Blimey, does everyone watch Newsnight these days? It certainly seems like it, if all the constituents who saw last night's programme are anything to go by.
Maybe their interest was caused by the fact that 71% of us now describe ourselves as middle class, if Deborah Mattinson's to be believed. I missed the percentage of those who also consider themselves to be squeezed, but I'd hazard a guess it's 100%.
I'd be a bit better-informed if the former statistic hadn't been the only thing that I managed to pick up while the programme was on - but I couldn't hear a bloody thing. First Max went ballistic when John Denham talked about public sector job cuts, and then Dad started bellowing about why no-one was mentioning pensioners and fixed incomes.
In the end, I got so tired of them both looking at me as if I had all the answers, that I gave up and went to bed with a book. I probably should have replied to some of Johnny's most recent emails instead, but the last thing I wanted was to get into a discussion with him about what constitutes the middle class.
He'd probably have claimed that he fell into that category, too, and then I'd have lost my temper and ruined all chance of romance. Not that I'm feeling very amorous today, anyway - especially not towards an International Director of a Global Oil Company who earns more in a day than I do in a month. Or even a year.
To be honest, I still can't work out at what point the "working poor" segue into the "squeezed middle" - not that the distinction seems to bother any of the usual suspects. As far as each one of them is concerned, they're the only one to suffer.
And, God, don't they go on about it? You'd think they'd feel embarrassed to complain so much in the light of what's happening in Japan, but there's absolutely no sign of that. It's really irritating and, to make matters worse, I'm the only one having to listen to them.
Greg claims he's busy working on something "top secret" for The Boss - which doesn't seem to have anything to do with casework and is probably party political - so I end up answering the phones by myself for most of the day.
Vicky's in the office, too, but she's still in a filthy mood and spends most of her time lying on the sofa in the Oprah Room, texting her friends and reading, "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus."
"If you're looking for guidance on The Boss, I reckon you'll need to go beyond our solar system for that," says Greg. "I'd give Stephen Hawking a call, if I were you."
Vicky turns a page, while pretending she hasn't heard a thing. Which is the same approach she takes to the phone that's ringing on the table right next to where she's sitting.
"For Christ's sake," I say, when I finally manage to end yet another call complaining about the effects of the cuts on the holiday plans of someone earning £40,000 a year. "Couldn't one of you answer the phone for a change? I've had just about enough of this."
"Well, you know what the problem is, Mol," says Greg. "Everyone thinks they're a special case these days."
I nod in recognition of what is undoubtedly a universal truth, and head for the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It's thirsty work listening to constituents complain, but at least my colleagues don't moan as well. Or Greg doesn't, anyway. Interns are a different matter.
"Well, some people are special cases," says Vicky, putting her book down, and clenching her fists as if preparing to square up to anyone unwise enough to disagree. "Those of us who are childless, for a start. I hate bloody people with kids."
"What?" I say, in disbelief. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Good job your parents didn't feel like that," says Greg, who always loves a fight. As long as it doesn't involve anything physical, of course.
Vicky glares at both of us, before launching into a sustained attack on people with children who "get all the perks", and who shouldn't expect society to help them bear the burden of their own "selfish desire to reproduce".
Greg and I listen in silence, which is usually the best tactic with a ranting constituent, and eventually she seems to run out of steam.
I'm not sure if she's worked out that the world wouldn't have lasted very long if everyone felt as she does, or whether she's simply given up trying to provoke. I don't really care, as long as she stops.
"Finished?" I say, as she looks down at her hands, then picks up her handbag and grabs her coat.
"For now," she says. "I've got to pop out. I've just broken a nail."
"Lucky for you someone else gave birth to a manicurist, then," says Greg. "Seeing as you can't fix it yourself."
"She's not a manicurist, you idiot," says Vicky. "She's a fully-qualified nail technician."
I don't know about that, but it's a joiner we'll be needing if Vicky keeps slamming the door so hard.
I go to check if it's still in its frame, while Greg waits for her to re-appear in the street below his window. Then he sticks out his tongue, puts his fingers to his ears and waggles them. He might not complain much, but I didn't say he was mature in every way.
"What the hell's got into her?" I say. "I thought she always wanted kids."
"She did," says Greg. "But maybe Andrew doesn't. He's already got some, if you recall?"
"Yes," I say. "But with his wife. Oh! Now I see what you mean."
Greg gives me an unnecessarily ironic round of applause, which I try my best to ignore by counting to ten. Out loud, or there'd be no point.
When I reach nine, he leans back in his chair and says:
"I knew you'd get there - in the end. As usual, we're not talking special case, we are talking fruit and nut."
Showing posts with label Newsnight. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Newsnight. Show all posts
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
In Which Woolly-Headed Thinking Gets Me Absolutely Nowhere Fairly Quickly.
Bugger. I thought I'd got my mojo back there for a minute, thanks in no small part to last night's Newsnight. By which I don't mean Jeremy Paxman's possibly-accidental use of the Jeremy Hunt word, either.
"What the hell are you wearing on your head?" says Greg, when I walk into the office this morning.
"A woolly hat," I say. "As must be obvious."
Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that boy. He's as blind as a bat when he wears those coloured contact lenses.
"I can see that," he says. "But why are you wearing it? It's horrible."
"Because woolly hats are what activists are wearing now," I say. "And, as of last night, I count myself among them. And, anyway, I've only borrowed this from Josh until I can learn how to knit my own."
Greg stares at me, as I pause for effect before making my surprise announcement:
"I have got my political drive back."
"Let's see how long that lasts," he says, as the phones start ringing.
Then he steals my hat and throws it on top of the bookshelves while I'm stuck listening to Richard Levinson who, as usual, insists on reading parts of the Daily Mail aloud.
Despite this provocation, I manage to resist falling prey to cynicism until lunchtime, when Greg suggests we make an executive decision to turn the phones off and take our lunch-breaks at the same time.
"Want to go for a quick drinky-boo?" he says, before retrieving my hat and passing it to me.
I'm sure there's no need for him to hold it between thumb and forefinger, as if it is something long-dead, but Greg takes no notice whatsoever of my scowl of disapproval. He just keeps talking:
"We can wash away the general hideousness of the mad, the bad, and the criminally insane - before we have to talk to them all over again this afternoon."
"Yes," I say. "But I have to go and buy some toothpaste first, now we've finally been paid. My mouth tastes like hell. I don't think salt is half as effective as Mum claimed it was when she had to use it to clean her teeth during the war."
"Well, d'uh," says Greg. "Of course it isn't any good. Otherwise Colgate wouldn't have made all that money, would they? Anyway, you go to Boots, while I go and get the drinks in. But hurry up."
He looks incredulous when I tell him that I am not going to Boots. And even more incredulous when I ask him to remind me to call Vodafone when I get back to the office - to cancel my contract.
"Huh?" he says. "Why? You're always telling me that Vodafone is the only network that gets a signal in the depths of Easemount. How are you going to phone 999 if you run into Steve Ellington during the next public meeting there? And you love Boots and your Advantage card. You won't get points like that anywhere else, you know."
Greg pauses to let what he obviously intends to be a killer blow sink in, then continues when he sees that I remain resolutely unmoved:
"And I wanted you to pick me up one of their meal deals while you were there. Why would you want to deprive me of my lunch, Mol? Haven't I suffered enough this morning? Why would you do this to me? Why? Why?"
Oh, for God's sake. Greg sounds just like Josh when he gets going.
"Because," I say,"Boots are cheating this country out of millions or squillions of pounds in tax -"
"Allegedly," says Greg, looking around nervously. He really does lack revolutionary spirit.
"Coward," I say. "And get this: I'm sure I read somewhere that the ex-Chairman of Boots is going to be in charge of commissioning for NHS Direct. Probably thanks to Andrew Bloody Lansley. So we we can't let pensioners and young people fight this battle on our behalf - we have to join in and make our views known. Although I am a bit worried I might be allergic to CS gas, given my tendency to Miss Chambers-related urticaria."
"You're bound to be," says Greg. "You react to everything. But hang on a minute, Mol - what's with the royal 'we'? Boots are the only people who stock my hair-gel. And what about Topshop? I bet you haven't thought about that!"
Oh, bugger, I haven't. Until now. Sometimes Greg is so annoying. Where else am I going to find adult clothes that don't absolutely drown me? Marks and Sparks might claim to sell a size 8 but it'd be labelled a size 14 in Topshop. And it'd be called a one-person festival tent in Millets. There's nothing for it, but some creative thinking.
"I shall have to make all my own clothes, then," I say. "Once I learn how to sew, seeing as Mum never taught me how to do that either. I do wish she hadn't been a bloody feminist. A raised consciousness is of no practical use to anyone."
Greg looks at me as if I am insane, but then he didn't have to spend his teenage evenings waiting hand and foot on a bunch of bra-less women drinking wine and eating loads of biscuits while discussing how their lives had been blighted by their husbands and children. (The 1970s weren't half as much fun if you fell into one of those two categories.)
"Anyway," I say, getting a grip on myself. "I'll deal with Philip Green once I've found an alternative source of freakishly-small outfits, seeing as you can get arrested for not wearing any clothes. In the meantime, I'll start with Boots and Vodafone. And so should you. Sod the meal deals, and bugger your hair gel, Greg. This is time to make a stand on behalf of all the working people in this country."
Sometimes I think Pete Carew might be right when he tries to persuade me that I'd make a much better MP than The Boss. Imagine me on an extra-large soap box right this minute!
"Except all those who'll lose their jobs if UKuncut succeed in closing down the shops that employ them, of course," says Greg.
Now I've had three gins, half of Greg's (really horrible) tuna and cucumber meal deal, and the arguments for and against revolution still aren't looking any bloody clearer. Sometimes strategic thinking isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.
"What the hell are you wearing on your head?" says Greg, when I walk into the office this morning.
"A woolly hat," I say. "As must be obvious."
Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that boy. He's as blind as a bat when he wears those coloured contact lenses.
"I can see that," he says. "But why are you wearing it? It's horrible."
"Because woolly hats are what activists are wearing now," I say. "And, as of last night, I count myself among them. And, anyway, I've only borrowed this from Josh until I can learn how to knit my own."
Greg stares at me, as I pause for effect before making my surprise announcement:
"I have got my political drive back."
"Let's see how long that lasts," he says, as the phones start ringing.
Then he steals my hat and throws it on top of the bookshelves while I'm stuck listening to Richard Levinson who, as usual, insists on reading parts of the Daily Mail aloud.
Despite this provocation, I manage to resist falling prey to cynicism until lunchtime, when Greg suggests we make an executive decision to turn the phones off and take our lunch-breaks at the same time.
"Want to go for a quick drinky-boo?" he says, before retrieving my hat and passing it to me.
I'm sure there's no need for him to hold it between thumb and forefinger, as if it is something long-dead, but Greg takes no notice whatsoever of my scowl of disapproval. He just keeps talking:
"We can wash away the general hideousness of the mad, the bad, and the criminally insane - before we have to talk to them all over again this afternoon."
"Yes," I say. "But I have to go and buy some toothpaste first, now we've finally been paid. My mouth tastes like hell. I don't think salt is half as effective as Mum claimed it was when she had to use it to clean her teeth during the war."
"Well, d'uh," says Greg. "Of course it isn't any good. Otherwise Colgate wouldn't have made all that money, would they? Anyway, you go to Boots, while I go and get the drinks in. But hurry up."
He looks incredulous when I tell him that I am not going to Boots. And even more incredulous when I ask him to remind me to call Vodafone when I get back to the office - to cancel my contract.
"Huh?" he says. "Why? You're always telling me that Vodafone is the only network that gets a signal in the depths of Easemount. How are you going to phone 999 if you run into Steve Ellington during the next public meeting there? And you love Boots and your Advantage card. You won't get points like that anywhere else, you know."
Greg pauses to let what he obviously intends to be a killer blow sink in, then continues when he sees that I remain resolutely unmoved:
"And I wanted you to pick me up one of their meal deals while you were there. Why would you want to deprive me of my lunch, Mol? Haven't I suffered enough this morning? Why would you do this to me? Why? Why?"
Oh, for God's sake. Greg sounds just like Josh when he gets going.
"Because," I say,"Boots are cheating this country out of millions or squillions of pounds in tax -"
"Allegedly," says Greg, looking around nervously. He really does lack revolutionary spirit.
"Coward," I say. "And get this: I'm sure I read somewhere that the ex-Chairman of Boots is going to be in charge of commissioning for NHS Direct. Probably thanks to Andrew Bloody Lansley. So we we can't let pensioners and young people fight this battle on our behalf - we have to join in and make our views known. Although I am a bit worried I might be allergic to CS gas, given my tendency to Miss Chambers-related urticaria."
"You're bound to be," says Greg. "You react to everything. But hang on a minute, Mol - what's with the royal 'we'? Boots are the only people who stock my hair-gel. And what about Topshop? I bet you haven't thought about that!"
Oh, bugger, I haven't. Until now. Sometimes Greg is so annoying. Where else am I going to find adult clothes that don't absolutely drown me? Marks and Sparks might claim to sell a size 8 but it'd be labelled a size 14 in Topshop. And it'd be called a one-person festival tent in Millets. There's nothing for it, but some creative thinking.
"I shall have to make all my own clothes, then," I say. "Once I learn how to sew, seeing as Mum never taught me how to do that either. I do wish she hadn't been a bloody feminist. A raised consciousness is of no practical use to anyone."
Greg looks at me as if I am insane, but then he didn't have to spend his teenage evenings waiting hand and foot on a bunch of bra-less women drinking wine and eating loads of biscuits while discussing how their lives had been blighted by their husbands and children. (The 1970s weren't half as much fun if you fell into one of those two categories.)
"Anyway," I say, getting a grip on myself. "I'll deal with Philip Green once I've found an alternative source of freakishly-small outfits, seeing as you can get arrested for not wearing any clothes. In the meantime, I'll start with Boots and Vodafone. And so should you. Sod the meal deals, and bugger your hair gel, Greg. This is time to make a stand on behalf of all the working people in this country."
Sometimes I think Pete Carew might be right when he tries to persuade me that I'd make a much better MP than The Boss. Imagine me on an extra-large soap box right this minute!
"Except all those who'll lose their jobs if UKuncut succeed in closing down the shops that employ them, of course," says Greg.
Now I've had three gins, half of Greg's (really horrible) tuna and cucumber meal deal, and the arguments for and against revolution still aren't looking any bloody clearer. Sometimes strategic thinking isn't at all what it's cracked up to be.
Friday, 10 September 2010
Short Sight, The Pox and Emanuelle in Nurse's Clothing.
God, what a total shambles. It seems that I am much better at affairs of state (at an admittedly-unimportant level) than at affairs of the heart.
When Max drops me off at the Marriott - which really is bloody miles out of Northwick - Greg is hiding in the lobby, waiting for me. So far, so good. He bundles me straight into the Gregmobile and drives me back into town.
Considering what a terrible driver Greg is, this is not as bad as it could have been, although there is one very hairy moment, when we almost catch up with Max, who is waiting at a set of lights. I don't think he notices us - but it is unnerving, all the same. To avoid any repetitions, we have to pootle along at about 40mph for the rest of the journey, which makes me late to meet Johnny.
I rush into the hotel, looking a bit windswept and very harassed, and am so busy trying to smooth my hair out that I walk straight into someone waiting at the reception desk.
"Excuse me," he says, in a very snooty way, and then, "Molly?"
"Johnny?"
God, he looks exactly like Putin. Same build, probably the same height - considerably shorter than Max but thankfully not a midget like me. Even the same air of authority, initially - but this doesn't really live up to expectations when he fails to get the hotel to sort out the error they've made with his booking. It turns out that he's been given a single room instead of the luxury double he'd booked. This is probably because he normally has someone like me to book his hotel accommodation, and is incapable of doing it properly himself. Let's hope the similarity with The Boss ends there.
Things improve when we sit down at our table. Johnny can't stop looking at me, and I feel really, really self-conscious, although the lights are so dim that, hopefully, he can't see my incipient beard. I relax a bit after a couple of gins, though - and then we eat, and everything is so nice. At least for a while.
We're just two people, talking: about life, our hopes, how we feel about the choices we've made. No-one mentions kids, or bills, what's for dinner or where the clean towels are. I haven't felt like this in years. Like a woman, instead of just a function.
When we've finished dessert, it's already quite late. Johnny leans back in his chair, then says,
"So, now what? Shall we go up to my room? No pressure - but I know I want to."
No pressure, my arse. Half a continent travelled, the vagaries of Heathrow and British Rail negotiated, a hotel cock-up and an a la carte dinner paid for. I could hardly say no, even if I wanted to. Though I'm not at all sure whether my shivering is due to excitement, nerves or just the omission of my thermal underwear in honour of the occasion.
He takes my hand as we walk along the corridor. It's the first time we've touched, and it feels more intimate than you'd think possible for such a small gesture. Then he opens the door to his room, flicks the overhead light off, and leads me inside. Oh God.
"So here we are," he says. "At last."
He pulls me towards him and leans forward to kiss me.
"Ouch," I say. My hair is caught in the metal hinge of his glasses. Untangling it seems to take ages, and he has to take the glasses off to do so. He puts them down on the chest of drawers, which can only be a good thing as I am sure I look much better without them. Then he moves in for another attempt at a kiss, misjudges the distance and almost headbuts me.
"Ow!"
He steps back, catches his foot on something, and promptly falls over the corner of the bed. There's a hell of a crash and I start laughing. I can't help it - it's a nervous thing with me: I always laugh when people fall over. Though I stop when I switch the light back on and see the blood on Johnny's forehead, and his deeply unamused expression. He must have hit the edge of the bedside table when he fell.
So just when I should have been turning into Emanuelle, I have to do a Florence Nightingale impression instead: cleaning the wound, and finding a plaster, while all the time Johnny's sitting there squinting. It's not a good look, but I try not to focus on that. I doubt he can focus on anything without his glasses, judging by how thick the lenses are. I can't see anything when I try them on in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood.
Eventually he's all patched up, and he shuffles over so that I can lie down beside him, and takes me in his arms - it's a good job I'm so small, as the bloody bed is tiny. He starts stroking my shoulder and kissing my neck. This is more like it. Then his mobile rings.
"I'd better get this," he says.
Half an hour later, he's still talking, though God knows what about. His side of the conversation seems restricted to questions about degrees of fever, and the number and location of someone's spots. It must be another Global Oil Company disaster. What on earth have they done now? Poisoned a water supply, or something?
I am dying for a cigarette, so I mime that I am going outside, but Johnny waves at me to wait. Then he says, into the receiver,
"Excuse me a moment, darling - room service is here." Then he covers the phone with his hand and says, "Molly, I'm really sorry about this. It sounds as if my daughter's got chicken pox."
He's on the phone to his wife. His wife. Oh, my God - what am I doing? While my husband is at home, waiting for me. I find my shoes and my bag, blow Johnny a kiss and walk out.
I phone a taxi from the hotel lobby, and am at home before Newsnight has ended. Max is asleep on the sofa, so I tiptoe upstairs and take a shower. I feel so grubby. Though at least I've already had chicken pox - not that I was likely to catch any other kind, given the absence of any exchange of bodily fluids. There wasn't even any nudity. I might as well have worn my thermal underwear.
When Max drops me off at the Marriott - which really is bloody miles out of Northwick - Greg is hiding in the lobby, waiting for me. So far, so good. He bundles me straight into the Gregmobile and drives me back into town.
Considering what a terrible driver Greg is, this is not as bad as it could have been, although there is one very hairy moment, when we almost catch up with Max, who is waiting at a set of lights. I don't think he notices us - but it is unnerving, all the same. To avoid any repetitions, we have to pootle along at about 40mph for the rest of the journey, which makes me late to meet Johnny.
I rush into the hotel, looking a bit windswept and very harassed, and am so busy trying to smooth my hair out that I walk straight into someone waiting at the reception desk.
"Excuse me," he says, in a very snooty way, and then, "Molly?"
"Johnny?"
God, he looks exactly like Putin. Same build, probably the same height - considerably shorter than Max but thankfully not a midget like me. Even the same air of authority, initially - but this doesn't really live up to expectations when he fails to get the hotel to sort out the error they've made with his booking. It turns out that he's been given a single room instead of the luxury double he'd booked. This is probably because he normally has someone like me to book his hotel accommodation, and is incapable of doing it properly himself. Let's hope the similarity with The Boss ends there.
Things improve when we sit down at our table. Johnny can't stop looking at me, and I feel really, really self-conscious, although the lights are so dim that, hopefully, he can't see my incipient beard. I relax a bit after a couple of gins, though - and then we eat, and everything is so nice. At least for a while.
We're just two people, talking: about life, our hopes, how we feel about the choices we've made. No-one mentions kids, or bills, what's for dinner or where the clean towels are. I haven't felt like this in years. Like a woman, instead of just a function.
When we've finished dessert, it's already quite late. Johnny leans back in his chair, then says,
"So, now what? Shall we go up to my room? No pressure - but I know I want to."
No pressure, my arse. Half a continent travelled, the vagaries of Heathrow and British Rail negotiated, a hotel cock-up and an a la carte dinner paid for. I could hardly say no, even if I wanted to. Though I'm not at all sure whether my shivering is due to excitement, nerves or just the omission of my thermal underwear in honour of the occasion.
He takes my hand as we walk along the corridor. It's the first time we've touched, and it feels more intimate than you'd think possible for such a small gesture. Then he opens the door to his room, flicks the overhead light off, and leads me inside. Oh God.
"So here we are," he says. "At last."
He pulls me towards him and leans forward to kiss me.
"Ouch," I say. My hair is caught in the metal hinge of his glasses. Untangling it seems to take ages, and he has to take the glasses off to do so. He puts them down on the chest of drawers, which can only be a good thing as I am sure I look much better without them. Then he moves in for another attempt at a kiss, misjudges the distance and almost headbuts me.
"Ow!"
He steps back, catches his foot on something, and promptly falls over the corner of the bed. There's a hell of a crash and I start laughing. I can't help it - it's a nervous thing with me: I always laugh when people fall over. Though I stop when I switch the light back on and see the blood on Johnny's forehead, and his deeply unamused expression. He must have hit the edge of the bedside table when he fell.
So just when I should have been turning into Emanuelle, I have to do a Florence Nightingale impression instead: cleaning the wound, and finding a plaster, while all the time Johnny's sitting there squinting. It's not a good look, but I try not to focus on that. I doubt he can focus on anything without his glasses, judging by how thick the lenses are. I can't see anything when I try them on in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood.
Eventually he's all patched up, and he shuffles over so that I can lie down beside him, and takes me in his arms - it's a good job I'm so small, as the bloody bed is tiny. He starts stroking my shoulder and kissing my neck. This is more like it. Then his mobile rings.
"I'd better get this," he says.
Half an hour later, he's still talking, though God knows what about. His side of the conversation seems restricted to questions about degrees of fever, and the number and location of someone's spots. It must be another Global Oil Company disaster. What on earth have they done now? Poisoned a water supply, or something?
I am dying for a cigarette, so I mime that I am going outside, but Johnny waves at me to wait. Then he says, into the receiver,
"Excuse me a moment, darling - room service is here." Then he covers the phone with his hand and says, "Molly, I'm really sorry about this. It sounds as if my daughter's got chicken pox."
He's on the phone to his wife. His wife. Oh, my God - what am I doing? While my husband is at home, waiting for me. I find my shoes and my bag, blow Johnny a kiss and walk out.
I phone a taxi from the hotel lobby, and am at home before Newsnight has ended. Max is asleep on the sofa, so I tiptoe upstairs and take a shower. I feel so grubby. Though at least I've already had chicken pox - not that I was likely to catch any other kind, given the absence of any exchange of bodily fluids. There wasn't even any nudity. I might as well have worn my thermal underwear.
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