Strange Religious Episode

Ho well, haven’t posted for ages as usual. I’m always promising myself to be a much better blogger, but I get swept up in things, and it just doesn’t happen. It is like dieting. I always want to be much thinner, and intend to do something about it, and then time slips by and I realize I’ve just GOT FATTER. I hadn’t weighed myself for weeks, and a few days ago I noticed my favourite trousers were really hurting round the waist, and had actually given me a sore, where the buckle goes, and so I got on the scales and was just horrified. How could I have put on so much without eating any more than normal? Also, it’s been cold recently, and I thought that made you lose weight.
Anyhoo, work is more stressful, as quite a few people have left, and we have to do their stuff, as well as ours. I asked Jasmine about Michael, and she said that she’d heard his company was really struggling, and he’d been spending a lot of time in the US recently trying to get refinanced or something.
Last weekend I went home, as Jacob was being confirmed, and they wanted me to go to the service. I can’t think why this was happening, as he’s never struck me as religious at all. Also, all the other confirmation candidates were frail little girls in sticky-out frocks, and it was strange seeing this large, shambling teen in a badly-ironed shirt in the middle of it all, with an uneasy smile flickering across his face. Ever since the poisoning incident I’ve been so suspicious of his motives. It’s wrong.

Life Gets Stressful

Well, I’ve spent all week working on a campaign leaflet thingy and being ceaselessly bothered and harassed by the design department who’ve kept demanding it earlier, even though it was impossible to it do that fast. I even took it home, and worked on it in the evenings, which is unheard-of for me. (Mirabelle jumped on my computer keyboard and pressed the wrong keys – just to rack up the tension.) And in the end I had to hand it back before I could do it half as well as I wanted to AND no one even said thank you for all the extra work I did. It left me feeling so let down. Like that famous remark someone once made about working for the BBC, that it made you feel like a mushroom: kept in the dark and with sh*t dumped on you at regular intervals. Really, work is getting so stressful now. Every one is in a state all the time. The designers were almost in tears yesterday.
Just as a sort of relief, because I felt so let down, I spent the early evening doing my hair and make-up and choosing an understated outfit. (Black, of course, plus some amazing gladiator shoes that I can hardly walk in, and cost far too much.) Then I tottered off round to see if Michael was in, and I could have a chat with him. His house was in darkness, and as I got closer I saw a For Sale board outside it.
Anyhoo, I’ve rung his number a few times since then, and I’ve only got the answerphone, so I don’t know what could have happened to him.

A Hostile Environment

Today is Jo’s last day at the office, and you would not believe the amount of cakes she has brought in to commemorate this truly tragic moment. There is even a still-warm apple-cake that she must have baked around 7.30 or so. And home-made chocolate croissants that I’m fairly certain you gave to be up at about 4 a.m. to look after because fresh butter has to be rolled-in then.
She looks a bit tired and harassed. But then she’s very disappointed not to be made permanent. We all thought she would be, because Julia, who had gone off on maternity leave. and who she was covering for, announced she wasn’t coming back after all. (Her husband is a doctor and they’re all moving to his new practice in Scotland.) The firm says they won’t be filling her job for the moment. I find this ominous. Along with the news that they’ve cancelled the Christmas party.

Turnover Newsflash

Re the story about the apple turnovers: there are two to a pack, so the guy ended up with FOUR HUNDRED apple turnovers.

Fat Cats and Apple Turnovers

Ways I am economising in the Squeeze:
1) Cheap catfood for Mirabelle. This also ensures she does not become overweight, making me liable for fine of £20,000 (according to new laws about pets).
2) Take sandwiches to work instead of going to prêt. This is NOT enjoyable at all, as now I either have a high-stress early-morning sandwich-making moment, or stale, damp sandwiches made the night before.(Why do they go damp?)
3) Have started going to Sainsbury once a week. and haunting the marked-down section at the magic hour of 7.30. Moneysavingexpert said this was the thing to do. But it is psychologically quite depressing as you have to hang around a lot and people look at you suspiciously. And the ticketing people grow to loathe you.It’s doubtful whether a few packs of chicken-breasts for 60p are worth this grief. Also, strange trampy types start talking to you. A v smelly man with missing teeth has started turning up at the same time and coming over eagerly to chat to me as a ‘fellow-scrimper’ Last night he told me that his best find was when they marked-down the apple turnovers to 1p a packet. There were 200 packets on offer so he triumphantly bought all of them. For £2. He is so proud of this story, but who would want 200 stale apple turnovers? Except a madman?

Gout, and Reproachful Cats

Oh well, I spent the evening with Rachel and feel much better about everything. After all, the thing I caught is very easily cured, nothing really. And the weekend was still worth it, a brilliant glimpse of another world. And now I know it really isn’t for me, that life. (Also, the food at that hotel gave me terrible indigestion. It was all really perfect,tender prime meat, no vegetables to speak of, lots of alcohol, and divine puddings. Sort of guaranteed to give you gout.) (And wind. I was really glad I was alone for the first few hours after I returned home. Mirabelle kept looking at me reproachfully.)
Rachel thought that Michael looked a bit odd, too. ‘Supposing he WASN’T rich,’ she said. ‘And you were walking down the street with him. Wouldn’t you feel the teensiest bit ashamed?’ This is always Rachel’s test of whether a guy is right or not: whether you feel the slightest twinge of shame or unease to be seen in their company. Trouble is, it is such a hard test for men to pass, really.

Bathing in Chocolate

Well, the good news is that I’m not pregnant, and the bad news is that I’ve got some kind of VD. Not a terrible, life-threatening, incurable kind, but a non-specific sort. I really hate going to the walk in-clinic for this stuff. I hate the way they just assume - kind of half-smiling in reception- that everyone who goes in there is
a) pregnant, or
b) riddled with VD.
And, of course, I hate the way they are right.
When I was being rubbed with hot mud and wrapped in plastic at The Grove, the massage lady had the whole medical thing just right: caring and gentle and concerned. The nurse at the walk–in place was the opposite.
Oh, and it makes me wonder what else has to happen to make going to The Grove with Michael definitely NOT worth it. I feel it’s sort of hanging in the balance at the moment.
Still, at least my local Tesco has ‘discontinued’ luxury chocolate for 39p, so I’m just going to overdose on the stuff until I can drink cocktails again.

The Chocolate Minibar Beckons...

Of course Michael hasn’t been in touch. Rachel and I met up for a drink on Monday night and I told her I was going to go to the walk-in clinic for a morning after pill and she said, ‘Are you mad! If you get pregnant by him you are set up for life!!’
So I didn’t go. But it is very very unlikely I could be pregnant anyway. (Given what happened.) And also I feel angry and suicidal so clearly have PMT.
If I was a man I’d always send flowers afterwards, just to make people feel better.
Still, I have scrubbed out my whole flat, and last night I had a bath with all the White Company soaps and bubblebaths and stuff that came with the hotel room. I was thinking of buying a mini fridge and stocking it up with nuts and chocs, but maybe that is going too far…

Everything With Plums

Well, I’m back at work now, and the weekend all seems even MORE dreamlike. The place we went to was called The Grove. It says on its headed notepaper that it is ‘one of the leading hotels of the world’. Well, it just made me long to be rich. For ever.
When I woke on Saturday Michael was sitting up in bed in a bathrobe, all washed and shaved, tapping away at his laptop. I immediately ran to the bathroom for a long session of using all the complimentary soaps and stuff. And redoing my makeup. When I came out he said we had to rush off to breakfast at once as he had a session booked for me in the Spa.
That Spa! I could happily live in it. I felt a bit full of breakfast when I went in (I was down as ‘Miss Danielle Mazzini’ which was odd, and everyone kept addressing me as ‘Danielle’, which I went along with quite happily. Why not?) I lay in the jacuzzi, I had a sauna, and I half-heartedly did aquarobics with a load of other women (Whose pasty, elderly husbands were lying on beds round the pool, reading newspapers.) The women were obviously first wives, because they were all middle-aged, and quite worn, but with lovely, expensive hair. They were – and this was so comforting – mostly stouter than me. Well, very slightly. I’d been so scared they’d all be supermodels or trophy yummy mummies. After an hour I started a series of insanely expensive treatments intended for Danielle, like mud wraps and facials and foot massages. I was treated as if I was a very precious object – a designer handbag, maybe – and polished and wrapped reverently. Showers were run for me, and I was told not to go to the trouble of picking up my knickers, because of course they would do that. It was amazing. In between I lay in a darkened relaxation room, drinking ginger tea and listening to a tape of goat-herds tinkling bells by the sea.
I finally left about 5, feeling all pink and beautiful and massaged and creamed and de-toxified. Michael had told me I could go anywhere in the hotel and grounds and just have anything to eat or drink I wanted, all I had to do was give my room number and sign my name. (I gave Danielle’s, to avoid confusion.) Wow! It was so great! I had a special detoxifying smoothie, just to round up any last remaining toxins, followed by salad and champagne in the Stables restaurant. (The place has lots of restaurants, all with annoying names.)(If you decide not to have a sweet there, to be slimming, and just order coffee, it comes with a chocolate brownie on the side. Or a ritzy chocolate.) Then I wandered back up to the room, all the staff smiling and greeting me and asking if there was anything they could do for me? I spent ages trying to look incredible. I just wished I’d been able to pack properly, as I’d chosen quite stupid stuff, the way you do, if you are in a hurry. My shoes didn’t really match my long black silk dress with the bow on it. And the dress was a bit tight, despite all the saunas. It looked sausagey.
And finally Michael came back, as I was watching the widescreen TV, lounging on the bed nibbling on the contents of the mini-bar – and we made love. He was very kind. And seemed rather sad. But it was sort of disappointing. He asked me if I wanted to go to the restaurant or have room service, and we settled for room-service, so we could stay in bed. (Caviare, fois gras, lobster and plums. Practically everything on the menu came with plums or plum coulis, it was really hard to avoid them. (There was even a plum on the bedside table, in a stylish, Tate Modern fruit bowl.) The rest of the weekend was a blur of saunaing, and de-toxifying, and having golfing lessons from the golf teacher, and lying in the huge bed feeling incredibly grateful to Michael, and wanting to make him happy, but…well… failing. It’s never really happened to me like that before. Sometimes he actually looked like he was crying. And I wanted to make this good for him, but it seemed that I couldn’t.
Anyhoo, last night he dropped me and Mirabelle back at my flat, and the place seemed so, so shabby and dirty and cheap compared to the hotel. Even the bedclothes. The sheets were really heavy at The Grove, and smelled of some delicious, light perfume…

Life As a Dream (with pumpkins)

Well, I’m having a truly incredible weekend. It’s like a dream. On Friday, after work. I went off to the hairdresser to get my highlights done. I had thought of NOT doing this, being short of cash, but am so, so glad I went ahead with it, as my hair was looking terrible.
Anyhoo, afterwards I had nothing special to do and it seemed a waste ofd my great hair to do nothing with it, so I thought I’d pop into the Cadogan Arms for a cocktail. (I had just enough money in my bag, so did not have to go to the cashpoint, which has been randomly refusing my requests for money this week. It let me have cash Tuesday, but not Wednesday. V embarrassing.) I was just about to order when someone put their hand on my shoulder and said ’The delicious Scones!’ (Well, actually, they used my real name, which, for pointless security reasons, cannot be used on this blog.) I turned round, and guess who it was! Michael. He looked very rumpled and tired, and smelled of drink, and he has a friend with him, and he introduced me, keeping his arm round my waist at all times. So we sat down together, and the friend asked what I did etc and then the two men had a rambling talk, which seemed to be in code, about some company they owned. I didn’t listen, as Michael kept buying me different champagne cocktails and lining them up in front of me on the table and asking me what they tasted like. It was so so odd. He was so affectionate. It was like we were suddenly such close friends. Anyhoo, in the end his friend drifted off, and Michael put his face in his hands and said: ‘Scones, scones scones!’ He shook his head. And then he said, taking my hand, ‘I don’t suppose you would… No, no you wouldn’t.’
It took ages to get it out of him what he wanted, but he said he longed to take me away to a hotel for the weekend, would I agree?’
Well, OF COURSE I said yes! (Who wouldn’t?) He wanted to go STRAIGHT AWAY, so I said I had to go home and get some clothes, and see about Mirabelle etc. And in no time I found myself in a taxi, going to my flat. Michael waited downstairs while I flung stuff into a suitcase. The Japanese girls were not in, so we drove Mirabelle round to Rache’s, where I KNOW she will have a lovely romantic weekend with Oskar the totally-transformed cat. Rache came out to the taxi to have a good look at Michael, giggling, which would have been embarrassing if I hadn’t been so numb from the champagne, and then we were off.
We just sat in the back of the taxi, Michael gripping on to my hand tightly, and drove through the rain. He said, fuzzily, ‘You don’t know what this means to me, my darling Scones,’ and then fell asleep. I had no idea where we were going. It was to a huge stately home type place in Watford.
Michel piled out of the taxi and paid with a huge roll of cash, and then we were in to reception, surrounded by warm air, and polished glass, and incredibly polite staff. And pumpkins. The place was curiously decorated with sort of mad modern art stuff. There were trees with tiny orange paper lanterns on, like fruit, in reception, and the oddest paintings. And piles of pumpkins everywhere. I suppose because it is Halloween. Or was
So we went straight into a very dark restaurant with a vast oil-painting (of pumpkins, of course). And we had a ‘tasting menu’, which is when they keep presenting you with, say, a thimbleful of very salty soup, or a piece of meat the size of a bar of soap, with a squiggle of coloured sauce on it, and then they whisk it away and bring more plates, and more silver knives and forks, and another thimble. And we drank more and more champagne, and Michel kept squeezing my hand and telling me how wonderful I was, and laughing indulgently at everything I said.
It must have been about I a.m by the time we went to the suite, which had a huge four-poster bed. I ran a bath and tried out all the free soaps etc and when I got back to the bed Michael was fast asleep in all his clothes, snoring unbelievably loudly.