Hence last night's turbation

Amadeus

A salutary lesson on the perils of believing in one's own mediocrity.

I've been here!

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Never again

I can't bear it. It is a travesty of justice. That's all I am saying. Yeah. Totty fucking totty.

Mens sana in corpore sano

OK, So.

Wednesday’s events led me to a radical rethink of my life.

And thus it was that I found myself this morning on my back with a forty-something male between my legs, poking around and muttering ‘hmm, yeeeesssss.’

Fear not, dear reader, I had not forgotten my mantra of no meat, no men. This was merely the beginning of a day of serious, high level body maintenance, the object of which was to drag the sad and sagging old carcass that is Lady V back into the modern world and ensure that I am in tip-top condition to face what life may throw at me.

The Lady V rising-like-a-phoenix-from-the-mother-of-all-bonfires went like this:

30 mins with said doctor scraping cells off my cervix (admittedly, not the most fun one could have with a speculum at that time in the morning) in order to verify that my reproductive organs are honeymoon fresh

45 mins with lesbian homeopathic dentist, polishing teeth (so that when the masterpiece is published I look good in the publicity shots)

3 hours reading Vogue at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead (top tip for winter, ladies, black is the new black) waiting for chest x-ray and panicking about bad smoking habit

1 hour working off bad temper caused by x-ray department closing early because it was Friday (swift half of lager, absolutely necessary)

45 mins in library developing mind (what use is the body of a goddess without the brain to match?)

25 minutes buying new pants in Topshop (what use spending hours sweating at yoga developing a bottom like Beyonce's to then encase said arse in old grey rags from M&S?)

15 mins having hot wax poured over lower portions and then ripped off (nobody fancies a faun - unless they are CS Lewis - and who wants to shag a mad Christian?)

2 hours drinking gin and tonics to get over the pain of above activity (trust me, I deserved it)

Il faut souffrir pout etre belle, as the French would say. Handsome is as handsome does, as my grandmother would say (if not, sadly, dead).

Tomorrow I am going to rise from that bonfire of my inner ashes and embrace that elusive quality that has eluded me for so very long: health, health, health, kids.

Yah.

Tick tock tick tock

Wednesday

06.30: Wake to text from friend announcing birth of second child.

06.31: Run to bathroom and retch violently in hideous parody of morning sickness.

07.00: Stand naked in front of mirror. Decide that it is a travesty of justice to have stretchmarks like mine with no child to show for it.

08.30: Stumble to the library, mourning reproductive inadequacy.

11.30: Edit chapter on woman dying in childbirth. Kill her off.

13.30: Go to post office to buy baby card. Wonder why they all have to be:
(a) Pastel coloured
(b) Dotted with exclamation marks
(c) Gender specific

15.30: Smoke fag because it’s harming NO ONE BUT MYSELF.

17.30: Telephone conversation with 7 months pregnant sister
Me: Hello. Do your tits hurt and are your ankles swollen?
Sister: Er, yes.
Me: Good.

20.00: Go to see Lorca play about woman driven to madness because of inability to conceive.

22.00: Play ends with woman strangling husband. Cheer.

22.15: Go to theatre bar with fellow barren spinsters and drink copious quantities of gin.

23.00: Stumble home. Smoke fag for similar reasons as 15:30. Retch.

Freddie and me

I spend the weekend in Dorset with my mother and seven months pregnant sister. We are in the car and for some reason we are listening to Queen’s Greatest Hits. My sister and I are doing what we always do when we are in the car together, regressing to ages 8 and 6 and winding each other up.

‘You know, you’ve always reminded me of Freddie Mercury’ my sister says.
I narrow my eyes.
‘Who? Mum?
‘Noooo,’ she says. ‘You, of course.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘Because I’m a fast-living homosexual who’s going to die young?’
‘Darling!’ my mother splutters.
My sister begins to sing along.

‘Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time
I feel alive and the world it's turning inside out Yeah!
I'm floating around in ecstasy
So don't stop me now don't stop me
'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time
I'm a shooting star leaping through the skies
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity
I'm a racing car passing by like Lady Godiva
I'm gonna go go go
There's no stopping me
I'm burning through the skies Yeah!
Two hundred degrees
That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I'm travelling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic man of you
Don't stop me now I'm having such a good time
I'm having a ball don't stop me now
If you wanna have a good time just give me a call
Don't stop me now
Don't stop me now
I don't want to stop at all
I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars
On a collision course
I’m a satellite
I'm out of control
I’m a sex machine ready to reload
Like an atom bomb about to
Oh oh oh oh oh explode
I'm burning through the skies
Two hundred degrees
That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I'm travelling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic woman out of you


‘Are you saying I lack moderation?’ I enquire.

They laugh and sing louder.

I idly consider throwing myself out of the car.

I get my revenge later with Fat Bottomed Girls.

why?

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a laptop, must be in want, of of a blog....