Unfortunately, the shop was closed. Or perhaps fortunately-I had a wad of notes on me, some time to kill, and a distinct inability to refuse fusty booksellers. When I was a student, I calculated I spent more per term on books-and not ones related to my course, either-than I did on food. But the shop was locked up and dark. Outside the door a plain white shelving unit held a few paperbacks. Whether these were donations to the public or from the public I didn’t know. Being curious, I perused the titles. This is how I ran across the best thing I’ve ever read on a paperback cover: A girl can go anywhere if she believes in herself and has a mink coat.
Well, yes! Indeed! How true, and wonderful! How very Holly Golightly! Uncertain whether the books were for sale or not, but certain this novel was destined to be mine, I deliberated a moment before dropping a pound coin through the post slot.
(Now is a good time to point out that I do not actually have a mink coat. I have a fairly nice watch, and suppose it is the most politically correct luxury item one can get away with wearing. I wouldn’t want to be accused of either animal torture or funding cartels in the developing world. The possible exploitation of Swiss craftsmen is not a daily burden on my soul.)
The book, in case you are wondering, is B. F.’s Daughter by John P. Marquand, he of the Mr. Moto novels. It is the most delicious trash. Think Mickey Spillane meets Francoise Sagan in the lobby of Saks Fifth Avenue. ln 1946. Shopping-and-fucking chicklit really has nothing on this. lundi, le 24 novembre
Does it seem like Christmas begins earlier every year? I think I saw someone hanging Christmas lights last week and I swear my next-door neighbor has had red tinsel in her window since July. Now everyone’s at it, and even though the day is a month away I’m sick of it already. Granted, not being Christian, my tolerance is fairly low.
Rubbish “holiday” occurrences:
• Being asked to wear red, fur-trimmed lingerie, which serves to confirm that only men think this is a good idea. Further, that they must have had very strange childhoods indeed to find Father Christmas a turn-on. Perhaps it is a relief to know that this is a perversion that must be paid for.
• People who use the word “Crimbo.” That’s just wrong.
• The drone of fervent Christians begging us to remember what “this season is really about.” It’s about the blessed appearance of Our Lord Harvey Nichols, right?
• People who are impossible to shop for. In this category is A3, whose only extravagance is a Manchester United football season ticket each year. What to buy the man who thinks he has everything? I ring A4, who helpfully suggests socks.
• Customers who ask what I’ll be doing for the holidays. Simply because I can’t decide what would be a suitable answer-a glamorous lie (pulling Donovan Leitch’s cracker) or the mundane reality (schlepping up north to light the menorah).
But the holidays are great because:
• Whether by divine right or unspoken charter, the entire country decides to piss off work. As a result, no one really expects reliable communication.
• The smell of mince pies. Complicated, passionate discussions involving mince pies. Shopping trips consisting largely of the need to purchase mince pies. Forgoing meals in favor of mince pies.
• End-of-year anxiety equals a spike in workload for me. I feel like the Samaritans of sex.
• Getting to see the people you know and love. Getting to see the people you know and love drunk.
This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from ancient aunties. Bring on the woolly socks and embroidered handkerchiefs, please! mardi, le 25 novembre
I had two customers one hour apart, located only several blocks from each other. The wind and rain were too heavy to do anything but hole up for the duration. So, finding a conveniently located pub near Southwark, I popped in for a drink.
Walked up to the bar and ordered a double rum and soda. One does not often see a stiletto-clad blonde midweek in a pub, but I am accustomed to tumbleweed moments when entering a local. The large screen precariously mounted above the (real) fire was tuned to football. Everyone was watching it, and so did I.
The septuagenarian barmaid aside (or should that be barmatron?), I was the only woman in the room. But the looks I got were neither contemptuous nor salacious. Everyone paused, saw me, then turned back to their drinks and football. The match was clearly an important one.
The ninety minutes ended in a draw. A few men came up from the back table to order fresh pints. One of them stood next to my seat while waiting for his lager.
“When we saw you come in, we thought maybe you were the mascot.”
“Is that so?” I said, rather confused.
“Ah well, it doesn’t matter much, Celtic are still at the top of the group.”
“So they are. I did my best, anyway.”
He laughed and returned to a far corner. It was then I realized my hat, which I’d left on the entire hour, was green-and-white striped, just like the Celtic colors. Some mascot. I drained my glass and left to make the next appointment. mercredi, le 26 novembre
It’s a public health issue, I know.
I understand such feelings perfectly. This job I do, the number of people I come in contact with. Living in a city where disease flies in from all over the world. And the time of year-the festive season when people are out partying, splurging, doing things they wouldn’t normally do because they think, hey, it’s the end of another year, I deserve a treat. Then they wake up the next morning unsure of what they got and whom they were with. And even if you do remember, you never know at the time who has it and who hasn’t.
I’m a disease-spreading vector. No one is safe, sure, but some of us are more at risk than others, even with all the precautions available these days-the free clinics, the vaccinations, the public awareness campaigns.
And it’s important to me. There’s no such thing as paid sick leave for call girls. And God forbid you end up in hospital.
So I want to set your minds at ease as much as I can. I want you to know.
I have had a flu shot. jeudi, le 27 novembre
A late text from the Boy last night:
We were taken out for free drinks after work. Am now in a tree.
It’s cold out there. I hope his rapidly shrinking boyparts make it home safely and are up for warming again soon.
The first time we met, it was his birthday, about one year ago now. He was tearing up the dance floor in a club, almost literally-the bouncers had their hackles up the moment he and his equally large, drunken friends came in the door. They weren’t the only ones. I couldn’t take my eyes off this man who moved like water and threw his limbs around like they were only nominally attached to his body.
The otherwise crowded floor cleared a wide circle around their group. They took turns chucking each other around, laughing, like little boys. His eyes were shining, probably from alcohol. His curly hair and freckles stood out in a room of pale poseurs. I demanded a mutual friend introduce us. The club was too loud-he looked down and smiled at me, but didn’t hear a word we were saying. I stayed on the fringes and waited. When he went out in the hall to join the queue for the toilets, I followed him.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said, and smiled. He didn’t appear to recognize me. He did seem quite interested in staring down my top, though. Hey, I thought. It’s a start.
I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He seemed puzzled but didn’t resist. I pulled at the sleeve of his shirt to drag him to the smaller, quieter room. We found a corner of a red velvet sofa and snuggled together.