Inconceivable (12 page)

Dear Sam,

A
sort of half-exciting thing happened at work today. It started off very exciting, but then got slightly less so. I was just completing a particularly difficult level of
Tomb Raider
on my PC when Daphne looked in and said that the Director General’s office had been on and would Lucy and I care to go to dinner at Broadcasting House!

Well,
would I
? All thoughts of Lara Croft’s extraordinary bosom fled my mind instantly. I mean the DG’s dinners at BH are legendary. He has cabinet ministers, captains of industry, footballers, bishops,
everyone
. But
never
, to the best of my knowledge, has a lowly executive producer of broken comedy and sitcom been invited. I did once go to his Christmas drinks, but it was only the once and, anyway, there were at least two hundred people at that and it was only drinks. This was dinner! Dinner at Broadcasting House, the Ship that sails down Regent Street!

What an honour! The DG must have heard of my trip to Downing Street. I doubt he could have missed it: I’ve talked about it loudly in every single nook and cranny of the Corporation.

Anyway, for whatever reason, we’d been invited. We were ‘in’. I nearly stood to attention when I told Daphne to accept!

‘When is it?’ I said. ‘I’ll cancel everything. If my mother dies, she dies alone.’

‘Tomorrow night,’ she said.

Slightly
disheartening. Obviously an invitation at such short notice means we’re to be fill-ins for somebody who has jacked.

Still, I thought, I’d never have expected to have been asked at all, so even being a replacement is an honour.

Then the phone rang. It was George.

‘Guess what?’ he said. ‘Melinda and I got asked to a DG’s dinner for tomorrow night! Incredible, eh, what a coup! Obviously we’re a fill-in for somebody who jacked but, still, pretty amazing. The appalling bugger of it is we can’t go! Melinda just can’t get a sitter she trusts. There’s only two sitters in the world it seems who aren’t mass murderers and they’re both busy. I’ve threatened divorce but she won’t budge…’

‘When did you get your invitation?’ I asked.

‘Yesterday, late afternoon,’ said George. ‘I rang the DG’s office first thing this morning to say we couldn’t do it. I could scarcely believe I was actually turning down the Director General this morning. I suppose in a way it’s pretty cool.’

After George got off the phone I tried not to be miffed. ‘Who cares?’ I thought. ‘So what if I was second choice?’ We were still going to dine with the…

And then Trevor rang.

‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said, ‘but Kit and I got invited to have dinner at BH with the DG and we can’t go! His office rang first thing this morning. It’s for tomorrow night so obviously we were to be the replacement for someone who’s dropped out, but all the same! Pretty amazing, eh? I had to ring them back half an hour ago to decline. It was like pulling teeth but there’s no way Kit can break his rule.’

Kit, sadly, is HIV positive and although he’s doing incredibly well and you would never know he carried the virus he does have to be careful about over-exertion. He and Trevor have a strict rule that they have only one social occasion a week.

‘And we used it up having
you
to dinner,’ Trevor said, and I must say that I didn’t much like his tone, the clear implication being that he and Kit had been insane to waste their precious entertaining time on us when there were far more impressive prospects just around the corner. We parted slightly coldly.

So there it is. Lucy and I are to be the replacement for a replacement for a replacement. Nonetheless we are going to dinner with the DG, which is not to be sniffed at. I’ll have to make sure that Nigel hears about it. He can hardly sack me if I’m friends with the PM
and
the DG.

I spent all day expecting Keith Harris to phone and say he’d had to turn down an invite from the DG because Orville has a cold.

Tosser also phoned me today. No chance of a job with his company, which was a bit dispiriting, I must admit. I had thought, vainly, that he’d jump at the chance of recruiting me, that I’d be rather a prestige signing for his company. You know, top BBC man and all that, but obviously he doesn’t think so. ‘The BBC is just another player,’ he said to me, which is a bloody ridiculous thing to say considering the BBC is the largest broadcaster in the world and he has a floor and a half in Dean Street. Quite frankly, I suspect him of only giving work to gorgeous young women with pierced bellybuttons and small tattoos of scorpions on their shoulders; there certainly seem to be a lot of them employed at his office, though that might just be coincidence, I suppose.

Daily Telegraph

Dear Pen Pal,

I
’m writing this having just got back from dinner at Broadcasting House. The Director General was hosting one of his evenings for the great and the good so obviously we’d only been invited to pad out the numbers (Sam did some spying and it turned out that the Editor of the

had jacked at the last moment. Sam said other people had been asked to fill in before us, but he was very vague about who they were, very important people he said).

Anyway, when I say we had dinner with the Director General we barely actually spoke to him, of course, being at the other end of the table, but it was still very nice. BH really is a fantastic building, even though some idiot or other ripped most of the Deco out in the fifties and replaced it with the interior of a Soviet prison. Nonetheless it still feels special to walk in through those same doors that Tony Hancock and Churchill and Sue Lawley have walked through before you.

Of course actually having dinner there (served by very smart staff) is particularly magical, it takes you back to another age, like the twenties or something. You start with drinks in a sort of antechamber and then go through into a marvellous dining room, all wood lined and shimmering crystal. I got sat next to a bishop who was very nice, and a junior member of the shadow cabinet who was not. He immediately made it quite clear that he was not happy at being seated next to a mere ‘wife’ and, what’s more, a mere nobody’s wife to boot. I swear that as the swine came through and spotted his place-setting (with me already sitting next to it) his face actually fell! Unbelievable. He couldn’t even be bothered to make the pretence of being polite. He actually

grimaced.

We attempted smalltalk for about a minute.

Me: ‘So you’re in the shadow cabinet? How fascinating. Although I always imagine that being in opposition must be very frustrating.’

Swine: ‘Hmm, yes. So your husband works in television comedy, you say? I really don’t think that any of that rubbish is funny any more. There hasn’t been anything remotely decent since Yes, Minister.’

After that he completely ignored me until the cheese, by which time he was pissed enough to try a bit of bored flirting in a lazy, patronizing, off-hand sort of way.

Swine: ‘I expect with you both being in showbusiness there must be terrible temptations. Do you ever get jealous? Does he?’

I wasn’t having any of it. ‘What a strange question,’ I said, not only hoitily but also fairly toitily and turned back to the bishop, with whom I was getting on like a house on fire. He must have been ninety-three if he was a day and he was telling me about his hobby, which was collecting eighteenth-century Japanese erotic art! Extraordinary! Where does the church get them? What’s more, whilst describing a porcelain figurine of a naked ninja (in rather too much detail), he squeezed my leg under the table! The randy old goat. What is it about men? They’re pathetic. A couple of drinks and they start sniffing about like dogs. Sam was scarcely being any better than the bishop. He was sitting next to this tart with extraordinary
knockers (not entirely her own, I fancy) and I could see him just
ogling
them. I mean at first he’d at least tried to be discreet, although I knew what he was up to, of course, all that reaching for the salt and passing the bread. Sad, really. And after a few glasses of wine he just gave up any pretence at subtlety and started simply
staring
at them with his tongue hanging out. I mean it couldn’t have been any more obvious if he’d said, ‘Phwoar! Look at the jugs on that!’ I’ve no idea who this overly boobed slapper was, she was only about twenty-three or four and clearly a second wife to someone, but I didn’t find out whose. I looked for a man with a smug smile on his face but there were too many contenders. It may have been the shadow cabinet minister. On the other hand why would a man with a girl like that be flirting with me? I’m not exactly spectacularly blessed in the knocker department.

All in all, what with Sam drooling and the shadow minister sneering and the bishop’s hand beginning to gather a tiny bit too much confidence, it was a great relief when the DG made us all move round for the pudding. I ended up talking to his wife, who seemed very nice. I found myself telling her all about Carl Phipps. Not the hand-holding lunch, obviously, but about being an agent and representing him. I must admit I suddenly heard myself being altogether more enthusiastic about him than I’d intended to be. ‘He’s so nice,’ and ‘He’s rather dishy,’ and ‘He’s not at all stuck up,’ the last of which at least is certainly not true.

I suppose it’s just possible that I sounded rather schoolgirly. Oh well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. We shan’t be asked again anyway.

On the way home Sam insisted that he wasn’t pissed, but he did his usual pissed thing of worrying about whether he’d put his foot in it to anyone. I said he might as well have put his foot into that woman’s cleavage because he’d done everything else but climb into it (which he denied, pathetically). Sam always comes home from parties worrying that he’s said something wrong or offended someone. It’s incredibly boring and, what’s more, it’s affected me. I never used to be like that at all. ‘Fuck ‘em,’ I used to say, but he’s so bad he’s got me doing it as well. Sometimes we come home from going out and spend the whole cab ride asking each other if we were embarrassing and reassuring each other that we weren’t. It’s sad.

Anyway, he’d better not have been too pissed. He knows damn well what he’s got to do tomorrow morning.

Dear etc.,

I
think
it went all right tonight. Bit worried I might have said the wrong thing. I’ve been over it with Lucy and it
seems
all right. As far as I can recall I only spoke to the Director General twice. I said, ‘Good evening,’ at the beginning and later on I said, ‘Yes, I think things are fairly healthy in the arena of entertainment and comedy at the moment.’ I don’t think either of those comments could be misconstrued. Surely not? Unless he thought I was being sarky? But why would he think that? No, I’m quite sure I didn’t make any faux pas.

Definitely.

What’s more, I
certainly
didn’t spend the evening staring at that woman’s tits, as I’ve been unfairly accused of. I mean they were
there
, for God’s sake! In fact they seemed to be everywhere! I simply couldn’t avoid the things. I could hardly sit and look at the ceiling all evening, could I?

Anyway. One thing is for absolutely sure. I am
not pissed
. I was
very
careful about that. Because, as I’m well aware, I have to provide a shag in the morning. What is more I intend to make it a cracker, because I really love Lucy. I really really do. Despite her paranoia about other women’s bosoms I absolutely love her.

I just told her so and she said I was pissed, but I’m not. I just love her, I really do, I love her, I love her, I love her and tomorrow, before I go to work, I am going to make love to her so passionately and so beautifully that she will remember it always, because I love her.

reeked

Dear Penny,

T
his morning I think I had the worst shag I have had in thirteen and a half years of moderately continuous lovemaking. I doubt that I shall ever forget it. Sam

of stale booze and fags, plus I was still seething about him spending the whole evening staring down that enormous cleavage, which he continued to deny, of course.

Anyway, we both knew we would have to go through with it. The postcoital examination had been booked for ten and you do not mess with a confirmed appointment on the NHS. I must say that from the moment we woke up it was clear that it was not much of a prospect for me, erotically speaking. Sam staggered back from a rather loud visit to the lavatory announcing that he had a headache but that it couldn’t be a hangover as he hadn’t been drunk. What’s more, we were a bit late already because, although Sam had set the alarm to give us an extra half-hour (it normally only takes us about fifteen minutes), somehow or other he’d managed not to push the button in so it hadn’t gone off.

Anyway, I had just decided to ignore the beery, faggy fug that surrounded him and attempt a bit of foreplay when Sam said, ‘I’m afraid we’re really going to have to be quick, darling, because I’ve got a meeting.’

Well, I screamed at him! ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ I said. ‘Trying to start a family when you’ve got a

meeting
! Perhaps if I phoned your secretary we could schedule our sex life into your diary. Just in pencil, of course. Wouldn’t want to be inflexible about it or put you under any pressure!’ Sarcastic, I know, but I was furious.

Anyway then, of course, the inevitable happened and he couldn’t do it. His dick just completely disappeared. I told him to think about Ms ‘look at my gargantuanly fulsome funbags’ from the previous night but he got all angry and said that he didn’t wish to think about other women, but that bonking to order was not as bloody easy as it might appear.

Well, to cut a short story even shorter he

just
about managed it. He wasn’t at all sure that he’d produced enough for the test but Dr Cooper had assured me that it doesn’t take much, so I thought that it would be all right. Actually I felt a bit sorry for him. I could see he felt he’d let me down a bit so I said he wasn’t to worry because it wasn’t his fault that he had a small and unreliable penis.

I really did mean it nicely but it just seemed to put him in an even worse mood.

So, Sam got dressed and went to his meeting, and I went off to the clinic. Obviously worried about all the stuff falling out on the way. Horrible thought. It had been such a gruesome effort mingling our juices in the first place that I didn’t want to have to go through the whole ghastly palaver of a pre-postcoital examination bonk again, if that makes sense.

So there I was, hobbling to the car and trying not to cough. Once in the car it was worse. Driving yourself in these circumstances is a mistake unless you have an automatic. It is simply not possible to change gear with your legs crossed, and trying to do the whole journey in third makes things very juddery when you pull away at the lights, which of course shakes things down even more.

Then when I got to the clinic the road was blocked by a car with its hazard lights on.

I hate hazard lights.

They should be bloody well banned. People think that if they have them on then everything is all right. They can do exactly as they please. Park in the middle of the road, reverse up motorways, drive through crowded supermarkets, invade Poland. ‘It’s all right,’ said Hitler’s panzer commanders, ‘we’ve got our hazard lights on.’ I mean I
ask you
!!! I’m confident that the day is not far off when the burly and tattooed drivers of getaway cars will claim as a plea in mitigation that as they speeded away from some robbed bank or hijacked security van they had their hazards on!

So of course I had to reverse back up the street (with people reversing behind me, and making V-signs as if it was my fault). By a miracle I managed to park in a space exactly
the same size as my car. I don’t know how I did it. Extraordinary achievement and it only took seventy-two manoeuvres, which isn’t easy when you’re trying not to judder your insides. Thank God for power steering!

Anyway, out I got and hobbled back along the street to the clinic, still trying to keep my knees together, past the car with its hazards on. I’m afraid to say that I gave way to anger and snarled at the bloke at the wheel, shouting, ‘You’re blocking the road, you fool!’ which was rather stating the obvious. Then of course I felt all guilty because perhaps he was waiting to pick up a disabled person. On the other hand, there was no yellow sticker, but even so it never helps to be aggressive.

So, feeling all hot and bothered I announced myself at the reception desk. Most embarrassing.

‘Hello. I’ve come to see if my vagina poisons my husband’s sperm.’

I didn’t actually say that but the receptionist knew anyway. She smiled wearily and told me to take a seat. There were two or three other women waiting as well and I must say it felt very strange and slightly creepy knowing that we’d all been shagged within the previous hour or two and that we were all desperately trying to hang on to the dollop within.

As it happens, the clinic was very good and got through us quite quickly. I only had time to get halfway through a fascinating article in Woman’s Own
about Prince Andrew’s exciting engagement to his new fiancee Sarah Ferguson, who is known to her friends as Fergie. I must say medical waiting rooms are incredibly nostalgic places. They are the only places where you can pretend that the Princess of Wales is still alive. I got quite sad all over again just thinking about that dreadful Sunday when she died.

So anyway, then it was into the torture chamber and all the usual appalling cervical intrusions, legs up in the stirrups, fanny prised apart, invaded and inspected. ‘Ah, well,’ I thought, ‘another day, another duck-billed battering ram shoved up my poked, prodded and provoked privates.’ There was a student there as well, having a good old stare.

I hate that!

I absolutely
loathe
it. I mean I know they have to learn and all that but I really can do without spotty teenagers wanting to mess around between my legs. It reminded me of being back at school.

Anyway, what with one thing and another I was in a foul mood as they slapped on the freezing cold lubrication and the doctor shoved up his horrid contraption, cold again, of course, and began scraping out my cervix. And what did he say? Well, of course, he said what they always say.

‘Do try to relax.’

Oh well, of course. A perfect stranger is sticking bits of cold, greasy metal up your vagina, staring deep within, tutting in a worried manner and then asking an adolescent boy what he thinks of it, but do
try to relax.

I always want to say, ‘Sit on a traffic cone, mate, and you try to relax,’ which would be brilliant and utterly unanswerable, but of course I never do.

Well, anyway, it turns out that Sam had not disgraced himself. There was enough of the stuff up me for the test and to my surprise I got the result immediately. Normally these things take ages to come through but amazingly the doctor whipped his spatula out of me, slapped the smear under the microscope and gave me the result there and then. Satisfactory, he said. Everything had turned out fine. Except, that is, for the fact that when he extracted the metal duck it made a disgusting loud wet raspberry noise, which was excruciatingly
embarrassing. It’s all that jelly they use and he used far too much. Every time I braked on the way home I slid off the car seat.

Anyway, as I say, long story short (EastEnders
is nearly starting and the new barmaid is considering turning to prostitution to support her child. Juicy, or what?), the news is good. Sam and I are definitely chemically compatible. My juices do not reject his seed (although he’s been such a pig lately I would not blame them if they did!). I am of course very pleased about this because despite his being a pig I do love him and I had been dreading having to pop round to our gay friends with a turkey baster and asking them to fill it full of sperm.

So there we are. It seems that compatibility is not the problem. Nor is my ovulation and nor is the motility of his sperm.

And yet we are still not preg! Why? WHY? Bloody why?

It is completely baffling and most distressing. What’s more, we’re running out of options. I fear a laparoscopy looms. Oh, shit. The very thought of a doctor inserting a television camera into my bellybutton makes my knees wobble! I’m not good with bellybuttons at the best of times; they make me go funny. I won’t even let Sam kiss mine (not that he’s offered to in years) and now I must face the prospect of a CNN news team clambering through it and sending back live bulletins from my ovaries.

I can scarcely believe I’m going to write this but I’m beginning to seriously think about Drusilla’s theory re: ley lines and Primrose Hill. She does seem very certain of her facts. Shagging in Highgate is less conducive to connecting with the ancient forces of rejuvenation and fertility than shagging on Primrose Hill. I know that Drusilla is a witch but she’s a good witch, which is a very different thing from the wicked variety.