SuicideGreen

STD 26th July 2010

2010-07-28T14:24:00.000-07:00

Today I had a text from Zac. Zac is on his Gap Yah. Zac is in Prague. He has been in Bratislava and he told me Bratislava is crap. He told me Prague is beautiful. He told me he had blisters. Then Zac texted me that his friend had an STD. Initially I didn't know what an STD was. Then I worked it out. I told my father, as we tried to catch a wave together, I texted Ellis becuase Ellis is a doctor. My father said "Use a hot soapy flannel and a drop of olive oil." Ellis didn't answer because he is in Scotland. I wondered why Zac's friend hadn't used a condom. Oh well...Yuk.

28th July 2010. Surfing.

2010-07-28T14:19:00.000-07:00

I have been surfing in Cornwall.

I have been watching Poldark.

I have been entered to the Women's institute national story competition.

Would you believe it?

It matters not,

How strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I an the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

Tuesday 29th of June 2010. Australians.

2010-06-29T08:17:00.000-07:00

Today is the very last day Zac will spend at school ever. Today his whole house are coming here for pre-barbeque drinks. They are having a barbeque at Angus's house. Angus is joining the army straight after school. He will go to Sandhurst and Afghanistan and Wooten Bassett too if he doesn't keep his big beautiful blond head down. Angus's father is a judge.

Maisie texted me from school. "I think I have conjunktiveyetis" she wrote. I said I would get her some eye drops. "Alice says I have a swollen face" she wrote. I said she could have an ice lolly when she got home.

Abigail is feeling very ill. Abigail has a terrible cold."I caught it at Glastonbury." she says. It was eighty two degrees at Glastonbury.

I have decided that Abigail needs to see an expert nutritionist so I text Posy. Posy knows about stuff like that. Posy texts me a name back. I look up the name on Google and I write an e mail. Just now I got an answer. "Wrong person" said the email. It was from a PR in Texas.

I decide to go to the shop to pick up some cardboard boxes so that when me and Abigail go to Stalybridge to move her from halls to lodgings tomorrow we have something to put her belongings into rather than just throwing them randomly into the back of the car. I go into the Hi Fi shop to pick up some boxes. "Have you any boxes to spare?" I ask. "Yes we have." says the man behind the counter and he hurriedly shoves some boxes at me glancing nervously over his shoulder. "What the fucking bloody bollocks is all this shit?" says a voice from the back of the shop. " What the shit?" I grab the boxes and flee. I have six boxes. I only wanted two.

When I get back from the shop I see two elderly people standing opposite our house staring up at the top windows.

"Are you staring at my house?" I ask them.

"Yes." says the man "We used to live here forty years ago." He has an Australian accent. "We live in Worralurra Creek in Victoria now," he adds.

"Too many coloureds here forty years ago," says his wife twinkling at me. "We went out on the £10 Pom ship." she says.

"Twenty years in the Australian airforce." says the man.

"Just came back to check the old place out." says his wife.

I put my boxes down on the doorstep. They are quite unwieldy.

"Do you want to come in and have a look?" I ask the old couple.

"Fair dinkum!" exclaims the man. (he didn't really, but he could have.)

I show the old couple their old house.

"Oh, do you remember how we used to have to fill the bath with a bucket?" says the woman.

"Do you remember how all the kids had to share that room?" says the man.

"Do you remember the two girls who used to live downstairs?" says the woman.

"Valerie and Sylvia."says the man.

"And the coal hole?"

"And the fog?"

"You've done a lovely job on the old place." says the man.

"We wouldn't ever want to come back." says the woman.

"Thank you so much," they say, and they go.

Oh well.

2010-06-29T07:56:00.000-07:00

793. My Garden

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,

Fringed pool,

Fern'd grot—

The veriest school

Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not—

Not God! In gardens! When the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign;

'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

Today, yesterday when the jasmine and the roses were washed with summer rain and Buddy killed a pigeon, scattering downy white breast feathers and iridescent flight feathers over the daisy studded grass. I was quite sure.

We are much better.

2010-06-21T13:56:00.000-07:00

Later, Ellis comes over for Chip Night. He brings Hetty, Hannah and His Youngest.

Ellis’s Youngest and Maisie rush outside. They call over the wall to Billie and whoop across the gardens to Archie and Morag.

The children climb across the boundary walls and vault fences, they drop down through Elder Trees and push through Ceonothus Hedges until they all end up in The Perfect Doctors’s garden where they play in the Giant Pit that the Doctor’s have dug to remove the roots of the felled sycamore next to their house.

The Giant Pit is a real draw for children.

Ellis and me go to buy chips from the Chinese Chip Shop Man. and My Mother makes Salad Niciose with Tilapia instead of Tuna because we think it’s greener. We adults can’t eat chips because we have to drink wine and to do both would be sartorial suicide.

Ellis tells us that he is still in love with the Artist With the Tiny Feet.

He says, ‘I fell asleep on the sofa next to the Artist and at no point did he make a move. What shall I do?’

And he says, ‘Did you know that we are the most observed nation in the whole world, that we are all under surveillance all the time?’ Ellis is good at non-sequitors.

Then he says ‘Have you seen that Banksy next to Waterstones in Russell Square? It’s brilliant ‘One Nation Under CCTV’ It says. Who is watching us and why?’

‘What shall I do about the Artist?’ he says.

My mother says that Ellis is very attractive and that frankly some men are hopeless at picking up subtle hints like falling asleep next to them on the sofa and that Ellis should bite the bullet and ask the artist to sleep with him.

Ellis agrees but says he simply hasn’t the courage.

John comes home and he says he thinks CCTV is a waste of money and that Banksy is ‘So over.’

Sometimes I think John spends too much time talking to very young PRs.

Friday 23rd May 2008. Wedding !!

Ellie’s parents are getting married today. This is very exciting. We haven’t been to a wedding for ages.

A few days ago, Ellie’s mother, Melinda, rang.

‘Hi,’ she said ‘Ross and I are getting married. Will you and John be able to come? It’s on Friday. Will John be able to get the day off?’

‘Wow!’ I said ‘Why?’ I said ‘Of course we’ll come.’ I said.

Melinda said it was purely financial. Then she said it wasn’t really. Then she said that she had found a beautiful dress in Islington and that she needed to find some shoes to match and that did I eat fish because afterwards everyone was going to Morgan M for lunch and could we come to a party in the evening as well? She also said that she and Ross hadn’t told Ellie yet because they thought it might freak her out a bit.

This is such fun, but I am worried about Ellie.

Abigail tells me that Ellie has worked out that her parents are getting married and that she is very confused that they haven’t told her. She found a few e-mails and caught the tail-end of a few conversations and worked the whole thing out.

‘She is feeling a bit upset, frankly.’ says Abigail.

I phone Ellie.

‘Ellie’ I say ‘They will tell you, they will want you to come. They are just being protective that’s all. Don’t be cross. Parents are always making mistakes. The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions’. I say. I am not sure that was the right thing to say.

Ellie’s not sure either.

Later in the week Abigail tells me that Ellie’s parents have told her and that she was cross and now she isn’t at all cross and is going to take lots of photographs.

The wedding is in the Town Hall. I am wearing my Royal Garden Party Outfit with a Black Straw Hat from Fenwicks with feathers in it and orange shoes. I might be overdressed but I think, if in doubt... overdress. There is nothing quite so Dull as looking Understated.

At the Town Hall, John and I realise that we are almost the only friends that have been asked and that almost everyone else is Family and we feel quite shy.

Ellie rushes up looking sparklingly beautiful and welcomes us.

Ross and Melinda arrive. Melinda wears a silver dress and looks very gorgeous.

Ross and Melinda get married.

Ross’s mother recites from memory...

Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I being poor, I have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet,

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Ross’s mother speaks in the softest Irish accent which is one of the very best accents for poetry and I am very moved and I look at John. He is very moved too.

We go to Morgan M.

I sit opposite John and between Ellie’s stepbrother and a slender Brazilian girl.

Morgan M is a Very Posh French restaurant. Ross and Melinda have hired the whole thing.

All Ross’s brothers are here. One is a Cardiologist with 8 children. His wife is a Gynacologist so she probably was quite good at dealing with tha Awful After-Effects of having 8.

Melinda’s father is here and her twin brother. John and I have a very nice time talking to the Brazilian girl who is married to Ross’s cousin. I have fun talking to Ellie’s Step Brother. He is very sweet and funny and he tells me that he is glad Ellie has a new boyfriend because he had to sit on his hands to stop himself punching the last one.

The food is amazing and we drink too much wine.

Later john and I fall asleep on our bed. We are not very good at drinking during the day. We have to go to the Wedding Party this evening and we are glad of the rest. Luckily my mother is still with us and she feeds Maisie and rolls her eyes at us. She is coming to the Party too.

The Party is heaving.

Everyone is here. Fran and Bill have come from Hampstead. Claire has come alone as Paul has gone to Australia to sort out a complex part of his father’s estate. Abigail and Ellie and their friend, Abigail R. are here too and Bella comes but she goes home quite soon because it’s all Too Much. Claire does some Karaoke with Abigail R’s mother. Maisie talks to Bill, she loves Bill. Abigail falls asleep in a heap. One of Ross’s brothers says he can’t remember who he is.

Melinda stands still and serene, talking to people, she looks very beautiful and happy.

Ross and Melinda have gone to Paris on Honeymoon. They will live happily ever after.

Insomnia. April / May 2008.

I worry, just before I get out of bed in the morning, that John will turn to me, do a double take, and say:

‘Oh my God! What’s happened to your face?’ because unlike Dorian Grey I do not have a picture corrupting in the attic and like Macbeth I feel I have a face like ‘a book where men may read strange matters’ - liberal doses of Botox notwithstanding.

The ‘strange matters’ concerned are copious quantities of wine coupled with absolutely no sleep, and don’t tell me that’s not going to become apparent at some point.

Last night I awoke at 5, and the night before and before and the one before that, spiralling backwards all through May and April.

Once or twice I think I slept til 7.30 or 8 but mostly I didn’t.

Sometimes, if it is warm enough, I get up at 5 and empty the dishwasher make Zac a cooked breakfast and do all the ironing, but, normally, because it is cold, I lie in the gathering light listening to the birds shouting and the milkman crashing about. I just lie there with my eyes shut telling myself elaborate stories and pretending that they are dreams.

My best story is that I have lunch with my Publisher and my Agent at Bibendum and that my Agent talks about a Bidding War and thrashes out a Deal, but as I have never met a Publisher or an Agent or been to Bibendum this is quite a labour intensive dream and I sometimes lose momentum.... If that happens, I end up thinking about why the drainpipe from the roof always overflows in heavy rain and pours water down the side of the house and how much I should think that matters and whether it might be the cause of the damp patch on the sitting room wall and whether I really ought to get up right now and see if I can push the hosepipe down the drain pipe and unblock it - if it is, indeed, blocked.

That story is very unhelpful and usually wakes me up properly, at which point I realise that Buddy is sitting on my head, purring, and that John is snoring, a bit, and that there is a funny creeping noise downstairs and that actually it’s nearly 6 and I might as well go and shove a hose pipe about the place as lie here and worry about damp bricks.

All this is very inconvenient and I am sure will begin to ruin my looks and turn a Brain, already compromised, to Mush and that John will indeed, wake one day to see that there is absolutely nothing going on behind my bloodshot eyes.

But, as I believe to the pits of my heart ‘One crowded hour of life is worth an age without a name,’ - even at 5 in the morning - there is very little that can done about it.

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

Missing so much and so much?

O, fat white woman whom nobody loves,

Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

When the grass is as soft as the breasts of doves

And shivering sweet to the touch?

O, why do you walk through the fields in gloves,

Missing so much and so much?

Down the road she went between high granite hedges splashed fuschia with fuschia and orange with mombretia. Loud as a kingcup, big as a bull, yellow clad, undulating like a great perambulating duvet.

She didn’t know where she was going. She had never walked so far as an adult but she hoped in her heart that the road would take her down to the sea.

Down to a little rocky cove she would go, where she would take off her big yellow dress and step naked into the pellucid water, light as a feather Caressed for the very first time, she would slide on the green slimy rocks, popping seaweed beneath her feet, watching the anemones wave their rusty tentacles in the glimmering depths.

‘Goodbye, goodbye’.... they would wave as she sank beneath the oil dark swell and the water would close over her head. Safe.

‘Goodbye.’

It was hot and soon her thighs began to chafe, she adjusted her gait slightly, rocking as she walked. Sweat stood out on her brow and her lungs wheezed like a pair of leaky bellows.

Wrens whistled excitedly in the scented, stunted gorse. The road twisted up and to the left ahead of her.

Up, was surely not the way to the sea and she feared someone would come and take her back soon. The thought was unnerving, she increased her pace looking left and right for a gateway to duck into should she hear a car. She needed the sea. There must be no going back now. She must not be stopped.

A trickle of sweat ran between her breasts and the sun thumped down on the narrow grey road creating mirages - cool pools of water that vanished as she passed. A flight of crows roared overhead and she cowered instinctively. There were spies everywhere. Perhaps it was time to leave the road, to cut across country. She could squeeze through gaps in bramble hedges, clamber over a granite stile, pick pink campions to scatter on the cool cleansing waves.

Goodbye.

At the top of the hill she stood to catch her breath for a minute gazing down across the fields. The land unfurled at her feet and the thin grey ribbon of road twisted on and down. The sea glittered beyond, just a thin silver line, but it beckoned. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen the sea. She bent and took off her shoes. They were sensible, beige and laced. Wide fitting. Her feet were slashed with red, not wide fitting enough it seemed. Most things weren’t.

A woman like her had to wear sensible shoes they’d said and they had chosen these for her. She regarded them for a minute with acute dislike and suddenly reckless, threw them with a little gasp over the hedge behind her. She had chosen the dress herself, not prettily cut but, Oh, what a colour!

Downhill was easier, a passing car made her heart leap in her throat, but the driver, German and bespectacled, waved cheerily, thanking her for cramming her bulk against a bramble bush that hung from the hedge like a curtain, red studded with unripe berries. The car passed, missing her bare toes by inches.

Out from under the trees she came, bold as a sunflower, rocking from side to side and blowing heavily.She passed some small granite cottages with salt blasted doors their gardens festooned with fishing nets.

A black quay cut the sea in half. Near to, it was turbulent, dark, crashing, beyond, green and still and the sky above filled the heart and the eye from the top of the world to the horizon like gauze.

The yellow dress billowed and snapped like a sail in the breeze that blew off the water. Her hair, cut sensibly short, whipped off her forehead. She breathed deep.

To the sea she would go. Out there, past the fishing boats she would climb round and down. There would be a way,she would find it, down to a rocky cove.

She would put her feet in the cool water. She would take off her dress and unhook her great grey bra with it’s biting straps, she would strip off her knickers, grey too..and heavy and hurl them high in the sky.

‘Goodbye!’

John drove me, Evil and Maisie to Paddington. This is always a Bad Idea.

John tried to avoid the Congestion Charging zone. King’s Cross snarled up like you wouldn’t beleive, and we hit the Red Wave on Marylebone Road. As we approached, each set of traffic lights turned red in perfect time, one following another. Dispatch riders carved us up on their Hondas, their Moto Guzzis and their BMWs. . Evil began to whimper. John said,

‘There’s plenty of time.’

I went off Boris Johnson as a Bendy Bus got stuck on a corner and took up three lanes. A Black cab driver leaned on his horn. Road Works sporting orange plastic bunting lay abandoned near Madame Taussauds.

‘ Never ever drive me anywhere ever again.’ I said.

‘It’ll be fine.’ said John.

In the back of the car, Maisie rolled her eyes and hugged Evil close to her chest.

We arrived at Paddington with seconds to spare. John got in the wrong lane and drove right past. ‘No U Turns’ said a sign angrily.

‘Do a U Turn ! I yelped as we roared up Praed Street and swerved into the Congestion Charging Zone.

‘If you were going to do that, you might as well have done it half an hour ago and given me an outside chance of catching a train today !’ I shouted. ‘Look, let me and Maisie get out. We can walk from here.’ I said. Blood was pumping in my ears and I kept forgetting to breath.

‘You do realise that people like me are constitutionally unable to be late don’t you?’ I shrieked.

‘What do you mean “People Like You” said John ‘There are no other “People Like You.” John hauled the car round in a U Turn. A Black Cab Driver leaned on his horn. I think it was the same one.

‘She means People Who Are Really Fussy.’ said Maisie, helpfully from the back seat.

John drove the car down the ramp to the station in the Taxis Only lane.

Maisie and I leaped out. We hauled our suitcase. Luckily it has wheels. Evil gets tangled in her lead. Luckily I already have a ticket. The train is leaving in two minutes.

‘You’ll be fine.’ said John ‘Bye.’ He drove away trying to look like a Mini Cab Driver who has forgotten his Private Hire sticker.

Maisie and me run for the train. The guard is shutting the doors beginning at the front. Suddenly Evil stops on the clean shiny platform and does a giant pooh.

I really hate dogs.

I am...

2010-06-21T13:55:00.000-07:00

Friday 14th May 2008.

Police State. Carer.

Boris Johnson has put 13,000,000 police onto the London buses.

Where did he find them all ?

I am beginning to feel very uneasy about Boris Johnson’s Mayoral Reign.

Zac is on study leave.

I take Zac to Islington to change his Building Society details. Zac is 16 and he has to sign things to say he doesn’t have to pay tax on any interest accrued on his account.

The whole of Islington Green is crawling with police waving scanners about and shouting into their radios.

Zac says it’s a good thing because Hoody Gangs, armed to the teeth, are a big issue on London’s buses. Then he says,

‘It’s quite scary actually. Where have they all come from?’

Hoodies are scarce in today. On the way to Islington, we see a few, in the upper reaches. They lurk in the entrances to estates and scuttle furtively along the broad tree-lined avenues of Highbury.

We don’t have Hoodies around us, because the Turkish Gangters run our area and they are intolerant of interlopers and opportunists. But there are a lot in Islington.....or there were. Where will they go?

We change Zac’s Building Society details and come home.

There are no police around our area because the Turks have got it all covered and sewn up.

When we come home I check my e-mails. There is an insane one from a man saying he is coming to fit some railings in our back garden on Thursday. That the cost will be £980 and that these railings will keep our rabbit safe from foxes.

I only asked him for an estimate.

This e-mail freaks me out a bit. Is he completely mad?

I reply, that actually we have decided against putting up fox proof railings and have bought Oliver a fox proof hutch instead which is much more cost effective.

My next e-mail os from an Eminent Specialist in Eating Disorders at the Maudsley Hospital.

She will see Abigail on Tuesday.

Hurray!

She has e mailed Tests and Questionnaires for me and Abigail to fill in and bring with us to the appointment. This is a bit stressy and I am not sure I want to be examined in relation to Abigail’s Eating Disorder. I don’t want any of the focus off Abigail and on to me. The Specialist refers to me in the e-mail as Abigail’s ‘Carer’. I will have to clear up this confusion on Tuesday and tell her that I am infact her ‘Mother.’

I phone my Doctor and tell him that I am very fed up with their lack of response to our problems. The Doctor is very nice and says that he will make me an appointment with the Doctor who saw Abigail initially. He says that I should go to the appointment with Abigail so as to overcome any privacy issues which may arise because she is 18.

‘Does our area not have any provision for Adult Eating Disorders?’ I ask.

‘No.’ he says.

I will go to the Doctor on Tuesday with Abigail. this is getting more and more complicated.

I am very stressed.

Ellis comes over and says he will sort the whole thing out because he is a Psychiatrist and knows People Who Know People.

We drink tea and I tell him how stressed I am about Abigail.

Ellis is very stressed because Hannah didn’t get a scholarship to the Hogwarts School in Wales and that now Hannah will not be able to lie around under trees reading poetry but will have to spend the next two years working like a fiend in her Selective State School.

I can’t help Ellis or sort the whole thing out. I don’t know any People Who Know People.

Ellis is also very stressed about his builders who are failing to understand the concept of a non-fitted kitchen, because they are Australian.

Ellis says he wants a Pale Pink Rubber Floor and Gorgeous French Free Standing cupboards. His builders think he is mad.

I tell him to get Jan to do the painting, because Jan is a brilliant painter and will understand Ellis’s design concept perfectly and that Farrow and Ball do some lovely Pale Greys.

I just know Jan and Ellis will get on like a house on fire.

After Ellis goes, Sylvie’s mother comes over to drop Sylvie off to stay the night.

Sylvie’s mother is a very successful Professor of Sociology. She has spent the last few weeks working on pitching for a grant for an entirely new Sociological Discipline which she is having to invent.

I may be an IQ Genius but my brain begins to hurt.

‘How can you invent a new Sociological Discipline? I ask. ‘’What have you come up with?’

‘The Interface Between Design and Sociology.’ says Syvie’s mother.

Sylvie’s mother is a Real Genius.

Later I get an e-mail from the Rabbit Fence man. ‘I have made the fence and the paint is drying.’ it says.

I am not going to reply....he is clearly bonkers.

Sunday 18th May 2008

Not Going To See The Willard Grant Conspiracy.

Tallulah.

We are not going to see The Willard Grant Conspiracy. This is a very good thing because, although I have never seen The Willard Grant Conspiracy live, I have seen their support act, Howe Gelb, and although there are, I understand, parts of Bristol where Howe Gelb is thought to be quite Attractive and Off Beat Groovy, frankly when I saw him performing in Blackheath with a Gospel Choir, he was very shy-making and the Gospel Choir were predictably the better act.

If he has hooked up with The Willard Grant Conspiracy to make himself look good, outside of Bristol, then I really couldn’t hold out much hope for the evening.

Luckily we are not going.

Because Digby Ogg has a very ill father.

Digby Ogg is John’s Gig Buddy and is married to my cousin Betty.

We were all going out on Sunday night to see The Willard Grant Conspiracy at the Bloomsbury theatre and Ellis was coming too.

I wasn’t very keen, for the aforementioned reasons with the added issue that sitting down in a theatre whilst watching a band, rather than standing in a venue such as The Brixton Academy for example, always results in certain members of the audience nodding their heads or tapping their knees knowledgably to the music whilst wearing rectangular glasses.

I am liberal but to a degree which means I find aforementioned tapping and nodding deeply irritating. I was, however, prepared to overlook it for the opportunity of spending an evening with Betty because I never see her as she is a very high-powered artist who is commissioned by the Arts Council to do unfeasibly complicated things relating to Regneration on the Olympic Site coupled with the Displacement of Resident Gypsies from said Site and Sand Castles.

Anyway Digby and Betty came back from looking after Digby’s father in Bournemouth to find that their baby-sitter had disappeared and was entirely unavailable.

John was very upset because he just loves Howe Gelb whom he believes named his daughter after him* and he loves The Willard Grant Conspiracy.

I phoned Ellis to see if he was coming but he said he couldn’t because he had written off a BMW with his Camper Van. As excuses go I think that was quite a good one. So we didn’t go so, because although I like to please John, there are limits and this was one of them.

* John thinks that Howe Gelb named his daughter after John because John noticed ages ago that Howe only answered questions from girls on his Q&A Webchat.

He noticed that signing himself ‘John’ meant that he never got an answer to any of his questions.

Being an innovative type John signed a question ‘Tallulah’ and received an immediate response confirming his suspicions. John continued his online relationship with Howe as ‘Tallulah’ and was very happy.

Months later, Howe announnced his first daughter was to be called Tallulah.

Coincidence?

Who knows.

Tuesday 20th May 2008

Pychiatric Assessment.

Abigail has an appointment at Guys and Barts to see The Eminent Specialist.

Abigail does not want to go.

I don’t want to go.

We go anyway.

We catch a bus and we go into oddbins at the bus station to ask wher exactly Guys and Barts is. We follow a path and we cross a footbridge and arrive on the second floor. This is the cleanest emptiest hospital I have ever seen. Abigail is very stressed.

‘I really hate hospitals.’ she says ‘I hate people wanting me to talk to them. I won’t know what to say.’ she says. ‘I’m not even thin. I’m not thin enough. They’ll think you’re mad for bringing me.’ she says.

‘I’ll take you shopping later in the week.’ I say. ‘We will buy lots and lots of nice things in Oxford Street. It will be fun.’

We still haven’t found the Department of Academic Psychiatry on The Fifth Floor and we walk through deserted glass atriums and admire the architectural planting schemes in the courtyard below. We spot a man assiduously mopping a floor and ask directions.

The Department of Academic Psychiatry is through a door with a telephone and a code. ‘Do not let anyone tailgate you through this door.’ says a Notice, bossily. I pick up the phone and we are buzzed in. No one tries to ‘tailgate’ us, which is a good thing.

The Eminent Specialist meets us. She is very nice and Abigail goes off with her, while I go off with a Researcher to see if the whole thing is My Fault.

Actually she doesn’t want to see if the whole thing is My Fault she wants to see if I can spend an hour doing puzzles on a computer.

I am very bad at computer puzzles.

The first computer puzzle checks if I can put cards on the correct pile according to an undisclosed rule. I worlk out the rule and put the card on the pile but then the rule changes and I have to worlk out the new rule. I am very bad at this.

The computer says ‘Wrong’ in an American accent lots of times.

Next, I have to see if a picture of a chair with a green background or a yellow one is more threatning than a green cross or sad face. I have to say ‘Green’ or ‘Yellow’ without minding that the face is cross or that the chair’s legs are too long. I am very bad at this too.

Then, I have to recognise a shape in another shape that has obscured it. I am Brilliant at this.

After that, I have to copy a diagram with lots of different coloured pencils that are all slightly blunt while The Researcher videos my hands. I have very bitten nails which worries me a bit.

Bitten nails will not look good on film.

I am very good at this too.

Then The Researcher leaves me alone for a bit and I notice that the office I am in is very messy. The books on the shelves are not organised properly and some books are lying horizontally across other books. This makes me feel very uneasy and I have to resist stacking them properly.

The rug is rucked up at one corner under the desk where I am sitting and I pull it flat and the Researcher comes back.

‘I’d really like you to fill in a few forms.’ she says ‘I’d like to include you in my study.’ she says.

She gives me a Questionaire which says things like ‘Do you feel uneasy if some books are not properly stacked?’ Or a rug is rucked up?’ and ‘Do find yourself double-checking locks and having counting rituals?’ I deny everything. I am just tidier than her, that’s all.

Later I meet Abigail and we sit at a desk and talk to The Eminent Specialist in her office.

In the corner of the office is a large tub of yoghurt with granola on top of it. it’s just sitting there out of a fridge with no explaination. It’s a catering sized tub. I am worried it will go off. The carpet in the corner of the office is all rucked up and threadbare, The Eminent Specialist’s mug has ‘Tea, Coffee, Chocolate, Biscuits and Cake’ written in Romanesque letters around the top of it.

Abigail and me exchange glances.

‘The thing is,’ I say trying to ignore our environment ‘that Abigail doesn’t fit the profile of a classic anorexic. She doesn’t sit in her bedroom obsessing. She has lots of friends. Abigail is very socially able. Abigail is mostly happy and she’s not angry or alienated. She’s very nice.’

‘Abigail did the same tests as you.’ says The Specialist. Let’s compare and contrast the results.’ She compares them and explains that the test results reveal that Abigail has a very over-developed sense of Detail and that sometimes her concentration on Detail may be to the detriment of her understanding of the whole picture.

She says that both Abigail and I fall into the Eating Disorder Spectrum because of our focus on Detail and that actually I am much more typical of an Eating Disorder Sufferer than Abigail. and that I am off the scale in several of the tests, whereas Abigail is borderline normal.

‘Ha!’ says Abigail ‘I knew it.’

On the bus on the way to Oxford Street Abigail says ‘Did you notice that tub of granola? Did you see the state of the carpet? Do you think that was deliberate to challenge people like you with OCD?’

‘I need some new tops.’ I say ‘I think we should go to American Apparel.’

‘OK.’ says Abigail.

We buy tops. We buy loafers in Russell and Bromley because they are very fashionable. Abigail has black patent ones and I have classic brown.

We buy leggings and a dear little skirt for Maisie.

‘I need a belt.’ says Abigail.

‘Shall we go to Gap Kids then?’ I say.

Very bloody funny.’ says Abigail.

We come home in a Black Cab.

We have such I nice time.

I really love spending time with Abigail.

Wednesday 21st May 2008.

Jason Spaceman at Koko. The Nineties.

We are going to see Spiritualised at Koko in Camden. We are on the Guest List so we don’t have to queue.

I hate to queue.

We are also going to the Aftershow Party which will be an Exercise In Pointlessness. I will try to get John to let me give our wrist bands to a Keen Sober Fan so we can go home instead.

John really wants me to come with him to see Spiritualised because we missed seeing The Willard Grant Conspiracy and because he doesn’t want to go by himself wearing his work suit.

John thinks that taking a Middle-Aged Housewife with a Rod Stewart haircut to a rather Edgy Gig in Camden will lend him a bit of Edge by Association and render him almost invisible. This I doubt, because he is actually the wrong side of 17 stone and I have no Edge but I agree to go anyway because I like Koko very much.

Koko doesn’t smell of sweat and massed humanity, like most venues do since the Smoking Ban, because no one takes any notice of The Ban and it smells of Marlborough and Majuana as it should.

The singer in Spiritualised is called Jason Spaceman and they were all very Big in the Nineties. He will sing with a Gospel Choir and I hope he makes a better job of it than Howe Gelb.

I have never actually heard of Spiritualised or Jason Spaceman before because my life in The Ninties was Rather Busy.

In the Ninties I lived in Cumberthorpe Road.

I had two children in nappies at the same time.

I had a Double Buggy and it did not fit into Corner Shops. I couldn’t leave my children outside Corner Shops in their buggy because in those days this area was Very Rough.

I couldn’t drive and my Double Buggy was unmanageable on a Routemaster Bus so I stayed at home.

I listened to Radio 4 which has no music.

I painted our slummy house and stripped the floors.

I made friends with Athena next door.

I wore baggy jumpers and worn out jeans and I was very tired.

‘Why you always dressed like that ?’ Athena would ask ‘You a very pretty girl. You should go shopping.’

I had absolutely no other friends because all my friends had left London for University Towns the very moment they became pregnant.

John and Me were the last ones left.

John worked every night on The Opposition Newspaper and he was very tired too.

I didn’t join Mum’s and Toddlers or Music and Movement because the very thought made me feel entirely ill so when I wasn’t stripping floors and painting walls I walked round and round The Park by myself pushing the Double Buggy and bemoaning my fate.

I got Pneumonia then Suspected Meningitis then I got better.

The children went to the Local School and I made friends.

The only music that loomed large was The Spice Girls catalogue and I felt rather ambivilant about Abigail and Ellie aged 6 standing in the back garden singing:

‘If you wanna be my luvva,

You betta get wiv my friends!’ at the top of their sweet little voices.

Also, I was not sure that ‘Girl Power’ although a laudable idea, was best secured by dressing like a tart and shouting agressively in the manner of Gerry, Sporty, Baby, Posh and Scary.

Anyway, we made our house very unslummy and it put on £200, 000.

I had Maisie

John and me began to have fun with our new friends but it was Far Too Late for Jason Spaceman to have been on our radar.

I am quite looking forward to seeing him perform tonight.

Jason Spaceman was excellent. He was very loud like the White Stripes. The Gospel Choir were very very loud too.

The Audience was made up of Students and people who are Thirty-Eight and people who liked Oasis in the Ninties and were still sporting the Haircut and a few bald Gay Men with Piercings. John’s suit made him look quite radical.

The Thirty Eight Year Olds must all have had to get babysitters.

Me and John had a really fun time and my ears rang for ages afterwards. We went to The Aftershow party which was Completely Pointless and we went to a Turkish Restaurant in the middle of the night.

I do like Koko.

Thursday 22nd May

My Mother & May. Chip Night.

Ellis is coming for Chip Night.

My Mother is coming for lunch with her sister, May. My Mother and May have been on a Greek island together and they swam every day.

My Mother and May are a very powerful combination. We have courgette soup for lunch. Abigail sits down and eats lunch with Zac, me, May and my Mother. This is the first time she has sat down to eat at the table with other people since Christmas.

I think Abigail will get better soon.

It is lovely to see May. May is a Painter and she is one of my very favourite people. She has a very beautiful speaking voice and a quiet but formidable intelligence.

She talks to Abigail about her Eating Disorder. Her daughter, Betty had an Eating Disorder too and hasn’t eaten a chip since 1978 but it hasn’t stopped her becoming a very High-Powered Artist or prevented her from having children.

I think talking to May is good for Abigail.

My Mother asks about our visit to the Specialist and Abigail says that after exhaustive tests The Eminent Specialist had decided that it was probably all the Grandmother’s fault.

My mother nearly believes her.

2010-06-21T13:54:00.000-07:00

Monday 7th April 2008.

Tooth. Very Attractive Brother. Computer Brother.

Perfect Brother.

My Mother rang.

‘I am so depressed.’ she said. ‘I am never going out ever again ! My dentist has pulled out my front tooth and now I have to wear a plate until December when my titanium bone bridge will have amalgamated with my jaw and I can have an implant like May. Listen, I am lisping. Can you hear me lisping?’

I say.’I really like lisps. I think lisps are rather attractive.’

My Mother says ‘No, but you don’t understand. I have to take it out at night ! I rang Barbara’s son William who is a professor of dentistry at Guys and Barts and he said I quite literally have to take it out at night and I will be hideous every night. What if there’s a fire and I can’t find it in the dark ? I will burn to death.’

I say ‘Why do you have to take it out at night?’

My Mother says ‘Well, William says it’s because I could choke to death on it. I rang May to find out if she took hers out at night and she said she didn’t because it had 6 teeth on it and you couldn’t possibly choke on 6 teeth. Mine only has one tooth and it’s tiny. I will have to stay in the house until December. What shall I do ? I’m lisping !’

Then she says ‘Olivia rang me, pretending to be a man called Mr Humphries. It was ridiculous because Olivia sounds like Shirley Temple and she put on a really deep voice. She wanted to speak to Giles but he wasn’t here. Isn’t that the maddest thing you’ve ever heard of ?’

Olivia is my Very Attractive Brother’s ex girl friend.

I say ‘Why did she disguise her voice?’

My mother says ‘I have no idea. Perhaps she thinks we don’t approve of her. Anyway she got hold of Giles and now they are talking of getting back together but Giles is having a relationship with Kitty’s friend Katie from St Ives and Kitty hasn’t phoned me for days. Maybe she’s cross because Giles has hurt Katie.’

Kitty is my Computer Brother, Jay’s wife.

‘No.’ I say ‘Kitty wouldn’t blame you. It’s not your fault is it ?’ My Very Attractive Brother always has problems with women because he is Very Attractive.

‘I know, I know she wouldn’t blame me really.’ says my Mother ‘ But, you see, I am so worried that Giles is making a huge mistake. what shall I do? Am I still lisping ?’

I say, ‘I’ll come to Cornwall. I haven’t been out of London for ages. I’ll bring Maisie and Zac.’ Abigail won’t come because she never leaves London unless she is going to a festival.

My Mother says ‘I don’t know where you will sleep. Peter is coming down with the family straight from Polzeath.He’s been staying in a lovely rambling house in Polzeath, right on the beach, with lots of friends’

‘I expect Zac can sleep on the sofa.’ says my Mother.

Peter is my Perfect Brother.

I put the phone down.

‘What was that all about?’ asks Zac.

I explain.

‘It sounds like Hollyoaks.’ says Zac.

I am quite looking forward to going to Cornwall. We will go on Wednesday. I haven’t seen the countryside since last August. I wonder what it looks like.

When Abigail woke up this morning she said

‘I much prefer Virgil to Homer.’ I think her school fees may have been worth it.

Today Abigail took Maisie shopping in The West End. They bought a pair of black plimsolls, a T shirt and some Krispy Kream Doughnuts. ‘I love buying things.’ said Maisie, when she came home.

‘Look, I’ve put my T shirt over my dress and my jeans look really nice with my plimsolls don’t they. The whole look works doesn’t it ?’

I think Maisie might be growing up.

Cornwall.

I go to Cornwall. I take Maisie and Zac and Evil on the train. I leave John and Abigail at home with Oliver and Buddy.

Going to Cornwall is very stressful. Abigail and John are not capable of looking after themselves and I fear for Oliver. Buddy can look after himself John doesn’t understand that it takes one hour to get to Paddingtion in rush hour and he begins to run a bath at 8.30.am.

John has a hangover from the Press Awards. He had a lovely time talking to the Opposition journalists about their redesign. The Opposition journalists say it is a complete nightmare and that there are Spanish people hanging about in the office like a load of flashy-suited Latino KGB agents telling them how to lay out a British tabloid for God’s sake! John is very happy. The Opposition looks like a low budget version of The Daily Porn. In a spirit of sympathy and for the sake of old friendships, John buys The Opposition journalists lots of beer and wine and, he thinks, maybe, some whisky and now John can hardly move and has infact been poisoned.

I am very cross. I cannot go to Cornwall if John is in the bath when he is supposed to be taking us to Paddington. If I had known that John was going to be nearly dead I would have taken a Premier Cab to Paddington. Now it is too late.

‘If you were going to be nearly dead,’ I say ‘I would have taken a taxi. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to go out and get slaughtered ? Taxis all have Sat Nav now you know, I could have taken one.’

John says ‘Ssssh.’

We drive to Paddington. We are going to miss the train. I don’t have a family rail card. I don’t have tickets. The traffic is stacked up in Camden like you wouldn’t believe. It starts to rain. I resolve to stay in Cornwall for ever if I get there. ‘I’m never ever coming back if I ever get there.’ I say angrily.

John says ‘Yes, fine but could you be quieter about it?’

We get on the train to Cornwall. It is actually moving when we get on it.

John slides away down the platform out of sight and we wave goodbye. I cannot believe that we are actually on the train.

Five hours later we arrive in Penzance. St Michael’s Mount glimmers in the bay, a jewel set in a silver sea. The sky is blue, the sun an exuberant yellow. I love Cornwall.

My chest pain is easing up. My brow which would be horribly furrowed were it not for the fact that it is full of Botox would be less furrowed even if it wasn’t full of Botox. I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. I resolve to stay for ever. I will buy a house and move in with just the clothes we stand up in.

Zac says he would rather go home if it’s all the same to me.

Wednesday 9th April 2008

Cornwall. Planning Permission. The Spanish Armada.

My perfect brother is in Cornwall with his family.

We walk through the woods to St Loy and have lunch by the coast path. Our children climb on a fallen tree and bounce on it’s branches. Maisie swings over a stream on a rope swing. We find a slow worm and it’s tail falls off.

We feed apples to a horse. We feed fish in a quarry. A kingfisher flashes blue and is gone.

The children play viscious games of croquet and rampaging football in the garden with my Very Attractive Brother and my Computer Brother. Maisie and the littlest cousin play endless games of chess and take all of each other’s pieces.

My Very Attractive Brother has a broken heart and won’t talk about it.

My Perfect Brother walks the cliffs in a pinkish dawn and holds his wife’s hand.

My parents are very annoyed that the man next door has planning permission to put another floor on his bungalow and they will be able to see it’s roof from their garden. I suggest leylandii. My father suggests murdering the Chief Planning Officer of Penwith District Council.

Next to the bungalow next door is a huge granite wall. my mother asks the gardener,Wesley, who built it. ‘It doesn’t look at all Cornish.’ says my mother.

‘No,’ says Wesley, who is Lamorna born and bred ‘That wall, it bain’t Cornish. T’was built by darkies in the 60s.’

‘Darkies?’ says my mother.

‘Aye.’ says Wesley ‘They d’come from Spain or some such. We don’t have much truck wi’they, not since they burned the church and killed Squire Keigwin. An’ that wall’s not a proper job neither.’

‘The Armada was in 1588.’ says my mother.

‘Doesn’t do t’forget these things, Mrs Tremain.’ says Wesley. ‘Now where’s that gunnerer to ? I’m sure I put ‘ee down yer somewhere.’

‘I think we should plant some tallish shrubs.’ says my father.

‘Shrubs !!’ says my mother ‘ I know what sort of shrubs you like. Privet and Ceonothus, that’s what.’

‘I think that was entirely uncalled for.’ says my father.

Thursday the 10th April 2008. The Cornishman.

The Cornishman arrives through my parent’s letterbox. The Cornishman is the best weekly newspaper in the entire world.

In The Cornishman I read that ‘Customers have launched a campaign to save a St Ives corner shop which has served the community for nearly 100 years. ‘It’s an absolute bombshell.’ says a local resident.

‘We have art galleries coming out of our ears.’ says another.

I read that ‘Skipper of the Seagulls - Mousehole AFC - Barrie Prowse was accepted to run in the London marathon before his baby daughter was even a twinkle in his eye.’

I read that ‘A chimney fire in Breage on Sunday afternoon proved tricky to handle and required the use of rods and a stirrup pump before it could be extinguished .’ and I read that ‘Along with celebrating it’s 10th anniversary a toilet hire firm in Newquay is flushed with success as it has also won two national awards.’

After reading The Cornisman I feel oddly relaxed.

Later, after a little nap, I decide to buy a holiday cottage. It will be much greener than flying to Greece every summer and I will be able to see more of my family. I scour The Cornishman for likely properties.

Cornwall is stupidly expensive unless you live in Camborne where, frankly, you wouldn’t, but I have high hopes of The Credit Crunch so I select a few houses and I ring the estate agent.

I gather my parents and we set off to view two barns and two cottages and a farmhouse.

The estate agent is called Anthony and I fall instantly and irredeemably in love. Anthony has a tie clip, his shoes are very shiny, he has neat black hair and when he smiles, which is all the time, wings of lines fan out around his eyes. sometimes I forget to listen to what he is saying about ‘nice sized rooms’ and ‘UPVC windows’ and I just gaze and gaze.

The cottages are too tiny, the barn looks like a teenager did it up in the school holidays and got quite bored half way through the job and the farmhouse is hard on a busy road. In it’s favour the farmhouse is inhabited by a Cornish witch who sat at her spinning wheel actually spinning while Anthony showed us round. She said she was just the guardian of the house and that now her stewardship was coming to a natural close. Anthony told us about ‘period features’ and ‘character flooring.’ but as the witch was going to move out of the house when I moved in and I would be left with a few features and a busy road we decided against it.

We say goodbye to Anthony and drive home through a thin veil of Cornish mizzle.

‘Wasn’t he just the most gorgeous thing?’ I say to my mother.

‘Who?’ she asks.

‘Anthony.’ I say ‘He had a tie clip.’ I explain.

‘Now you are just being silly.’ says my mother.

The car rounds a corner and below us we see the sea.

We see Cape Cornwall, we see Sennen Cove and Gwynevor. We see the Wolf Rock Light and through a shifting curtain of rain, shot through with silver by the setting sun, we see the grey humps that are The Scillies on the far horizon.

I think to myself. ‘Go West, young man, and grow up with the country.’ Then I think, it’s a bit late for that.

Tuesday 15th April 2008. London.

We catch a train with hours to spare and come back to London.

London is beautiful. The roads are splatter painted with pink cherry blossom. The trees are bright with new green leaves and the rain has washed all the dog pooh off the pavements.

When we get home the house is very clean and tidy and Abigail is as thin as a stick.

Tomorrow John is flying to Nashville to interview Jack White and he phones from work to ask me if I know where his passport is.

Wednesday 16th April 2008.

John rings me from Newark.

‘Where?’ I say.

‘Newark.’ he says.

‘New York ?’ I say.

‘Newark.’ he says ‘I’ve been travelling forever and I still have to fly to Nashville. The security is apalling, It takes hours to do anything or get anywhere. Have I left my high blood pressure pills on the bedside table?’

I am having a lovely time. It is very peaceful when John isn’t here. I lie diagonally across the bed at night and Buddy sleeps on John’s pillow.

Thursday 17th April 2008.

Today is my mother’s birthday. My mother is 68. I have been on the internet and have arranged for a chiminea to be delivered to her house by Gardens4Less. com.

Most chimineas are overly Mexican with carvings and Mexican motifs, but I have found a really nice one with a simple, naive flower design. I hope she likes it.

I have also sent her some little brushes, one for cleaning mushrooms and on for cleaning vegetables. I don’t need brushes like that because all my vegetables come ready washed from Waitrose.

In the evening, Abigail, Maisie and me watch Come Dine With Me.

Come Dine With Me is such a good programme. Four people who don’t know eachother take turns to cook for the others. They invariabley hate eachother and are rude about eachother’s decor. When the doorbell goes and they invite a guest in , they say things like ‘Welcome to my home.’ They usually can’t cook either.

This time, a man brings a bunch of flowers as ‘A gift.’ His host says ‘Oh thank you. Are those for me? No one has ever bought me flowers before.’

Maisie snorts with derision. ‘What a loner.’ she says.

Abigail says she thinks all the kitchen equipment in the Welsh contestant’s house comes from Bid Up TV.

Later, John rings from Nashville. ‘You’ll never guess who I had dinner with.’ he says.

‘Jason Donavon?’ I guess.

‘No’ he says ‘Guess again.’

‘No!’ I say ‘Who ?’

‘Robert Plant !’ says John. ‘I was just ging into a restaurant with aPR when I bumped into him in the carpark. He spent the whole evening with us.’

‘That’s nice.’ I say.

We saw led Zeppelin at the O2 in a box with Jeremy Clarkson and Tessa Jowell. Tessa Jowell fell asleep out of stress and Jeremy Clarkson said he really didn’t like Piers Morgan. It was a good evening and I liked Robert Plant. he is a very good dancer.

Much later, I go to bed and lie diagonally.

Friday 18th April 2008.

Zac. My Very Attractive Brother.

Zac is behaving very oddly.

He keeps taking showers. He has joined the gym to deal with his hump and goes with Edward the judge’s son who plays rugby and is going to Sandhurst. Zac is cross when we run out of deoderant and he minds if he has no clean socks.

He works very hard for his GCSEs and worries that he cannot get to grips with his Spanish. I ask Zac if he has a girlfriend.

‘No!’ he says ‘Why should I have a girl friend?’

‘Well, have you got your eye on anyone?’ I ask. ‘Apart from Victoria obviously.’

‘There isn’t anyone called Victoria. Why do you think there is someone called Victoria? No one is called Victoria EVER!’ says Zac.

He’s right of course Victoria is not a common name amongst his friends but I thought if I feigned a little knowledge he might cave in and confess all.

‘Why do you keep washing then?’ I ask.

‘For God’s sake!’ says Zac and leaves the room.

Then My Very Attractive Brother rings me.

‘I really can’t cope with this.’ he says. He is crying.

‘Is it Olivia?’ I ask ‘Has she phoned you?’

‘I’m in love with her.’ he says. ‘I miss my family, the girls, I miss them all. And I’m going to hurt Katie and Kitty and Jay will nevr talk to me again.

‘Blood is thicker than water.’ I say. You are part of our family and Kitty has nailed her colours to our mast. Of course she will forgive you. Anyway, that’s not the point. What are you going to do? Does Olivia want you to get back together?’

‘What?’ says my Very Attractive Brother. ‘What mast?’

‘Mast?’ I say.

‘Yes.’ says my Very Attractive Brother. ‘You said something about a mast and nails.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I say.

‘I can’t go through this again.’ says my Very Attractive Brother. ‘Literally.’

‘Never see Olivia again.’ I say. ‘Change your phone number. Move house. Leave Cornwall. It will take you a year to get over her.’

‘ I’m going to see her tonight.’ says my Very Attractive Brother ‘I love her. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She’s more myself than I am.’ he says.

I didn’t know he had read Wuthering Heights.

I quite like Olivia.

John rings me from Nashville. ‘Guess who I had dinner with?’ he says.

‘Ummm.. Robert De Niro?’ I say.

‘No,’ says John. ‘Is Abigail there? You must tell her. It’s so funny...Daniel Bloomberg from Cajun Dance Party!’

Daniel Bloomberg has just chucked his photography A level at Camden School and is releasing a solo album. I think he’s about 17.

‘I’ll tell her.’ I say.

Friday 18th April 2008

Ellis phones me.

‘I am so worried about Hannah.’ he says.

‘Why don’t you come over?’ I say.‘

‘I am in Brighton doing a course in Medical Anthropology. It’s so easy, ‘The course is so boring.’ says Ellis ‘Anthropology is a doddle. Why didn’t I become an anthropologist instead of someone who has to try to stop teenagers killing themselves? The trouble is, I am only using about half my brain and the other half is worrying like mad.’ says Ellis.

‘What are you worried about? She’ll definitely get into that Hogwarts school.’ I say ‘And she’ll be offered a scholarship.’

Hannah only has to poke her nose round the corner of any educational establishment to be offered a scholarship.

‘I’m worried because if Hannah gets in, I’ll lose my daughter and she’ll become all weirdly left wing. She’ll marry a Canadian who won’t approve of me, Canadians are terribly conservative you know. And there’s no way I can afford the fees, so if she isn’t offered a scholarship she will hate me for not being able to pay and her mother’s no help at all. She’ll never get that book published it’s all about Texan rapists and who on earth wants to read that?’

‘She’ll get a scholarship.’ I say. ‘She always gets offered one. Now go back to nice restful anthropology and stop worrying.’

John comes back from Nashville and goes straight to work. The paper is planning a Madeleine McCann pull out on the anniversary of her disappearance and he has to write up his Jack White interview. Is it really nearly a year since that little girl was taken?

Saturday 19th April 2008. Broken Heart.More Food Moths. Jan’s Birthday. John’s mother. Squid.

‘And neither ever found another,

To stop the hollow heart from paining,

They stood apart the scars remaining,

Like cliffs that had been rent asunder,

And neither rain nor snow nor thunder,

Shall wholly do away, I wean,

The marks of that which once hath been.’

I almost quoted that to Giles but decided it would be tactless.

This morning, at breakfast time, Zac said this: ‘It crawled, out of my Weetabix and looked at me. It was disgusting, I nearly ate it. I am never eating Weetabix again.’

Food moths! How? Why? Wheretofore? And stuff like that.

I threw away the Weetabix. I chucked the organic, rough rolled oats. I binned the Puy lentils and squirted a whole bottle of Detox on everything else. It says on the back of the Detox that it is tasteless and odourless so no-one will notice.

After that I remembered it is Jan’s birthday today so I texted him ‘Happy Birthday! I am going to be 45 on Tuesday. It’s horrible !’.

I must introduce Jan to Ellis. Jan seems to have a much better time as a gay man in London than Ellis does. Ellis still thinks Old Compton Street is the hub of Gay Culture but Jan told me that everyone moved on to Vauxhall ages ago and that only old poofs and foreigners hang out in Soho.

No wonder Ellis says London’s gay scene is shy-making. I told him about Vauxhall but he said it was probably full of agressive clubbers wearing chaps and that the very thought filled him with horror.

Jan texted me back, ‘You are only as young as you feel and last night I was feeling a twenty one year old ! Happy Birthday for Tues!’

I really must introduce him to Ellis. Perhaps I’ll invite them for supper together. Jan does wear chaps but I’ll tell him not to, to begin with, or at least not to wear the black leather ones.

I am becoming a fag hag.

John’s mother comes for the day. We take her to Spitalfields to pick up my computer. My computer has crashed and I am afraid I will have lost my book as I never back it up.

It tuns out that although my computer is dead my book is still alive and is saved onto a CD by a Pole. I love Polish people and I feel very happy.

The Polish person tells me that it is ridiculous to write a book and not back it up and she tells me that she will install a Time Machine on my new computer when I buy it.

This sounds very exciting and I am very pleased.

‘I want a new computer for my birthday.’ I tell John.

Later we take John’s mother out to lunch. We go to a Spanish restaurant and John and his mother order paella. I can’t eat paella on account of the squid.

John’s mother says she never eats anything with a face so she supposes it’s OK to eat squid.

I am dumbfounded, but not for long.

I say ‘Do you realise that squid have a distinct head and bilateral symmetry?? Do you not inderstand that they have eyes similar to those of vertebrates and that the giant squid has the largest eyes in the animal kingdom?’ I say ‘There are well documented cases of squid forming emotional attachments, and having complex social structures in wild squid groups.’

John’s mother decides to eat her squid anyway.

I see that I may have cast a pall over the meal and I change the subject.

‘What do you think of John’s interviews?’ I ask. ‘His column is very good isn’t it? His Dolly Parton interview was so excellent, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know.’ says John’s mother. ‘I’ve never read any of it.’

‘What none?’ says John.

No, none at all.’ says his mother.

‘In 5 years?’ says John.

‘No.’ says his mother. ‘It never occurred to me to read it.’

Later, I phone Ellis and tell him about John’s mother.

‘She can’t help it.’ says Ellis ‘She’s definitely on the spectrum.’

Sunday 19th April 2008. Sat Nav.

We go to Chessington World of Advantures and the Sat Nav takes us through every residential street in South London.

Tuesday 22nd April 2008

My Birhday

I am 45.

I AM 45.

It’s no good at all.

I can’t get used to it.

The children bring me presents. Zac gives me flowers, a huge bunch of lilies. Abigail gives me a special chopping machine, and some Neil’s Yard cream and some bubble bath. Maisie has made a beautiful card. John has given me a new laptop. My other computer crashed and the hard disc imploded, was wiped, chewed and mashed and all data was lost.

The Pole in Spitalfields has retrieved my book and installed the Time Machine so I will never lose my book again. I really love Polish people, they are so clever.

I like my new laptop.

John and me go to Goldfish in Hampstead for lunch. Goldfish is a Chinese restaurant of unparalled accomplishment. We meet Abigail there because she has a half day at school. Abigail eats a salad. I eat a cod steak cooked to a level of unparalled perfection. I drop my mobile phone in the water feature next to our table. We drink champagne and feel quite drunk.

Later Ellis comes for supper with his children and Ellie comes with her mother. Ellie’s mother is over 50 and is, probably, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Ellis is 51 and he is enviably intelligant and amazingly handsome.

We have a lovely evening and I am beginning to feel quite used to being 45 and feel that maybe 45 is a good place to be and that it may, infact, be a wonderful year for me.

Thursday 24th April 2008. Book Group.

We are to discuss The Penelopiad by Margaret Attwood at Book Group this evening.

Book group is at Kim’s house and Kim chose The Penelopiad. Kim has made some very nice salads. She made tomatoes with lemon thyme and green beans with chick peas. She also bought some cheese and spinach pies from the Turkish bakery. It’s so nice when someoine else cooks for you.

We don’t quite know what to say about the Penelopiad. We talk about lots of things. We talk about our children’s schools, we talk about the book that Anna is writing, we talk about Florida, we talk about the Mayoral Election campaign and we talk about Just William. Helga is very interested in Just William because, not being English she has never heard of him. We talk a bit about Abigail but I don’t think anyone knows how serious Abigail’s problem is, so we talk again about The Penelopiad.

We decide that the major tragedy for Penelope is that she has such a poor relationship with her son. we conclude that one should never be bossed around by a child care professional.

Saturday 26th April 2008

Katya.

Katya comes over. Katya is Lithuanian she wears a black floor length astrakan coat. She has an assymetric bob and red lips. Katya smells like a wet cat because it is raining and she sweeps past me when I answer the door. Katya is furious.

‘Coffee darlink!’ she says ‘Giff me coffee.’

I put the kettle on. Katya throws her coat across the back of a chair.

‘My father.’ she says ‘Iss a complete bastard.’ She lights a Russian cigarette. I love Katya, she is so interesting.

I make coffee.

‘Black coffee, sveetheart.’ says Katya narrowing her long, dark eyes against the cigarette smoke. ‘No sugar.’

Maisie comes into the kitchen, looks from me to Katya and bolts downstairs to the playroom. Maisie thinks that Katya is Cruella Devill.

I hand Katya a mug of thick black coffee in a Moomin mug. ‘You can be Moominmama.’ I say.

Katya stares at her mug. ‘Don’t be so horribly tvee.’ she snarls and takes a gulp of the scalding liquid leaving a smear of dark red lipstick on the rim.

‘What has your father done?’ I ask. ‘I thought he had died and that you were going to be delightfully rich.’

Katya’s father is a millionaire.

Katya’s father divorced Katya’s mother as soon as the family set foot on British soil, having arrived in Hull on a cargo ship in ‘88 as escapees from the Eastern Bloc.

He came to London, invented Blu-Tak or something similar, floated the business on the stockmarket, bought Kennington before it was fashionable, then sold it to all the gay men when Vauxhall got too full.

Katya, meanwhile, grew up in a tiny flat in Barnsbury. She had high hopes of her father’s death because he had no other children.

Katya grimaces. ‘Zat complete, incontinent, undiciplined bastard hass left everythink to an old Svedish tart who is at zis minute livink in The Dorchester hotel on my fuckink money.’

Sometimes, I think Katya hams up her accent. She has, after all, been here for twenty years.

“Wow!’ I say ‘That’s shocking. Why didn’t he tell you about her? Why The Dorchester?’

Katya and her father had become quite good friends shortly before he died. They’d been out to dinner together just the week before he’d had his heart attack.

‘The Dorchester, becoss it looks like a tart’s boudoir and she is a fuckink tart! And he didn’t tell me becoss I would haff fuckink keeled him!’

Katya does look quite scary. Perhaps her father thought she looked quite scary too.

‘Your poor mother.’ I say ‘What on earth does she think?’

Katya’s mother had hoped that Katya would inherit from her father. Katya’s mother has breast cancer and wants to go home to Vilnius to die, she had hoped that Katya would be able to pay for her journey home and her medical treatment when she got there. This was one of the reasons that Katya had re-established contact with her father in the first place.

I don’t really know what to say. I know Katya will never earn enough money for her mother’s trip home without her father’s money. Katya always gets sacked three or four weeks into any job for being unbelievabley rude to customers.

The last job she had was as waitress in Covent Garden and when a customer complained that his steak was so disgusting he could catch Aids from it. She’d said.

‘Not unless you actually fuckt it, sir.’

Why would anyone employ Katya when they could employ a Pole?

Katya takes a small bottle of vodka from the pocket of her cardigan. She tops up her coffee with the vodka and tosses it down her throat.

‘I must go now.’ she says ‘I am goink to the Dorchester to murder the old tart.’ She throws her coat, which is steaming gentley in the warm kitchen, around her shoulders like a cape and strides from the room. I hear the front door slam. I haven’t seen Katya for 6 months, I probably won’t see her for another 6. This is a good thing. I feel quite exhausted.

Monday 28th April 2008

Dermatologist

I have an appointment to see my Dermatologist. I love seeing my Dermatologist. I pretend that I must, that he is a Doctor and that I am at serious risk of developing malignant melanoma because of my obsessive sun-bathing in the 80s. I imagine that without my Dermatologist I would have Chronic Blepharospasm and that people would cross the road to avoid me, that without his ministrations my whole face would hang limply from my skull like a burst balloon but really I know that he is an indulgence, that I am indulging myself. Yay!!

My Dermatologisthas has a Clinic in Harley Street.

The Clinic is decorated in softest cream with pink accents. The nurses wear pink jackets and have perfect skin. My Dermatologist drives a silver Jaguar. He wears Bespoke Saville Row Suits and has beautifully manicured hands with hard, bluntly cut pink fingernails. He has a country house in Fowey. His voice is quietly confident and he tells me off a lot.

‘Have you been using your Retinol Cream?’ he asks.

‘Have you been using Sun Block?’

‘I notice you have quite a lot of damage to your chest? Do you spend a lot of time on the water, sailing perhaps?’

I hadn’t realised that water and chest damage went hand in hand. I hadn’t realised that my Dermatologists has so slight a grasp of the kind of life I lead.

‘Your face has dropped quite a bit. Perhaps you should consider Fraxel Laser, maybe a bit of filler.’ he warms to his subject ‘Intense Pulsed Light?’ he suggests.

I love my Dermatologist.

‘Are you going to vote for Boris?’ I ask.

‘Yes I am’ he replies and the moment he says that I know that I shouldn’t and I know that I will.

‘Ken’s done an awful lot for London.’ I say.

‘Ken is corrupt and toxic and for sale to the highest bidder.’ says my Dermatologist.

This is more fun than reading the Daily Mail. this is Evening Standard standard.

I like having Right Wing chats with my Dermatologist. It’s so simple being Right Wing. It’s all... ‘I have this. I want to keep this. You don’t have this and if you can’t get it for yourself, tough.’ Brilliant.

My Dermatologist injects my face. He sticks a needle between my eyes and the skin resists and then pops as the needle slides beneath the skin rendering me entirely expressionless.

Wednesday 30th April 2008

Principle.

I am without principle. The most useful thing about principle, according to Somerset Maugham, is that it can always be sacrificed to expediency. But for me there is no sacrifice. Expediency is King, expediency is all there is. I am intrinsically unprincipalled.

Today I went to the petrol station. I needed to withdraw some money from my bank account to pay for Maisie’s tutor. Maisie’s tutor has to be paid in cash because she doesn’t want to be taxed. ‘

‘This Cash Machine will charge you £1.50 for withdrawing money from your account.’ announced the Cash Machine imperiously ‘Do you want to continue with this transaction?’ it added, more kindly.

The man behind me in the queue was wearing cycling shorts. He had a Go Faster bike helmet on and he leaned over my shoulder and said.

‘Oh, does it charge you for withdrawals? I’d better stick to my principles.’ and with that he leapt onto his Pergeuot Racing Bike and sped away.

Personally I wouldn’t wear cycling shorts on principle. Actually I would rather ride a Raleigh Bicycle because they are British.

I am standing on the forecourt of a Shell Petrol Station. How could I possibly allow myself to be here when I consider the ecological and social vandalism perpetrated by Shell Oil in the Niger Delta? I press the button agreeing to accept a charge of £1.50 and I withdraw my money.

I go to pick up Maisie from Claire and Paul’s house. Claire picked her up from school so she and Billie could have a last play before the move to Stalybridge

Paul pours me a large glass of red wine. The wine is a South African Shiraz and it is spicy, intense and meaty. It has a fine berry nose, it has a weight of minerally, tarry fruit. Luckily, nowadays, it s OK to drink South African wine, it’s a shame it is not a Fair Trade South African though.

Claire is very stressed. A work colleague at Stalybridge has accused her of racist behaviour. Claire said that in fact she hadn’t noticed the stupid woman at all, let alone responded negatively to her skin colour.

Paul is very stressed because his father disinherited him just before he died.

Claire says she dooesn’t believe in inherited wealth on principle.

I am relieved about this, and I say ‘I’ve never inherited a single penny in my whole life.’

Paul waggles his head from side to side sarcastically. He thinks because he has his back to me that I haven’t seen this, but I have.

I decide to defuse the situation.

‘I am going to vote for Boris.’ I say.

I don’t think, in retrospect, that, that was the right thing to say.

I collect Maisie and take her home to her tutor. I pay the tutor in cash so that she doesn’t have to pay tax.

I crack open a bottle of Voignier, it tastes of over ripe apricots and orange blossom, after all, Vichy France is very much a thing of the past.

Thursday 1st May.

Boris Johnson

I voted for Boris Johnson.

I know that it was a bad thing to do.

Saturday 3rd May 2008

Blame. Tadpoles.Study Day. Puberty.

Boris Johnson won the Mayoral Election and I feel I ought to take the blame.

Down the road, by The Green, there is a Car Spares shop.

In the window with the WD40, the T Cut and the tree-shaped car fresheners is a bowl of tadpoles, with this message:

‘Come and take some free tadpoles for your pond, make your kids happy.’ it says.

I get in the car armed with our old goldfish bowl and set off with Maisie. I am determined to make my kid happy with a tadpole.

The Turkish man who runs the Car Spares shop scoops lots of tadpoles out of the tadpole bowl and into our goldfish bowl with a tea strainer. Maisie begins to look happy.

Maisie sits next to me in the front seat. On her lap is a goldfish bowl half full of water and in the bowl are lots of very jolly tadpoles. I shut my car door. It won’t shut, I slam it, it won’t slam. I get out of the car and try to slam it from the outside, my car door is broken.

This is a major problem. Maisie begins to look less happy. The man from the Car Spares shop comes out of the shop. He slams my car door, it swings open.

‘You, gonna hafta take it the the garage.’ he says.

The garage is miles away.

Maisie fixes me with a long, ice-blue stare. She looks quite cross.

‘I really don’t want to go to the garage.’ she says ‘The garage is miles away. It’s Saturday, I don’t want to spend Saturday in the car or at the garage. These tadpoles will all die if we drive around London with them.’

She has a point.

The man from the Car Spares shop offers to phone a tow truck.

Maisie looks miserable. ‘Do something.’ she says.

I tell the Car Spares man that we’ll be fine and that I will ring my husband. The Car Spares man shrugs and goes back into his shop.

‘Maisie,’ I say ‘Put the tadpoles on the floor and lie across my lap, that way you can hold my door shut and I can drive home and ‘phone the AA.’

Maisie lies acrss my lap and holds the door shut. It is very funny. When we go round a corner she lets go of the door and it swings open almost killing a cyclist. I swerve left and Maisie catches hold of it again. The tadpoles are slopping about like mad.

Maisie has hiccups from giggling by the time we get home.

My kid is happy.

Ellie comes over to do a study day with Abigail. They log onto MyFace and check the social scene. They talk about Glastonbury. They lay all their books out on the kitchen table next to the tadpoles in the goldfish bowl.

‘Ugh, tadpoles, gross.’ says Abigail.

Ellie says she quite likes them. ‘I really hate history though.’ she says.

‘Don’t you think Abigail is too thin?’ I ask Ellie.

‘It’s always people who are too fat who think other people are too thin. Thin people never tell other thin people that they are too thin.’ says Abigail. She shoots me a warning glance.

Ellie is beginning to look a bit tense.

‘Ellie,’ I say ‘Don’t you think size 6 is too small for someone of Abigail’s height?’

‘Ellie says that she doesn’t know.... really.

‘Ellie,’ I say ‘Just look at her. She is your best friend...’

‘It’s not normal Abby.’ says Ellie and she begins to cry.

Abigail begins to cry too.

John comes into the kitchen. ‘What’s going on?’ he says.

‘They are going to talk to eachother.’ I say ‘And we are going to Hampstead Heath with a picnic, that’s what.’

I shove bread, wine, orange juice and cheese into a bag and we drive to Hampstead.

It is such a beautiful day, the first beautiful day of the summer.

We play rounders and we are hopeless at hitting the ball, we play football. Zac and John are very good at football. We run through the long green grass with Evil gambolling at our heels and we read The Telegraph, just to get the other side of the argument.

Then we come home.

A Perfect Doctor comes over. She has been pick-pocketed on a Bendy Bus. She has had her bag stolen with her keys in it. She blames Boris Johnson.

‘See,’ she says, ’He’s only been in charge five minutes and this happens.’ She decides to stay and have coffee until her husband comes back from playing badminton in the park, he has some keys. She can’t ring her husband because the Bendy Bus pick-pocket also has her phone.

To be fair, Boris Johnson’s only policy is to get rid of Bendy Buses.

The Perfect Doctor has a son the same age as Maisie and they are doing sex education in PHSE at school.

‘How’s Maisie responding to all this sex education thing?’ asks The Perfect Doctor.

‘I think she finds it all a bit confusing.’ I say. ‘The other day she said I would have to support her through puberty because she would be having mood swings. She said lots of her friends have hairy armpits and that she had been told to expect 20 physical changes.’

‘20?’ said The Perfect Doctor. ‘I think that’s very confusing. I can’t think of 20.’

I couldn’t either.

The Perfect Doctor told me that the other day her son, Archie, had called her littlest daughter ‘so gay’. The littlest daughter had asked her father what ‘gay’ was.

The father had explained that ‘gay’ could refer to ‘two men having a relationship and loving eachother’ or that it could mean that you are simply ‘happy.’

The littlest daughter said to her brother ‘Well Archie, I am not a man and I am certainly not happy.’

I said, ‘You could always get her some tadpoles.’

Monday 6th May 2008. Ill. V. Ill.

I still have a chest pain.

It is clearly cancer/ heart attack/pneumoia etc.

I will go to the doctor.

As I obviously have only a short time to live, I will have a cup of coffee first.

There are posters all over London of a man with a flesh coloured strap round his chest and underneath the picture it says:

‘Chest pain is your body’s way of telling you to ring 999.’

I will ring my doctor in a minute.

My chest pain doesn’t feel like a strap, it is more like a clenched fist.

I went to the doctor. The doctor weighed me- ugh gross-if I survive this, I will go on a crash diet.

The doctor took my blood pressure. The doctor made me blow into a tube and listened to my chest. Then she said:

‘Mmmm I think there is a chance that you may have a blood-clot on your lung.’

I said ‘Oh, wouldn’t I be a little bit dead if I had a blood-clot on my lung?’ And she said,

‘Well, no, not necessarily. it’s only if the blood-clot moves to the heart that you have that kind of prognosis.’

That made me feel much better.

I have to go straight to hospital to have an X ray. I must not move to quickly or the blood-clot may move to my heart.

I am a time bomb.

I go very slowly home without making any sudden moves.

If I am a time bomb and have been for about 5 weeks I suppose there is no real urgency, so when I get home I have another cup of coffee. I love coffee. it’s funny how being a time bomb makes one appreciate the simple things in life.

‘What do you mean you’re a time bomb?’ asks John. John is late for work.

‘You can’t just stand there telling me you are a ticking blood-clot bomb. I’m late for work.’ says John.

John takes me to hospital.

He has to be in conference. He has to write some questions for an interview. He has to design a pull-out. This is very very inconvenient.

I have a very very good book with me so I read while John plays Patience on his phone.

Accident and Emergency is full of slightly ill people.

A beautiful boy with soulful eyes is juggling with three silver balls.

A child has a vaguely sore finger.

A Russian man has no idea where he is and he speaks no English, luckily there is a Russian Doctor in A&E and he explains that this is a hospital for people who are a little bit unwell and the Russian man leaves.

A black girl holds her stomach and groans. She can hardly walk but the Russian Doctor tells her to go home.

He has a zero tolerance policy.

Hours later, I see a Heart Specialist. I have an electrocardiogram. I am beginning to feel a bit better, I think sitting about for a very long time, reading a very good book must be good for you.

John is bored by now, so he goes to work.

In my book, two characters are discussing asparagus servers and the relationship of said servers to social class. I wonder what asparagus servers look like.

I have an X ray.

I suppose, now, that they will be able to see the inoperable fist-lump attached to my sternum.

I have a blood test.

I imagine the blood-clot playing fast and loose, careering around my cardio vascular canals or similar.

The Heart Specialist sits down next to me on a small plastic chair in my little cubicle. I am sitting on a small plastic chair too. I am not lying about on the bed because I am not officially ill.

Over the Heart Specialist’s shoulder I see that the black girl is still here and that she has completely collapsed in a heap at the Russian Doctor’s feet and that he is completely ignoring her. I find this quite entertaining and almost forget to listen to the Heart Specialist. I wrench my attention round, as one would a recalcitrant horse, and attempt to concentrate.

‘....some paracetemol’ says the Heart Specialist.

What a waste of a day!

I am never going to the doctor again unless I have a compound fracture of the femur or similar.

Tuesday 7th May 2008.

Quiz Night.

Fraser, Bella and me decide to go to Quiz Night at The Pub, we are, after all, exotically intelligent and well informed.

John says he will come to Quiz Night too, which is a good thing because he knows all about Geography and Sports.

We are bound to win.

We arrive at The Pub with seconds to spare before Quiz Night begins because we forgot that we had arranged to go. We forgot because we had to feed people and tell people to do their homework / revision and to practice their clarinets/ saxaphones/ pianos etc.. and then we remembered about Quiz Night and phoned eachother up.

Quiz Night begins at 8.30.

John is still at work but we arrive at The Pub and we secure a table with room for 4.

‘What shall we call our team?’ asks Bella.

Our team has to have a name. I rack my brain and rush to pick up our question sheets and our picture sheets from the bar. Fraser rushes to buy a bottle of Pino Grigio and a Gin and Tonic because he is on The Atkins Diet.

“Four Play” says Fraser, plonking the bottle of wine on the table with his Gin and Tonic..

‘That makes us sound like a bunch of swingers.’ I say, but we all agree that it is a very good name.

The questions are very difficult.

‘What is the capital of Morocco?’ asks the Quiz Master.

‘Name the highest capital city in the world.’

‘How high is the Eiffel Tower?’

‘Look at picture number three. What is the name of the bridge in the picture?’

It’s all Geography and John is still at work. What shall we do ?

‘What is a baby whale called?’

‘A calf ! Phew!’

John arrives. we show him the questions we have missed.

“Rabat.’ he says ‘La Paz. 320 metres, he says. The Bridge of No Return linking North and South Korea,’ says John.

John is definitely On The Spectrum.

‘Who played Lord Percy in Blackadder series 2 with Rowan Atkinson?’ asks the Quiz master.

‘Tim McInnerny !’ says Fraser. ‘He’s a very good friend of ours.’

We are on a roll.

The team next to us is called The Big Noisy Table In The Middle. They mark our papers and we mark theirs.

The table on the other side are called ‘Hands Up Who Voted For The Biggot.’ and the table opposite them are called ‘Boris and His Bendy Bus Bust Up.’ Everyone seems to be very obsessed with Boris.

I am glad it’s not just me.

Bella says she voted Green and I say ‘Boris says he will plant trees all the way up Borough High Street’.

‘Oh good.’ says Bella.

We win a prize! We beat Hands Up Who voted For The Biggot ! The Big Noisy Table In The Middle misheard ‘Whale’ and guessed wildly what a baby ‘Quail’ might be called, so we beat them too.

We come 8th and win a bottle of wine.

Hurray!

Friday 9th May 2008

Party. Therapist.

I have tried to find a Therapist for Abigail and, so far, I have failed .

Ages ago, Abigail went to the Doctor and the Doctor said she would refer Abigail to a Therapist but she didn’t refer her, so I rang the Doctor who said that another Doctor would refer Abigail, but she didn’t.

I said to Abigail that she should ring the Doctor because she is, after all, 18 and I was beginning to think that the Doctor was beginning to think that I have Munchausen’s Disease By Proxy and was trying to draw attention to myself through Abigail.

Abigail said that the reason that the two Doctors hadn’t referred her was because they didn’t think there was anything wrong with her.

I must say that I think Abigail has a point because she doesn’t look as though there is anything wrong with her. She looks beautiful, in a thin way.

My mother rang and said that I shouldn’t care what I thought the doctors thought but that I should get Abigail a Therapist.

‘People die from this illness!’ she said ‘And I think it very odd that you can find yourself The Best Dermatologist in the country yet seem unable to find someone to see Abigail.’

Actually, I didn’t find my Dermatologist, Fran did because Fran is very glamorous and sophisticated.

Had Fran had anorexia, she would have been able to find a Cognitive Behavioural Therapist to cure her and I would have simply rung her up and asked for the number of her Brilliant Therapist and the problem would have been solved, not that I am wishing anorexia on Fran but it would have been helpful.

Anyway I went into the kitchen and found Abigail sitting on the counter eating a bowl of cereal like a normal person. Then, I imagined her dying, like Lena Zavaroni, on the floor of a bedsit in The Midlands with her dear hands curled into small blue hooks and I went to phone the Doctor again.

The Doctor phoned back and said the whole thing was quite wrong and she was so sorry and that she would send Abigail the numbers of some Private Therapists.

I don’t believe she will.

Two days later a letter came with the Therapist’s number.

It is the wrong number, and I phone a man three times before he tells me that he is Quite Busy actually and that no, he is not a Therapist, but is trying to run a Small Restaurant in Tottenham, if I really want to know.

Then I phone the Tavistock who put me through, then they put me through, again and I leave a message.

Then I phone the Royal Free who put me through, say that The Eating Disorders Department has moved to King’s Cross and give me the number.

I phone The Royal Free Eating Disorders Department in King’s Cross and they say that they don’t take referrals from this area.

I listen to Radio 4, for a bit and then I get a call back from the Tavistock.

I tell the Therapist about Abigail and she says Abigail needs Comprehensive National Health Inter-disciplinary Care not a Private Therapist.

I say, ‘I think she has to unlearn a few bad habits, that’s all.’ I say, ‘Actually the world is full of women from Actresses to Models to Dancers, Jockeys and Gymnasts who have to restrict their weight for professional reasons and that Abigail probably needs a Nutritionist rather than a Therapist.’ I don’t know why I said that.

The Therapist says that in any case they don’t do Cognitive Behavioural Therapy at the Tavistock.

She calls it ‘CBT’. I toy with the idea of using the term ‘CBT ‘in my next phone call and decide against it as I will sound too Clued Up and Munchauseny.

Later Ellis ring me up.

‘Shall we go to a party?’ he says ‘It’ll be fun.’ he says Dominic and Saskia are having a Joint Birthday Bash. You’ll love it.’ he says.

‘I haven’t been invited.’ I say, I am a bit unsure about going to a party to which I haven’t been invited.

I’m at Claire's.’ says Ellis ‘Why don’t you come over and we’ll talk about it?’

‘But I haven’t been invited there, either.’ I say.

‘Come over and have some wine.’ says Claire, in the background.

‘See you in a minute.’ says Ellis.

So, I go to Claire and Paul’s. Paul is still at work. We talk about the move to Stalybridge. we talk about Claire and Paul’s ‘Goodbye Party.’ We talk about the Party I am about to Gatecrash.

‘Dominic and Saskia sound awfully posh.’ says Claire.

‘No, they’re not posh.’ says Ellis, ‘They are Maverick.’

How nice to be described as ‘Maverick.’

I go to the party with Ellis.

John gives us a lift but he cannot possibly come himself because he has Work To Do. Also, I am fairly clear that John would never Gatecrash a party, not even a Maverick one.

The party is very Old School.

It is Saskia’s birthday. In the garden there is a fire pit and Ellis’s youngest lights a roaring fire and everyone is very impressed.

Ellis brought his youngest with him to the party because Hannah has a social life in Enfield and Hetty is spending the weekend in Cumbria with Delia Smith’s Food Photographers Ex.

We sit by the fire. Saskia has a beautiful singing voice and long blond hair. Saskia sings and Dominic gazes at her while he plays the guitar. A fox slinks along the back garden fence and by the time we all realise it is a fox, rather than a cat, it has gone.

I love London foxes, they are so socially able.

A Drummer comes to sit next to me by the fire.

‘Hi,’ he says, in a very Old School way. ‘I’m Guy and this is my partner Suzuki.’ Suzuki is very pretty and nice and Guy begins to talk about Drumming and offers me a puff of his joint.

‘White Stripes?’ I say ‘Don’t you just love Meg?’

Guy The Drummer hasn’t heard of the White Stripes.

‘Nick Mason?’ I ask.

Guy has heard of Pink Floyd, luckily.

‘Are you into The Floyd?’ asks Guy.

He really is very Old School and , I notice, American. I like Americans, they are very good mannered.

‘No I’m not into “The Floyd.” I say ‘But did you know that every household in the UK statistically has a Pink Floyd recording?’ I am surprised that An American Drummer hasn’t heard of the White Stripes.

‘Bonzo Bonham.’ I say ‘The Jimmy Hendrix of drumming, surely.’

‘In that he is also dead.’ says Guy the Drummer. ‘Do you want a drink? I’ll get you a drink shall I?’

Suzuki is standing behind us by the fire. She leans forward to say. ‘Oh, as long as she’s got a drink, everything’s OK is it?’

I decide to go and find Ellis.

It is 3.30 and Ellis’s youngest has fallen asleep on a heap of velvet cushions under the dining room table. He looks like a cherub.

I phone Premier Cabs and we say ‘Goodbye’and, picking up the cherub from his velvet nest, we go home.

I Love Premier Cabs.

Monday 12th May 2008. Athena. IQ.

Athena comes for coffee. Athena has been in this country for 42 years, she is a Greek Cypriot. She used to be my next door neighbour.

When we moved into our last house I was very pregnant with Zac and Abigail was 20 months old.

Abigail had no shoes because, what with the move and everything, I had had no time to buy her any, so we arrived in Cumberthorpe Road in disarray and.... shoeless.

I looked up and down the street and noticed, for the first time, the number of boarded up hoiuses.

I noticed the derelict cars and I noticed that the house we had just bought was actually a bit of a slum.

Suddenly, just as Zac was doing his third head flip inside me, due to massive doses of adrenaline and other mutitudinous stress hormones, the door of the downstairs flat next door flew open and Athena stood on the step.

‘Why has that child no shoes?’ she asked. ‘I will look after her. You move into your house and I will make coffee. I am Athena.’ she said ‘I own this street. 34 years I have been here. I look after my grandson during the week. How is it your child have no shoes?

I have loved Athena ever since.

Athena taught me to make stuffed vine leaves. She taught me how to make thick sweet Greek coffee. She made dyed Easter Eggs for my children at Greek Easter Time. She made special Easter Bread.

Athena told me that the Greeeks and Turks get along fine but they can’t really stand the Kurds who are ‘Mountain people.’ Athena taught me to say ‘Bloody mens.’ when John annoyed me and she taught Abigail to speak Greek. She even persuaded Zac to eat a sausage when he was three years old.

‘She invited Zac to play with her grandson one Wednesday afternoon. ‘Is there anything he won’t eat?’ she asked.

‘Meat.’ I said ‘He doesn’t eat meat.’

Three hours later she returned Zac, flushed with triumph. ‘He does eat meat!’ she said ‘He ate three sausages.’

John’s sister, Byzantia, says that Greeks don’t fully understand vegetarianism.

Anyway, now, Athena lives in Harringey and she comes for coffee. I make thick, sweet Greek coffee, just as she taught me, and Athena tells me her news.

‘My grand-daughter has diabetes.’ she says. ‘My daughter is so shocked. We can’t believe this.’ she says. In Cyprus they are saying prayers for her. They have sent us Holy Oil. My daughter is taking her to Lourdes.

‘Poor little girl, she has to be injected with insulin 3 times every day.’She is only 9 years old.’ she says ‘Honest to Gods, if I could have this illness instead of my grand-daughter I would take it.’

I am very shocked.

Athena taught me something else when we lived at Cumberthorpe Road. She taught me to shrug and say,

‘Well...what can we do ?’

I am very Intelligent, or very Modern or very Middle Class.

When I was 18, I did A level Sociology and I learned that IQ is not a test of intelligence but rather a test of Middle Classness.

When I was 20 I met John’s family. I met his small bespectacled step-brother who was a member of MENSA at just 12 years old.

Upon learning this fact, I told John’s step-father that IQ was a test, not of innate intelligence, rather one that simply tested one’s Middle Classness.

‘The higher your IQ the more Middle Class you actually are.’ I said over-stating my case.

‘You are only saying that because you couldn’t pass an IQ test.’ said John’s step-father and I have thought, ever since, that this may well be the case... until yesterday.

I am a genius! ( or Middle Class)

There was an IQ test in The Observer and I did it all in 1/2 and hour.

I got it all right.

It was easy.

I am horribly Middle Class or, according to the article that accompanied the test, irredeemably Modern.

Yay!!

But I am absolutely not going to join MENSA... ever.

Wednesday 14th May 2008. Neil Diamond.

John and me are going to see Neil Diamond who is doing a Live Show for BBC Radio 2 at BBC Television Centre. John sends a cab to pick me up. John will meet me at BBC Television Centre straight from work.

The cab driver says that his wife is going to see Neil Diamond on Thursday on the Jonathan Ross Show. He says that his son is a BBC Electrician and can get tickets for various things. He asks me what I do. He says,

‘That’s weird, the last person I had in my cab was a writer too. She’s sold a million books...lives in Crouch End.’ he says ‘Small world.’ he says,

I say that my husband John has just interviewed Neil Diamond which is why we have tickets to his show.

‘He’s recording it at the BBC for radio 2.’ I say ‘I don’t love Neil Diamond or anything but he’s a bit of a legend.’ I say ‘He wrote ‘I’m A Believer’ you know. John stood on Neil Diamond’s foot during the interview.’ I add.

I get out of the cab at Portland Place.

John texts me. John is going to be late so I sit on the steps of All Souls Church in Langham Place. All Souls is made of honey-coloured Bath stone. There is a warm wind blowing up Regent’s Street and people are sitting out in cafes, smoking like mad..

Apparently All Souls is the only surviving John Nash church, and although one can have too much of Nash, I am glad it is still here..it contrasts quite starkly with the BBC Building which, in my opinion, would be much more aesthetic had Nash designed that too or indeed if it wasn’t here. ‘Come friendly bombs etc...’ it is quite ugly.

John arrives on time by the skin of his teeth. He had to change the front page from ‘Suicide Bomber Aged 8!!’ to ‘Suicide Bomber Aged 16 !!’ which wasn’t very interesting so he had to change it again to ‘Amy Winehouse / Drugs / Crack yadayadayada..’

John has a very complicated job.

Neil Diamond is a legend.

He tells us he didn’t leave Brooklyn for Manhatten until he was 16. He says he was very poor. He sings Forever In Blue Jeans and dances around with the audience who are mostly a Sub Culture of Die Hard fans in their sixties. He sings Sweet Caroline and the audience hold hands and sing along.

Neil Diamond has the very best Brass Section in his band that I have ever seen. They do Jazzy Moves. They are The Temptations + +. They stand solemnly to attention during the sad numbers. The Trombone player is having the time of his life.

Afterwards, Neil Diamond goes back to The Dorchester (I wonder if Katya’s Father’s ex-lover has her eye on him) and John and I go to Ping Pong next to Libertys for Dim Sum.

Thursday 13th May 2008. Therapist.

I phoned the Doctor this morning to get the correct number for the Therapist that the Doctor had recommended. The Receptionist said that the Doctor would phone me back.

He phoned me back and said he didn’t have the number off the top of his head but that he would ask his colleague for the number and would phone me again.

He hasn’t.

Hahahahaha! And Ha! I'm Not writing any more of this it is a diversion.

2010-06-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

19th March

Insomnia

Rehab

Taramasalata Factory

I burn my candle at both ends,

It will not last the night,

But O my foes and O my friends,

It gives a lovely light,

Also I have burnt my fingers and am covered in wax.

Bloody milkman. Who needs milk at 4 am ? Let’s face it, no one does. He’s just trying to draw attention to himself by waking me up.

I went to Ellis’s last night, or rather, this night only earlier, honestly it’s like having jet lag, I don’t know if I’m on foot or horseback half the time. Anyway, I went to Ellis’s and it’s all true... The back of his house is falling off. The shutters won’t shut and there are beams at knee height in his kitchen. So we had a look and then we went down the road to Vivienne’s for supper.

Vivienne’s husband has gone away on a business trip but she’s not sure where or when he is coming back. Ellis says it’s an abberation that he lives here at all and that really he belongs in Crouch End so it’s a blessed relief that he’s disappeared for all concerned. I am not sure Vivienne agrees but she made a lovely supper with chicken and roasted vegetables. I didn’t eat any but Maisie was with me and she ate masses.

We drove to Ellis’s and on the way we stopped on Wordsworth Way to let a family unload their carin front of us. They unloaded pink balloons, pink wrapped parcels, a cake and spme pink and white baby clothes.

‘Oh how sweet.’ I said ‘A baby girl has been born and they have beautiful pink presents for her.’ Just then, one of the balloons, being held by a very handsome young black man, escaped and skittered down the road coming to rest out of sight in front of a parked Mini. He didn’t notice that he had dropped it so I wound down my window and said. ‘You’ve dropped one. It’s by that Mini.’

‘Thanks, thanks a lot.’he replied rushing to retreive it.

‘Thank you so much.’ said his mum and Maisie and me drove off.

‘I don’t know why,’ said Maisie, tucking a strand of spun gold hair behind her ear, ‘but they reminded me of The Jackson 5.’

‘It was fun at Vivienne’s. We drank wine and chatted. Ellis said that the Bee Man from across the road had seen off the Taramasalta factory.

I said ‘What can you mean?’

Ellis said that Bee Man was so annoyed about the noise from the Taramasalata factory at the back of his house that he had written a 100 times to the couincil and in the end the Taramasalata factory had had to move to Dalston.

Ellis also said that Bee Man’s bees all had fungus and that very soon there would be no more bees. I think this is a good thing because I don’t like bees and all the unemployed people would be able to get jobs pollinating things with feathers and getting back to nature at the same time which would be good for their mental health.

Then I came home, and now I am awake. Perhaps I should get a job as a security guard.

Thursday 20th March 2008.

Townes Van Zandt

Boris Johnson

‘ There’s nothing I ain’t tried,

Fast living, slow suicide.’

I love Townes Van Zandt.

Last time I saw Boris Johnson he was sitting in a Routemaster bus campaigning madly for the job as London’s Mayor.

The first time I saw him I was walking Evil round the park at 7 am.

I was quite alone and it was only just getting light when, suddenly, out of the trees by the tennis courts, burst a man in a vividly red bobble hat teamed with baggy shorts and a flappy T shirt. ‘Help!’ I thought loudly to myself ‘A loony.’ As the loony ran past me I saw that it was Boris Johnson.

The next time I saw him, he was touching each bollard at the edge of the park as he ran past in an attractively obsessive compulsive manner and the very next time, he nodded to me as if to say ‘Hello.’

I could see our relationship becoming more serious.

I like Boris Johnson very much. I think Boris is very attractive.

I began to choose my dog walking outfits with more care. I trained Evil to trip runneres up by getting right under their feet.

I was biding my time.

Then I read Boris’s book ‘Have I Got Views For You.’ so as to sound intelligent and informed as I helped him back to his house after his ‘accident’ and I realised that he is a Tory.

Oh well.

My mother rang. 'Have you and John made up ?' she said.

''Yes.' I replied.

' How ?' she asked ' How did you make up ? One minute you're getting divorced and the next, you're all fine and dandy. How does that happen ? '

' Well, the usual really..' I sighed ' Ennui.'

' En nuit ? Do you mean au lit ? ' she asked.

'No.' I said ' Absolutely not ! Why are we speaking in French ? '

' You started it.' she said.

I am having problems with the idea of going to live in the country.

In The Sun this morning I read that all provincial town centres are over run with marauding yobbos high on a cocktail of alcopops and skunk and that they will kick you to death as soon as look at you.

I read that there is no point thinking you can live in a nice isolated farmhouse either, because one morning you will wake up to find your back garden has been asphalted over, that three hundred gypsies have moved in and that, when not busy taking over the village school, they will be enthusiastically burning rubber tyres under your bedroom window and leaving hangmen's nooses on your front lawn.

According to The Sun there won't be a damn thing you can do about it because Gordon Brown has sold all our Human Rights to Germany.

Perhaps we should just stay here after all.

I am very worried about the Credit Crunch. I don't know what it is, but I keep having an overwhelming urge to take all our money out of the bank and hide it under the bed.

John says we shouldn't worry.

Paul says his father has probably lost all his money in the Credit Crunch but no one will know for ages because he's died.

I am going to phone Barclays and check how our money is doing.

Friday 21st March 2008. Good Friday

‘ If that’s a Good Fiday, I wouldn’t want a bad one. ‘ John Hegley wrote that.

Saturday 22nd March 2008. Easter Saturday.

I was right about March. It has snowed and snowed.

‘What’s the point of snow that just falls down wthout settling ?’ asks Maisie.

What’s the point of snow in March at all ? Snow is for December and January.

It is for crunchy, starry walks back from midnight mass, for snowball fights on Parliament Hill during the Christmas holidays, for ice slides on pavements in the sodium glow of the street lights .... and for ski ing, obviously.

We were fed up so we took Sylvie and Maisie to see Spiderwick in Islington.

Half way through the film, hoodies burst into the cinema through the fire escape and we had stereo entertainment.

‘ Can’t you see the goblins ?’ said Freddy Highmore to his sister.

‘ I need a wank. ‘ said a hoody.

‘ I’m going to eat your face off.’ said Mulgarath the ogre.

‘ I wear shin pads to church.’ said a hoody.

‘ Don’t be so rude.’ said a dad.

‘ My dad’s a Jew.’ said a hoody.

You get that in Islington, it’s what the Sun calls ‘Broken Britain.’ I expect they’d been drinking alcopops.

Afterwards, we went to Ottolenghi and bought broccoli for Abigail’s Easter lunch.

Abigail is much better.

Sylvie went home and now John and me are getting divorced again. I don’t see why we can’t have a normal arguement without divorce, but we are the masters of escalation, it’s why we got married and had children in the first place, most people would have just lived together for a bit.

Sunday 23rd March 2008. Easter Sunday

Ellis comes to save me at 3 am. I am suicdal. Usually, when this happens I sleep in my car but Abigail won’t let me.

Ellis says it’s ridiculous to sleep in a car and that he will give me a key to his house, although, actually, he says, his house is probably colder than my car and that he has hypothermia. Ellis is a very good psychiatrist, he is also vey very kind. I love Ellis.

Easter morning.

I have a BRILLIANT idea.

I will buy a house near Penzance. It will be a small house with a wood burning stove and slate floors. I will buy Maisie a Welsh section C sports horse. It will be a flashy bay with plenty of scope and she will go to the Bolitho School and join their riding team.

Me and Maisie will jump ship and leave the captaining to someone else.. Abigail probably..

Then, John will buy a high spec flat in a new development. It will have bamboo flooring and plasma screens. He can live there with Zac and Abigail and they will be very happy.

I look on the internet to find our new lifestyle. We aren’t rich enough. Oh well.

Ellis comes for lunch. He brings John Hegley, Hannah and her little brother. Hetty is in the South of France with Delia Smith’s food photographer.

John Hegley is a very famous poet. He has been on Richard and Judy and Radio 4. He is one of Ellis’s best friends.

John Hegley stayed the night on Ellis’s sofa and as a result he has hypothermia when he arrives.

We huddle round the fire and talk about the Edinburgh Festival and the Bloomsbury Set. We talk about painted furniture, velvet cloaks and Virginia Woolf.

Ellis says ‘Your house is so tidy.’

I say ‘ It’s outer tidiness is a sign of it’s inner chaos.’

Abigail and John make lunch. She makes Ottolenghi salad and roasted potatoes with toasted almonds and garlic. He bakes a whole salmon. John Hegley goes to King’s Cross to meet a friend.

Abigail eats a piece of lemon tart from Waitrose. We all pretend not to notice.

Tuesday 25th March 2008

Tessa Jowell’s Gypsies.

I told you !

I read in The Sun that Tessa Jowell has a £1,000,000 house in the country and that gypsies have come and put plumbing in her back garden. They have burned some rubbish and parked 30 caravans on some homemade hard standing.

The gypsies said they didn’t know that an MP lived in the house but because they have some Human Rights it will take 8 years for the council to move them.

They said that they are all christians. I was on their side until I read that. Imagine having a load of christians living in your back garden. Nightmare !

Gordon Brown had better buy back those Human Rights as ASAP.

Wednesday 27th March 2008

‘Nothing comes of nothing,’ Mattress, Asians,

‘ Nothing comes of nothing ‘ well, that’s for sure.

Day 2423 in the Big Bother House and I need to order an Ocado shop.

I take Maisie to school. The day is soft and clear. March is doing that thing again, lulling me into a false sense of security, I take my scarf off on the way home and breath deeply, spring is here, for a bit.

Last night I threw Zac’s mattress out of his bedroom window. I was changing his sheets and realised that his mattress had developed a personality and a micro-climate. I think it may be responsible for that piece of ice ‘the size of the Isle of Man’ shearing off from the Wilkins ice shelf in the Antarctic. It’s odd, actually, normally things are the ‘ size of Wales ‘, I wonder which is bigger the Isle of Man or Principality of Wales ? Anyway, apart from global disaster, the upshot of spontaneous mattress chucking was this.

Zac : ‘ Where am I going to sleep ? It’s ridiculous, you can’t just chuck people’s mattresses out of their bedroom windows.’

Me : ‘ I’m sorry but frankly that mattress was beyond toleration, that mattress was alive, that mattress..’

Zac : ‘ Was my bed, actually.’

I explained to Zac that I have ordered another mattress from John Lewis, it’s coming on Tuesday and that he can sleep in the playroom until then which will be nice for him as he can shoot aliens until the small hours without interruption.

Zac : ‘ Can Otto come over ?’

On the way back from taking Maisie to school I met a Perfect Doctor and the man from down the road who runs Jolly Computers Dot Com.

Jolly Computers had a parking ticket because he’d forgotten to renew his permit, Perfect Doctor got one for leaving one wheel over the white line of his bay. Bella saw us chatting and came out of her house to say she had one for no reason at all.

Bella invited me in for coffee.

Bella’s eldest has a place at Chelsea to do a foundation course which is nice.

Her cleaner has a nasty upstairs neighbour who keeps flooding her flat - you get that sort of thing in Islington - Bella’s cleaner says she might do a swap and move back over this way. She said she told her floody neighbour that she’d be choosing the new tenant and they’d better watch out because she might get some Asians in, who’d stink the place out with curry the whole time and leave catering sized bags of rice in the hall that would attract the mice.

‘Is that what Asians do ?’ I asked.

“Yes.’ she said ‘And I can tell you, they’re being a bit more considerate now, that’s for sure.

Friday 28th March 2008.

Ukelele teacher

Stress

Rachel comes over with Daisy. Rachel is very high powered and has a baby. She is training to be a doctor and she is very stressed because Daisy’s ukelele teacher has a ‘ball frying’ ex wife and he has had to cancel Daisy’s ukelele lesson for the third time while he trys to find some legal aid. Rachel is upset because if Daisy doesn’t achieve at ukelele she may not get into Edgeware where they set great store by musical achievement.

Daisy stays the night.

Ellis comes for chip night. Ellis is very stressed because his floorboards have begun to crack.

Ellis orders two sausages at the Chinese chip shop to combat any sibling rivalry.

I make Ellis and me an enormous salad and I cook Tilapia because I think it’s one of the very few fish that one is allowed to eat without destroying the planet, but I might be wrong.

Ellis and me don’t eat chips because we are hench.

Ellis goes home early because he has to take Hannah for an interview in Wales for a sixth form place at an International School where you may end up in Canada or Italy and where you will certainly become Eurotrash and learn to sail.

Ellis’s youngest will stay with me while they go.

Hetty is staying with Delia Smith’s food photographer’s ex-wife who is a very high powered architect and barely has time to turn round and spit.

Later, I get a phone call from Bangalore. The man on the other end pretends to be called Peter and says he is calling from South Africa. I say,

‘If you were South African you would says “Yis” not “Yah.” It’s Ok to be Indian, you know. My grandmother ran the Raj in India for years.’

The man in Bangalore seems rather nonplussed, just as I had planned.

‘ Admit you are in India.’ I say ‘ Are you, or are you not in Bangalore ?’

The man from Bangalore hangs up.

It’s a shame because I had been going to tell him that he was being exploited by a large multi-national and that with his obvious skills he should try to get a Visa and come to England where call centres pay an absolute fortune to out of work actors and Poles and are crying out for Indians.

John comes home very late. there is no news so he has been busy making some up.

He opens his post and finds he has been sent a signed photo of himself and Dolly Parton. It’s very funny and I will have to take it to Steve to get it framed.

John tells me his editor has asked him to find out what sort of music Boris Johnson likes and to take him out to a gig.

That is so unfair.

I want to take Boris to a gig.

Sunday 30th March 2008

March is nearly over. Hurray !

Zac.

Zoo.

Zac has gone to Wiltshire with the Vowels in a very privileged way. He has packed all his clothes because quad biking gets you very muddy. He took a train from Paddington to Chippenham and it cost £42 which is extortionate.

Before Zac went to Wiltshire, he spent some time in the bathroom and asked me to get him some spot cream.

‘Why ?’ I said ‘Are there going to be girls in Wiltshire?’

‘God, Mum.’ said Abigail, who was standing by the cooker eating mange tout with balsamic vinegar, ‘Why do you always ask that ? Will there be girls there ? Will there be boys there ? He’s 16 you know, so what if there are girls there?’

‘Well, I said ‘ A boy can be very vulnerable to girls of that age. Some of them are very predatory actually. My brother was jumped on by a girl when he was 15 and lost his virginity by accident. Maybe Zac should have some condoms with him.’

‘OK,’ said Zac ‘ Can we stop this conversation right now please ?’

‘Yeah.’ said Abigail ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not the 70s you know, when everyone went around having unprotected sex and listening to David Bowie on vinyl.’

‘ OK’ I said ‘ Zac, what’s the fat one called ?’

‘ The fat what ? ‘ asked Zac.

‘The fat girl ?’ I said ‘ And what’s the pretty blonde one called ?’

‘ Melanie... How do you know who’s going ? How do you know there’s a pretty blonde one and a fat one ?’ asked Zac.

Abigail rolled her eyes.

‘ There is always a pretty one and a fat one in all groups of girls.’ I said. ‘The most dangerous girl will be Melanie’s slightly less blonde best friend. Watch her like a hawk.’

Zac rolled his eyes and went to Wiltshire.

I take Maisie and Ellis’s youngest to the zoo. It is a lovely day because March has nearly done with us. The trees are frosted with palest green and the sky is a clear, washed blue.

At the Zoo we agree that the Golden Headed Tamarind is just like Abigail. ‘It even pulls the same face when it’s cross.’ says Maisie. We think Ellis’s youngest is probably a Meerkat and that Maisie is a Slender Loris. I think I am a Camel.

April 2nd 2008

Zac

Ellis

Gillian Mckeith

I am worried about Abigail. Yesterday she ate nothing at all. Today we had this conversation :

‘Abigail I am worried about how little you are eating. If you insist on continuing on your present course you will be ill.

You will have a horrible summer locked up in a loony bin being fed by giant, fat psychiatric nurses with moustaches.

You ate nothing at all yesterday. I insist that you eat something and I insist that it not broccoli or peas.’ I said , authoritatively.

‘God, you’re so making such a meal of this.’ Abigail replied ‘I’m 18. I told you I have a bug. It makes me feel sick. I feel ill, that’s why I’m not eating. It’s got nothing to do with the other stuff.’

‘OK,’ I said ‘In that case, when you are over your ‘bug’ which, oddly, no one else in the house has caught, I want you to eat a bowl of cereal. You need to eat a wider variety of food and you need to reintroduce some protein into your diet.’

‘ This is ridiculous. It’s like living with Gillian McKeith. You’ll be rifling through my pooh next. ‘ said Abigail.

I think that was quite rude, I have no intention of rifling through her pooh in the manner of Gillian McKeith who is a tiny Scottish woman with a hunched up back which I, demonstrably, am not.

Later on, Abigail ate some cereal.

Zac came back from Wiltshire. He spent most of the weekend on a quadbike shooting people with something called a BB gun.

It was terrific fun.

He spent the rest of the weekend in the indoor swimming pool and now he is worried.

‘How do you get muscles ?’ he said. ‘Look at my back, it’s got a lump.’ he said. ‘I’m deformed. Look, it’s terrible. What shall I do ?’ he said.

I looked at his back and his front. Zac is very skinny. Zac doesn’t stand up straight. ‘Stand up straight.’ I said.

‘If you want muscles you have to use weights and you have to do sit ups... I think.’ I said.

‘Otto had muscles and he doesn’t do weights. It’s not fair.’ said Zac ‘And I’ve definitely got a hump, I can’t stand up straight with a hump.’

Zac has got a hump. What shall I do? Why are my two older children such physical messes ? This is bound to be my fault.

‘Did those girls in Wiltshire give you a hard time?’ I ask.

“No’, said Zac ‘The fat one didn’t like me much. What shall I do about the hump?’

I am going to get Zac a personal trainer. It will cost a lot of money, but I can’t have a son with a hump and not try to get him some ‘core strength’ or similar to combat it.

Much later Ellis came back from Wales.

Ellis is exhausted.

I make fish pie.

Ellis’s youngest is ecstatic to see him.

Ellis says. ‘It was a nightmare. The car broke down as soon as we arrived home, and I had to go straight to work. Hannah will be so disappointed if she doesn’t get into that school. It’s like a castle by the sea and the gardens are full of beautiful people reading poetry under trees’

It sounds amazing.

‘I had to go to The Unit in a taxi when I got back. I had to section someone who kept taking all her clothes off and running about on Hampstead Heath whilst threatning suicide.’ went on Ellis ‘And I had my eyebrowes threaded while I was in Wales. Do you like them ?’

He looks like Mr Spock.

Imagine being sectioned by Mr Spock.

‘Then I had to go back to The Unit in another taxi because I forgot to put the girl’s name on the paperwork.’ said Ellis. ‘ There was a police car and an ambulance hanging around waiting for me for hours’. ‘It was so embarrassing. Hannah really loved that school. Have you opened that wine yet ?’ said Ellis

I am glad I am not a psychiatrist.

3am. Insomnia..... how boring.

John is having a dream. It woke me up. I can’t see how John can be having a dream because he has no imagination but he keeps muttering and thrashing about. Perhaps he is reliving an old episode of Doctor Who.

Wednesday 2nd April 2008.

Quiet.

Kate Atkinson.

A whole day of quiet, of silence, of peace.

I have finished ‘One good Turn’ by Kate Atkinson.

I would be very happy if I could write like Kate Atkinson I would also be very rich and living in a honey coloured L shaped farmhouse in the Cotswolds next door to Joanna Trollope and Kate Moss. I would, however, not be happy if I wrote like Joanna Trollope, aforementioned L shaped house notwithstanding.

I don’t expect Kate Moss can write at all but she is very pretty.

Zac has gone to see Arsenal beat Liverpool at the Emirates Stadium where they beat people and he is going to walk home later with a triumphant Arsenal crowd.

Abigail has gone to Posy’s house for a study day. They are going to get The Illiad off by heart for their A Level Classical Civilization.

Maisie has gone to Billie’s house and John has gone to work.

I am having a nice, quiet time.

Thursday 3rd April 2008. April ! Tate With Fran.

Do you want to go to the place that sells lattes in a bowl?

Indian call centrtes

April, hurray ! I love April. My birthday is in April.

Weirdly, my eyes keep filling with tears. I am turning into my mother. I am also morphing into Abigail and will only eat peas. I am becoming Zac and developing a hunch. I am actually Maisie and I write boring lists. I am about to disappear.

Luckily I am not turning into John and I have no urges in the direction of Doctor Who and I am not nearly 17 stone.

I think I must be very tired.

Yesterday I went to The Tate Modern with Fran. I haven't seen Fran for ages because I missed The Brit Awards. Fran was driving her husband Bill's huge new car which is automatic, she didn't know how it worked so she just twiddled all the buttons and pressed 'Drive' and it did.

We went to see some Dadaism. and some Juan Munoz.

I didn't know a thing about Juan Munoz before.

There were wax models holding drums and a room full of laughing men with no feet. There were shadows and boxes and cabinets and bronzes. Now, Juan Munoz is one of my favourite artists.

We also saw some Duchamp and his assorted 'brides' who were machines or chocolate grinders and we saw some Man Ray and Picabia who were his good friends. Just before they all died they got rather disillusioned and did some finger painting.

Afterwards Fran and I had lunch in Ottolenghi in Islington. We had broccoli and quinoa and I took some broccoli home for Abigail.

Fran is very nice I like her very much. She told me Bill is running the London Marathon and he thinks he might die in the attempt. The BBC are tracking him as he runs because he used to be on East Enders so his death will be televised. I said I would sponser him if he promises to win.

Fran told me her daughter Dulcie is going to Manchester University and she told me that Abigail will get over her anorexia. She also told me how a hairdresser had cut off all her hair which she had just grown back after her chemotherapy and that put some of my issues into perspective. Bloody hairdressers. Fortunately short hair suits her.

In the evening I went out for supper with John. We went to a fish restaurant in Islington and it was very good. Rather oddly it was full of black cab drivers.

At the restaurant John and me drank too much wine and we came home full of resolve to tackle Abigail's eating disorder with some tough love. Unfortunately she wasn't very receptive to her parents lolling about on the sofa saying, 'For goo'ness shake, why are you sho shtoopid. Jus bloo'y eat shome food!'

Abigail said 'God, you're both complete alcoholics.' And went to bed.

Sunday 6th April 2008.

Snow !! Global Warming ?? America.

Snow. Why ? How ? This is April. This is entirely unacceptable.

I am glad I am not going to see King Lear at The Globe on my birthday. The weather has gone all peculiar.

The Globe has no roof and we would probably be swept away in a mudslide like South Americans, sucked into the air by a tornado like people from Arkansas or perhaps killed by an avalanche like people in Chamonix. Phew, lucky escape!

Ellis says, because of global weather shifts, we should buy land and get ready to grow our own food.

A woman in The Guardian says her friend is saving up for a helicopter and is stockpiling fuel.

Will such forward thinkers inherit the earth? Will the meek be ridden over rough-shod, while land owning carrot growers train their submachine guns on the boudaries of their lands, or hover, in their helicopters, over the starving masses?

We really must get our act together.

Next week John and me will go to Derbyshire like Elizabeth Bennett. We will not, however, marry Mr Darcy or hang out at Pemberly like Elizabeth. Instead, we will buy a house with carrot growing potential and also a submachine gun or similar to guard said carrots from the masses.

This has to be a step in the right direction. I wonder where you get a submachine gun from.

Before he goes to Derbyshire, John is going to America. He is going to interview Neil Diamond in L.A. then he is going to Nashville because he likes it, then he is going to New York to get a job on a New York newspaper. If he succeeds, we will have to rethink and buy a carrot, or perhaps, maize growing house in The Hamptons.

Going to live in America will be a good thing. I have never been there, but Americans seem awfully nice on the television and are reputedly very fat which will be good for Abigail’s self esteem.