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.

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.