8.35 p.m. Hah! Found operating instructions under Hello! Right. 'Programming your video is as easy as making a phone call'. Excellent.
8.40 p.m. 'Point the remote control at the video recorder.' V. easy. 'Turn to Index.' Aargh, horror list with 'Timer controlled simultaneous HiFi sound recordings', 'the decoder needed for encoded programmes', etc. Merely wish to record Penny Husbands-Bosworth's rant, not spend all evening reading treatise on spying techniques.
8.50 p.m. Ah. Diagram. 'Buttons for IMC functions'. But what are IMC functions?
8.55 p.m. Decide to ignore that page. Turn to 'Timer-controlled recordings with VideoPlus': '1. Meet the requirements for VideoPlus.' What requirements? Hate the stupid video. Feel exactly the same as feel when trying to follow signposts on roads. Know in heart that signposts and video manual do not make sense but still cannot believe authorities would be so cruel as to deliberately dupe us all. Feel incompetent fool and as if everyone else in world understands something which is being kept from me.
9.16 p.m. 'When you turn your recorder on you must adjust the clock and the calendar for precise TIMER-controlled recording (don't forget to use the quick-adjust options to switch between summer and winter time). Clock menus called with red and digital number 6.'
Press red and nothing happens. Press numbers and nothing happens. Wish stupid video had never been invented.
9.25 p.m. Aargh. Suddenly main menu is on TV saying 'Press 6'. Oh dear. Realize was using telly remote control by mistake. Now news has come on.
Just called Tom and asked him if he could record Penny Husbands-Bosworth but he said he didn't know how to work his video either.
Suddenly there is clicking noise within video and the news is replaced, incomprehensibly, by Blind Date.
Just called Jude and she can't work hers either. Aaargh. Aargh. Is 10.15. Newsnight in 15 minutes.
10.17 p.m. Cassette will not go in.
10.18 p.m. Ah, Thelma and Louise is in there.
10.19 p.m. Thelma and Louise will not come out.
10.21 p.m. Frenziedly press all buttons. Cassette comes out and goes back in again.
10.25 p.m. Have got new cassette in now. Right. Turn to 'Recording'.
'Recording will start when in Tuner Mode when any button is pressed (apart from Mem).'What, though, is Tuner Mode? 'When recording from a camcorder or similar press AV prog source 3 x during a bilingual transmission press 1/2 and hold for 3 seconds to make your choice of language.'
Oh God. Stupid manual reminds me of Linguistics professor had at Bangor, who was so immersed in finer points of language that could not speak without veering off into analysis of each individual word: 'This morning I would . . . now "would" you see, in 1570 . . . '
Aargh aargh. Newsnight is starting.
10.31 p.m. OK. OK. Calm. Penny Husbands-Bosworth's asbestos leukaemia item is not on yet.
10.33 p. Yesss, yesss. RECORDING CURRENT PROGRAMME. Have done it!
Aaargh. All going mad. Cassette has started rewinding and now stopped and ejected. Why? Shit. Shit. Realize in excitement have sat on remote control.
10.35 p.m. Frantic now. Have rung Shazzer, Rebecca, Simon, Magda. Nobody knows how to programme their videos. Only person I know who knows how to do it is Daniel.
10.45 p.m. Oh God. Daniel fell about laughing when said I could not programme video. Said he would do it for me. Still, at least have done best for Mum. It is exciting and historic when one's friends are on TV.
11.15 p.m. Humph. Mum just rang. 'Sorry, darling. It isn't Newsnight, it's Breakfast News tomorrow. Could you set it for seven o'clock tomorrow morning. BBC 1?'
11.30 p.m. Daniel just called. 'Er, sorry, Bridge. I'm not quite sure what went wrong. It's recorded Barry Norman.'
8st 12, alcohol units 3, cigarettes 17.
After sitting in semi-darkness for the third weekend running with Daniel's hand down my bra, fiddling with my nipple as if it were a sort of worry bead and me occasionally feebly saying, 'Was that a run?' I suddenly blurted out, 'Why can't we go on a mini-break? Why? Why? Why?'
'That's a good idea,' said Daniel, mildly, taking his hand out of my dress. 'Why don't you book somewhere for next weekend? Nice country house hotel. I'll pay.'
8st 11 (v.v.g.), alcohol units 1, cigarettes 2, Instants 2 (v.g.), minutes spent looking at mini-break brochures 237 (bad).
Daniel has refused to discuss the mini-break any more, or look at the brochure, and has forbidden me from mentioning it until we actually set off on Saturday. How can he expect me not to be excited when I have been longing for this for so long? Why is it that men have not yet learnt to fantasize about holidays, choose them from brochures and plan and fantasize about them in the way that they (or some of them) have learnt to cook or sew? The singlehanded mini-break responsibility is hideous for me. Wovingham Hall seems ideal – tasteful without being over-formal, with four-poster beds, a lake and even a fitness centre (not to go in), but what if Daniel doesn't like it?
8st 11, alcohol units 7, cigarettes 2, calories 4587 (ooops).
Oh dear. Daniel decided the place was nouveau from the moment we arrived, because there were three Rolls-Royces parked outside, and one of them yellow. I was fighting a sinking realization that it was suddenly freezing cold and I had packed for 900 heat. This was my packing:
Swimsuits 2.
Bikinis 1.
Long floaty white dress 1.
Sundress 1.
Trailer-park-trash pink jelly mules 1 pair.
Tea-rose-pink suede mini dress 1.
Black silk teddy.
Bras, pants, stockings, suspenders (various).
There was a crack of thunder as I teetered, shivering, after Daniel to find the foyer stuffed with bridesmaids and men in cream suits and to discover that we were the only guests staying in the hotel who were not in the wedding party.
'Chuh! Isn't it dreadful what's happening in Srebrenica,' I chattered maniacally to try to put out problems in proportion. 'To be honest, I never feel I've quite pinned down what's going on in Bosnia. I thought the Bosnians were the ones in Sarajevo and the Serbians were attacking them, so who are the Bosnian Serbs?'
'Well, if you spent a bit less time reading brochures and more time reading the papers you might know,' smirked Daniel.
'So what is going on?'
'God, look at that bridesmaid's tits.'
'And who are the Bosnian Muslims?'
'I cannot believe the size of that man's lapels.,
Suddenly I had the unmistakable feeling that Daniel was trying to change the subject.
'Are the Bosnian Serbs the same lot who were attacking Sarajevo?' I asked.
Silence.
'Whose territory is Srebrenica in, then?'
'Srebrenica is a safe area,' said Daniel in deeply patronizing tones.
'So how come the people from the safe area were attacking before?'
'Shut up.'
'Just tell me if the Bosnians in Srebrenica are the same lot as the ones in Sarajevo.'
'Muslims,' said Daniel triumphantly.
'Serbian or Bosnian?'
'Look, will you shut up?'
'You don't know what's going on in Bosnia either.'
'I do.'
'You don't.'
'I do.'
'You don' t.'
At this point the commissionaire, who was dressed in knickerbockers, white socks, patent leather buckled shoes, a frock coat and a powdered wig, leaned over and said, 'I think you'll find the former inhabitants of Srebrenica and of Sarajevo are Bosnian Muslims, sir.' Adding pointedly, 'Will you be requiring a newspaper in the morning at all, sir?'