It is true, I am disgruntled. I am living out of suitcases and fed up, and have (to my shame) snapped at at least three people today, none of whom deserve it.
But I have just been to the shop (and the postbox) and there, tested to the limits of my very patience. I have been very rude to a complete stranger, and I am almost certain that I would have been as rude to him even if I had been in a really really good mood.
At the postbox I stuff my (very small) parcel into the slot of the postbox. It goes in with a squish. In the (very small) parcel is a book that I am sending to Canadia that I think will amuse someone I am fond of. It is not worth much, but it is apposite and charming, and I would like it to get there.
A man is watching me. He is tall and broad and gingery-blonde. He has an insufferably annoying face, and is leaning in the door of the shop with his arms crossed, shaking his head.
Him: You'll be lucky if that gets there.
The parcel plops into the post box.
Me: Sorry?
Him: You'll be lucky if that gets there. Parcels in the Post Office (points at tiny shut Post Office); letters in the box (points at post box).
Me: (Eyes narrowed) What?
Him: Yes. And I should know. I work for the Royal Mail.
Silence. It is as if he has just announced that he has won the Nobel Prize for Smugfuckery. He puffs up, uncrosses and re-crosses his arms, chuckles* and shakes his head.
Me: Well why the fuck didn't you tell me that before I put in in the box, you twat?
Him: There's no need to be rude. I'm only trying to help.
Me: Oh, just cock off.
I have cheered up now.
* Quite the most ghastly word, but exactly what he was doing.
I am clearing out my flat! I have been here for nine years, and have accumulated many mountains of things.
I must clear some space, because my friend S (who is living here while I try out Canada), has nowhere to put her collection of Wade's Whimsies (she has a collection of over 10,000), and despite having spent a week clearing things out last year, there are still dusty cupboards full of nonsense that seem to endlessly expand.
This clearing and sifting and sorting is both very entertaining and very sad, for even if you are happier than you have ever been (for lots of reasons, and not just ones of pathology), old love letters and photographs and birthday cards from dead grandparents still hurt a little bit.
But I digress and become maudlin and yet - curses! There's more! I have found a thing that I made when I was a very tiny child, possibly no more than 6. It is a school project (in the form of a plain exercise book with things stuck in it) about Horses, and it is really quite good (as well as being informative). But it has confused me, I must confess.
Is it happy? Is it sad? Perhaps it is not so sad; after all, it is not too late - maybe one day I will have a horse, particularly as soon I am leaving London (no room for horses) for Canada (lots of room for horses, and puppies).
Giddy up!
(If you would like to see more of my very early juvenilia, "Horses by Lucy" (c. 1974/5), please let me know - there's more where this came from, including a really good drawing of a bridle and an excellent two-colour plate, "The Points Of The Horse".)
UPDATE!
Due to overwhelming demand (from one person), I will now reveal (for the first time) more pages from my previously unseen juvenilia, "Horses by Lucy".
If you do not know exactly what horses are, you would do well to read this:
If you are not sure which bit of a horse goes where, you might like this. Note: I remember tracing the horse, but the writing is all mine.
Here is some early evidence of my political sensibilities. They did not develop much further.
If I was going to adopt a horse from an Unwanted Horse Centre, I would show them this drawing to demonstrate that I understood exactly what horses need to be clean, dry and happy.
(I am not sure why the sun is red, but I am not going to argue with my tiny, enchanting self; I am sure I had my reasons.)
Coming Next: "Spanish Costume", c. 1983, aged 13. Here's an extract to whet your greedy appetites:
"The Spaniards loved extravagance, yet had simple tastes in foods. They were sensual people although highly religious and these contrasting aspects brought about clothes of great luxury but comparative simplicity of line."
Holy shit. Can you wait? I know I can't, and I wrote it!
It is quite extraordinary! Look what I have learnt in only one afternoon (and evening). It may be something to do with the fact that in London, English is the language that most people speak, and I am English so able to easily communicate with everyone.
Still, you have to admit. This is quite a tally:
Snack Food Is Good For You
Fuck me backwards and call me Delilah. Hula Hoops? Wholegrain Hula Hoops? They must be good for me, particularly as there is "55% less saturated fat" (55% less than what? A whale's arse?), and they are NEW. (And the packaging is brown-ish). I am weeping hot tears of joy.*
Endymion Is Not Endymion
I thought it was pronounced Endymion. According to all cab drivers ever and all of the people in my street, it is "En-Dee-MY-on". After 9 years, no amount of cocking on about Keats is going to prove me right.
Cockney Is In Fact A Derigatory of Cocnai, spelt C.O.C.N.A.I.
I have no comment to make. I merely report, verbatim, what the cabbie said earlier.
I Must Have Children
I am at the dentist. My teeth have been cleaned by my gay-but-not dentist; the weird bleeding gum by my right canine (grr) has been treated with antibiotic gel; the broken filling has been mended (with no anaesthetic. No need. Truth.) I am paying.
The gay-but-not receptionist and I talk for a bit. Then he says something strange.
"A child would be proud to have you as a mother. You are full of energy and life, and slightly dangerous, like you will do anything at any time. You must have children."
This is an awfully nice thing to have said, despite being desperately embarrassing and weird. I buy some toothpaste and leave, feeling dangerous. Tonight, I shall floss thoroughly and use my new paste.
In Germany, They Search Your Handbags In Supermarkets
But apparently only in Heidelberg.
Astonishingly, And Despite What I Have Been Told All My Life, Ian Dury Was Not A Twat
I was given "I Believe" today. It is very good in a weird way (despite the moonshine sparkles in the hair and the painful bit of guitar). Fact.
Claire Sweeney And Paul Ross Are More Important Than The Prime Minister And Richard And Judy
I am confused by this as I definitely think that Richard and Judy are more important than Claire Sweeney, but according to the Indian restaurant near my friends in Kennington (who live in an air conditioning factory), that is not true.
I am not sure how Clare Sweeney (known as "Sweene-Oh" in some circles) knows about the regularity of her local Indian, but who I am to judge?
EDF Are Fools
Also a fact.
As Are British Gas
Another fact.
Foxtons The Estate Agents Are Fucking Awful, Inappropriately Over-Familiar, Over-Priced And Frankly Just Knobs
It is little wonder that I am happy again, for I - Non-workingmonkey - am now back in my natural state: one of literal non-workingness.
It has been over week since I left my last job, and to my delight I am now completely recovered from the ill-effects of working (exhaustion, depression, refusal to see that there is in fact any point in living any more, hives, insomnia, alcoholism). My heart soars when I think of it!
The state of literal non-workingness also means that I have:
a. Lots of time
Which is excellent, despite the fact that I have:
b. Cock-all money.
Still, no matter. My good humour is returned. I am back to normal. I do not have to pretend I like people I don't like, and I do not have to do anything I do not find interesting. (Both of these things break my spirit. I am not, for once, exaggerating for comic effect. It is the absolute truth.)
I am also now - to my delight and, I am sure, yours - strong enough to cast my mind back a week to my leaving party. The photograph you see below is of the cake with which I was presented. It was fashioned by hand by the two ladies on reception, adorned with eight profiterole testes (which, of course, burst forth thick cream when opened), and coated in Lindt chocolate.
(If you are not sure what it is, look carefully: you will see a description of what it is written in sugar balls upon its glistening shaft. I have to confess I wasn't sure, and was very grateful for the clear labelling!)
I was surprised, I must say. I do not see myself as a lover of cock-jokes, nor am I the sort of woman who goes to Ann Summers and laughs until her "crochless panties" split to her coccyx. I do not find male strippers funny, and nor do I go "phwoar" when I see a sweaty fireman. And yet my colleagues (of which more later) insisted on filling my evening with cock after cock.
For example, my leaving present was a URL. It is the name of the book I am definitely going to write, and is called www.whoownstheyes.com. Upon the holding page (which, to my delight, redirects to this exact blog), you will see another cock joke, with a picture of a cock; moreover, it is a cock joke that implies that I talk about cock a lot, which in fact I do not.
I asked my colleagues a bit about the cock thing. I wondered, you see. I was surprised they chose this thing about me, when there are so many other things that are more obvious (my beauty, my charm, my tiny little monkey hands, my pipe, my fez, my affection for scarves and Canadians). But they explained to me that apparently I say "cock" in various forms almost the whole time, incessantly and without end. Phrases I have been known to use include (apparently!):
- cocking hell - cockmonkeys - cockhead - cocking fuckbrains - cock, cock, cockitty cock - fucking cockhead - cretinous cock - cockbiscuits - "I have never heard so much cock in my life" - "He is a cock" - "She is a cock" - "They are all cocks"
So that is OK then.
Some the people I worked with (in America you call them 'co-workers' which implies some kind of co-operative behaviour, and is therefore - in my experience - rather inaccurate) were alright, as it happens, although I cannot pretend I miss it at all (because I don't).
And so, in honour of most of my ex-colleagues (the ones that were not idiots), I leave you with this film in the hope of starting (on their behalf), a new craze. It has been explained to me like this (by another Swede; this is verbatim):
"There is a new trend raising to the surface and it is called Hatting. A extreme sport where you “hat” (toss a hat) to another “hatter” to catch the hat on his head, much like Harry Nilsson triangular toss:.
Watch it for yourself! You may like it. And you may know what "Harry Nilsson triangular toss" means. I don't.
It is true, I am disgruntled. I am living out of suitcases and fed up, and have (to my shame) snapped at at least three people today, none of whom deserve it. 
