet the criteria, unlike some people."
Josh looks pointedly at Max, who scowls in response and then sulks until we've finished loading the car with all the rubbish we could find during a hasty search of the loft last night.
His mood doesn't improve when we arrive at Northwick Park'n'Ride, and realise that we haven't got enough money to pay for the pitch. I have to negotiate with the man at the gate to let us in, and to come and collect our fee in an hour's time.
"Christ knows if we'll have managed to raise £7:00 by then," says Max. "Or ever, given the crap we've brought - and all the stalls that are already here. Too much competition for limited customers, by the look of it."
"Well, we'd better unpack as fast as we can, then, hadn't we?" I say. "As soon as we get set up, you can go into super salesman mode, make some money and I can finally get rid of this bloody headache."
Things never go according to plan, though - do they? The minute we open the boot of the car, four or five Eastern European guys appear from nowhere, and start rummaging through the boxes. It's like a swarm of black leather jackets and jeans worn with proper shoes.
"What are you looking for?" Max asks the apparent leader of the pack, in a weak attempt to regain control of the situation.
"Mobile phones?" says the man. "You got mobiles in here?"
As soon as I say that we don't, the men disappear - as quickly as they arrived. In fact, it's almost as if they were never there at all and, for one very disconcerting moment, I wonder if I imagined them. Maybe I've got alcohol-induced hallucinations, or something?
"For God's sake, Mol. Stop standing there and help me with this," says Max. "You look like a Guppy with your mouth open like that."
I rise above the insult and do as I'm told, but only because I can't think of a cutting rejoinder. And because I don't have a choice - though I bet a certain International Director of a Global Oil Company isn't spending his Sunday morning wrestling with a folding table and a mound of boxes in a car park.
As soon as we've got the table set up and we begin to unpack, we start arguing again. Why don't men appreciate the importance of arranging things to their best possible advantage? That's probably why they can't see the point in make-up, now I come to think of it.
"Do you have to just chuck everything on the table willy-nilly?" I say. "I'm trying to make our stock look attractive."
"It's a car boot, Molly," says Max. "At 6:00am on a Sunday morning in a car park. So I don't think window dressing is really necessary."
I decide to prove him wrong by virtue of a controlled experiment - which involves an artistic arrangement of the things on the left-hand side of the table while leaving those on the right-hand side in a total mess, to see which of us is right; but my scientific approach is ruined by the inconvenient arrival of some more customers. Honestly, why can't people ever put things back where they found them?
Now I know how the staff in Benetton used to feel when I kept unfolding jumpers and then making a crappy job of folding them back up again - back in the days when all my clothes didn't come from Primark. Not that folding's much of an issue there, is it? Maybe customers chucking everything on the floor is just a reflection of their bargain hunting mentality.
I really must get this telekinesis thing under control. No sooner have I begun thinking about bargain hunters, than our stall is suddenly surrounded by a large group of dark-haired men, again all wearing jeans but this time with trainers on their feet. They're pulling suitcases with wheels on, and their burka-clad wives follow behind, watching closely as the men pick up various items and ask us, "How much for this?"
"A pound," says Max, as one of them inspects a brand new wireless router we bought by mistake on eBay last year.
"No, no, no," says the man. "Too much. I give you ten pence."
He throws a coin onto the table and makes as if to move away, though he's still holding the router.
Max starts to say something, when he's interrupted by a booming voice from very close by. It's the guy manning the stall next door to ours.
"Tell 'em to fuck right off," he says. "Bloody load of f*cking vultures."
"Too right, George," says another man, in a horribly-familar voice. "Don't know who these people think they are. Coming over here and trying to rip off hard-working Brits like us."
Oh, dear God, what the hell is going on? And how on earth have we been caught up in a potential race riot? Max and I look at each other and squirm, but luckily everyone's forgotten about us anyway.
Our customer abandons the router as he and his friends leave our stall and head next door, where they square up to the stall-holder and his partner-in-crime. Who, incredibly, turns out to be Reg Bloody Beales. Is nowhere safe?
There follows a lot of pushing and shouting, while I take the opportunity to open the car door and to throw myself face down onto the back seat.
"What on earth d'you think you're doing?" says Max. "You can't go to sleep now. I'm not dealing with this mob by myself, even if you have still got a bloody hangover."
"Ssh," I say. "Mad constituent. Got to hide."
I'll say this for Max, he doesn't ask for details during an emergency. Instead, he walks back to the stall and carries on without me, while I lie very still and try to become invisible. I may have dozed off for a while, actually, as I nearly jump out of my skin when Max knocks on the window.
"You can come out now," he says. "They've all gone, and even the stall-holder's packed up and is about to leave."
"Oh, thank God for that," I say. "I thought there was going to be a fight. It certainly sounded like it."
"There was," says Max. "But after the guy with the blue suitcase landed the first punch, his mates pulled him away and the bloke that you know did a runner. Well, not a runner, exactly: am I imagining it, or did he ride off on a horse?"
Oh God, so Reg has replaced his lorry with a horse and cart, though I'm not sure the roads will be any safer for that. Or any public spaces, actually. And why can't I ever escape the usual suspects - even on a Sunday - no matter where I go?
Mind you, things could be worse, I suppose. I could be a diplomat. It's been like the United Nations here in Northwick Park'n'Ride today, and no-one seems to understand each other at all. Not even me and Max.
"How much money have you taken?" I say. "Can we go home yet?"
"Enough to pay for the pitch and some painkillers," he says. "As well as food for the next couple of days. So we won't starve just yet, no thanks to you."
I feel suitably guilty until Max drops me off at Sainsburys to buy some Paracetamol, but then I'm still so puzzled by how we ran out of money so quickly, that I get a mini-statement from the cash machine. Now I wish I hadn't.
It shows that the last person to make a withdrawal from the account was not me - the unjustly accused - but Max. At a petrol station somewhere miles away; and on Friday night, while I was at the Party social and I thought he was at home.
It's going to take all my diplomatic skills to avoid mentioning it until I've had some time to assess the situation. At which point I bet Max will wish that he was the one who travelled by horse. At least they don't leave a paper trail.
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Life's Unhelpful Lessons: The Unreconstructed Male is Alive And Well, And Hanging Out in Northwick CLP.
Oh, God, my head hurts. Why do I do it? I am far too old to drink red wine if I'm to stand any chance of avoiding a three day hangover after a night out.
And what the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just order a gin and tonic instead of red wine whenever I go to a Labour Party social? It's pathetic. I only do it to stop members thinking that I'm giving myself airs and graces, just because I work for the MP. As if that was even remotely possible, given my pathetic excuse for a salary.
Talking of which - in an admittedly tangential kind of way - it doesn't seem as if everyone in the Party understands the meaning of the word broke. Greg and I had to spend half the night listening to Pete Carew banging on about his holiday home in France, while Billy Jeffries argued the case for Tuscany.
Local councillors' allowances must be more generous than I thought, that's all I can say. Either that, or being a self-employed consultant with expertise in a pointless subject must pay very well indeed. I made the mistake of asking Pete what the hell life coaching was, and nearly lost the will to live when he explained. Maybe his clients pay him to keep quiet.
I'd happily have followed suit but, when I tried to withdraw another ten pounds from the cash machine, it seemed to have run out of money. Wouldn't you think bankers could at least re-stock the damn things to earn their bonuses?
Mind you, it would have taken more than I earn to pay everyone who was being boring last night to shut up, even if I could have got hold of any cash. Pete and Billy weren't half as bad as some of the other men, including The Boss. He spent the evening assessing the merits of various single malts, and trying to decide which of the new Party members was the most attractive.
"See what I mean?" said Greg. "That's why Andrew was so keen to have all the volunteers invited: he wanted all the young women who've joined the Party since the General Election to be here. He's taking an unhealthy interest in their development, if you ask me."
"Seems he's not the only one," I said. "Who are those two girls over there? Jim Bradley can't take his eyes off them, even though they're young enough to be his grand-daughters."
"That's because someone told him they were lesbians," said Greg. "He's obviously watched too much porn and hasn't grasped that life rarely mirrors art. Probably thinks he'll get to take them home with him afterwards. To discuss our policy agenda while wearing no clothes."
I think that mental image may have been the point at which I decided there was no option but to borrow some money to buy more wine.
"Oh, my God, Greg," I said, when I returned from the bar and gave him his change. "I still feel a bit sick. Do you have to be so crude?"
"That's nothing," he said. "Jim's no worse than the others. Pete Carew keeps asking the girls to stuff envelopes, just so that he can watch them lick the stamps. And then he stands there twirling that ridiculous moustache while they do it. It's bloody horrible to watch."
Eeurgh. Honestly, sometimes I despair of the local Party. Or of the men in it, anyway. Last night was supposed to be about celebrating Debbie Abrahams' win at Oldham and planning the next stage in the fightback against the cuts. And there's a revolution going on in Tunisia, for God's sake, and yet all the men of Northwick *CLP could think about was cleavage!
I said as much to The Boss, who pretended he was listening to me, but obviously wasn't.
"For Christ's sake, Andrew - stop looking down that girl's blouse," I said. "You're supposed to be a role model and, as for the rest of you - haven't you ever heard of feminism?"
"We used to call it women's liberation," said Pete Carew. "And a very good thing it was, too. Especially all the bra burning. Let it all hang loose, that's what I say."
"You wouldn't if you'd ever been stuck in a lift with *Ann Widdecombe," said Greg. "I'm sure that's what originally caused my *PTSD. I still can't go into Portcullis House without getting flashbacks."
At that point, thank God, Joan decided to draw the raffle, so everyone was spared further details about the size of Widdy's bosoms, but Greg still looked a bit stressed by the memory - even when he won the first prize. I don't think he felt that a free life coaching session with Pete was something to look forward to.
When he offered to give it to me instead, I probably should have accepted. It's not as if I've mastered how to run my life, after all. Especially since it turns out that the cash machine hadn't run out of money as I'd thought - but Max and I had.
Our last twenty quid, and I spent it on giving myself a headache and watching a bunch of voyeurs in action. Some people might consider than money well spent, but I don't think I'm one of them. And nor is Max.
"Bloody hell, Molly. I can't believe you've left us with no money 'til the end of the month," he says when I drag myself out of bed just before lunchtime today. "You don't even like red wine. Or Party socials."
He's right, but I didn't do it on purpose - and there's no need to go on about it now, is there? Not when my head hurts so much. Haven't I been punished enough?
When I stagger to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet in search of Paracetamol, I find that the answer is a resounding no.
If life coaching could teach teenage sons not to take the last tablet and replace the empty packet in the box, I'd book Josh in tomorrow.
*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. Enough said.
*Ann Widdecombe, former Tory MP, well-known for the size of her boobs, amongst other larger-than-life things.
*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Commonly cited by Greg when he wants to take a day off.
And what the hell is wrong with me? Why can't I just order a gin and tonic instead of red wine whenever I go to a Labour Party social? It's pathetic. I only do it to stop members thinking that I'm giving myself airs and graces, just because I work for the MP. As if that was even remotely possible, given my pathetic excuse for a salary.
Talking of which - in an admittedly tangential kind of way - it doesn't seem as if everyone in the Party understands the meaning of the word broke. Greg and I had to spend half the night listening to Pete Carew banging on about his holiday home in France, while Billy Jeffries argued the case for Tuscany.
Local councillors' allowances must be more generous than I thought, that's all I can say. Either that, or being a self-employed consultant with expertise in a pointless subject must pay very well indeed. I made the mistake of asking Pete what the hell life coaching was, and nearly lost the will to live when he explained. Maybe his clients pay him to keep quiet.
I'd happily have followed suit but, when I tried to withdraw another ten pounds from the cash machine, it seemed to have run out of money. Wouldn't you think bankers could at least re-stock the damn things to earn their bonuses?
Mind you, it would have taken more than I earn to pay everyone who was being boring last night to shut up, even if I could have got hold of any cash. Pete and Billy weren't half as bad as some of the other men, including The Boss. He spent the evening assessing the merits of various single malts, and trying to decide which of the new Party members was the most attractive.
"See what I mean?" said Greg. "That's why Andrew was so keen to have all the volunteers invited: he wanted all the young women who've joined the Party since the General Election to be here. He's taking an unhealthy interest in their development, if you ask me."
"Seems he's not the only one," I said. "Who are those two girls over there? Jim Bradley can't take his eyes off them, even though they're young enough to be his grand-daughters."
"That's because someone told him they were lesbians," said Greg. "He's obviously watched too much porn and hasn't grasped that life rarely mirrors art. Probably thinks he'll get to take them home with him afterwards. To discuss our policy agenda while wearing no clothes."
I think that mental image may have been the point at which I decided there was no option but to borrow some money to buy more wine.
"Oh, my God, Greg," I said, when I returned from the bar and gave him his change. "I still feel a bit sick. Do you have to be so crude?"
"That's nothing," he said. "Jim's no worse than the others. Pete Carew keeps asking the girls to stuff envelopes, just so that he can watch them lick the stamps. And then he stands there twirling that ridiculous moustache while they do it. It's bloody horrible to watch."
Eeurgh. Honestly, sometimes I despair of the local Party. Or of the men in it, anyway. Last night was supposed to be about celebrating Debbie Abrahams' win at Oldham and planning the next stage in the fightback against the cuts. And there's a revolution going on in Tunisia, for God's sake, and yet all the men of Northwick *CLP could think about was cleavage!
I said as much to The Boss, who pretended he was listening to me, but obviously wasn't.
"For Christ's sake, Andrew - stop looking down that girl's blouse," I said. "You're supposed to be a role model and, as for the rest of you - haven't you ever heard of feminism?"
"We used to call it women's liberation," said Pete Carew. "And a very good thing it was, too. Especially all the bra burning. Let it all hang loose, that's what I say."
"You wouldn't if you'd ever been stuck in a lift with *Ann Widdecombe," said Greg. "I'm sure that's what originally caused my *PTSD. I still can't go into Portcullis House without getting flashbacks."
At that point, thank God, Joan decided to draw the raffle, so everyone was spared further details about the size of Widdy's bosoms, but Greg still looked a bit stressed by the memory - even when he won the first prize. I don't think he felt that a free life coaching session with Pete was something to look forward to.
When he offered to give it to me instead, I probably should have accepted. It's not as if I've mastered how to run my life, after all. Especially since it turns out that the cash machine hadn't run out of money as I'd thought - but Max and I had.
Our last twenty quid, and I spent it on giving myself a headache and watching a bunch of voyeurs in action. Some people might consider than money well spent, but I don't think I'm one of them. And nor is Max.
"Bloody hell, Molly. I can't believe you've left us with no money 'til the end of the month," he says when I drag myself out of bed just before lunchtime today. "You don't even like red wine. Or Party socials."
He's right, but I didn't do it on purpose - and there's no need to go on about it now, is there? Not when my head hurts so much. Haven't I been punished enough?
When I stagger to the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet in search of Paracetamol, I find that the answer is a resounding no.
If life coaching could teach teenage sons not to take the last tablet and replace the empty packet in the box, I'd book Josh in tomorrow.
*CLP - Constituency Labour Party. Enough said.
*Ann Widdecombe, former Tory MP, well-known for the size of her boobs, amongst other larger-than-life things.
*PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Commonly cited by Greg when he wants to take a day off.
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Reversals Of Fortune And Of Good Intentions - Largely Ed Miliband's Fault.
Ouch, my head hurts. Why the hell do I drink? And what the hell sort of festive celebration was that? The whole thing was such a bad joke that I don't know where to start.
So much for Greg's and my plan not to get drunk, and to go back to work after the Christmas meal. We seem to have accidentally reversed our intentions, ending up as drunk as lords and not actually returning to the office at all - or not when it was open, anyway.
We were both doing quite well for the first hour - drinking fizzy water and managing to stay neutral on the Human Rights Act. I think we even succeeded in distracting the Party staff from the fact that The Boss was only interested in talking to Vicky.
It was only when everyone else started arguing about Ed Miliband that we gave up and started on the wine. It seemed safer than voicing an opinion on that particular issue.
Things got very heated once someone mentioned the lack of a policy agenda, and the argument about community safety went on for ages, so Greg and I probably did get through rather a lot of wine. Even so, I didn't think I'd drunk that much until I went to the loo, and couldn't seem to work out how to get the cubicle door open again.
Then I panicked a bit, and got all hot and bothered. By the time I realised I was turning the handle in the wrong direction, everything was spinning and a voice in my head was saying, "Get home - now."
Things became a bit blurry after that, but I have a horrible feeling that, when I came out of the loo, I took my coat off the coat-rack and staggered out of the restaurant without saying goodbye to anyone. Then I started walking along the pavement at a very bizarre angle. I think I may have been relying on leaning in the direction I wanted to go to give me some forward momentum.
I don't know whether being bent double was the problem, but my limbs didn't seem to be working properly, so I decided I'd better phone Max and get him to come and pick me up. That's when everything got really messy.
"Need you to fetch me. Please. Now. Sorry," I said. "Can't walk, no taxis at the rank. Sorry, sorry, sorry."
I may have done some hiccuping as an added bonus.
"Um," said Max.
"Please," I said. "Can't seem to stand up properly. Ed Miliband-induced red wine."
"I haven't got the car."
In retrospect, the clue was in how hesitant Max sounded when he said that, but red wine makes idiots of us all. Or of me, anyway.
"Huh? I haven't got it. Or at least, I don't think I have," I said. "Oh, God, have I lost the car somewhere?"
"No, you haven't."
Max sounded very uncomfortable by now, and did a lot of throat clearing before he explained:
"I lent it to Ellen for the weekend again."
I can't remember much about what happened next, but I know I somehow ended up back in the office, lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room and waiting for a taxi to turn up. Honestly, as if the MP's office isn't the bloody last place you'd ever want to picked up from when you're as pissed as a parrot. I can't bear to read today's local paper in case there are photos of me in it. I bet the driver had a camera phone.
So I'm spending today hiding out in bed, while Max is over-compensating by bringing me endless cups of tea and offering me food that I can't face eating.
"Is there anything else you need?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "I want the car back. With the number of times we end up taking Josh to A&E at night, I'm not happy being without it."
Max agrees that this is sensible, and tries to persuade Ellen to cut her trip short. He's not exactly assertive about it, though - as she still isn't going to return the car until tomorrow morning.
"Hmm, well - you'd better hope that Josh stays out of harm's way this evening, then," I say. "Especially given the temptation to snowboard through Northwick."
I'd normally have more to say on the subject than that, but a) I'm feeling far too fragile and b) it turns out that I've got other things to worry about.
When I check my mobile, I see that I sent Johnny a drunken text last night. Presumably from the Oprah Room after I found out about the car.
It says, "Sod this. Yes to meeting. Lara. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"
I don't know if I intended to send all those kisses, or if I'd just lost control of my fingers. As well as everything else.
So much for Greg's and my plan not to get drunk, and to go back to work after the Christmas meal. We seem to have accidentally reversed our intentions, ending up as drunk as lords and not actually returning to the office at all - or not when it was open, anyway.
We were both doing quite well for the first hour - drinking fizzy water and managing to stay neutral on the Human Rights Act. I think we even succeeded in distracting the Party staff from the fact that The Boss was only interested in talking to Vicky.
It was only when everyone else started arguing about Ed Miliband that we gave up and started on the wine. It seemed safer than voicing an opinion on that particular issue.
Things got very heated once someone mentioned the lack of a policy agenda, and the argument about community safety went on for ages, so Greg and I probably did get through rather a lot of wine. Even so, I didn't think I'd drunk that much until I went to the loo, and couldn't seem to work out how to get the cubicle door open again.
Then I panicked a bit, and got all hot and bothered. By the time I realised I was turning the handle in the wrong direction, everything was spinning and a voice in my head was saying, "Get home - now."
Things became a bit blurry after that, but I have a horrible feeling that, when I came out of the loo, I took my coat off the coat-rack and staggered out of the restaurant without saying goodbye to anyone. Then I started walking along the pavement at a very bizarre angle. I think I may have been relying on leaning in the direction I wanted to go to give me some forward momentum.
I don't know whether being bent double was the problem, but my limbs didn't seem to be working properly, so I decided I'd better phone Max and get him to come and pick me up. That's when everything got really messy.
"Need you to fetch me. Please. Now. Sorry," I said. "Can't walk, no taxis at the rank. Sorry, sorry, sorry."
I may have done some hiccuping as an added bonus.
"Um," said Max.
"Please," I said. "Can't seem to stand up properly. Ed Miliband-induced red wine."
"I haven't got the car."
In retrospect, the clue was in how hesitant Max sounded when he said that, but red wine makes idiots of us all. Or of me, anyway.
"Huh? I haven't got it. Or at least, I don't think I have," I said. "Oh, God, have I lost the car somewhere?"
"No, you haven't."
Max sounded very uncomfortable by now, and did a lot of throat clearing before he explained:
"I lent it to Ellen for the weekend again."
I can't remember much about what happened next, but I know I somehow ended up back in the office, lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room and waiting for a taxi to turn up. Honestly, as if the MP's office isn't the bloody last place you'd ever want to picked up from when you're as pissed as a parrot. I can't bear to read today's local paper in case there are photos of me in it. I bet the driver had a camera phone.
So I'm spending today hiding out in bed, while Max is over-compensating by bringing me endless cups of tea and offering me food that I can't face eating.
"Is there anything else you need?" he says.
"Yes," I say. "I want the car back. With the number of times we end up taking Josh to A&E at night, I'm not happy being without it."
Max agrees that this is sensible, and tries to persuade Ellen to cut her trip short. He's not exactly assertive about it, though - as she still isn't going to return the car until tomorrow morning.
"Hmm, well - you'd better hope that Josh stays out of harm's way this evening, then," I say. "Especially given the temptation to snowboard through Northwick."
I'd normally have more to say on the subject than that, but a) I'm feeling far too fragile and b) it turns out that I've got other things to worry about.
When I check my mobile, I see that I sent Johnny a drunken text last night. Presumably from the Oprah Room after I found out about the car.
It says, "Sod this. Yes to meeting. Lara. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx"
I don't know if I intended to send all those kisses, or if I'd just lost control of my fingers. As well as everything else.
Saturday, 11 December 2010
The (Crappy) Morning After The Night Before
Next time my instincts tell me not to go to a social event, I'm going to bloody well listen to them. Last night was hideous, and I haven't even got a hangover to show for it. Mainly because that would have required obtaining a supply of alcohol.
And since when has a gold lame dress come under the heading of "smart-casual" unless you're Shirley Bloody Bassey? I can't believe my eyes when we arrive at the restaurant. Late, due to the argument we have when I refuse to tell Max what to wear.
I'm nearly blinded by the amount of bling at the table, not to mention the cleavage and the sparkly eye-shadow. It looks like a Barry M convention - and for those of you unfamiliar with the lack of subtlety of that make-up range - I am not referring to Mr Manilow, although he'd have felt right at home. Talk about The Copacabana.
As soon as Max and I sit down, one of the girls he works with - who can't be much older than Connie - leans right across me as if I was invisible and says to him,
"Are you drinking red wine, Max?"
"Yes," he says, basking in the Spaniel-like adoration oozing from her non-presbyopic eyes.
"I'll share a bottle with you, then," says Miss Bambi. (I know I've just switched her from dog to faun, but the effect's the same: really f*cking annoying.)
"Why?" says her gold lame clad friend. "You always have white."
"But Max prefers red, don't you Max?" says Bambi.
This is true. Max does prefer red - which I'd have happily shared with him, had anyone bothered to ask me.
Bambi orders the wine and makes great play of pouring it slowly into Max's glass while staring at him at the same time. Then they both take big gulps of the stuff and sigh contentedly.
As a non-employee, I'm not in a position to order anything as, although Max's boss has just announced that the company is paying for the drinks, he has made it plain that the staff are expected to do the ordering to ensure that they stay within the budget.
So I have no choice but to sit there like a starched fart until Max remembers he actually arrived with a wife in tow.
"Oh - what are you drinking, darling?" he says. "Gin and tonic?"
"Looks that way, in the absence of anyone to share a bottle of wine with," I say.
He doesn't reply, but orders me a gin - a single - and then informs me that the restaurant has run out of lemon. I consider mentioning that I'm starting to feel like one of those myself but, instead, I try very hard to follow idiot brother Robin's advice about feeling compassion for anyone who annoys me.
Like most of Robin's suggestions, this one proves pretty useless: I get progressively grumpier as Bambi and Max continue to converse across me. I can't join in because I have absolutely no idea who or what they are talking about, though it sounds as boring as hell.
They order a second bottle and drink that too, while I resort to repeatedly asking Max to pass me the water jug in the hope that he will notice that I have finished my one gin. More than an hour ago. He complies each time without comment but, when he has re-filled my glass with water for the fifth time, he pauses and looks concerned. At last.
Then he says, "Bambi, have you got enough wine?"
I don't hear her reply for the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I lean in towards Max and say, in what can only be described as a hiss,
"It'd be nice if you gave a shit about whether your wife had a f*cking drink."
Then I excuse myself and go outside for a cigarette. It starts to snow and I wish I'd put my coat on, and brought my handbag with me. Then I could just go home instead of having to return to the others for more of the same.
Except that it's not the same. It's worse. By the time I get back to the table, another young woman has taken my seat. So now I have a faun and a cuckoo to contend with. It's like Tim Burton does Disney.
I am left with the choice of sitting on a separate table with people I don't know at all, or standing at the end of the table I am supposed to be sitting at. I try both but neither are much fun and I drink the second gin in double quick time.
It's the last one I get, though, as I don't see Max again until we leave the restaurant. He hangs around in the doorway, probably waiting for the inevitable kissing-fest, while I stomp off down the steps, desperate to get home.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" he says, sotto voce.
"Where to start?" I say.
I breathe in, ready to let rip, as the rest of the party make their way outside. As I move aside to let them pass, I feel my feet start to move. I didn't know you could slip sideways on ice.
I slide towards the busy road, wobbling as furiously as Josh does on his skateboard. It seems to take forever before I manage to stop, but it turns out that I've only travelled a couple of feet so, for a few over-optimistic seconds, I think perhaps no-one will have noticed.
Fat chance: when I straighten up, I see that everyone is staring at me, and trying not to laugh. I don't know whether I stiffen in horror, but something makes me begin to slip again.
My mouth open in gormless incredulity, I repeat the slide - wobble - stop process three more times, with the sound of mass laughter ringing in my ears. By the time I crash into the traffic barrier and come to a halt, it's positively deafening.
I challenge anyone to pull off a dignified exit after that.
And since when has a gold lame dress come under the heading of "smart-casual" unless you're Shirley Bloody Bassey? I can't believe my eyes when we arrive at the restaurant. Late, due to the argument we have when I refuse to tell Max what to wear.
I'm nearly blinded by the amount of bling at the table, not to mention the cleavage and the sparkly eye-shadow. It looks like a Barry M convention - and for those of you unfamiliar with the lack of subtlety of that make-up range - I am not referring to Mr Manilow, although he'd have felt right at home. Talk about The Copacabana.
As soon as Max and I sit down, one of the girls he works with - who can't be much older than Connie - leans right across me as if I was invisible and says to him,
"Are you drinking red wine, Max?"
"Yes," he says, basking in the Spaniel-like adoration oozing from her non-presbyopic eyes.
"I'll share a bottle with you, then," says Miss Bambi. (I know I've just switched her from dog to faun, but the effect's the same: really f*cking annoying.)
"Why?" says her gold lame clad friend. "You always have white."
"But Max prefers red, don't you Max?" says Bambi.
This is true. Max does prefer red - which I'd have happily shared with him, had anyone bothered to ask me.
Bambi orders the wine and makes great play of pouring it slowly into Max's glass while staring at him at the same time. Then they both take big gulps of the stuff and sigh contentedly.
As a non-employee, I'm not in a position to order anything as, although Max's boss has just announced that the company is paying for the drinks, he has made it plain that the staff are expected to do the ordering to ensure that they stay within the budget.
So I have no choice but to sit there like a starched fart until Max remembers he actually arrived with a wife in tow.
"Oh - what are you drinking, darling?" he says. "Gin and tonic?"
"Looks that way, in the absence of anyone to share a bottle of wine with," I say.
He doesn't reply, but orders me a gin - a single - and then informs me that the restaurant has run out of lemon. I consider mentioning that I'm starting to feel like one of those myself but, instead, I try very hard to follow idiot brother Robin's advice about feeling compassion for anyone who annoys me.
Like most of Robin's suggestions, this one proves pretty useless: I get progressively grumpier as Bambi and Max continue to converse across me. I can't join in because I have absolutely no idea who or what they are talking about, though it sounds as boring as hell.
They order a second bottle and drink that too, while I resort to repeatedly asking Max to pass me the water jug in the hope that he will notice that I have finished my one gin. More than an hour ago. He complies each time without comment but, when he has re-filled my glass with water for the fifth time, he pauses and looks concerned. At last.
Then he says, "Bambi, have you got enough wine?"
I don't hear her reply for the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I lean in towards Max and say, in what can only be described as a hiss,
"It'd be nice if you gave a shit about whether your wife had a f*cking drink."
Then I excuse myself and go outside for a cigarette. It starts to snow and I wish I'd put my coat on, and brought my handbag with me. Then I could just go home instead of having to return to the others for more of the same.
Except that it's not the same. It's worse. By the time I get back to the table, another young woman has taken my seat. So now I have a faun and a cuckoo to contend with. It's like Tim Burton does Disney.
I am left with the choice of sitting on a separate table with people I don't know at all, or standing at the end of the table I am supposed to be sitting at. I try both but neither are much fun and I drink the second gin in double quick time.
It's the last one I get, though, as I don't see Max again until we leave the restaurant. He hangs around in the doorway, probably waiting for the inevitable kissing-fest, while I stomp off down the steps, desperate to get home.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" he says, sotto voce.
"Where to start?" I say.
I breathe in, ready to let rip, as the rest of the party make their way outside. As I move aside to let them pass, I feel my feet start to move. I didn't know you could slip sideways on ice.
I slide towards the busy road, wobbling as furiously as Josh does on his skateboard. It seems to take forever before I manage to stop, but it turns out that I've only travelled a couple of feet so, for a few over-optimistic seconds, I think perhaps no-one will have noticed.
Fat chance: when I straighten up, I see that everyone is staring at me, and trying not to laugh. I don't know whether I stiffen in horror, but something makes me begin to slip again.
My mouth open in gormless incredulity, I repeat the slide - wobble - stop process three more times, with the sound of mass laughter ringing in my ears. By the time I crash into the traffic barrier and come to a halt, it's positively deafening.
I challenge anyone to pull off a dignified exit after that.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Men. Which should be said out loud in tones of deep disgust.
I feel like shit and seem to have lost my sense of humour entirely. When Max finally wakes up, he staggers into the kitchen and cooks an enormous fry-up, which seems to remove any trace of a hangover. There is no justice. I can't even face eating anything.
Then the phone rings. It is Ellen's toyboy-in-chief, who says he wants his jacket back. Apparently, Connie picked up his jacket by mistake, during our hasty flight from the party last night. He sounds less than happy to have discovered that he is now the not-so-proud possessor of Max's Primark jacket, while we have an Armani version hanging in our hallway. Actually, they don't look any different to me, but I daren't say that.
After Connie's gone out to return the jacket, Max looks at me and says,
"What's up? Why are you being so snotty?"
What's up? What's up? Where do I start?
"I should've thought you'd know what is bloody well up," I say.
"Haven't got a clue." Max looks genuinely perplexed. "What've I done?"
"Well, let me see - how can I sum it up for you?" I am so angry that I can barely speak. "Oh, yes - that's right. You moved in on Ellen in front of everyone, including me. And your daughter."
"I did what?" Max looks like he thinks I'm joking.
"And then you kissed her. On the neck."
'I didn't!" Max starts laughing. Bad move.
"Er, yes - you did, Dad." Connie is back. She looks almost as cross as I am.
"Good God," says Max, as I stalk off and go back to bed.
I stay in our bedroom for the rest of the day, trying to work out whether I am entitled to be as angry with Max as I am, given that he was so drunk and can't even remember what he did. I only get up again in the evening to check my email, but there's nothing from Johnny. I forgot - he's gallivanting somewhere in Eastern Europe again this weekend, and had warned me he might be unavailable for much of the time. My in-box isn't completely empty, though. Dad is back from Thailand, and has sent me an email, snappily entitled "Thai adventure."
I open it. There is no text at all, just six photos attached. I open the first one, expecting beaches, or mountains. There's scenery, all right - but it isn't of the landscape variety. It's of a young Thai girl in a bar. The next picture is of the same girl, next to a swimming pool. There's no sign of Dad until the third picture, where he appears - showing far too much man boob than should be allowed anywhere in the world.
In picture number four, the Thai girl is draped around Dad's neck, like a fresh-faced boa constrictor. By picture six, she is sitting on a bed in a hotel room, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. For God's sake! I have to tell someone, and I am still not speaking to Max, so I call up to Connie who has also been lurking in her bedroom all day, out of the way of parental strife.
"Con, you won't believe what Grandad has just sent me!"
"I bloody well will. Didn't you notice he copied me in on the email?" She makes a vomiting noise. "I'm mortified."
"What?" Now Josh has appeared. I show him the photos and he starts to laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" I say. "There's nothing bloody funny about sending your daughter this."
"He's trying to wind you up, Mum," Josh says. "You know what he's like."
"Yeah, like all bloody men. A prize shit - apart from you, Josh."
I turn back to the computer, and start typing. In retrospect, this may not have been a wise move. Before I know it, I have pressed send. Now an email saying only Come back, Gary Glitter - all is forgiven is winging its way to my father's inbox.
I am going to have a very early night. I think it's best.
Then the phone rings. It is Ellen's toyboy-in-chief, who says he wants his jacket back. Apparently, Connie picked up his jacket by mistake, during our hasty flight from the party last night. He sounds less than happy to have discovered that he is now the not-so-proud possessor of Max's Primark jacket, while we have an Armani version hanging in our hallway. Actually, they don't look any different to me, but I daren't say that.
After Connie's gone out to return the jacket, Max looks at me and says,
"What's up? Why are you being so snotty?"
What's up? What's up? Where do I start?
"I should've thought you'd know what is bloody well up," I say.
"Haven't got a clue." Max looks genuinely perplexed. "What've I done?"
"Well, let me see - how can I sum it up for you?" I am so angry that I can barely speak. "Oh, yes - that's right. You moved in on Ellen in front of everyone, including me. And your daughter."
"I did what?" Max looks like he thinks I'm joking.
"And then you kissed her. On the neck."
'I didn't!" Max starts laughing. Bad move.
"Er, yes - you did, Dad." Connie is back. She looks almost as cross as I am.
"Good God," says Max, as I stalk off and go back to bed.
I stay in our bedroom for the rest of the day, trying to work out whether I am entitled to be as angry with Max as I am, given that he was so drunk and can't even remember what he did. I only get up again in the evening to check my email, but there's nothing from Johnny. I forgot - he's gallivanting somewhere in Eastern Europe again this weekend, and had warned me he might be unavailable for much of the time. My in-box isn't completely empty, though. Dad is back from Thailand, and has sent me an email, snappily entitled "Thai adventure."
I open it. There is no text at all, just six photos attached. I open the first one, expecting beaches, or mountains. There's scenery, all right - but it isn't of the landscape variety. It's of a young Thai girl in a bar. The next picture is of the same girl, next to a swimming pool. There's no sign of Dad until the third picture, where he appears - showing far too much man boob than should be allowed anywhere in the world.
In picture number four, the Thai girl is draped around Dad's neck, like a fresh-faced boa constrictor. By picture six, she is sitting on a bed in a hotel room, wearing nothing but a bathrobe. For God's sake! I have to tell someone, and I am still not speaking to Max, so I call up to Connie who has also been lurking in her bedroom all day, out of the way of parental strife.
"Con, you won't believe what Grandad has just sent me!"
"I bloody well will. Didn't you notice he copied me in on the email?" She makes a vomiting noise. "I'm mortified."
"What?" Now Josh has appeared. I show him the photos and he starts to laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" I say. "There's nothing bloody funny about sending your daughter this."
"He's trying to wind you up, Mum," Josh says. "You know what he's like."
"Yeah, like all bloody men. A prize shit - apart from you, Josh."
I turn back to the computer, and start typing. In retrospect, this may not have been a wise move. Before I know it, I have pressed send. Now an email saying only Come back, Gary Glitter - all is forgiven is winging its way to my father's inbox.
I am going to have a very early night. I think it's best.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Some Like It Hot
Why on earth did I tell The Boss we were going out for the day? Sam thinks I am a madwoman, as I insist that we keep the curtains in the front room closed all day, and that Max moves the car from its usual parking spot - just in case Andrew decides to cruise by "on the off chance." (It has been known.)
Both Max and Sam are very hungover, so there is a lot of groaning and excessive ibuprofen usage before they are even worth conversing with. Max also thinks he may have pulled his back by sleeping on the couch all night. I am somewhat less than sympathetic - because I am still sulking about his failure to follow through on last night's brief lust-filled moment.
Sam leaves mid-afternoon and I consider doing the family phone calls, but decide I am too grumpy to manage to avoid an argument with one or other of the parents. Anyway, we have Connie's boyfriend coming for dinner. We've been putting this off, as he's not the easiest person to talk to - but Connie's getting upset about it now. She keeps pointing out that Josh has had Holly here for a meal on numerous occasions, whereas we haven't invited Russ at all - so we have no option but to comply.
The evening proves to be much more fun than we'd expected, though not for Connie. Max has cooked a Thai meal, and Russ has never tried Thai food.
"It's chilli-hot," says Max.
The mention of chillies turns Russ from a monosyllabic introvert into a gushing fool. For almost two hours, he tells story after story - all of them about hazardous encounters he has had with chillies. These have all apparently been entirely self-inflicted, and carried out as a test of manhood. Each story is identical to the last, except for the number of chillies consumed, which increases with every version. So does the number of pints of water that had to be drunk as a result. Max and I can't even look at each other, and Connie is squirming. She already thinks we can't stand Russ.
I dread to think how long the whole thing would have gone on, had Josh not completely lost it. He interrupts Russ firmly, saying,
"I once ate a chilli the size of my head."
Russ looks non-plussed, and then Josh continues,
"And I had to drink 37 litres of water before I could talk, or even swallow. Was wild, man."
Russ nods, lost in admiration.
Connie's had enough.
"It's getting late, Russ. I think you'd better be going now as we've all got to work in the morning."
She glares at us as she shows Russ out. When she comes back, Josh says,
"Wow, Con - where've you been hiding him? I LOVE Russ. Love him. Almost as much as he loves his chillies."
"Fuck you," says Connie, and flounces off to bed.
Not for the first time this weekend, Max and I congratulate ourselves on our extraordinary good fortune in having married each other. A dislike for sub-titles is a small price to pay for avoiding a chilli fetish.
Both Max and Sam are very hungover, so there is a lot of groaning and excessive ibuprofen usage before they are even worth conversing with. Max also thinks he may have pulled his back by sleeping on the couch all night. I am somewhat less than sympathetic - because I am still sulking about his failure to follow through on last night's brief lust-filled moment.
Sam leaves mid-afternoon and I consider doing the family phone calls, but decide I am too grumpy to manage to avoid an argument with one or other of the parents. Anyway, we have Connie's boyfriend coming for dinner. We've been putting this off, as he's not the easiest person to talk to - but Connie's getting upset about it now. She keeps pointing out that Josh has had Holly here for a meal on numerous occasions, whereas we haven't invited Russ at all - so we have no option but to comply.
The evening proves to be much more fun than we'd expected, though not for Connie. Max has cooked a Thai meal, and Russ has never tried Thai food.
"It's chilli-hot," says Max.
The mention of chillies turns Russ from a monosyllabic introvert into a gushing fool. For almost two hours, he tells story after story - all of them about hazardous encounters he has had with chillies. These have all apparently been entirely self-inflicted, and carried out as a test of manhood. Each story is identical to the last, except for the number of chillies consumed, which increases with every version. So does the number of pints of water that had to be drunk as a result. Max and I can't even look at each other, and Connie is squirming. She already thinks we can't stand Russ.
I dread to think how long the whole thing would have gone on, had Josh not completely lost it. He interrupts Russ firmly, saying,
"I once ate a chilli the size of my head."
Russ looks non-plussed, and then Josh continues,
"And I had to drink 37 litres of water before I could talk, or even swallow. Was wild, man."
Russ nods, lost in admiration.
Connie's had enough.
"It's getting late, Russ. I think you'd better be going now as we've all got to work in the morning."
She glares at us as she shows Russ out. When she comes back, Josh says,
"Wow, Con - where've you been hiding him? I LOVE Russ. Love him. Almost as much as he loves his chillies."
"Fuck you," says Connie, and flounces off to bed.
Not for the first time this weekend, Max and I congratulate ourselves on our extraordinary good fortune in having married each other. A dislike for sub-titles is a small price to pay for avoiding a chilli fetish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
