Stella came round yesterday. She’s had a cut and colour (burgundy red - I kid you not!) and looks absolutely fantastic as per usual. She was dressed in a kind of semi boho ensemble, not always pull-offable for a woman of her age, but she always manages to do it, probably because she has the panache of someone who knows she’s wearing sexy (and matching) bra and pants.Yeah, whatever.
I, of course, was in my customary chez moi mode: long sleeve T-shirt, skanky cardy, jeans that should have been chucked in the washing machine two days ago, no make-up, Olive-On-the- Buses specs, hair all over the place.
Weeeeell, I do wish people would phone before they decide to descend. But on the other hand, it’s only Stella, and she’s used to me. Anyway, I forgave her because she brought hot cross buns.
She gave me a monumental dressing down because I haven’t been entirely truthful with you, my faithful followers.
“Either you’re writing this blog or not. Where’s the next one? You said you were going to write it regularly. You said twice a week. So? Stop being such a flake, for fuck’s sake!”
“I know,” I said, “But I can’t bring myself to put it on the screen. Actually, I can’t even stomach thinking about it.”
“Well, you’ve got to. Stop prevaricating.” Honestly – that’s what she said – prevaricating. I think she’s been reading or something. “Now that you’ve decided to do it, you’ve got to be honest. And you’ve got to put him in.”
Easy for her to say. Easy for her to say because she has the skin of a rhinoceros, whereas I really don’t want the entire world (OK, what is it? Erm, ten of you?) to know what has happened because I feel such a bloody fool. Not for the first time. God forbid I should ever do anything that gives me that 15 minutes of fame because I just can’t bear scrutiny of any kind. This is not because I have anything in particular to hide morally-speaking, it’s just that I can be such an idiot at times.
And anyway, is there some kind of Blogger’s Bible in which the fifth commandment is ‘Thou shalt not omit a single detail’? I think not.
“Stella,” I said, “Now that you’ve eaten the hot cross buns, isn’t it about time you went back to the bosom of your loving family? I’m sure one of them must need a lift somewhere.”
“I mean it! If you haven’t written Him by Friday, you can forget going shopping next week.” She can be ruthless. Last week she offered to be at my beck and call as my personal shopper; she has some uses. I hate shopping; nothing ever fits and I loathe getting dressed and undressed a thousand times to find the next size up or down, so she said she’d be my lackey for the day.
So, either I have a nervous breakdown on my own in Debenham’s… (I nearly did that once in Ikea. When they finally realised they had a nutcase on their hands, they gave me a lad of my own to hoick stuff off the self-service shelves. You might want to remember that – look like a ‘woman on the edge’ and they give you whatever you want!) Or, I spill the beans.
So, the next blog will detail what a complete and utter prat I’ve been. It was the biker chap. In the meantime, I’ve got jobs to do. By Friday. Lo juro. (I think that means I swear in Spanish or Italian – have I seen it in a film somewhere? Or is it part of some quote? Funny, how weird little things stick in your brain.)