Not the greatest hits

Lil’s gone off the rails. This happens every few months, and frankly takes up all of my time, so have hardly had a minute at all to send any sort of abusive missives the way of someone truly AWFUL.

Well, hardly any anyway. We had to split up turf for a start. I let him have The Wolesely, so bloody noisy in there anyway and I simply had to hang onto Cecconi or else I would actually starve. He thought he’d tricked me into giving him Nobu, but of course one couldn’t be LESS bothered about that. I also managed to get all of Soho for promising to not stray beyond Selfridges.

But Lil. Well. It is troubling. I had to speak to that Granny about the whole thing, she doesn’t think an intervention is quite on the cards but she has the Babycham in the chiller in case we need to step in sharply. Lil will simply do anything for a frosty BC. Sometimes it’s the only way to tempt her back, although this time one is tense to say the least that we might need some other sort of carrot. I mean not an actual carrot, as if! She hasn’t eaten a vegetable since the nasty allotment fiasco of 1997. But we can get into that another time.

I ventured out and up to who knows where for my introduction to the crisis. Finding oneself in a sort of Morrisey themed pub was the least of my worries. In he came. Tall, dark and douche in a mess of plaid and leather and silver skull-themed rings on every finger. I snorted. Lil kicked me under the table and told him I was just off to the bar. Indignant I went over and surveyed the land. The bar girl stared down at me intently.

‘Oh, hello’ said I

‘Owright’ said she

‘Your mate goin awt wiv im then?’ she said again

‘Oh. Yes… Why?’ I said and leaned in conspiratorially.

‘Ee’s a right fuckin twat, that’s all’

WELL! I mean if one is the sort to give credence to a complete stranger over ones closest dearest pal, then one would have pricked those ears right up, jumped on over the other side of the bar and got started on mixing ones own vodka special while the bar girl took a load off and told ALL, then that’s what might have happened.

A while later when I staggered back over to the table armed with my special mix (4 part vodka, 1 part lemon, pinch of salt) I saw Lil listening intently while the fool stared down at the back of a cd, his finger tracing through the track listings.

Lil started to say enthusiastically (if not a little dead behind the eyes),

‘Look, Mare, I got him a present! It’s the greatest hits’ she said solemnly, nodding sagely and then held her breath.

His grubby index finger stopped at the last track and tapped. He scoffed and then said,

‘Well alright luv, I mean, there are some good songs on ‘ere, but they’re not the greatest hits.’ And then shook his head disparingly.

She welled up and started to shake.

I honestly didn’t know which way to look.

Then my telephone rang. Everyone looked over at me, including my new bar-girl-pal.

‘Oh.’ I said. I held up the device to my ear and shouted out,

‘Oh darlings! It’s Johnny Marr – he wants his miserable git back.’

THEN! The idiot boy stood up and tossed the offending cd right down onto the floor, made a strange sort of growling sound, pushed the small table aside and stomped on out. And then what do you think, as I turned round to Lil, my face broken by the giant astonished grin I couldn’t hold back, she scrabbled up her belongings, grabbed the vintage Hermes and tottered on out of there away from ME and after HIM.

AGHAST.

MVH

It’s DEFINITELY over now

I know. Incommunicado. Let’s blame Awful James. It’s been a trying few weeks to say the least. What can I say, I’m weak and on reflection he does provide an awful lot of amusement. But this is the last time I cave. The very last.

First there was the Babington House weekend. Full of couples, engagements a go go. Grim! Himself insisted on walking me around the grounds. Tried to get me to make friends with all these dire types. I had to run away at one point for a solo hot tub. He found me. I jumped out immediatement and locked oneself in the bathroom. I came out to find champagne and strawberries. Terrors! With all those ghastly Tiffany sparklers around who knew what on earth he thought he was planning. I faked an emergency work call and got on out of there stat.

Then there were dinners at Nobu. Is it just me or has that place just zoomed on up the common-ator to first place? Hideously full of anorexic pop stars.

Then last week, after Lil and I had had a very fruitful mission a la le shops (me: one Vanessa Bruno jacket, 2 x cheap shoe, 3 x Zara skirt, 1 x falke tight, Lil: 1 x pleather legging, 1 x Acne blamange coat, 1 x Topshop lace top which she insists is a skirt. I insist she buy a skirt). So off we pottered to Cecconi for a purchasing debrief and glass of anything when two things happened.

1. She got a call from the latest nonsensical appendage. This one has a disturbing obsession for Morrisey. Need I say more?

2. After she had MOST RUDELY ditched me for some sort of why isn’t every day Sunday appraisal, AJ telephoned and insisted on coming to collect moi immediatement. He coiffed me right up on mojitos (common I know – see what he does to me?) then took me onwards. I struggled, I tottered, I almost fell into the gutter and then actually as memory recalls… I have no idea.

The next I knew of it all was waking up the next day to this message:

You owe me a treasure chest

Jx

I texted back

Since when were you a Pirate?

M

He said –

Outrageous behaviour last night M, you smashed into the whole table of drinks before I had to taxi you on out of there. Jx

I said,

Taxi me out of where?

He said,

Mahiki! x

I have not replied. And of course shall not be ever again. Can you imagine? One simply can’t entrust oneself to such hideous appropriation. I have mostly taken myself to bed. Tomorrow Lil is insisting I come and scrutinise the Morrisey specimen. Mixed views on this to say the least. 

We shall see.

MVH

A quick note on language

DRY: someone averagely dull

ARID: someone terribly dry

SAHARAN: someone horrifically arid.

MVH

It’s over

With Awful James of course!

I mean really, there are amusing distractions and then there are just plain AWFUL ones.

I really don’t know what came over me at all. Lil had to take me in hand.

I turned up for un petit vodka session at our favourite revolting pub, wearing…

Oh Lord. I did so promise to be honest. Well, I mean. Alright, I was wearing, deep breath…Camel MAXMARA.

I know! I feel ill just thinking back. Thank heavens for ebay is all I can say. Some awful ageing sloane has got a bargain. It went a bit like this…

‘Lil! darling girl – now then what say you to acres of babycham?!’

‘Lil?’

‘Lil are you quite alright, darling you’re just staring at me.’

‘LIL!’

I leant across the sticky fag-burnt table and shook her. I had a hand on each arm. She stared at me catatonically, and then as if gripped by some strange taste demon, suddenly flinched and her hands went up onto my arms.  

‘What is this! What is this! What have you done!’

She screamed.

Her fingers moved into a claw and she gripped into the wool.

She really went quite white.

And then let go, and turned her back to me with her arms crossed.

I took a step back.

I saw my muddy reflection in the dirty window. I gasped.

‘But darling look! I’ve got a Maje leopard on underneath. MAJE darling! MAJE!!’

I quickly whipped off the evil offending item and bundled it under my stool.   

‘Well I should fucking hope so.’ She said.

‘Oh pooh bear, really, you can turn around now. I promise it’s off. It’s off!’

She swivelled in a Bond villain style. Raised up on eyebrow and simply said,

‘Sugar tits, the babycham is on you.’

I shuffled off to the bar immediatement. 

See the thing is, I did really get carried away. Awful James had taken me to Nicole’s for a quick luncheon. It was arid as hell, so I took advantage of the 07 Chablis. He then withered on about buying me something. Obviously I was all for it, but in my inebriated state my vision was imparied. I am SURE I said MiuMiu. He took me by the elbow and angled me into something else altogether muttering something about Mummy loving something. Do I need go on? One Granny-style coat later and he thought he’d won a war. Confused by a giant carrier and evil-ly persuasive sales biatch I was sold.

Thank GOD for Lil is all I can say. I mean as if Grace Kelly would have worn MaxMara to Glastonbury. Or WOULD SHE? This is the other stem of my taste crisis, I mean it’s a very specific concept. And open to all kinds of subjectivity. I mean obviously CAMEL is awful, but then Grace would do camel. Lord knows where this leaves me. I’ve decided to not think about it at all as I’m really not due another sartorial breakdown until at least the 17th December. Until then I’ll just maintain the Hermes scarf on head and worry about the rest later.

And anyway, this has become the least, least thing of my worries, as I am presently off to bloody Putney for supper with brother bore and the awful GF.

Sometimes one wonders when one shall get a bloody break.

MVH

Me, myself and I

Well, since the bore of having everyone else droning on at me about their dull little lives it was high time I gave some attention to moi. Thus I have spent a blissful few weeks (and one does apologise, but I was having too much fun with myself to have  a moment to recount it to anyone else at all) dedicated to oneself.

I languished over at Bliss spa. I trotted up and down Bond Street checking out what things I would like. I popped into Patisserie Valerie for some retro gorging, mmmmmm chocolat torte… mmmmmm. I paraded into Charles Worthington and demanded a full re-style and makeover. I was refused, being told, ‘But darling you are just perfect the way you are.’ This may or may not be true, the last time I demanded a full head-over it sunk me into the depths of depression and there was a nasty incident with a lawyer, so actually one feels that they just wouldn’t dare give in to  me again. ‘Zut Alors!’ I reposted. ‘Well, you can at least paint my nails in a new hue.’ 

I then popped in to scrunch up my face at my botox man. He is still maintaining that I don’t quite need it yet. But I like to check in every few months or so to check on my ageing status. He thinks ‘soon, soon.’ Lord I just can’t wait for it at all, but of course one must defer to the experts.   

Then, right out of the blue, that Awful James popped up on my telephone. I was feeling peckish for champagne so thought it only polite to answer.

‘Hello?’ I said.

‘Mary you gorgeous thing, fancy supper? My client’s just ditched me and I have a table at Bocca di Lupo.’

With only minor outrage, I thought I would like that no end. I drank through it and scoffed down the sea bass. He was on and on about ‘beefa. Lord knows who he’s been fratenising with but there is a distinctive new estuary twang that would be entirely pitiful if it wasn’t so amusing. I took to mimiking every other word that came out of his mouth. He pretended to ignore me. All in all we seemed to rub together in a sort of good company one supposes. I mean not that he isn’t still entirely awful you understand. It’s just that since everyone else is so wrapped up in their romantic dramas, it seems only fair that I adopt one for myself.

I told Lil we were back on. She told me her rollerblade had come loose so she’d have to call me back later.

That was 6 days ago. One does hope she didn’t fall and break her neck.

MVH

I don’t care.

After my aesthetic breakdown and post-trauma Veuve binge – DELICIOUS! Lil went underground. She popped over this morning with a pale little face full of serious woe.

I made her a bloody moi.

Once supped she started to divulge all about her week of love and love lost. Even though she didn’t spare me any such pain, I won’t bore you with the details. She went on for AN HOUR AND A HALF. The boy she met. The dates they had. The revelation of an ex girlfriend who we all know. The inevitable fall out, ‘Yes M, he was THAT Joe.’

Then she said,

‘Oh are you not making more Bloodys Mary?’

I don’t fall out with Lil, we have a rule about that. So instead I told her,

‘Darling, you’ve had me sit here for ONE HOUR AND A HALF listening to your piss poor tale of woe, not asked me a SINGLE thing about oneself, and now you want me to make you another sodding drink?’

She stared right back at me. And gulped.

‘Oh gosh, sugar tits… have I really? Gosh. I am sorry. Here let me get the vodka.’

And that was that. Except that it wasn’t. Once Lil had taken me upstairs and let me run through with her my new sartorial vision, complete with try ons and ums and ahs and intense discussion, she slid off out, chastened, but re-educated in how one should and will conduct a friendship.

Then the Insane One came home.

Crying.

I was very busy trying out silk neck scarves and so really didn’t have time for any of it at all.

She sat downstairs sobbing loudly for at least thirty seven minutes.

Obviously I stayed well and truly put in my boudoir. Then the sobbing seemed to cease. I heard a timid little rat a tat on my door.

I turned up Michael Ball’s showtunes hour on Radio 2.

The door creaked open and in she slid.

‘Oh Mary, oh’ sob sob sniffle sniffle sob sob

Sucking up the snot from her nose she began her tale of woe. Arguments with the insipid boyfriend. Some sort of disagreement over orange squash for the fete and who would go first at face painting.

I snorted.

She carried on.

I stared at her intently. Raised an eyebrow. Coughed. Laughed. Itched my arm. Scratched my head.

She carried on.

Eventually I just had to walk out and draw myself a long hot bath. When I emerged in a sensual steamy wave of No.5 oil she had curled up into a ball right on my pillows.

‘SUSAN’ I bellowed.

She twisted her sullen looking face to me.

‘You better not have got that cheap mascara all over my fresh pillows Susie.’

Sniff, sniff. Cough, cough. She swung around and stood up.

‘Oh, sorry, Mare, no, look they’re fine.’ Nervous giggle, sniff, sniff.

‘Thanks so much for listening. I’ll um, I’ll let you get dressed.’

And with that she backed out slowly, closing the door behind her.

Thanks so much indeed! Like I had any choice! Like she didn’t just plonk herself down on my bed and rant on in the manner of an unwelcome lunatic. And what of me? What of the tales that I might have wanted to tell? But THAT of course is the difference, whilst other dull people think it’s more than acceptable to whinge and whine and moan on about their inconsequential realtionship issues, do I?

Do I hell!

But does anybody ever ASK ME TO?

Do they hell!

What if I had some kind of lobotomy and wanted to ramble on about Awful James and his latest transgression? Do I get asked about it? No. Do I want to be? No. So I really don’t know what I’ve done to be lumbered listening to everyone else droning on about this one and that, and their arid little lives and relationships.

I would like to make just one thing, very, very clear: I DON’T CARE.

I don’t care if you’ve fallen out with your boyfriend. I don’t care if you can’t get the right attention from the boy you want to like you (hint, maybe it’s time to reconsider the jumpsuits, I mean really – with your bottom?), I don’t care if you fancy someone else, I don’t care if you want to gush on about your latest find. I JUST DON’T CARE.

And of course, actually it does beg the question – what on earth kind of vibe have I been giving out to suggest that I would want to sit through this dross?

I can of course only look to myself. Clearly something is remiss in my behaviour. God forbid – do people thing I’ll be sympathetic? Caring? Understanding? Full of uplifting bon mots and slithers of advice?

As if!

MVH

Grace Kelly goes to Glastonbury

It took it’s bloody time. But TEN DAYS after I first sank into sartorial oblivion… there we are.

I have nothing to report since I have been unable to leave the house at all for near on two weeks.

That Jesus t-shirt and I have been through some tough times and for a while there it was pretty touch and go.

Lil’s popping by in a bit.

Let us brace ourselves for the next chapter. And hope that I don’t get my Hermes too muddy…

MVH

Sartorial crisis

I am in the midst of one of my tri-annual sartorial conundrums. The last one back in February put me right out of whack for days: I couldn’t leave the house, answer the telephone, and of course speaking to anyone in that office was a complete no. It was terrible. I spent three days moaning on the floor of my darkened room, half of one crouched down in the bottom of my closet with the hems of my dresses tickling my nose while I rocked back and forth slowly, unsure even of which one I should bat away from me, let alone try and put on. Inevitably of course I wrenched the whole lot from their hangers and sat amongst them on the floor just dying for an epiphany to come.

Eventually I stumbled out into the harsh light of the landing and foraged around in the Insane Flatmate’s domain. THAT WAS HOW BAD IT WAS.

I spent a further two days out-stretched on the sofa in a pair of her paint stained Jack Wills tracksuit bottoms and a Jesus Loves Me t shirt.

As I flicked aimlessly through the stranger end of the television channels and found myself pondering a QVC segment on imitation-zirkonia cocktail rings, the moment I had waited for finally came: Ziggy Stardust goes to Dollywood.

It is a look I have largely remained committed to until this prescient moment. The garments are back off their hangers and lie all around me as I wallow in my sartorial inefficiency on the bedroom floor.

Fear not though, dear reader. I must retreat and maintain this state in earnest. For when the next epiphany makes itself apparent, it will be of ground breaking importance and epic visionary proportions. This is the truth that I must cling onto. Otherwise Lord only knows what will become of me.

MVH

Steak

Lil took it upon herself to surface last night at precisely twenty three minutes past eight.

I was slightly put out as had at that exact moment made a start on severe wardrobe cleansing.

But  there she was, on the doorstep. Wearing no shoes. Clutching onto a copy of The Sun.

‘Have you seen this!’ She screamed.

‘No.’ I said in an underwhelmed voice.

‘Well LOOK!’

I peered down. Reader, what can I say. Sometimes people you went to school with end up on page 26 of a tabloid newspaper. An unfortunate truth of life, but as I said to Lil, at least she’s not page one shagging a footballer.

‘No. But that would have been much more exciting wouldn’t it?’

We of course both concurred that whilst having ones photograph taken for the national press for spearheading some sort of fat-child programme was in some circles, we supposed, commendable. It was irrevocably dull, and we must sever all links immediately.

We went upstairs to try to check her facebook status.

Turns out she was one of the vile 8.

Taking another look at said tabloid page, I noted that she does look rather portly herself. And you should see the shoes.

Lil started to get the shakes and I knew then that we had stayed in the house too long.

‘Oh God, she’s out, she’s out.’

But Lil still looked panic and refused to get up from behind the door screaming,

‘But they could just walk in at any time! Any minute! Don’t you understand!’

‘Well, yes, but they do live here.’ I said.

Even though her high pitched moaning had reached its plateau, I gave in. Lil poor thing has an absolute pathological fear of religious paraphenalia. Which of course Insane Flatmate decks herself out in to preposterous levels (she has Jesus slogan t shirts. And no, she’s not being ironic). I feel  like I am doing my bit for the community by agreeing to keep her housed and off the streets bothering some poor unsuspecting crack heads. Lil thinks I just can’t find anyone else to live with me.We agree to disagree on this matter.

I held out my hand and led her out from behind the door, and into the street.

Her hand instintively went up for a taxi. In we popped and headed over to The Boundary for steak. If you’ve not been, you simply must. We sank four jugs of Sangria before I remembered that I was a) only eating Italian fare b) detoxing.

‘Darling’ I said to Lil

‘Yes my little chicken nugget?’

‘Shall we have a vodka?’

MVH

AWOL

I know. It’s been an age.

But a ghastly thing happened.

I was cut off! From the internet! Of ALL things. Can you believe it? Yes? Really? Excellent.

I can’t possibly track back through all the days and weeks, and actually if one can abbreviate then mostly things happened in the usual way. Insane flatmate behaved in insane ways, Lil was lost and found and lost again, Awful James has thankfully taken himself off to the Balearics (I know, it is a shame. Of course now I can never go there ever again and will have to pretend to hate it) and then so on and so forth.I think I shall just start all anew.

Surely the best thing for everyone involved.

Having been absent from the internet, I have in my return noticed these things –

Our new connection is possibly even slower than ever before.

AJ has a hateful new facebook picture of himself on a yacht. I HATE HIM.

I think 8 people have de-friended me on facebook. Can you imagine!

I have in return culled 15.

And refused 4 requests.

And in the real world?

Our home is such a vile, pit of searing heat that it is all I can do to lounge across the good arm chair and nibble intermittently at some gelato.

Oh did I not say?

Since my recent tripola to Forte Dei Marmi I am only eating Italianate.

It’s just SO delicious!

Lil of course thinks I am insane for eating at all. But some of us are not so predisposed to the naughty salt approach to weght loss. At least not all the time.

MVH