Please let me never become one of those people whose identity is defined by how 'damaged' they are. You know, the people who love crises. What most of these people are lacking is humorosity. Mr Beaten ascribes the 'you've gotta laugh' tradition to jewish culture, but I don't think this is exclusively so. He comes from the cold British hippy tradition, which, I'm afraid, is pretty fucking ernest and distinctly lacking in humour. When he sees my family pissing ourselves round my fathers' hospital bed at a joke involving making your hand look like a bum through a hole in a picture with a lady lifting her skirts, he puts this down to the jew in us. Not so Mr B, not so. I can't help it if my family's better than yours though can I?
Unfortunately I find myself in Lancaster staying in digs with a theatrical lady, much damaged. Though I give my Sleeping Beauty sometimes twice daily, the christmas cheer is rather strained at my temporary home. I am typing this from my landlady's computer, which is not very good form, but she's away for a couple of days, so this is ideal opportunity for a good slagging. Where to begin? With the generosity of lifts, food, computer use, offers of all kinds? No, far better to get to the nub of it. This is the kind of person who carries on talking even after you've left the room, after you've climbed the stairs, entered the bedroom, closed the door. I know what you're thinking, how mean I am. Well now here's meaner - she's got good reason to be so, her daughter killed herself 15 years ago, and her second daughter has just left home, a recovering anorexic. All these things are bad, and I am more than sorry they happened.
But, when I return home with a headache, I don't want to discuss the three hour consultation with the astrologer in Keswick, who assures her that the daughter's chart points to the suicide so there's nothing she could do as a mother to prevent this kind of thing. This is, of course great news, but astrologer man also points out that landlady's chart aint that great for the coming year. This leads her to thinking....and as I creep from my room for a quiet early breakfast the following morning, I'm 'BONJOUR'ed at and followed down the stairs to the beaming greeting 'I've had such a busy night, and I think I must go to the doctor. Thinking about my chart, it's probable I'm terminally ill'. I don't reply, but try to consume cornflakes and exit as quickly as possible. Feeling slightly irritated by this comment for obvious reasons. I don't want to mention the cancer again, as like a sponge it will be sucked up, and I will feel guilty for not doing an opening up weeping sharing thing with her.
So I leave for the theatre where we 'put on an happy face' and I can pretend to love prince charming and get paid for it. When the curtain comes down though, I find myself loitering in cafes, avoiding the innevitable arrival home. I even find myself staying out to hear bands, and getting a cold on the way home. And now, some days later, I find myself in landlady's bedroom on her computer and not feeling guilty at all. She gave me a cold for fucks sake which meant I wasn't allowed to see my dad when I went home for the weekend, which meant I couldn't meet the lady with the Mr Whippy haircut, who my mum befriended in the ward through her 'I'm up for it - come on then, entertain me' body language (as opposed to my eyes down, don't business stance).
The moral? Just lighten up, for fucks sake. And if you can't, get out of my face.
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Is It Home Time Yet?
This being a London journal, it may seem wrong that I’m writing this from France. Though judging from the voices heard in the street and the supermarche you could be forgiven for thinking that this is an extension of Barnes or Camden – middle class London sur Loire.
Of course we, the well connected ‘art class’, or ‘poor bourgeois’ are staying as guests at a little chateau. You know, belonging to the French version of the Sitwells: bi-langue, cultivated, impoverished aristocracy. Where you’d have rare patterned wall paper in Bloomsbury, you have regal printed fabrics stretched over the walls in the Touraine – ‘far more practical than that paper don’t you know, what with the movement of old houses cracking the plaster, paper and paint work,’ says Madame de la Chateau. I’ve a mind to try it myself on my return to Beaten Towers. I’ve had long discussion about the practicalities of this with Madame – grandmother to several perfect children. She’s between chemo treatments at the moment. So right now she’s darting about tending the plants on the estate, boring her bright blue eyes into anyone who’s interesting enough, and sporting country chic attire – crisp linen, blue jeans, white wig (of the cancer kind, not 18th century). I think it best I should bleed dry the font of knowledge before she’s too ill to talk. I’ve noticed with my father that he doesn’t want to engage, and I’m sure this is because of the treatment. For him it’s either the tour de France, Heartbeat, or Friends. He won’t talk, he must watch TV – I sympathise – who is more interesting than the telly?
Mr Beaten is the Fonz of the chateau. He’s doing it all. One grandson is desperate for revenge on the tennis court, whilst the other clamours for help in transcribing some fusion, and Pere de la maison is happy to discuss contemporary French music any time.
This leaves me at something of a loss. I’ve nothing to do! I can’t swim – too wet. I’ve done all my sewing, and please would someone take me to Petit Bateau for some faire du shopping before I go bloody mad? There’s only so much French rural bastard idyll I can take.
Of course we, the well connected ‘art class’, or ‘poor bourgeois’ are staying as guests at a little chateau. You know, belonging to the French version of the Sitwells: bi-langue, cultivated, impoverished aristocracy. Where you’d have rare patterned wall paper in Bloomsbury, you have regal printed fabrics stretched over the walls in the Touraine – ‘far more practical than that paper don’t you know, what with the movement of old houses cracking the plaster, paper and paint work,’ says Madame de la Chateau. I’ve a mind to try it myself on my return to Beaten Towers. I’ve had long discussion about the practicalities of this with Madame – grandmother to several perfect children. She’s between chemo treatments at the moment. So right now she’s darting about tending the plants on the estate, boring her bright blue eyes into anyone who’s interesting enough, and sporting country chic attire – crisp linen, blue jeans, white wig (of the cancer kind, not 18th century). I think it best I should bleed dry the font of knowledge before she’s too ill to talk. I’ve noticed with my father that he doesn’t want to engage, and I’m sure this is because of the treatment. For him it’s either the tour de France, Heartbeat, or Friends. He won’t talk, he must watch TV – I sympathise – who is more interesting than the telly?
Mr Beaten is the Fonz of the chateau. He’s doing it all. One grandson is desperate for revenge on the tennis court, whilst the other clamours for help in transcribing some fusion, and Pere de la maison is happy to discuss contemporary French music any time.
This leaves me at something of a loss. I’ve nothing to do! I can’t swim – too wet. I’ve done all my sewing, and please would someone take me to Petit Bateau for some faire du shopping before I go bloody mad? There’s only so much French rural bastard idyll I can take.
Monday, 12 May 2008
Literary Pretensions
Look, when I made a wish on an eyelash to be Little Dorrit, I didn’t mean be her in real life, I meant to be her on the telly. So what am I doing dutifully folding my father’s shirts whilst he reclines on the bed making demands for drinks and little things to amuse him? I fetch his shoes, I carry his stick, I worry after him when he wants to climb the stairs. He isn’t allowed out, except to the garden, his marshalsea yard, from whence he sends me to the shop to buy a paper and a ‘lucky dip’. Yes, another disconcerting new habit: minor gambling. He explains it as ‘I’ve broken my arm, I’ve got cancer, if I could win a million pounds I’d have something to leave my children.’ However, since these slips lie, accumulating, ignored in his wallet, it’s unlikely he’d ever know if he had won anything.
It occurred to me today, as I was making his bed, that once he’s dead, I won’t experience being loved like that ever again. I never thought about it before, but there is something about his unconditional love and admiration that is so consistent I’ve always taken it for granted. This is the cleverest man I know, and he thinks I’m clever! I can’t do crosswords – I feel bright if I’ve managed a word-search; chess is beyond me, in fact I have no patience for puzzles at all. I certainly don’t feel under any obligation to complete any such mental gymnastics to feel I’ve achieved something in the day. I don’t read maths for fun, or know any dead languages. I know my mother loves me, but she can also see my shortcomings. My father is blind to these. To him I am beautiful, clever, gifted, faultless.
He may have taken on some of William Dorrit’s characteristics, but I’d like to paint a kinder picture than that. Of course, he’s decided he’s Hamm from Endgame. Glad his self-image is that of the existential hero.
In some moments I feel like I’m the entire entourage of George III, trailing after him as time brings another whim each minute: ‘garden’, ‘some morphine’, ‘a glass of water’ , ‘my book!’, ‘I need my pen from the attic’, ‘not that one’, ‘crossword’, ‘ryvita’, then silent agony when he thinks he’s fucked up his morphine spreadsheet. God knows what inner torment this brings. He won’t explain the problem. He won’t be helped. ‘It’s too annoying’ apparently. But he doesn’t understand why he can’t print from the laptop, which is not connected to any printer. Nor will he be told.
An endless stream of health professionals trail through the house. My father has a spreadsheet for these too. He gives them marks. These aren’t numerical, but adjectival. When I’m in charge of the keyboard they are things like ‘dreamy’, ‘lovely’, ‘incredible lantern jaw’, ‘special needs’. When he is able to type himself they are more like ‘fool’, and ‘idiot’.
I find his aristocratic air when dealing with these people, particularly the carers, amusing and alarming. He is under the illusion that it is more important for a tea to be brought to my mother in bed than it is for him to have help dressing. In fact he is remarkably polite; only losing his patience once, when one of them insisted it is safer to walk downstairs backwards.
My mother thinks he is the smartest dressed out-patient in the hospital. This would be true if eccentricity was equal to smartness. He is keen on a pale blue nightshirt with white polka dots for daywear, corduroy trousers, a pastel multi-coloured stripy poncho on top, and a rather ‘ethnic’ red and blue skull cap. Along with the black eye from his ptosis surgery, and sling for the broken arm, he is quite a picture. Perhaps the red socks and Birkenstock sandals are a little de trop.
My mother also thinks that she is Mrs Manningham in Gaslight, to my father’s Mr Manningham: his behaviour bringing her own sanity into question, as objects disappear, get lost, or move mysteriously from one room to another.
My brother, however, pisses himself at my father’s, when-your-back-is-turned- hyperactivity, calling him Andy from Little Britain. The guy in the wheelchair who leaps about when no one’s looking.
Yesterday, my father and I were filling in a feedback form for the out of hours GP service. You’ve got to find something you can do together and I totally love forms. I usually don’t send them. It’s the box ticking that’s satisfying. Isn’t that why people want to be teachers? So they can tick registers?
It came to the final question – ‘how satisfied overall where you with the care you received?’ with a choice of four answers. I think we chose ‘satisfied’, but my father insisted I add a note to this: ‘see King Lear’. Dutifully, his Cordelia added these words, whilst declaring that perhaps this wasn’t totally appropriate behaviour for a man who wants to remain on the outside of healthcare institutions as much as possible. He said he remembered discussing Lear with his father towards the end of his life. ‘Poor man,’ he had said, ‘he had three daughters’. Oldness and infirmity doesn’t turn you into a nice person. If you’ve behaved horribly to your family all your life, you’re not going to change the habit when you start feeling crap, are you?
Anyway, dad has got his left handed typing more up to speed now, and has started making incomprehensible entries on his own blog. Now I'm thinking he fancies himself as a new Joyce. And in new trousers from Primark, he can fancy himself full stop.
It occurred to me today, as I was making his bed, that once he’s dead, I won’t experience being loved like that ever again. I never thought about it before, but there is something about his unconditional love and admiration that is so consistent I’ve always taken it for granted. This is the cleverest man I know, and he thinks I’m clever! I can’t do crosswords – I feel bright if I’ve managed a word-search; chess is beyond me, in fact I have no patience for puzzles at all. I certainly don’t feel under any obligation to complete any such mental gymnastics to feel I’ve achieved something in the day. I don’t read maths for fun, or know any dead languages. I know my mother loves me, but she can also see my shortcomings. My father is blind to these. To him I am beautiful, clever, gifted, faultless.
He may have taken on some of William Dorrit’s characteristics, but I’d like to paint a kinder picture than that. Of course, he’s decided he’s Hamm from Endgame. Glad his self-image is that of the existential hero.
In some moments I feel like I’m the entire entourage of George III, trailing after him as time brings another whim each minute: ‘garden’, ‘some morphine’, ‘a glass of water’ , ‘my book!’, ‘I need my pen from the attic’, ‘not that one’, ‘crossword’, ‘ryvita’, then silent agony when he thinks he’s fucked up his morphine spreadsheet. God knows what inner torment this brings. He won’t explain the problem. He won’t be helped. ‘It’s too annoying’ apparently. But he doesn’t understand why he can’t print from the laptop, which is not connected to any printer. Nor will he be told.
An endless stream of health professionals trail through the house. My father has a spreadsheet for these too. He gives them marks. These aren’t numerical, but adjectival. When I’m in charge of the keyboard they are things like ‘dreamy’, ‘lovely’, ‘incredible lantern jaw’, ‘special needs’. When he is able to type himself they are more like ‘fool’, and ‘idiot’.
I find his aristocratic air when dealing with these people, particularly the carers, amusing and alarming. He is under the illusion that it is more important for a tea to be brought to my mother in bed than it is for him to have help dressing. In fact he is remarkably polite; only losing his patience once, when one of them insisted it is safer to walk downstairs backwards.
My mother thinks he is the smartest dressed out-patient in the hospital. This would be true if eccentricity was equal to smartness. He is keen on a pale blue nightshirt with white polka dots for daywear, corduroy trousers, a pastel multi-coloured stripy poncho on top, and a rather ‘ethnic’ red and blue skull cap. Along with the black eye from his ptosis surgery, and sling for the broken arm, he is quite a picture. Perhaps the red socks and Birkenstock sandals are a little de trop.My mother also thinks that she is Mrs Manningham in Gaslight, to my father’s Mr Manningham: his behaviour bringing her own sanity into question, as objects disappear, get lost, or move mysteriously from one room to another.
My brother, however, pisses himself at my father’s, when-your-back-is-turned- hyperactivity, calling him Andy from Little Britain. The guy in the wheelchair who leaps about when no one’s looking.
Yesterday, my father and I were filling in a feedback form for the out of hours GP service. You’ve got to find something you can do together and I totally love forms. I usually don’t send them. It’s the box ticking that’s satisfying. Isn’t that why people want to be teachers? So they can tick registers?
It came to the final question – ‘how satisfied overall where you with the care you received?’ with a choice of four answers. I think we chose ‘satisfied’, but my father insisted I add a note to this: ‘see King Lear’. Dutifully, his Cordelia added these words, whilst declaring that perhaps this wasn’t totally appropriate behaviour for a man who wants to remain on the outside of healthcare institutions as much as possible. He said he remembered discussing Lear with his father towards the end of his life. ‘Poor man,’ he had said, ‘he had three daughters’. Oldness and infirmity doesn’t turn you into a nice person. If you’ve behaved horribly to your family all your life, you’re not going to change the habit when you start feeling crap, are you?
Anyway, dad has got his left handed typing more up to speed now, and has started making incomprehensible entries on his own blog. Now I'm thinking he fancies himself as a new Joyce. And in new trousers from Primark, he can fancy himself full stop.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
February 29th My Arse, Or, I'm On The Blob But You Can Take Me Up The Shetlands
I was never the kind of girl who had planned her dream wedding from childhood, or ever. Last night, However, I had my dream wedding. I’ve never given flowers, guest lists, menus, gowns or venues any thought. It’s just not in my culture. I do have a huge ability to fantasize, but this is usually channelled into other kinds of showing off. In terms of visualising ones future, the strongest fantasy self image I can remember dates from when I was about 17 and envisaged myself in my twenties living on my own and being able to do the splits. Neither of these things ever happened. I have been married though. Every night for a month, on stage in Newcastle. It was a gypsy wedding. Mostly it meant being thrown around, lifted, spun and danced with. The downside was my husband being murdered just after the wedding every night, and having to bury him myself with stones. However, the Pina Bausch style grieving was excellent fun.
Last night, I had a nightmare. The kind where after you’ve woken yourself up and persuaded yourself that you probably won’t die if you leave the bedroom and walk through the hall to the loo to have a wee, you leave the light on once you’ve returned to bed. This way, you hope, the dream won’t continue when you shut your eyes.
I was getting married. Only I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hair, and it wasn’t behaving. In fact, as I swept it up in the mirror, I mostly see scalp, with a brown spot by each hair follicle. I had no jewellery. I’m desperate for the loo. I’m in my friends’ house – a house I know intimately, and I cannot find a toilet with a door. My friends are being horribly casualist about the whole thing, and are cutting it very fine for getting to the ceremony. I’m not even sure they know what time it starts or where it is. Eventually I find somewhere to have a wee, not without first bumping into those Mitchell and Webb people off the telly for god’s sake. Pulling down my knickers I see that I’ve got my period a week early, and that they are very ‘soiled’. This is what comes into my head – ‘soiled’.
I know why this is. The other day in real life I was discussing the uses of the words ‘dirt’ and ‘soil’ in American and English. I’ve always found the word ‘dirt’ for ‘earth’ rather distasteful. But then we started thinking about the word ‘soil’ and realised that this is just as bad, and talked about the phrase ‘I’ve soiled my knickers’, and visualised a heap of powdery earth in the gusset of some pants.
Anyway, after the upsetting pants, I have to get into the ceremony which is through the back entrance of a museum. What I notice is that there are lots of guests, and I couldn’t give a shit that any of them are there, and it’s probably not that interesting to them either. Then I woke up – all hot, heart racing, terrified.
No wonder I have no interest in getting married. It’s obviously a terrible idea that people get inveigled into because of constantly being asked, ‘When are you two getting married then?’ to which the answer should be, ‘Why don’t you fuck off and die’, rather than a pathetic giggle followed by crazed private discussions with your partner to set a date, get it done, and shut them all up.
One day, however, my friend K and I have planned a little commitment ceremony for Mr B and myself. K will dress as her alter ego, George, a Greek club singer. George will perform the ceremony. We’ve thought of many details – outfits, moustaches, perfect weather on Hampstead Heath. We don’t have Mr B’s agreement, but I’m sure we can strong arm him somehow. Perhaps I do need to show off even more than these traditional wedding types. It’s really a ceremony dedicated to how funny K and I think we are – ‘You just have to be different, don’t you.’
Last night, I had a nightmare. The kind where after you’ve woken yourself up and persuaded yourself that you probably won’t die if you leave the bedroom and walk through the hall to the loo to have a wee, you leave the light on once you’ve returned to bed. This way, you hope, the dream won’t continue when you shut your eyes.
I was getting married. Only I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hair, and it wasn’t behaving. In fact, as I swept it up in the mirror, I mostly see scalp, with a brown spot by each hair follicle. I had no jewellery. I’m desperate for the loo. I’m in my friends’ house – a house I know intimately, and I cannot find a toilet with a door. My friends are being horribly casualist about the whole thing, and are cutting it very fine for getting to the ceremony. I’m not even sure they know what time it starts or where it is. Eventually I find somewhere to have a wee, not without first bumping into those Mitchell and Webb people off the telly for god’s sake. Pulling down my knickers I see that I’ve got my period a week early, and that they are very ‘soiled’. This is what comes into my head – ‘soiled’.
I know why this is. The other day in real life I was discussing the uses of the words ‘dirt’ and ‘soil’ in American and English. I’ve always found the word ‘dirt’ for ‘earth’ rather distasteful. But then we started thinking about the word ‘soil’ and realised that this is just as bad, and talked about the phrase ‘I’ve soiled my knickers’, and visualised a heap of powdery earth in the gusset of some pants.
Anyway, after the upsetting pants, I have to get into the ceremony which is through the back entrance of a museum. What I notice is that there are lots of guests, and I couldn’t give a shit that any of them are there, and it’s probably not that interesting to them either. Then I woke up – all hot, heart racing, terrified.
No wonder I have no interest in getting married. It’s obviously a terrible idea that people get inveigled into because of constantly being asked, ‘When are you two getting married then?’ to which the answer should be, ‘Why don’t you fuck off and die’, rather than a pathetic giggle followed by crazed private discussions with your partner to set a date, get it done, and shut them all up.
One day, however, my friend K and I have planned a little commitment ceremony for Mr B and myself. K will dress as her alter ego, George, a Greek club singer. George will perform the ceremony. We’ve thought of many details – outfits, moustaches, perfect weather on Hampstead Heath. We don’t have Mr B’s agreement, but I’m sure we can strong arm him somehow. Perhaps I do need to show off even more than these traditional wedding types. It’s really a ceremony dedicated to how funny K and I think we are – ‘You just have to be different, don’t you.’
Sunday, 2 March 2008
"Agustina, tu tiene cancer"
This is a favourite line in our family, and has been since we saw Almodovar’s film Volver. If you haven’t seen the movie, it’s when the character Agustina appears on a daytime talk show (think Jerry Springer/Jeremy Kyle). She has agreed to sell various family scandals in return for money medical treatment. During this live appearance, she has a pang of conscience and decides to back out of the agreement, much to the upset of the host, who bellows at her… “Agustina, tu tiene cancer!? (Agustina, you have cancer!)” – utterly perplexed by this show of integrity, which is more like mentalism in her view.
Unfortunately, I’m having to use this catchphrase rather a lot. My dad’s been diagnosed, and is facing surgery, radiotherapy, biological drug treatments and NHS politics.
Here’s what I’ve noticed – some people have a distinct lack of humorosity, and write you off as a gonner the minute you mention the C word (no that’s not ‘cunt’). I’ve had to encounter more doey eyed empathetic looks in the last two weeks than I’ve experienced in the past ten years. I expect my dad’s had to endure rather more. No wonder he doesn’t want to tell anybody. Would you, if it meant listening to everyone’s greeting card philosophy and trite phrases? Yes, there is the obvious point that people are only trying to do the right thing because they love you and care. But honestly, if they’d just shut up and bring the dinner round I’d be happy.
My mother and I have decided that being labelled as an unfortunate has one advantage. You have carte blanche to do whatever you like. This week, I have bought two dresses, two necklaces and I’ve booked a haircut. For the first time in my life I’m going to have a hairstyle, as opposed to the all one length long thing that actresses have. This was supposed to be a move towards taking control of my life, but I was scuppered at the last minute by booking with the hairdresser my agent told me to go to. One step at a time. I’ve also bunked off two birthday parties, been late for work a lot, had a bad attitude at auditions and reached saturation point with my chocolate intake. I’ve also decided not to give myself a hard time about anything. I’m not a movie star, I don’t appear to be on the brink of an amazing career, I’ve missed pilates classes and dance classes, I have no muscle tone, I’m not pregnant. I did have a few nights of non-sleep and desperate trance like days, but this seems to be over, and now I’m rockin’ on the cancer tip (or canther, when pronounced correctly).
My mother, for her part, didn’t go swimming yesterday (crazy), and she didn’t attend the screening of Mr B’s mother’s worthy film about violence last night. I think there may have been some spending, but mostly she’s just encouraging me to drip money from my fingertips.
Last week I had the honour of accompanying my father to his first appointment with the consultant. I had to do quite a lot of bracing myself, since I knew they were not going tell him they could make him better. I was chosen as the most together person with the best ‘acting’ skills, in preference to my mother, who was a wet rag at the time. I think that was probably the hardest performance I’ve ever given, though certainly not the best. Have you experienced the intense pain of holding in tears? It makes your throat contract in such a way that, the harder you try to keep it in, the more it hurts. It was quite a long day – we had gourmet sandwiches in the sun by the canal, but I failed him by not packing an apple. I wasn’t aware that this was part of his diabetic routine. Satsumas are wrong, apparently, even if they’re organic.
Our approach to the hospital wasn’t exactly auspicious – there seemed to be a big crowd outside one of the buildings. It must have been a fire drill. You may not have seen one quite like this. I began to notice a large prevalence of drips and wheelchairs. The best sight was of a middle aged woman in full makeup, in an armchair, knitting on her lap, sudoku in hand. Just to her left behind her stood her drip. Quite comic. My dad didn’t notice.
Afterwards – can the details of the consultation and windowless waiting area be of any interest? – Quickly then: The hospital, mid audit, had the appearance of the service entrance of a hotel – all corridors of the wrong shape, narrow stairways, non-functioning lifts, and the distinct feeling that, having dragged myself and the sick man up several flights, we would have to turn round and go back, having followed the wrong signs. Waiting room with no windows and a lady with an unfortunate red growth, like a cherry tomato protruding from her left nostril. Toilets strictly for hospital staff and patients only (does this include us? – better do a poo there anyway, just in case), featuring in depth instructions on the wall on how to wash your hands – changed my method considerably. Maybe this will stop me getting cancer. Strict consultant with fraying trouser leg. Being told to sit on the examining bed with my father. Cheery nurses taking blood. Digital Dictaphone recording rather faintly.
Afterwards, I pointed out that had this excursion been with my mother, we would have gone for tea and cake now. Given the diabetes, alcoholism and lack of interest, this wasn’t about to happen. However, as an apology for having cancer, he insisted on buying me a cake from the most rip off bakery in NW6. It was very nice, thank you.
Unfortunately, I’m having to use this catchphrase rather a lot. My dad’s been diagnosed, and is facing surgery, radiotherapy, biological drug treatments and NHS politics.
Here’s what I’ve noticed – some people have a distinct lack of humorosity, and write you off as a gonner the minute you mention the C word (no that’s not ‘cunt’). I’ve had to encounter more doey eyed empathetic looks in the last two weeks than I’ve experienced in the past ten years. I expect my dad’s had to endure rather more. No wonder he doesn’t want to tell anybody. Would you, if it meant listening to everyone’s greeting card philosophy and trite phrases? Yes, there is the obvious point that people are only trying to do the right thing because they love you and care. But honestly, if they’d just shut up and bring the dinner round I’d be happy.
My mother and I have decided that being labelled as an unfortunate has one advantage. You have carte blanche to do whatever you like. This week, I have bought two dresses, two necklaces and I’ve booked a haircut. For the first time in my life I’m going to have a hairstyle, as opposed to the all one length long thing that actresses have. This was supposed to be a move towards taking control of my life, but I was scuppered at the last minute by booking with the hairdresser my agent told me to go to. One step at a time. I’ve also bunked off two birthday parties, been late for work a lot, had a bad attitude at auditions and reached saturation point with my chocolate intake. I’ve also decided not to give myself a hard time about anything. I’m not a movie star, I don’t appear to be on the brink of an amazing career, I’ve missed pilates classes and dance classes, I have no muscle tone, I’m not pregnant. I did have a few nights of non-sleep and desperate trance like days, but this seems to be over, and now I’m rockin’ on the cancer tip (or canther, when pronounced correctly).
My mother, for her part, didn’t go swimming yesterday (crazy), and she didn’t attend the screening of Mr B’s mother’s worthy film about violence last night. I think there may have been some spending, but mostly she’s just encouraging me to drip money from my fingertips.
Last week I had the honour of accompanying my father to his first appointment with the consultant. I had to do quite a lot of bracing myself, since I knew they were not going tell him they could make him better. I was chosen as the most together person with the best ‘acting’ skills, in preference to my mother, who was a wet rag at the time. I think that was probably the hardest performance I’ve ever given, though certainly not the best. Have you experienced the intense pain of holding in tears? It makes your throat contract in such a way that, the harder you try to keep it in, the more it hurts. It was quite a long day – we had gourmet sandwiches in the sun by the canal, but I failed him by not packing an apple. I wasn’t aware that this was part of his diabetic routine. Satsumas are wrong, apparently, even if they’re organic.
Our approach to the hospital wasn’t exactly auspicious – there seemed to be a big crowd outside one of the buildings. It must have been a fire drill. You may not have seen one quite like this. I began to notice a large prevalence of drips and wheelchairs. The best sight was of a middle aged woman in full makeup, in an armchair, knitting on her lap, sudoku in hand. Just to her left behind her stood her drip. Quite comic. My dad didn’t notice.
Afterwards – can the details of the consultation and windowless waiting area be of any interest? – Quickly then: The hospital, mid audit, had the appearance of the service entrance of a hotel – all corridors of the wrong shape, narrow stairways, non-functioning lifts, and the distinct feeling that, having dragged myself and the sick man up several flights, we would have to turn round and go back, having followed the wrong signs. Waiting room with no windows and a lady with an unfortunate red growth, like a cherry tomato protruding from her left nostril. Toilets strictly for hospital staff and patients only (does this include us? – better do a poo there anyway, just in case), featuring in depth instructions on the wall on how to wash your hands – changed my method considerably. Maybe this will stop me getting cancer. Strict consultant with fraying trouser leg. Being told to sit on the examining bed with my father. Cheery nurses taking blood. Digital Dictaphone recording rather faintly.
Afterwards, I pointed out that had this excursion been with my mother, we would have gone for tea and cake now. Given the diabetes, alcoholism and lack of interest, this wasn’t about to happen. However, as an apology for having cancer, he insisted on buying me a cake from the most rip off bakery in NW6. It was very nice, thank you.
Thursday, 17 January 2008
2008 Aint Great
As a little treat, I thought I'd post the welcome pack we left for Mr B's mother when she invited herself, her dog, and her ex lesbian partner-bullied best friend to stay in our house for a week over christmas. Thank fuck Mr B and I were house sitting in Mayfair for the duration. Of course, we spent the best part of a day mother proofing the house. Little things, you know - hiding the goose down pillows (not my idea). I suggested putting them on the far side of the bed, but this wasn't enough for Mr B. Then I put them on top of the wardrobe, but Mr B. still wasn't happy. So we had to put them in separate suitcases on top of the wardrobe. I felt a bit evil, but Mr B. said, no, 'I know what she's like.' We then had to hide all the good china and the knife that goes rusty if you don't dry it up straight away. All the good blankets were hidden, and the rug was swapped for a less nice one.
I cannot imagine what the house would've been like if it hadn't been for laying down several rules. On visiting our guests (we actually took them by surprise), it was amazing how our North London middle class home was transformed into a 'cozy cottage' with shit EVERYWHERE! Dog toys, bags, boxes baskets, massive flappy waxed jackets, dirty flannels in the sink etc.
Here are the rules, or welcome pack
Welcome to the T Road Boarding House. We hope you have a pleasant stay. A few pointers:
Kitchen
Please do not put anything in the sink, or even touch it with any hard object, ever. Use the washing up bowl always.
The formica worktops cannot double as chopping boards (even if it’s just a piece of cheese or butter) or as a heatproof surface. Never, ever put hot things directly onto the formica – it will burn and life will not be worth living. Wooden chopping boards are in the bottom right hand drawer near the kettle. There are glass mats to put things on.
Don’t cut cheese with a sharp knife. There are butter knives which cut cheese very well. These are in the cutlery drawer by the kettle. There is also a cheese slicing thing which is white with cheese wire in it in the wide utility drawer.
The drawers in general, but particularly the food drawer, should not be leant on when browsing through it – it is already overloaded, and won’t take more weight.
Compost can be put in the little bin at the back, under the sink – and it can be emptied into the little green bin under the spiral staircase.
Please don’t leave teabags to stew in teapots all day. I’m insane.
The heating is operated from the boiler – it’s fairly self-explanatory. We have it on a timer for you, but if you are cold and it’s not on, you can over-ride it by switching it to ‘on’ – just remember to switch back either to ‘off’ or to ‘timer’.
Bathroom
Put shower head over the bath before running it, as it leaks. Remember to turn the taps off well, as they can drip.
Living Room
Blinds: This may be best handled by T. M will find it annoying and depressing! The blinds are derelict rags which need to be handled with extreme care and understanding, involving a threadbare pulley system. The trick is this: When letting them down, you need to hold the weight of the blind with one hand, whilst releasing the thread with the other – if the thread takes the weight, it’s liable to get caught and broken. When pulling them up, the same applies, even more so. There will be a training session on this, offered by Mr Beaten.
Rocking chair – this has bespoke pale upholstery, which doesn’t withstand cleaning – basically we don’t sit in it much, and Dogs should avoid it, within a radius of four foot, especially when wet. We’ve covered it with a throw as we know it’s hard to control ones tail.
Downstairs front room
Anyone can use the computer. Login as Guest. Password is ‘apple’.
Safari in the dock at the bottom is your internet browser and Word is your word processing software.
Please keep the door to this room closed at all times. There are a large number of fabric rolls which must be in pristine condition for muff enterprises etc. So, sorry Dogs, you aren’t allowed in here!
Downstairs Loo
This still has a broken seat – the perfect replacement is yet to be found. In the meantime, careful it doesn’t bite your bum.
Enjoy your stay – if at all possible!
On our return, I only had to wash the mud off the walls in the hall and up the stairs. Other than that, it was a bit like being in the Cherry Orchard in reverse - removing dust cloths, unpacking cherished blankets and pillows, putting the china back. I only hope they never come and stay again. Unfortunately, the fucking schnorrers seem to have developed a taste for London life.
I cannot imagine what the house would've been like if it hadn't been for laying down several rules. On visiting our guests (we actually took them by surprise), it was amazing how our North London middle class home was transformed into a 'cozy cottage' with shit EVERYWHERE! Dog toys, bags, boxes baskets, massive flappy waxed jackets, dirty flannels in the sink etc.
Here are the rules, or welcome pack
Welcome to the T Road Boarding House. We hope you have a pleasant stay. A few pointers:
Kitchen
Please do not put anything in the sink, or even touch it with any hard object, ever. Use the washing up bowl always.
The formica worktops cannot double as chopping boards (even if it’s just a piece of cheese or butter) or as a heatproof surface. Never, ever put hot things directly onto the formica – it will burn and life will not be worth living. Wooden chopping boards are in the bottom right hand drawer near the kettle. There are glass mats to put things on.
Don’t cut cheese with a sharp knife. There are butter knives which cut cheese very well. These are in the cutlery drawer by the kettle. There is also a cheese slicing thing which is white with cheese wire in it in the wide utility drawer.
The drawers in general, but particularly the food drawer, should not be leant on when browsing through it – it is already overloaded, and won’t take more weight.
Compost can be put in the little bin at the back, under the sink – and it can be emptied into the little green bin under the spiral staircase.
Please don’t leave teabags to stew in teapots all day. I’m insane.
The heating is operated from the boiler – it’s fairly self-explanatory. We have it on a timer for you, but if you are cold and it’s not on, you can over-ride it by switching it to ‘on’ – just remember to switch back either to ‘off’ or to ‘timer’.
Bathroom
Put shower head over the bath before running it, as it leaks. Remember to turn the taps off well, as they can drip.
Living Room
Blinds: This may be best handled by T. M will find it annoying and depressing! The blinds are derelict rags which need to be handled with extreme care and understanding, involving a threadbare pulley system. The trick is this: When letting them down, you need to hold the weight of the blind with one hand, whilst releasing the thread with the other – if the thread takes the weight, it’s liable to get caught and broken. When pulling them up, the same applies, even more so. There will be a training session on this, offered by Mr Beaten.
Rocking chair – this has bespoke pale upholstery, which doesn’t withstand cleaning – basically we don’t sit in it much, and Dogs should avoid it, within a radius of four foot, especially when wet. We’ve covered it with a throw as we know it’s hard to control ones tail.
Downstairs front room
Anyone can use the computer. Login as Guest. Password is ‘apple’.
Safari in the dock at the bottom is your internet browser and Word is your word processing software.
Please keep the door to this room closed at all times. There are a large number of fabric rolls which must be in pristine condition for muff enterprises etc. So, sorry Dogs, you aren’t allowed in here!
Downstairs Loo
This still has a broken seat – the perfect replacement is yet to be found. In the meantime, careful it doesn’t bite your bum.
Enjoy your stay – if at all possible!
On our return, I only had to wash the mud off the walls in the hall and up the stairs. Other than that, it was a bit like being in the Cherry Orchard in reverse - removing dust cloths, unpacking cherished blankets and pillows, putting the china back. I only hope they never come and stay again. Unfortunately, the fucking schnorrers seem to have developed a taste for London life.
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