Making It Up As I Go Along (34 page)

I used to write a newsletter every month and had to stop
when everything went a bit pear-shaped on the mental-health front. Mercifully I am now
‘greatly restored’, but in the interim I’d discovered the joy that is Twitter
and now I do all my news on that instead. So, sadly, no newsletters have been written in recent
times. But when I reread what I’d written this particular year (2006), I realized how
little I and my life and friends etc. have changed, so even though some things are different
(e.g. Dermot O’Leary is no longer on
Big Brother’s Little Brother
, in fact
Big Brother’s Little Brother
no longer exists), this gives a very accurate
account of my daily life. So I hope you will forgive the dated bits and enjoy the rest.

January: a shocking month for everyone. Myself, I
didn’t want to leave the house, I didn’t want to speak to anyone and I didn’t
want to wash myself (although in fairness, I never do. Want to, that is).

All I wanted to do was make soup –
sweetcorn chowder, curried parsnip, spinach and nutmeg, you name it, I wanted to make it.

I spent many hours fiddling in the kitchen,
wearing a shower cap (to protect my hair from cooking smells) and liquidizing things and
freezing the excess in Tupperware containers, just like a proper person.

On 12 Jan had to ‘go outside’ and fly
to London to be on
Celebrity Big Brother’s
Little Breakfast
with the delicious, the adorable, the hilarious Dermot O’Leary.
Himself and Suzanne came with me, and Suzanne managed to persuade one of the George Galloway
supporters to give her his George Galloway rosette-style badge. However, after he’d handed
it over, it transpired that the badge was not, in fact, his to give – it belonged to the
production company and they wanted it back.

An ‘incident’ occurred. But Suzanne
is nothing if not tenacious and held on to it and wore it with pride on the tube to work and
then on the plane to Ireland (where she was going later that day).

The next day was Saturday, and the funny thing is
that I hadn’t
been shopping for ages (as a result of the New
Stinginess) and normally I couldn’t be arsed dragging myself around the sales because I
never get bargains, I only ever buy a load of shite which I convince myself is worth the reduced
price and which I NEVER wear.

But, bizarrely, I found a lovely anorak in the
Nicole Farhi sale at half price and seeing as the dry-cleaners melted my last one, which I used
to live in, I snapped it up!

Then I nearly got a bargain! Long story. Ages ago
Himself bought me some lovely, lovely underwear from Myla, dark blue silk with lighter blue
polka dots and a discreet pink frill. (Man buys lady-underwear that isn’t red, polyester
or crotchless! Bizarre!) And I liked it so much that I decided to get my youngest sister
Rita-Anne the same set for Christmas. Then, in Prague, Caitríona saw it and she wanted a
set too, so I said I’d get it for her for her birthday (in Feb). But when I tried ordering
it from the Myla site, they didn’t have it in her size. So that was that, it seemed. Great
disappointment. But then, when I was in Selfridges, didn’t I see the Myla underwear, in
the sale! At half price! In many sizes! Possibly including Caitríona’s! The only
problem was that I couldn’t remember her bra size because my memory is gone to hell even
though I’m eating a lot of oily fish, and I couldn’t ring her because it was only 6
a.m. in New York and she works very hard and I didn’t want to wake her at that time on a
Saturday morning, even if it was for a cut-price Myla bra.

Then I remembered that she was the same size as
Rita-Anne! All I had to do was ring Rita-Anne, ask her her bra size, then buy it! But Jimmy
answered the phone and told me Rita-Anne was at yoga, and once again I thought, ‘Ah well,
that’s that.’ Then I had the strangest idea. It was a long shot, but it might just
work … ‘Jimmy,’ I said, ‘could you do me a massive favour.’ Now,
ontra
noo, I wasn’t holding out much hope because you know what mens
are like, but it was my only chance. ‘Jimmy,’ I said, ‘you are a man and
don’t notice these sorts of things, but at Christmas I gave R-A a lovely set of blue silk
underwear –’

‘I know it!’ he said. ‘Yes, I
know it!’

God above! But then again, they’re only
newly in love really.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was
wearing it last night!’

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Great, great!
Can you check the bra size?’

So he duly did and then I went and bought the set
and they wrapped it specially because it was a present and I rang Caitríona (at a more
sensible time) and told her the joyous news, but now I can’t find the shagging thing
anywhere! I don’t know what I’ve done with it. I might have left it in London;
I’m hoping to God I did, because if it’s not there, it’s lost for ever. You
see, I have a bargain-repeller zone. Even when I find them, I lose them!

While I was in London, I must have done something
to offend the god of water, whoever he or she is. On the night we arrived, the hot water
wasn’t working, so when I had to get up in the middle of the night (5.30 a.m.) to be
collected for Dermot, I had to have a miserable cold shower, because I couldn’t
possibly
be smelly for my beloved Dermot. Then the next day the COLD water was broken,
so there was nothing coming out of any of the taps and we couldn’t fill the kettle or
flush the loo or anything, and normally I’m thrilled at a bone-fide, cast-iron opportunity
to not wash myself, but when I had no choice in the matter, I didn’t like it one bit.

Previously unpublished.

Other than a detox – in which I consumed
over the course of twenty-four hours the juice of eighteen carrots, three whole cucumbers, six
red peppers, three pears, six apples and a big lump of ginger – it was a fairly quiet
month.

I began the month trying to work on the new book
and in the grip of despair – worse than the despair I feel when I realize a play is three
acts long (which is
acute
despair). I couldn’t create a new character and I felt
worthless and hopeless, but I ploughed on anyway and eventually got somewhere!

It was thrilling! I haven’t much written,
but I’m encouraged by the way it’s going. This will undoubtedly change, it always
does, but it is better to be facing into three months of touring feeling upbeat rather than
bereft.

Last Friday, Himself, myself, my mother and
Rita-Anne went wedding-dress shopping and it was wonderful. When I saw her in the first dress, I
cried like a sap – my little baby sister was all grown up! We went to a couple of shops,
then we went to Brown Thomas, which normally my mother refuses to go into because it’s too
dear, but no sooner were we through the doors than she sort of tensed and sniffed the air, like
an animal scenting prey. ‘LV bags,’ she said, her eyes gone milky and blind, like
she was having a vision.

Yes! We were indeed in the
LV bag department, and she had sensed it rather than seen it. ‘Wheelie ones,’ she
said. ‘Little wheelie ones you can bring on a plane.’

I asked her if she wanted one, then she seemed to
come to and said briskly, ‘No, not at all, what would the likes of me be doing with an LV
wheelie case. Some oul’ yoke from Leather Plus will do me.’

Then I managed to talk them into coming to look
at Missoni coats because,
mes amies
, I’ve had a great – cunning –
idea. Because Caitríona and I are bridesmaids (well, I am matron of honour. Christ! A
matron. Anyway), I have fashioned (pun) a great idea. Instead of the horrible meringuey dresses
bridesmaids usually have to wear, why don’t we wear Missoni coats?! Stylish, chic,
practical, warm and – well, it’s a MISSONI COAT!!!!

I thought my mother would hate them, just on
principle, but no, oh no, indeed no. She was very, very, very taken with them and examined them
in great, excited detail. (She didn’t see the prices.)

Then, when we were on our way to get chips, we
passed a mannequin that was miles from the Missoni bit but was wearing a Missoni dress, and Mam
shrieked, ‘Look! There’s another one!’ See how quickly she picked it up? It
was EXTREMELY FUNNY.

We went to the café and Rita-Anne and I had
chips and Mam reluctantly had chocolate biscuit cake but nearly didn’t order it because it
was seven yoyos ninety-five and she said it was far too dear. (Himself had a double espresso and
went for a wander around the men’s department and came back full of talk of a stripy
Alexander McQueen jacket, but he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to have it so he didn’t
press the point.)

During the second week in the month I went to
London for work, and while I was there I took a strange notion that I wanted to see Kathleen
Turner in
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Strangely we were able to get tickets – I thought it would be sold
out – and on Friday night, after a long, awful, shameful week (more of which in a while),
we went along and yes, I quite enjoyed the first half. You know,
grand.
Not great but
not bad, I’m not saying it was bad …

But as we stretched our legs in the foyer,
Himself noticed that we had not in fact just sat through the first half, but only the first
THIRD. There were three acts, and honestly,
mes amies
, when I heard this, I just lost
the will to live. I went quiet and wondered if I should fake an injury, like a cracked rib, or a
ruptured spleen – something not too bad, that wouldn’t arouse undue suspicion when
we got home and I suddenly made a miraculous recovery.

In the end, I succumbed to a bout of honesty.
‘Himself,’ I asked fake-casually, ‘have you ever walked out of a play after
the first act?’ Himself is no fool and realized that this wasn’t a simple
theoretical enquiry. ‘You want to leave?’ he asked.

Then he admitted that he wasn’t exactly
riveted himself and that life was too short and that if we wanted to leave, we should just leave
and not feel guilty or apologize or try to justify it or anything. So feeling very guilty and
apologizing and trying to justify it, we left.

While I was in London I began eating and
didn’t stop until I left. All the good work done by my ‘24-hour juice detox’
was unmade in a matter of seconds and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it, because it
was work! Yes, work. Please believe me.

Afternoon tea with Waterstones, followed by
dinner with WHSmith Retail, followed by lunch with Borders and Amazon, dinner at
Ready
Steady Cook
(we’ll get to that), followed by afternoon tea with WHSmith Travel,
followed by dinner with Tesco buyers, followed by lunch with Penguin CEO. I’m the size of
a house!

And now my hunger has woken
up and I need to eat around the clock to satisfy the beast that is my appetite – I’m
waking in the middle of the night and sneaking downstairs for bananas and all sorts.

Okay then,
Ready Steady Cook
. Christ,
the shame! Unbridled, unmitigated. No doubt but that pride goes before a fall. You see, as
result of being a gourmet-swot, I thought I should be able to hold my own on a cookery
programme.

I couldn’t help a mild swagger in my step
as I arrived along to
RSC
(
Ready Steady Cook
) with my basket of goodies. Also,
I was partnered with chef James Martin of
Strictly Come Dancing
fame, and everyone
fancies him. Frankly, I thought we were an unbeatable combination. But no. We were all too
effing beatable.

Nicholas Parsons – who is eighty-two, you
know, and a very nice man, didn’t gloat at all – was partnered with chef Paul
Rankin, also a decent skin, and they
wiped the floor with me.
I was a liability. I
didn’t know where the garlic was, I didn’t butter the ramekins enough, I got in
James Martin’s way, I tried melting butter over a gas ring that wasn’t turned on, it
was all SO HUMILIATING!!

I should add a couple of things. Ainsley Harriott
is a lovely man and wasn’t just lovely to me but also to Himself and Suzanne, who were
drinking wine in the green room. Also, Nicholas Parsons’ prize for winning was a cheque
for £100 for the charity of his choice.

I – the loser – got a hamper full of
goodies (Ainsley Harriott couscous, Ainsley Harriott balsamic dressing, etc.), which I
didn’t have to give to anyone but which was mine to bring home, so
who
is the
real winner here? Eh?

As soon as I got back from London I began packing
for the Australian tour. Himself was amazed I had left it so late. I’ve made many, many
lists of all the possible outfits available to me,
but I know that once I
get there I will wear the same three rig-outs into the ground.

Also, I attended the optician because my sight
has gone to hell. Not just the crippling short-sightedness, but worse! When I am wearing my
contact lenses and thus able to see things more than two feet away from me, I am no longer able
to READ. The print goes all blurry!

Suddenly, I am like an old person! I’ll
have to get reading glasses, which is a terrible realization as I had never believed before that
such things were necessary. I’d thought they were mere affectations used by people in
order to seem more intelligent-looking. Or to add gravitas to a situation. People who wear
reading glasses get asked questions and they look up from documents and take off their glasses
and say, ‘I’m glad you asked me that question, George.’

The whole glasses-removing thing slows everything
down and makes everyone look at the person, making them the centre of attention. I have always
suspected reading glasses to be mere props. Have I been wrong all these years?

And the sight thing is only going to get worse
for me. I have inherited my father’s eyes, and he has been afflicted with cataracts over
the years and at the moment is missing a lens (a real lens, not a contact lens, although the
exact details of how this came to pass escape me) and isn’t allowed to drive, and I can
see (pun) that this is all ahead of me.

Truly, as a family unit we are bedevilled with
ill health. Anyway, I went to the optician and had my eyes tested, then the lady tried me out
with different lens strengths and I had to sit in front of a machine and she’d do a little
click and a new lens would slot into place and I had to look at the letters on the wall and
shout, ‘Better!’ or ‘Worse!’ like I was getting married. But the thing
is that I was never sure whether each new click was making my
vision better
or worse, it was all happening so fast, but I felt I had to say
something.
So sometimes
I said, ‘Better!’ and other times I said, ‘Worse!’ but was never
entirely convinced. Then I got a horrible thought: do opticians ever get bored testing
people’s eyes? Do they ever just click the same-strength lens into the little hole and
snigger away quietly to themselves as the person says, ‘Oh, better, much better, much
clearer this time’ and ‘Oh yes, better again, yes, crystal clear’ and
‘God above! That’s fantastic!’

What else happened this month? Well, yes,
Brokeback Mountain
, it was really, really lovely. But long, no? Why are things always
so long
? Hours and hours seems to be the current length for films, and I have a
terribly short attention span. After an hour and a half, I just can’t take it. So yes, a
beautiful film, very moving, very touching and all that, just – as I say – a little
long.

Previously unpublished.