R.I.P. Thumper

The play I was involved in ended tonight. I neglected during the course of said play to mention a certain 'extra', who made quite an impression on us all. We were required in the script to be in attendance at the dissection of a rabbit, and it was deemed most appropriate to cast a real, furry, formaldehyde-soaked bunny in the role.  Said rabbit became steadily riper and more rotten-looking as the play progressed, but we continued to wheel him out long past the time when he should have been put to rest. Come the after show party (and admittedly after a few wines), I decided that it was important that Thumper be given a proper Christian burial. So I dug him a grave (while two blokes looked on, glorying at the advances in feminism which allowed them to stand on and watch as a girl with a chronically broken back wielded a spade), and made a cross to mark his resting place, with the assistance of Father Mullarkey. This done, I demanded that everyone join me outside so that a few words could be said over our departed cast-mate, who made the ultimate sacrifice for the show.

Despite taking care to choose a spot in a corner, where the turf wasn't growing properly anyway, I remain vaguely concerned that I may get in trouble for putting our lapine friend to rest in the grounds of the theatre. Still, I maintain that even though we were unable to state in the program that no animals were harmed in the making of this production, we can at least declare that the creature in question was given a good send off. Unless someone gets uppity enough to dig him up or desecrate his grave by pulling up his cross, he will live on in theatre history, providing a charming anecdote to be related to anyone who spots his resting place. Rest in peace, Thumper. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost, amen.

A nice madman for once

Man across the street: Excuse me. Excuse me! Good face. God bless you.

Is it possible to grow old without growing up?

My body is falling apart. I must have slept funny last night, and the agonising pain in my back and neck on waking today is surely a sign of oncoming decrepitude. There are other signs too, which lead me to believe I'm getting old:

• My hangovers are getting steadily worse.
• I carry a huge handbag, which contains dozens of potentially useful items (and many more which will probably never prove useful).
• I look forward to a quiet evening in.
• I'm becoming a hypochondriac. Last week I kept smelling burning and had a series of notable memory lapses, so I actually started looking up the symptoms of strokes and brain tumours on Google.
• I've started complaining about poor customer service. I've even been known to ask to speak to a person's manager when on the phone to companies.
• I like comfy shoes.
• My coat pockets are full of pieces of paper covered in to-do lists and hand-drawn maps.
• I want to tell the girls at the bus stop to roll down their school skirts.
• I actually used the phrase "I want never gets", and I wasn't even talking to a child.
• I have a button box.

Things that do not make me smile

Stepping out of my front door directly onto a baby hedgehog is highly distressing, even when the infant erinaceous in question turns out to be a large nugget of moss thrown from the gutter by a bird.

Phrases I never thought I'd say......

"There's lots of incestuous mole sex"
"Will everyone please stop touching Jesus' penis!"

Perhaps there's a reason why I wasn't assumed up to heaven today, as scheduled.

Weirdo magnet on max

Man: Do you have a knife or a saw or something?
Me: Er......no. Why?
Man: (waving umbrella around vaguely) I can't get this apart.
Me: Why do you want to take it apart?
Man: To see what's inside.

What is it about me and crazy people?

In a bit of a stew

The play is nearly upon us and, as we get closer and closer, the details start to be introduced to rehearsals. Details such as the 'practical' stew in scene three. Our lovely stage manager duly went and purchased a tin of stewing steak, to be served cold with instant mashed potato. Naturally I wasn't looking forward to a stellar gastronomic experience, but even my grade of pessimism couldn't have anticipated just how bad it would be. The thick film of jelly and congealed, white fat on the top of the tin was the first clue to what I was in for, swiftly followed by the reek of cat food that rose from within. As I sat at the table in the 'canteen' and delivered my lines, I pushed it dolefully round my plate. Granted, the sudden engagement with the character was fairly useful, but at some point I was going to have to start shovelling the nauseous mess into my mouth at great speed. I did so, wishing more than anything that I was able to turn off my tastebuds, and the sight of me sitting there with tears streaming down my face as I struggled not to boak must have been too pitiful to bear, as one of my castmates promptly offered to whip up a stew and bring it in to be doled out to me each night. I don't know when I was last so grateful for anything!

Things that make me smile no. 81

Starting an email with the words 'Dear John' never fails to make me feel like a wartime sweetheart sending a break-up letter to her chap at the front.

Home comforts

I'm still decorating my imaginary flat. I aspire to the sort of home that looks like a cross between a junk shop and a cliched British pub. You know, the kind with 'Ye Olde' in its name. The sort of place where people wander around just looking at all the odd bits and pieces hung on the walls or tucked into nooks and crannies. "A dust trap", my grandma would say, but I'll either be hiring a cleaner, in which case it won't be my problem, or just cultivating the dust. Dust is good for you anyway. It prevents asthma. Admittedly only as you're growing up. If you've already got it, dust will pretty much be the bane of your life, making my imaginary flat a death trap full of wheezing asthmatics groping blindly for inhalers.

Accidental elimination of the airway-challenged aside, I am genuinely in favour of the kind of home where an empty surface is an anathema. Impressed as I am sometimes by houses which look like show homes, they never really feel truly homey to me. I don't want to feel obliged to take off my shoes when I enter, even if I usually do so by choice anyway. Coffee tables are calling out to be a repository for stray magazines and junk, the little gaps in front of books on shelves are surely designed to be filled with trinkets and oddities, and the correct place to put the paraphenalia of bits and pieces one sheds from one's person on getting home is wherever one happens to pause first. For me, a clutter of decoration and belongings is what elevates a space from merely being the place where I live, to being my home. It's comforting to me to be surrounded by that imprint of myself and my fellow residents, rather than perching awkwardly in an over-sanitised room, terrified of putting something down in the wrong place or spilling a drink. I want my home to say something about who I am, even if what it says is "My owner is a slattern, an overgrown child and a hater of asthmatics".

Turned it down flat

I went to view a flat on Saturday. I could see from the photos that it wasn't finished and needed a bit of work but, as it was big and looked like a nice space, I thought it was worth taking a peek at. I was worried I was going to fall head over heels in love with it, but there was no danger of that! I could handle the fact that it had been used as a party pad. I wouldn't have minded painting over graffiti and suspicious stains, or living with the ghost of the overdosed druggie who died there (yes, really). The widespread damp problem was another matter entirely though, as was the nasal evidence of previous cat tenants. When all the furniture and carpets have been removed and you still need to stick a perfume bottle up your nose on leaving to remove the lingering stink of ammonia, it's tough to persuade yourself that you might want to go back.

Oh well, I satisifed my curiosity and have at least eliminated one flat from my hunt. Hopefully something more eligible will crop up soon. I'm hoping the latest offer we've accepted on the house will actually come to pass, and the sooner I'm able to move in somewhere new, the better.

Incompatibility

D: We look weird standing next to each other.
M: Yeah, it's that 'we don't look like we should be friends thing again'.
D: Well it's hardly surprising when you aspire to look like you fell out of a fancy dress box, and I aspire to look like I fell out of a post-apocalyptic horror movie.

Things that make me smile no.80

My friend Jackie is documenting her travels around the world via the twin media of blogging and lego. I recommend reading this if you share my love of delightful lunacy. She takes with her nothing but a carry-on sized piece of luggage half full of the afore mentioned lego, with which she will be crafting miniature versions of world heritage sites. Knowing Jackie, the other half of the bag contains tea, bacon and several pairs of the kind of knickers which can be used as impromptu parachutes should unforeseen parachute emergencies crop up. I can't wait to see what happens.

If you can't say anything nice....

What is it about me that makes people so determined to knock me down a peg or two? I'm actually quite happy with the peg I'm on, thank you very much. If anything I could probably stand to do a bit of peg climbing. Despite this, complete strangers seem to be clamouring to put me down on a regular basis. For example, on Saturday a man at a party asked me how old I was and, when I told him, replied "And you're still dressing like that?". Why shouldn't I wear a Mr Men print skirt if I want to? It's not hurting anybody, and my tongue is firmly in my cheek, so why feel the need to tell me that at 26 years old I'm already mutton dressed as lamb? Worse than this mildly vexatious encounter was the man on the bus yesterday who, when I ignored his rude and drunken attempts to engage in conversation with me, leaned in to about two inches from my face and told me that I was "F***ing stuck up for an ugly bird.". Charming. Why does an ugly bird have less right to be stuck up than a pretty one, anyway? That's just uglyist. For all he knew I could be stuck up due to my vast fortune, aristocratic standing or masterful understanding of the history of Mah-Jong. Or maybe I behaved as if I was better than him because I was, in fact, better than him. Not being the one falling over drunk with my flies undone does tend to give me a feeling of superiority. Anyway, I'm choosing to ignore the drunken losers and focus instead on the old man yesterday who looked me up and down in my 1940s-esque outfit, chuckled and told me "Ooh you take me back a few years!". Happy to oblige, sir!

Minicab driver WLTM BBW with GSOH

At about 7:00pm on Saturday night, while on Hackney Marshes, I was hit with the realisation that I was supposed to be attending a friend's play that night. A quick phone call established that I had until 7:45 to get to Old Street. Fortunately this is reasonably close, and achievable with the assistance of a taxi, so I aimed for the nearest main road and crossed my fingers for a minicab office. Having found such a thing and made my needs known to the woman at the counter, she started trying to contact a driver. As he failed and failed to pick up his phone, I started to get more fretful about my ability to make it to the theatre on time. After a while, the lady turned to me and said "Darlin', he's not picking up, but I know where he is. Can you just pop into the pub across the road and shout 'Sidney'. Tell him he's to take you to Old Street, and when he gets back Cynthia's gonna kill 'im". This struck me as embarrassing beyond all reason, but I did it because I had committed to attending this play, and I'm that good a friend (although apparently not a good enough friend to remember where I was supposed to be and leave enough time to get there. It's a very specific degree of friendship, precisely midway between those two points). Having found Sidney and set off, I was forced to politely fend off his very sweet and strangely old fashioned attempts to court me en route; efforts which apparently impaired his sense of direction, since he managed to get lost mere metres from our destination and start heading back the way we'd come. Still, I made it to the theatre with mere seconds to spare, and I should probably be grateful. So if any girls out there would like to meet a sweet taxi driver with a poor internal compass, who just wants to meet a nice cuddly lady, get married and settle down, then all you need to do is pop into the pub across the road from Station Cars and shout for Sidney.

The obligatory wedding post

The wedding was not as traumatic as I thought it might be. It was, as anticipated, an excellent excuse to start drinking at 9:00am and consume vast quantities of barbecued goodness, all in the name of patriotism. Most of our viewing involved bitching about the outfits of some of the guests, and having a bit of a perve on some of the others, which, to be fair, is what we do most of the time anyway. I even got excited enough to have to run downstairs from the bathroom to see the Queen arrive (looking resplendently like an ageing sherbet lemon), and to purchase a commemorative novelty condom, emblazoned with the toothy faces of our royal couple. This will remain on display forever, not because I treasure it, but because I will never use such an example of a product in which effectiveness should definitely be more worthy of consideration than novelty.