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.
