Beth and I went to a brilliant, buzzing wine bar for lunch last Friday. She was driving, which allowed me the luxury of being able to drink a glass of deliciously wheaty Belgian beer with my meal. That made me a bit silly and sleepy by about 3.pm, which meant that I couldn't collect my girls from the playground without giving the other mothers the impression that I was a secret gin fiend and completely unfit to be seen out in public. Both true, of course, but I don't want the Christian mothers getting wind of it before I get my request in for their daily prayer vigil. It said in the school magazine that you can ask for them to offer up prayers on your behalf, and I thought I'd ask if they could pray for me to get laid. I don't think it's an unreasonable request, and I'm sure it'll make a change from praying for an end to world hunger or a bigger grant from the county council.

It's not my fault I can't take my drink at lunchtime, and it's not my fault that whenever I go out for a meal I either find a woodlouse on my tomato, a lump of wood in my mushroom, or a shard of metal in my chicken. My girls think it's hilarious, but I'm beginning to think I shouldn't eat out at all.

It was all going so well at the wine bar, until Beth brought something to my attention, which I tried to ignore, and yet was compelled to see for myself. The young girl who served us was displaying an impressive and not entirely appropriate amount of bare midriff, and as she leaned in to place our cutlery before us, she also placed right under Beth's nose, the sight of, well, some hairs.. These were not the sort of hairs that you really want to be that close to when you're just about to tuck into a plate of stuffed squid, and I think she should have prepared us for the experience by giving us an introduction in the manner of an American waitress, by saying something like.. 'Hi, I'm Stacy and I'll be your waitress today. Our specials are all on the blackboard above your head, and my excess body hair is on that naked patch of skin just below your nose. Enjoy your meal.'


I don't think I'm a particularly demanding customer, but I do like to engage people when they serve me. Beth told me a true story once, on the subject of engaging shop assistants in conversation, which I feel I have to share with you. She once knew a very abrasive South African woman who made it her mission to challenge recalcitrant shop staff. If she ever came across a till operative who was monosyllabic or less than eager to smile at her, she would say, in a very loud voice, 'Do you like your job? I'm getting very negative vibes from you. You really should think about doing something else if working here makes you this unhappy.'

The woman was unabashed about embarrassing shop staff in this way, and I think it had something to do with a bad experience she had when working as a trainee nurse on an I.T.U. ward. She was young, but no less abrasive, and had been told that she had to spend her time talking to the coma victims that came onto the ward. One day a man came in, having been involved in a car accident, and she was told that it was her job to talk to him and try and bring him back to consciousness. So every day she sat and talked to the man, about her life, and all the things that were happening in the news, and every day the man lay there, unmoving and ventilated, with not a flicker of recognition passing over his face.


Each day the young nurse carried on talking, day in, day out. Weeks went by, and then one morning she came in to be greeted by the news that the man was awake. She hurried to his bedside to see him, and sat and waited for him to open his eyes. When he eventually did so she told him her name and explained that she was the nurse who'd been with him every day for the previous few weeks. And with that, a look of recognition suddenly flashed across the man's face, and he turned his head to look at her, and said, 'You really irritate me.'


Now that's just the kind of thing that can make a person really quite bitter, but the fact of it was that she was bitter already, because when she recounted the story to Beth, all she could say was, 'What about me? Didn't he think about my feelings?'


I didn't upset anybody yesterday, except perhaps a young girl with mean, kohl rimmed eyes...

I took Rosie girlie shopping as a birthday treat, and we had a rare old time. We strolled around Exeter, looked in every shop that caught Rosie's eye, and bought loads of great stuff with her birthday money. Alice had a great time too, because she was with her Godmother and she just slots right in like an extra member of the family. Rosie was polite to every shop assistant who served her, she was mature and confident, and even when two sour-faced older girls tried to stare her out in Hennes' changing room, she stayed composed. I caught one of the girls starting at me after she'd visually destroyed my daughter, and gave her such a look that she made a hasty retreat for the safety of the cubicle. I don't frighten easily and nobody upsets my girl on her 11th birthday.

Rosie is wearing her new pink combat trousers today, and has taken her sister off to play with friends in the village. I have been left alone to digest the Sunday papers and try to work out how I'm going to conceal the large spot that's just appeared on my cheek. I wouldn't normally worry, but I've got a photographer coming over tomorrow to take my picture for a magazine and I have a horrible feeling that I'm going to end up looking like Jackie Stallone's pustulent older sister.

You can get a nice soft-focus shot by using a dab of Vaseline or a pair of tights over the lens, but I think I'm going to have to put brown paper bag over my head and tell the snapper that I'm having a bit of breakdown, have become delusional, and think I'm Mrs. Potatohead. I'll tell him that I can't possibly take the bag off, or sprouts will shoot from my eyes and my skin will go green.

Women like me shouldn't get spots. Haven't I suffered enough?

Now where did I put that Polyfilla?


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.