Day 53: I Am Surrounded By Snot (And Have A Sub-Monty Python Moment)

There are very few things that make me feel physically sick (or naw-shuss, as our American friends would say). Cucumber, 'seared' fish (i.e. cooked on the outside, cold on the inside), cheap coconut body oil, Elaine Paige. Those sorts of things. But the bile-inducer par excellence as far as I'm concerned is snot. Or phlegm. But mainly phlegm. Even the word's disgusting. That 'ph' and that 'gm'. Urgh. It is also quite obviously onomatopoeic, as I can't say it without gobbing on something. (Usually, to be fair, the enormously stupid cat, but he's too stupid to notice, so it doesn't count.)

Today has been a festival of snot.

In The Car

I pull up at some lights in Putney (don't ask), and a 50 year old man driving a white van and smoking (no doubt) gold Lambert and Butler gobs a greeny out of the window. I feel a bit faint and forget where I am. The man behind hoots me. I drive off.

In The Street

I am going to the Post Office. I cross the road. Two 'youths' eject 12lbs of mucus from their mouths as they pass me. I stumble, and clutch the traffic light.

In The Gym

What's your view of peeing in the shower? I don't care that much, but I wouldn't do it in the gym. Apparently, however, it is acceptable to sing along to Daniel Bedingfield (the gym's playlist is a WHOLE other story), and blow your nose without the help of a clean starched handkerchief. Over and over again. It is also apparently acceptable in polite society to clear your throat and then shoot the contents of your lungs down the communal drain. Past my feet, which are in the shower, being washed.

In The Petshop

Urgh, not her again: the Edinburgh la-di-dah lady now running The Best Pet Shop In Britain. We didn't get on too well last time; she asked me if I lived in Streatham and pronounced the name of the cat tucker I was buying in an over-elaborate French way, as it was a French brand of cat food. (That's like people who say "I am going to Eeekeyah", instead of Ikea, like the rest of us; or tell their friends they are going to Paree and Bar-theh-lonna for the weekend.)

Me: Hello. I need your help. I need a cat bed for a cat who is mad, the size of a medium-sized dog, and likes sleeping on cardboard boxes.

Her: (assume accent of Miss Jean Brodie) Ett the beck, just by the Royy-ale Cann-nin. Mek SHOORRE it is the LENGTH of yourrr EN-IMAL, and in a design you find APP-ealing.

Me: Thank you.

Enter MAN with three brown stains on his t-shirt.

Man: HaveyougotaPARROT.

Her: I'm verreh sorry? Did you say a PERR-OTT?

Man: Yeah. Parrot. Big one.

Her: No perr-otts, I'm afraid.

Man: DoyouhavePARROTFEATHERS?

Her: Noo. Noo feath-urrrs eyether. Hev you tried the INTERRR-nett?

Man: You are TELLINGme youhavenoPARROTS?

Her: No, NO perr-otts, I'm afraid.

The man then starts coughing, and some gob falls from his mouth into the suedette catbed I am holding in my arms.

Man: OK. I tryanothershop.

The lady and I look at each other, and then the catbasket.

Her (Very kindly): Would you mebbeh laike to take ANOTH-URR cet besket from the shelf?

Me (Pale, speaking in a tiny voice): Yes please.

The cat hates his new bed, by the way, and is asleep in my handbag. And I think I've got a cold coming on.

Day 52: I Go To Tate Modern

I went to art school for a bit a couple of years ago. Made an installation out of jellybeans and that. It was good, but by the end of it I realised I wasn't very good at art, unless it had sweets in. Anyway, it was a nice day today, so we went to the Tate and had lunch. Then we went to look at some art made by a man called Pierre Huyghe.

I overheard two blokes on the way in:

Bloke 1: How do you pronounce that then?
Bloke 2: Pierre ...
Bloke 1: Hoo ...hoo ...
Bloke 2: Hoog?
Bloke 1: Hoogey?
Bloke 2: Huey?
Bloke 1: Like the bloke in 'Fun Lovin' Criminals'?
Bloke 2: Maybe.

We looked at all his things, but our favourite was a film that was described thus: "The view is limited to two windows, conveying a mood of isolation, which is heightened by the presence of a single, animatronic penguin." It looked sort of like this:

















We thought it was good, but maybe not as good as my drawing.

Day 51: I Am Yet Again Bombarded By Squirrels

Regular readers will be aware that squirrels regularly hold illegal raves in my back garden, and treat my front garden like some sort of Rodent Alton Towers. My astonishingly stupid cat regularly slips outside to eat some grass (that he can then sick up on the sofa); if he ever staggers in looking alarmed, it's probably because he's been ambushed by the little fuckers and ridden round the garden in a Squirrel Rodeo. They are cheeky little bastards and have no shame.

To prove my point, please enjoy these photographs of a squirrel I observed out of my kitchen window mere minutes ago.

Here he is settling down on my fence to eat a delicious lunch of nuts and seeds left out for the 'lovely birds' (pigeons), by my idiotic neighbour.












And see how he enjoys tucking in! "Yum yum, lovely nuts. I must be the LUCKIEST squirrel in the world."













By this point, I am banging on the window and shaking my fist. He looks at me as if I am mentally deficient, flicks his tail and wanders off, chewing on a monkey nut.











Is it OK to shoot them, do you think? I think I can get an airgun from Toys 'R' Us, and if I get enough of the little fuckers, I'll have me a lovely coat for winter, with perhaps enough to make a hat, from which I can dangle their tails. Sensational.

Day 50: I Should Have Been A Duchess

I think it might be time to do some work. I could get a job, but then I'd have to go to an office, go on public transport and be nice to idiots. I have, however, been considering my 'employment skill set' (as I believe 'Human Resources' people describe them), and have discovered that I may well be qualified to do the thing I've always wanted to do: be a Duchess.

My qualifications include:


1. Like patronising tourists
2. Comfortable charging people £35 to look at my bedroom
3. Keen to be called 'Your Grace' to my face
4. Know how to lay a table and write thank-you letters
5. Can assume demeanor of haughty froideur if crossed
6. Know that wearing diamonds in the morning is common
7. Able to consume 3 strong cocktails before dinner
8. Like horses and dogs
9. Like dusting
10. Like wearing robes
11. Know how to curtsey
12. Can make jam
13. Interested in rare breeds of chicken
14. Can say 'ears' instead of 'yes'
15. Don't mind sharing a bed with a stinking 12 year old labrador
16. Like having staff.

The Duchess of Devonshire is my heroine. Here she is with her rare chickens, smirking to herself because she's just made another £7,000,000 selling Duchess of Devonshire branded jam in her Chatsworth shop. In an interview with The Lady (required reading if you are to be a Duchess; where else does one get staff?), she talks of her relationship with the Duke. Now, I will need to find a Duke if I am to be a Duchess, but apparently, it doesn't matter if I don't like him: I won't be seeing much of him anyway. "My husband and I never ever meet at breakfast," she says emphatically. "I have my breakfast in my room at 5.3Oam. We practically lap each other. He goes to bed almost at the time when I am getting up." (I hope 'lap each other' doesn't mean what I think it does.)

If you're a Duke and you're reading this, do get in touch. I'm not doing much at the moment. And whatever you want to do with the labrador is absolutely fine with me.

Day 49: I Find Jesus (at the dentist, on the golf course, in the bank and at the circus)

I'm not religious and that, but I reckon Jesus was probably a nice enough bloke. However, it seems that Jesus has been getting a bit frisky of late: apparently he woke up a sleeping 50 year old man called Larry Van Pelt (hem) in Florida and told him that he wanted him to do some "special drawings". Or, more specifically, "drawings depicting ordinary people in their everyday environment . . . . with one important addition: the presence of Jesus Christ and His involvement in those routine activities". What's so extraordinary about this particular religious experience is that our Larry couldn't draw at all before the Lord paid him a special visit, but look at him now - don't you just want to touch Jesus' hair?

















Not sure about this one though - he seems to have forgotten Jesus' legs.















And look - He is even with yellow clowns, which seems a bit much, frankly.















Larry's idea is that everyone - no matter what job they do - should know that Jesus is always with them. He has ten years to complete his project, and so far he's covered off insurance clerks, bank tellers, carpet layers and many more. You can see if you can find your job here. I've written to Larry asking if Jesus is with the unemployed, but he hasn't written back yet. Fingers crossed, eh?