Last week, my incredible niece turned 21. Here are the Guidelines to Life that I wrote for her:
Don’t go on dates because you feel that you should. Holding off on buying the nacho share plate
because you’re poor and not sure if you work with his jowels, or his accent, or
his chunky knit cardy, plus he’s mardy and hardly a man you’d want to bring
Don’t trust in those in which you share darkness. To each other you are currents in late night
shanties. It’s too close to godless, a
As your aunty, I insist that you always have taxi money
tucked inside your tight leather hot pants.
Don’t be a nob.
Deal with piles at the first set of symptoms.
Be the other woman once only so that you know worthlessness
to be a badge of dishonour, accepted nowhere, that will not so much as get you
a seat on the tube. Don’t get comfy with
that feeling of being special only in the afternoons, not wearing perfume or
glitter, in case you infect his clothes, his life, litter. Watching him leave through the gap in the
blinds. Try not to be bitter. Clutching gin that collides with the part of
him that rusts inside, your downfall/demise.
Don’t buy the triple X Sony amplifier headphones; the first
headphones on the internet. They are
Do dance in the rain, at bus stops, on your way to pay
council tax. It’s as close to the end of
the rainbow as you’ll ever feel. Not as
depressing as it sounds.
Be you. In all your
Use your best china.
I have an Andrew and Fergie mug up for grabs.
Flee to mountaintops, tread water by barrel reefs and
dive. Clock kaleidoscopic spheres as
they thrive, before they drain white.
Fight for our air.
Make your carbon footprint as slight as you can.
You will find things, If not God: symbols, totems. Let them not be lighthouses or numerology,
Guinness or BBC 3 comedy.
Don’t buy a Stevie Nicks phone cover from I Phones 4U dot
com. Like much in life, it will never
Instagram at all times.
But not food. No one cares what
you’re eating babe.
Always do April Fools.
People who cannot laugh at themselves need to learn softness. Give it to them in cling filmed toilet seats.
Don’t tweet when unhappy or floating in gin.
Don’t like anything cat related on Facebook.
Empty the bin as much as you can.
Don’t kick out house mates if they are messy, light fingered
or loud. Just leave in a shroud, in the
night (you’re allowed) slip free like a bored infection. Your own private whirlpool.
Don’t be a nob.
Do wear a helmet.
Live in Berlin before it is colonised. Swim in Badeschiff, a pool on a river. Break into Spree Park and run through
deserted, broken dinosaurs.
Force yourself to see blackness. Close your eyes by the creaking, squeaking
Look up Manuel Schmutte and say ‘Lolly says hi’.
Finish cheese boards before your compadre.
Have midnight picnics with people you can only love
periodically and who it’s best you never see again.
It’s OK to carry a hip flask as a secret sling beneath
Live somewhere safe with good central heating and a view of
trees. Make sure it has good night buses,
at least two door keys and is north of the river. No one wants chicken bones between their toes
Don’t microwave mackerel or your popcorn will taste fishy.
It’s OK to carry a hip flask as a secret sling.
Always know the way home.
You never know when you may find yourself without power, hope or a good
pair of ruby shoes.
Know that you can call me day or night. Know that there is always a solution. When faced with stagnated Sahara sand, blown
inner land, disband bad thoughts… hailstones will appear and wash away
hardness, an inability to love, GDR bricks blocking kindness. The smog clears with snowflakes. In a white, reflective snow globe, we are
paused and we are perfect.
Cry when it hurts.
Tinder is not an option.
Never expect a boomerang to return.
Never expect a ginger man to return.
Always expect piles to return.
Do not lie about your intelligence or social
cigarettes. They are not social. They are £8.80 a packet. They are both damaging and glorious.
Lie about your age, your bra size and about how much you
actually enjoyed India.
It is OK to carry a hip flask.
Always help your mother/my sister with Christmas dinner.
Always make sure your aunty’s glass is topped up with fizz.
You are brilliant.
You are beautiful.
Use your best China. It’s OK to be a broken tea cup. A pasted together saucer.
I wanted to buy you a compass for your 18th but Topshop
Accessories were all out so I bought you a Cheryl Cole album.
I took an oath before a God I no longer believe in to
Throw me as hard as you want. I will always return.
Quieten as much as you need.
I will hear your black box, twenty miles below the sea.
And if you want the Andrew and fergie mug, just fucking ask
I have gin with which to fill you up. And a flimsy map home.
I haven’t written a blog in a long time. I sold my soul to a temporary data entry job
(with no internet access-arghhhh)! For
an extra pound an hour, I have been working in a former prison, with a quarter
inch view of sky, a temperamental scanning machine and a coven of sugarless,
menopausal women. Great, if you enjoy
working in an air conditioned office all frickin’ winter:
“Oh Janice, I’m
having another flush, crack the whirry thing up to 10".
Morose if you’re still alert to life,
believing it to be a thing of beauty rather than something you squander 9 til
5, en route to a retirement in an SW14 postage stamp garden.
But mainly I stopped posting because I’d become a victim of
my own caricature. My rich sex starved
narrative, whilst a collective source of amusement was slowing strangling my lady
garden and informing my love life. So I
embarked on a social experiment:
Quit the blog. See if
the men flock…
And they kind of did!
Believe me, no one was more surprised than the Lollster. The mini skirts were back and the crimper
on permanent standby.
Perhaps, working in the ancient institute of parliament has
assisted me on my quest. I'm not sure they've seen women who wear mascara or own a fully supportive bra since the
pre suffragette movement. HOWEVER, I waded through the mire and talked (sometimes
seductively) on levels with contractors, police, committee analysts, MPS…and
whilst I cannot talk about a lot of my findings, here are a few of my learnings
over the past three months:
Never boost the ego of a divorced man over 45. They are ravenous, deluded, blood
suckers. Whilst they may kiss elegantly
and be knowledgeable on the finer intricacies of a woman, they will inevitably
be social vampires, on the prowl for energy kidnap and have a cavalier flair
for the improper and flamboyant use of emoticons.
No, you can not even get the tube 'there'. Ever. All buses on permanent diversion, fruit loop.
Never snog a random on a night dedicated to the
theatre. When normal people watch a play,
it may involve a G and T and a convo about the ethics of Jacobean staging. But no, the Lollster watches a play, sinks three bottles of Prosecco
with Pip Swallow, accidentally gets her feet tickled by a dirty contractor and
snogs said (dodgy, weathered but VERY handsome) contractor enthusiastically in
the Notting Hill drizzle.
Never be the other woman.
Special only in the afternoons, keeping the perfume and glitter on the
downlow so as not to infect his life. Becoming
a poison. A secret carrier amongst an
unpolluted and morally courageous public.
Do snog men with pierced tongues. Don’t make jokes about them being stuck in
Try to stop moaning about the lack of investable characters
on You Porn. It is not their fault they
can’t act. Not everyone trained at the
Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama.
Rum is not the answer to heart ache.
Rum is not the answer to a soulless job.
Rum is the answer to most other things.
Don’t get a fringe if you have a small forehead. It is time consuming at 6am and ultimately unneccesary.
If someone won’t let you love them, do not love them. Even if they are brilliant, capable of supreme brilliance, reek of brilliance to the point of intoxication and are caked in aceness. When there is an invisible flight path connecting the two of you in a starless sky, between Bermuda currents and exploding, flinty meteorites…take the beautiful, perfect dick heads advice.
Do poke old friends on Facebook. It’s unexpectedly funny like a triumphant
trump in the workplace.
Don’t talk to security guards outside of work hours. They will start planning a collective future
on the assumption that you’re into them when you’re just killing time between
jobs and can’t yet be arsed to walk to Trafalgar for a Pret, avocado sandwich.
Always offer to do the coffee run. Your loyalty card; a personal totem of
success in an unrewarding universe.
But above all else:
When life gives you unripe limes, put them in your rum
I suppose if I’ve learnt anything since I last spoke to y’all,
it is to avoid being someone who is dead inside. I constantly meet people whose eyes have
clouded over, who cannot freefall, who cannot put themselves freely and
fleetingly in someone else’s possession, who have forgotten how to smile and
who think it is acceptable to make an already cooling, *frosty office,
*Not a metaphor. But also totally a metaphor.
I am nearly at the end of this temp post. I am ready to pack up my bags once more like
Supernanny and move on to my next destination, my flight path, as yet
unprogrammed. I am ready for the warmth
of summer outside of my prison cell, to feel the sun on my face.
I am thinking it is time to stop kissing people in the
street, after dark, with abandon. After
all, it was but an experiment. I have
learned that love is cold, uncompromising and always governed by someone else. We are all but lowly temps in an office,
knowing that we are capable of something greater but unable to move for the
giant, menopausal thumb on our head and flattening down our (possibly misjudged)
I may still be at the bottom of every rung but I am free and
I have (if only fleetingly) allowed myself to feel. A wide awake fuck up, edging through a sleeping,
prickly hedgehog nest. And if I find
myself in a black suit once more, on a reception desk, hungover, no love in my
life, at least I will have space between phone calls to once again note down my
The blog is about to be back people!! The blog is about to be back.
I tend not to like other people that much. The only time I break the code and talk to
when traveling North of Newark
at the bar. (Might
get a free drink and or/phone number.
in the event of a cardiac arrest. (Someone has to call the ambulance, it might
as well be muggins)
And of course:
in a mosh pit
Sometimes I don’t trust others (or myself) but I have
been known to blindly smoke anything put into my mouth in a mosh pit. It’s something about the intimacy, the sweat,
the united love of the band. Nostalgia,
as per. *Isn’t most of our lives afforded
to yearning something?
*Wait, hang on, put the crack pipe down Loll. And step away…
I met a hottie at The Smyths gig. The Smyths being the no.1 Smiths tribute band. (Nothing like a fake Morrissey to get your
MOSH PIT GROUND ZERO. NORTHERN BITCHES TAKE A STAND.
After pulling his eager tongue out of my mouth, the mosher
introduced himself. (Better late than
never). Unfortunately, he had the same
name as my ex-boyfriend. Not a flying
start. My ex is lovely and all but he
did fragment my heart in such a way that I could never again love anyone with
ANYWAY, my mind was working overtime, I was suddenly faced
with the imminent danger that I may be called upon to ‘put out’. I haven’t shaved my legs since 1992 but this
guy was tasty and I owed my foo foo some fun. I’d kept her lonesome for long enough. I sometimes think of her as Moira Stewart in
the tax return advert: grim faced and caged under the stairs.
Mental thoughts started invading my brain:
‘What if he wants to follow this up with a food date’? (I have an exposed gum on my fangy canines so
stray herbs can blight my smile. No one
wants to be rendered unshaggable between the starter and the Main).
‘What will he make of my tofu encrusted bedsit? Will he judge the ironic cat cushions’?
‘Will he overstay his welcome and not fuck off the next
morning’? I’m a writer dude, I want to
lay in pools of my own thought juice, eat sweetcorn out of the tin and catch up
on Big Brother…
I tried to push away such psychotic meanderings as we danced
to Shoplifters of the World Unite…and then it hit me. He wasn’t even a proper Smiths fan. Was he shouting along to the vast intricacies
of Sheila Take a Bow? WAS HE BALLS?! A hummer, we had ourselves a hummer.
“What’s your favourite song”? I whispered in his ear, all sexy like
Pfeiffer’s cat woman.
If it’s Charming Man, you’re a fake, if it’s Charming Man,
you have no imagination, if it’s…
“Charming Man. Such a
And on cue, fake Morrissey launched:
‘Punctured bicycle on a hill side desolate…’
Lover boy didn’t even know the words. I kissed him just to quench his silence.
“What did I do to deserve that”? he asked.
That was it, right there.
My worries diminished. I knew in
that second that I was heading home to Jack Bauer and a reheated stew. Don’t ask me such questions. Grab me.
Tell me what you’re going to do to me.
Be the man. BE THE MAN!
Nothing but a phoney in a room full of phoneys.
I spent the rest of the evening spontaneously tonguing him
and walking off on adventures like a feral cat with commitment issues. I broke into the club next door, (which was turd so I returned), I repeatedly told a student that he looked like Darius
Danesh until he alerted security…at one point, me and my friend Emma pretended
to lez off on two pouffets. A clever
ruse to get the old man bassist to notice us.
He did, moving our drinks out the way like a helpful dad. (The best thing about that moment is that it
All in all, the evening was odd. Nothing like a tribute band to enforce the
ideal that you are playing at being an adult.
I sometimes feel I’m living in the glitch in the matrix, the
unhelpful space between two pouffets as your arse sinks downwards.
Yes fake Morrissey, you have a smashing quiff and you sing
pretty good but you’re probably called Melvin and work in IT.
And yes, kisser boy with the same first name as my ex-boyfriend,
you may look the part of a sexy mosh pit pull but you never broke into a palace
with a ‘spoon and a rusty hammer’ and you’re far too approachable and easy to
read. The Michael Mcintyre of leading
So next time, I will go to a ‘real’ gig and find myself a
genuine riff-tastic shamen. (Maybe I’ll
even shave my legs in anticipation).
And I will of course fill in that tax return, Moira. I think we’re all due a big, fat rebate. Aren't we love?
all know, the only good thing about Christmas is:
bearded man emptying his sack in your room
wine: get in my face.
even pretend to like Christmas, anything to reach the buffet and the secret
stash of Moet and Chandon. (Lolly don’t
like the cheap shit).
Open House of the year was at a Uni friend’s gaff. (Remember Uni everyone? The £6 out of your pay packet each month; a
happy reminder of those jager bombs you sank 12 years ago).
problem was that the party meant…urghhh…eeesh…crossing the river. The Shard screaming a shrill warning from its
Barbican river bank:
cross over, oh great one. Stay away from
the chicken bone pavements, cavalier spittle and (shudder) Ethel Austin fashion boutiques”.
But I shut
my eyes, pumped up Kate Bush on my Beats and sped forth to the middle class
playground of Herne Hill. Inclusive of
petting zoo. Casual.
2013 AND THE REINDEER RECESSION
happily report that I did not encounter one chicken bone upon my journey, only
a vast array of printed canvas bags in the pop up market. South London, don’t you DARE take on Crouch
End in yummy mummy-ness. You’ll be
selling carrots with the leaves on and queuing at your bus stops before we know
it. Where are the chavs? Chavs?
‘do’ was frickin’ lovely. Snackets,
champagne on entry and my hot friend greeting me; all freckly and ginge. As I went to throw my coat down, we hesitated at
the closed bedroom door.
people getting down to it already?” I asked, my excitable eye twitch working
might be feeding a baby”.
Babies? What? At
a party? But I’ve brought poppers.
I hung my matted ‘faux fur’ on the balustrade and headed downstairs to a mix of
toddlers and married couples.
‘To be fair, we probably all have lots in common (as well as our age)’ I perused, setting out to locate a Retty girls three party essentials:
Bubbly. (Champagne or Cava, preferably both.In the same glass.Exotic.A taste of the continent).
Singletons.(Any out there in Las Wilderness?)
(Generally the most interesting and quieter of the species: less talk, more
listen.Plus, anyone who chooses to
isolate themselves from society, has my vote).
troffed my body weight in nachos and met a dancer (gay AND taken), charity
fundraiser (married), a director I worked with five years ago who failed to
remember me (married and a parent), a teacher (engaged) and a divorce lawyer
(single). JACKPOT! He had floppy hair and was obvs posh but I
enjoyed the way he worked the room, courting business from even the most
amorous of couples. A knowing look here,
a business card there…he also swore at the most inappropriate moments,
generally in front of parents or open eared toddlers. My head was saying ‘run’,
my heart was saying ‘soulmate’.
outside under a corner of Brixton sky, I meandered in for a snog when he
dropped a clanger:
thought I was IN with the hot chick by the fondants but she kissed the
tall guy in the pudding jumper”.
Great. It was probably my bindi. No one wants to kiss a blonde westerner with
a bindi, do they?
As night fell, I downed
my Cava/Champagne mix, thanked my adorable mate, his husband, his
parents, the dancer, the fundraiser, the director (who was now squinting a
vague recognition that I perhaps sold him a beverage once, instead of playing lead wench in his play), the teacher and a baby, because, well, he was the
only one blowing me kisses.
I WOULD HAVE PHOTO SHOPPED THE DOUBLE CHIN BUT HEY! THIS BLOG IS A 95% REPRESENTATION OF THE TRUTH
night, I attended the party of my voiceover agent where most people were about
thirty years my senior (boom!) and tiddly from the free bar (double boom)! I was referred to as ‘youthful’ all evening and
the velvety toned oldies were bumming the bindi (*triple boom)!
*Too much boom?
Is there such a thing?
an hour talking to a silver haired wonderment because he was wearing a tie of
hot air balloons. Between tales of his
bezzer mate Terry Wogan (AKA Trouser Snake), he’d drop in famous voiceovers he’d
done throughout the years. It’s hard not
to wee in excitement when you’re on 7.5% cider and you realise you’ve just been
talking to the **guy who introduced the 1 o’clock news for 20 years.
**I’m a cheap date.
the tube some of the way home with an ace Geordie from the party. At this point I was shit faced to within an
inch of my life and full of festive hum-buggary.
want a man who can come round and put a shelf up, you know”?
Oh, wow. I was THAT girl on the tube. I should have just fallen to all fours and
barfed on someone’s Reeboks. (But I was
north of the river and we don’t wear Reeboks, darling).
trying to like Christmas, I really am.
And I’m enjoying the free bars, the Open Houses, the buffets, the
bubbles. I will trick myself into being
a little more glass-half-full, which is…well, ironic. Because no one should
wake up the morning after a Christmas party thinking:
did I really spend 10 minutes on the Victoria Line complaining that “guys don’t
like girls with boobs anymore” to THE voice of Big Brother?
left eye now glued shut with a rusty bindi and your left hand still clutching
an unopened bottle of poppers, child lock intact.
ME WITH THE ACENESS BB SENSATION THAT IS MARCUS BENTLEY AND SOME RANDOM GUY I HAVE NO RECOLLECTION OF MEETING.
I had a date. So
naturally I stalked the internet for him to seek out a deal breaker and cancel.
I’m not sure why I do this. I get
scared. Mainly of awkward silences but
also the thought that I might like him and have to surrender my cod-for-one in
a parcel, tickety-boo existence.
You Tube proved fruitful. A few watches later
and I was copy and pasting the link to my nearest and dearest…
‘Guys, watch the following clip. I have a date with the guy who appears 43
seconds in. Quick question. Does his mouth move weird’?
“No. You have
issues,” came the first reply.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked another. (And that was just my mother).
I don’t know. I’m a
ball bag? If men did this to me, I'd get the hump fo sho:
‘GREAT rack but serious wrinklage around the lower neck area
and definite early signs of bingo wings.
Would probs cheat at the first whiff of adventure. Twat.’
Eventually, after the clip had circulated, a trusted friend commented
that his tongue might be a little too big for his mouth. We both concluded that that might NOT be a
bad thing (wink wink).
But then he made a
big Boo Boo: he left me a voicemail. Not cool dude. (For a sometimes receptionist, I don’t half
hate taking phone calls).
I waded through my answer machine, Babs leaving miniature
“Hiya love, it’s
mum. Just calling to see if you’d seen
Sam Bailey’s performance. She’s got a
right voice on her. You’re not
answering so you must be out…again”.
“Hiya love, it’s mum.
Can you write your Christmas list for Aunty Brenda? She’s going into Norwich at the weekend. You must be out…again”.
A few from PPI and then…
“Hello Lolly. It’s
Frederick. It’s Wednesday at a quarter
to eight in the evening. Just calling to
see if you’re well…
You lost me at ‘press 1 to listen…’
I pressed 3 for delete and lamented on why I’m such a
shallow chump. Beggars can’t be choosers
and all that. And now I’m ignoring his
texts like all those boys have done to me.
I am scum.
I decided to recover from my misdemeanours by dating someone
else. He was big, with a beard and there
was no trace of him on the t’internet. I
courted him in my usual affectionate way:
(All names have been carefully and seamlessly changed in this event of public slaying).
We met for a pint in Golders Green. Here were the main issues:
He’d suggested Golders Green. (We all know, the ONLY good thing about
Golders Green is the chance of a Richard Madeley spot in Waitrose).
He was sporting a half beard. (Shave it or grow it. But most of all; just grow it).
He looked like page three of the River Island
catalogue. (Leave the gel in 1997, babe).
His hands appeared callous free. Get OUT.
(They hadn’t so much as seen a flat pack in their limited, sausage sized
I coped with all this by largely talking about myself and live-tweeting
the whole event.
A date is like a drawn out salsa. And I know all the moves. Plus, I’ve been at it so long, I make Brucie
look like a teen Belieber.
Let them buy the first
drink so they feel like a man, and step and slide. Look around the room occasionally so they can
do a quick body scan, and shuffle step…BLAHHHHHHHH.
"Ah, me bloody back. When do we fake her death and phase in Winkleman"?
Yes, I’m shallow. And
it jars with my general state of being primed, (often misguidedly), for battle. Is it too much to ask for a man of middle age to come over, assemble a book case, allow me to cook him dinner and play a
symphony with his pork pipe? Who says
feminism is dead?! Eh? EH??!?!
If I don’t ‘get a piece’ soon, my Tim Roth obsession will
keep flaring up like ecszma. God knows
how many gash episodes of Lie to Me I’ll have to sit through, just to feed this
steamy, rough and ready impulse. It’s
more debilitating than scrawling through You Porn’s back catalogue of Frisky Firemen.
Fundamentally, it makes me no cooler than ‘cat lady’ in Flat
2 of my building, (you can set a clock to the post-Emmerdale ping of her
Maybe I should text the first guy back. (I mean, if you were kissing the mouth, you
wouldn’t see it).
Oh actually, hang on people...this is fate because I think…I
THINK, I have another voicemail from him:
“Hi Lolly, it’s Frederick.
Don’t take this the wrong way but I’d like to withdraw my offer of a
date. It’s not you, it’s me. My ex has been in touch and the feelings are
still a little raw. Also, I Google
Imaged you and what the FUCK is wrong with your double chin dude? Harold Bishop should be worried…”
I do this a lot; my memory is terrible. I’m unsure if I know the person or recognise them from T.V. I once said hello to
Chico in a greasy spoon, thinking I’d met him at a party or tongued him in
Soho. On another occasion I skirted
around a familiar guy in Wetherspoons, not knowing if he was in a DFS ad or
part of my close family. Then bam! It hit
me: he’d opened my Natwest current account.
I was flying to my mate’s wedding in Tenerife. Lovely.
A cheeky bit of sun and sangria. (The legend goes that I was conceived in Tenerife at the onset of a hedonistic, 1980s
stupor. I was journeying back to de
homeland. It was almost biblical).
Initially, things on the plane had seemed fine. Seatbelt checks were done, life vests blown
into…until the pilot announced himself in fits of laughter…
“This has never happened before but er…one of the engines
I shot a quick glance to the familiar looking air stewardess…
Had I lived with her?
Bought food from her?
Did she look afraid that we might die on the big jet plane?
And most importantly:
Could we purchase Gin
and Tonics whilst still on the ground?
Three hours and various doubles later, (after the old couple
next to me had offered to set me up with their elderly, overweight neighbour
Del), we were ready to rumble.
“Don’t read into this but I will not be flying with you as I
have an early morning commitment”. The
pilot goes. “Cabin crew prepare for
Early morning commitment?
Yeah, I’ve seen Flight with Denzil
Washington. Early morning pick-up more
As I wondered who would be flying our plane, it clicked! How I knew the stewardess!! She was from my frickin’ burlesque class!
“Hey”! I shouted down
the plane. “It’s me”!
She looked, she registered, fiddled with her seatbelt and
faced a crying baby.
screeched, momentarily stunning the toddler kicking the back of my seat.
“Damn bitch doesn’t recognise me with my clothes on” I
moaned to the couple next to me. The guy
looking ‘oh-so-not-casually’ at my boobs.
(How did he get to the age of 77 without realising that girls clock that
shit)? He muttered something about the
Munich air disaster, the rusty engine spluttered it's way to ignition and we were on our way.
A drunken bus ride and some conked out sleep later…I located
my friends at the breakfast buffet. Taking
full advantage of their all-inclusive status, I ate and drank for free. ALL weekend! And the best bit was that I never had to go to
the bar (as I didn’t have the special wristband). Boom.
“I WOULD LIKE THE CAVIAR TO START,
FOLLOWED BY THE GREY
GOOSE BLOODY MARY”.
Needless to say I had necked an entire bottle of Cava before
the ceremony. A running trend of the Lollster.
AFTER P.O.V SHOT
I was seated in my usual position-the furthest table away
from the happy couple, surrounded by loud drunks and reprobates. Perfect.
Keep the wine flowing please waiter.
The wedding was of course, beautiful and scenic and hopelessly romantic and full of aged and crusty cheese plates. Yes please!
THE HOTTY COUPLE: JULIE AND GARY
I had been promised two single guys by my fixer Gary. Both of whom were not single now. (Not if their Skyping sessions to blonde
Brighton-ites were to be taken at face value).
A shame. As one of their surnames
was Horniman. That would have made for a
great anecdote. But as is so often the
case, the Horniman was not readily available.
There were some singletons on the island; gay, of
course. One who (word had it), had had to
delay his flight home owing to a bout of chlamydia in his lower groinal
area. Lucky bastard.
I skulked back to my single, ocean view room, tucked up with
my Morrissey autobiography and the most well-travelled condom of all time.
A couple of days later, when back on foggy Soho soil, I
glanced across the burlesque studio at the familiar stewardess, taking off a
black stocking with her teeth.
“Terrible flight delay, wasn’t it”? I mentioned, whilst trying to swing my
tassles anti-clockwise and perpendicular.
“What? I’m sorry, I
think you must have confused me with someone else”.
“No. No, you were my
stewardess to the Islas Canarias”.
She flinged the stocking, dropped the feather fan and fixed
me with a glare.
“Afraid not. I work
as a General Health Nurse. I cauterized
your piles, a week last Saturday”.
Ah. So, you did bird,
so you did.
I walked out into the Guy Fawkes evening, a feather tail hanging
apologetically between my legs. I
skulked back to my Domino Pizza bin-alley facing room, tucked up with my book
and the most well-travelled condom of all time and did the only thing left to
do: I made myself a brew and snap chatted Del.
Surviving life as a London outcast.
Lolly was announced as the runner up for the 2013 John Neville prize at the Nottingham Playhouse and her work has recently appeared at the London Independent Film Festival, Crispy Comedy Cuts online and for TimeOut Magazine, London.