"This Would Be Really Funny If It Wasn't Happening To Me," Part II

I’ve described how my luck always times out when the milestones of my life approach, and how I’m actually pretty lucky in the grand scheme of things, but I failed to mention the humiliating aspects of my lucky life – the way I literally can’t get away with anything. I would make a terrible spy or…professional sneaky, lying person…I suppose that’s still a spy, which goes to show just how terrible I’d be at that. I am the anti-spy. I am James Bond’s goofy, incompetent, little bit special, second cousin. The one not mentioned in the books or films because she was sent away for constantly dropping in during a fight scene and accidentally shooting Q, handing over England’s secrets to Russia and pushing James in the shark pool, in an attempt to simply get to her car.

I used to babysit for this family who have since moved back to Italy (probably to escape me) and every time they came home, they caught me doing something that was totally innocent, but I always managed to make look worse in my vain attempts to cover it up. (I realise this currently sounds like I was doing something to their children, so I’ll swiftly explain myself).

For example, one night I was a little peckish, so had a look in the fridge and found a box of Roses. Now, I only really like soft centres, so I emptied the whole box onto the kitchen table, at which point I hear the front door open, panic, scoop up the whole lot and launch them back into the fridge, kicking the box under the table. They found me running out of their kitchen panting, “Oh I was just going to get a glass of water but you’re back now. Shall we go? I’ll get my coat.” They will later have found an obscurely hidden empty box and a fridge pebble-dashed with chocolates.

On another occasion I was watching, ‘Sex And The City,’ and it happened to be the one in which Charlotte is dating a man who seems very nice but then unwittingly shouts out obscenities in bed. So, the parents walk in just as it hits that scene and find me watching a naked man screaming, “Oh yeah! You fucking bitch! You fucking whore!” on top of a naked woman. I quickly try to change the channel and stutter, “Oh no, that wasn’t…I wasn’t…it wasn’t…it was ‘Sex And’…I wasn’t…”

The drive home is silent.

These sorts of incidents are not localised, nor are they rare – just an hour ago I walked out of a supermarket isle and manically yelled, “Buttons!!” in a stranger’s face. I was simply trying to signal to my friend behind me that we should decorate our cake with chocolate buttons and, instead, marginally assaulted a builder.

I always manage to send texts to the people I’m gossiping about. The gym instructor always looks up just as I fall off the treadmill. The lift doors always open at the precise moment that allows me to swear in my boss’ face. It goes right back to when I was 3 and used to hide in my grandma’s kitchen and eat the sugar right out of the sugar bowl, thinking no one could see me, unaware that the entire family was watching me through the serving hatch. I can’t get away with anything.

So now I live on my little exile iceberg in the South Pole – the icy fish my only friends - wondering if James got out of the shark pool alive, if my family will ever take me back and toying with the idea that these little faux pas are the only reason my friends love me and probably why I can’t get a doctor to marry me.

"This Would Be Really Funny If It Wasn't Happening To Me," Part I

I’m due to get a train to London on Monday, followed by a plane to Australia on Tuesday, and with the onset of this nation-wide shit-storm it has become a possibility that my trip may be cancelled. Yes, the one that has cost me over a month’s wages (that’s 200 hours of work and 30 hours of driving to and from). The one that I’ve been planning for almost a year. The one that will allow me to be reunited with my best friend whom I rarely go more than a day without and who has been on the other side of the world for three months now. That one. I am not impressed.

Yet, I can’t help but feel it was inevitable. Because it’s me. This isn’t intended to sound like a, “Why me?!” moan, because it’s not, but I’m aware that, whilst most areas of my life are actually pretty good and I’m very fortunate in many ways, the big things in life always cock right up through no fault of my own.

Maybe it’s cosmic balancing for being so lucky in other ways; maybe it’s because I get so worked up and excited about the events that it provokes the Gods to scream, “Oh bloody hell! I can’t take it any more! Abort!!” Maybe it’s karma for my shocking cooking abilities, who knows?! But it happens.

It began, rather feebly, on my 18^th Birthday – the first birthday that really means anything in society and to you – your coming of age, a right of passage. I got a pathetic cold and managed two drinks before I had to call a taxi to take me home. That’s the perfect word for it: Pathetic. But enough to ruin a night I had been looking forward to for 18 years.

Then came my sister’s wedding – a day the whole family had been looking forward to for years and I was chief bridesmaid. The day before the wedding I began getting the flu (easily the illest I have ever been) and spent the night sweating and hallucinating on the study floor. In the morning my family decided I was too ill to go – feck that! I filled myself to the brim with painkillers and managed to make it through the day. Unfortunately, I took so many that I can’t actually remember anything that happened between arriving at the church and leaving the reception.

My 21^st came next – the one and only night I’ve had my drink spiked. I ended up being carried out of the pub (we hadn’t even made it to the club yet!) and my mother was called. I spent the next three days vomiting, thus missing my train back to London and the first three days of my third year at uni. Perfection.

And whilst none of my other trips have been ruined (although I did manage to get sunburnt inside Kenya Airport) I can’t help but feel the Gods have had a conversation along the lines of:

1: “Oh bugger, I’ve got a month’s worth of snow here. What shall I do with it?”

2: “Maybe spread it over a few countries so they can all have a nice white Christm…”

3: “Oh Christ! Mary’s getting all fidgety again! Make it stop!”

1: “Oh for crying out loud, hold on, I’ll just dump it here. On her face.”

The Christmas Special

Dear Paul, Brenda and Mary,

(They haven’t addressed this to my brother, sister, brother and sister-in-law, or nephew, because I’m the only one still living at home. You can almost hear the, “Aw, never mind, dear, we can’t all have successful lives,” tagged on with my name.)

We hope that you are all well at this time of year and that your year has been as prosperous for your bunch as it has ours.

(They add, “bunch,” to make it light-hearted, but we all know this sentence is the literary equivalent of, “Ner-ner-nerner-nerrr!”)

You’ll remember that at the beginning of the year Little Susie took up playing the piano (her sixth instrument!). Well, she has since been offered a scholarship to the Royal College of Music. We are all very proud and Susie was particularly pleased, as the offer arrived on her 8^th birthday, just after she cut her eight-tiered cake.

(I fear Little Susie may have a drink and drug problem by the time she hits her teens).

Meanwhile, Robert has just completed his second PhD at Oxford and his research is said to have propelled the discovery of a cure for AIDs forward by at least 30 years! He is currently in Africa curing millions of AIDs sufferers. We are so proud.

(She’s secretly hoping one of us has AIDs so she can send him over to cure us.)

This is obviously a terribly difficult transition for Robert’s wife, Ruth, and their new twins, Baby Joseph and Baby Lucy, but it does mean that we get many visits and Robert has assured us that he will be home by Christmas Eve.

(I wonder how like the milkman Baby Joseph and Lucy look.)

You will, of course, have seen in the papers that Diane has just sold her internet company for a record-breaking sum and is getting married in the New Year to Sir Philip Rothbeurg VI. She’s now all set to open her new charity (the name is in the process of being copyrighted so I can’t say, but will be sure to send out notifications ASAP), which will shortly be merging with the ‘Make A Wish Foundation.’

She is also in training to swim the Channel before she leaves for her Honeymoon. We are so very proud.

(I sincerely hope Sir Rothbeurg has a moustache and a hairy back. I seem to recall that Diane did.)

Richard and I are both well, as always, and are preparing to move into Belleford Manor in time for Christmas. You’ll see that the picture on the front of the card is an 18^th Century painting of our new home at Christmas time.

You must come and visit when we’ve got the wedding out of the way.

(This obviously translates as, “You’re not important enough to be invited to the wedding, but you must come and admire how much richer than you we are. We promise to pretend we’re not gloating. For a bit.”)

Some Carollers from the local village have just appeared, so I must dash and give them some homemade pie and mulled wine.

(“Haha, I still have time to bake whilst running my Manor house and maintaining my perfect nails.”)

Merry Christmas!

Much love from,

Margaret, Richard, Little Susie, Diane, Philip, Robert, Ruth, Baby Joseph and Baby Lucy. X

Dear Margaret and Richard (& co.),

How lovely to hear from you! The painting of your new home is spectacular (although, I personally find a camera is infinitely faster and more accurate, whilst also having the added benefit of being pocket-sized, unlike a painter).

That’s fantastic news about Little Susie – she was always a bit special. Did you know that Paul also got a scholarship to the RCM? Of course, he wasn’t still an infant at the time. Gosh, it doesn’t seem two minutes ago that Susie was trying to play our piano and weed on the stool.

It’s also great news about Robert; he was always destined for great things. It's so good of him to be helping the sick in Africa. Let’s hope he doesn’t catch anything while he’s over there! It must be so lovely for you to get to spend so much time with the grandkids, but ever so lonely for Ruth I imagine? How does she find spending all her time with her mother-in-law?

And we’re so pleased that Diane is finally engaged! (I remember you were a little worried about her sexual preference after that awful incident at university with the cleaners). And what wonderful news it is about her charity – the change will do her good, especially after her online casino caused her so many compensation problems! And the Channel? Well that is fantastic – she always did have a swimmer’s frame.

We’re all well, thank you for asking: Bethan is still happily married and working with children who often try to stab her; Daniel is still living in sin with his fiancé and lovely son; Mary gave up her place at Cambridge to work in a gift shop and, to be quite honest with you, Paul and I are drunk.

We’ve never been prouder!

I’ve always been of the opinion that perfection is dull, don’t you agree? If you know you’re always going to win, what’s the point in playing the game?

I must run, some youths from town are singing loudly outside and we must go and join in.

Merry Christmas!

The Hudsons x

The Pearl-Clad Food Fraud

I’ve always been aware that I’m no Nigella Lawson or Gordon Ramsay (though my potty mouth may beg to differ), but I’ve always thought that no one of my age really knows how to cook. The elderly know how because that’s what women did in the 50’s, our parents know because they had mothers who were allowed to beat them, and maybe out older sisters know because they took GCSE Home Economics before all they taught you how to make was mini pizzas, but my chef-like qualities are stretched by past with pesto, which I always assumed was perfectly normal for my age bracket.

However, it has recently been brought to my attention that my age bracket is no longer 12-16.

I’m 22. I’m a graduate. I’ve lived by myself for three years. I’ve travelled over a good chunk of the world by myself. I wear pearls and women who wear pearls know how to cook! I’m a massive cheat! I’m a pearl-clad-food-fraud!

I didn’t realise any of this until I visited my friend and found her making stock from scratch.

I’m still not entirely sure I even know what stock is.

She then proceeded to “reduce” the “stock” and freeze the “concentrated” solution in individual pouches.

I found this hilarious.

No one else did.

Now, this friend happens to be the daughter of a chef. A chef who is equally disgusted by both my inability to make soup and my lack of culinary imagination. You see, alongside my totally non-existent cooking skills, I appear to have a phobia of raw meat …and any other food I was not served as a child. It is because of this that she forced me to eat a spoon of jellied pork dripping (I do not believe it is only me who would be reluctant to put that in my mouth) and then got me to help her daughter make a meatloaf.

Once I got stuck into squeezing the meat out of sausages, it wasn’t so bad (kind of like if you’ve been gardening all day and you’re already mucky, you probably don’t mind sticking your hands in a bag of manure, but it doesn’t mean you want to play with poo every day), and the end product looked pretty good, until I discovered I couldn’t eat it without wanting to be sick.

I have no idea why.

Since then, my friend has tried to encourage me to help her cook and even got me to stuff a chicken (quite a feat considering I can’t even pick up a pack of frozen chicken breasts without squealing). I screamed a fair amount and cried a little bit when I decided that the skin felt like a dead old lady. I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to do to little old ladies what I did to that chicken and, therefore, I refuse to do it again.

I know it’s pathetic and really very weird and I don’t know where it comes from (my mum has a genuine phobia of pâté but is fine with all other meat and my dad long to butcher and eat pretty much every animal he sees, so it can’t be them) but I reckon it’s the surface cleaner adverts that make everything raw meat touches bright pink and then kills a baby. Every time I go near a chicken breast, I have to wash my hands at least twice. Seriously.

So let’s blame them and leave it at that. Perhaps I’ll sue…

So we know I hate raw meat, but that doesn’t solve why making cookies and pies puzzles me so much. I’ve told myself (and the scary chef lady) that it’s because I’ve never lived near a supermarket so can’t buy fresh food regularly, but that’s a lie ‘cause there was a grocers two minutes from my old flat. I’ve said that was because no one ever showed me how, but that’s a lie ‘cause my flatmate always cooked meals from scratch and asked me to come help, to which I responded by squirming on the couch and crying, “No! Don’t make me!!” I’d say that it was because I didn’t have time after getting in from Uni or work so late, which is true, but I still managed to find an hour to sit on Facebook every night. And, finally, I think I’ve figured out what it is: a combination of three things.

1. I don’t think about food until I’m hungry, by which point I’ve decided I have to eat within the next 15 minutes or I’ll die. (This is true – every time I’ve tried to make cookies, I’ve eaten the cookie dough before it even reaches the baking tray, and this morning I wanted toast for breakfast, but had cereal I don’t really like because toast would take too long).

2. I have a Monica Geller-like issue with clutter and mess. I cannot work when cramped up and even used to organise my friends’ desks at school so that their work book, pencil and ruler were all in line and equidistant from the table edge. I simply cannot be doing with making a mess in my kitchen.

I have also been thinking back and in my first year of Uni I had a HUGE kitchen with lots of work surfaces and I did lots of cooking and tried out new recipes; in my third year, there was significantly less space and I hade about eight different simple dishes I would rotate; and in my second year the kitchen was roughly the size of a small bath with one square foot of work surface and 6 housemates. That year I either had take-out or didn’t eat.

3. Pure, unadulterated laziness.

If I can buy a tasty pasta sauce that you heat up, add some frozen peas and eat within 5 minutes, why would I spend 40 minutes making one from scratch that won’t taste as good and will make a big fat mess?

The experience and healthier lifestyle is not worth the bitter disappointment I feel in the crap I’ve produced by the end.

So, I’ve no doubt that my friend will continue to try and get me to help out in the kitchen and I’ve no doubt that I will continue to look for a man who loves to cook to marry. And, as there is no cure for my laziness or drama queen stomach, I will just have to start by looking for a new house: one that either has a massive kitchen or a Chinese take-out next door.

A Burger A Day

I’m sure we’re all aware of the obesity issues in the UK, with good old Jamie on the rampage to save the chubby kiddies and “Doctor” Gillian McKeith still determined to convince us that her looking at our poo is purely in order to help the UK lose weight…(?) And we’ve all heard the over weight kids ringing Radio 1’s anti-bullying Surgery complaining that the other kids keep trying to shove an apple in their mouth and spit-roast them over an open fire. (Obviously I mean, “spit-roast,” in the literal sense, not the dirty one. That’s disgusting. Stop it.)

So, we’re in agreement that obesity is an issue here, yes? Which is why I would like to know why exactly the British media decided to broadcast it all over the news that, in fact, we’re all allowed an extra 400 calories a day?

Yes, it’s true! The national GDA for calories is rising by 400, which means women are now ‘allowed’ 2400 calories – almost as much as an adult male’s previous intake – and men can have 2900 – almost as much as an average ELEPHANT’S intake.

Now, apparently we’ve all been exercising more, burning more calories and, thus, can eat more. WHICH SECTION OF THE BRITISH PUBLIC HAVE THEY BEEN TESTING?! Certainly none of the Scarborian cider guzzlers or Jamie Oliver’s chunky children, that’s for sure.

So, here are some of the issues I have with the publicising of this information:

Firstly, these extra 400 calories have only ever been publicly equivalised to a Mac Donald’s cheeseburger and a muffin. Helpful. Not only are they telling people that they can eat an extra 20% of their daily intake, guilt-free, but they’re also basically telling us all to get down to Maccy D’s and scoff a cheeseburger every day. Could they not have said, “That’s an extra 8 apples a day,” or, “133 grapes,” or even, “4 grapefruits”? ‘Cause, while they’re acknowledging the calorie count, they’re ignoring the fact they just advised you to up your daily intake of saturated fat by 27%, salt by 30% and carbs and sugar by 10%; never mind the preservatives, and hormones pumped into the cows that make those burgers which can cause aggression, infertility, hyperactivity, breast cancer, growth stunts and mood swings. Why not just encourage us all to eat a hunk of lard everyday? I’ve no doubt it’d probably be better for you.

Another issue is that they haven’t taken into account the millions of different body types that they’re applying this blanket rule to. The fact that some exercise more than others aside, some people simply have a much faster or slower metabolism than the national average. So telling some one who struggles with their weight under the 2000 calories a day rule that they won’t gain any weight if they consume an extra 400 is ridiculous. They will. And they’re not being supplied with all the information that can help them make an informed decision. It’s unfair and irresponsible.

Now, I’m not saying that scientists should ignore the results of their research just because some people may not like what they say, but be conscientious about it. Publish your results in a dietary journal with all the facts, or pass the info on to dieticians who can use the figures to help people professionally, but don’t hand them on to journalists and news stations who then inform an obese country that it’s actually been on a diet since the ‘80s and now it’s time to binge! And the media: grow up and realise that you are accountable for a nation’s health and well being here.

I know that some of you will feel that the public deserve to know the facts and are responsible enough to look after their own bodies, and that selective advertisement/news broadcasting is the first step to dictatorship, but please allow me to tell you why you are wrong on this occasion: If you are responsible and well-informed enough to handle this information, then it won’t affect you one iota. You don’t need it. You will know that calorie counting doesn’t make you healthy and you will be aware of which foods and what amounts make your body feel good.

This information (and it’s poorly represented advertisement) only affects the dietary irresponsible portion of the public: those who aren’t aware of what they put in their body or really struggle to figure out how many calories they’ve had in a day; those who eat more than they should already and don’t understand why they gain weight doing it; those who would give anything to be told they’re allowed to eat MacDonald’s every day and not feel guilty for it.

The only people this information could help are under-eaters and anorexics, who are either gaining that help from dieticians with this (fully-informed) data, or will ignore this public announcement because their life is about control and routine, not those extra 400 calories, which won’t be going anywhere near their bodies.

So, congratulations to the British media for encouraging a country in which the number of fatalities due to obesity almost exceed those caused by smoking to eat more shit and then complains when the NHS is forced to pay out for diseases caused by obesity. And when you tell us the stories of the 40% of British children who are tortured by bullies for being fat, please feel free to include your contribution to their misery in your reports.

“Around one in every 11 deaths in the UK is now linked to carrying excess fat.”
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-171497/Britains-obesity-death-rate.html#ixzz0YGudOAKC

The Magic of Edinburgh Festival: The 3rd, 4th & 5th Signs

The third sign: we were not being paid for our services in Edinburgh, however, we were being provided with food and accommodation. Thus far, the accommodation had been found somewhat wanting, but how wrong can you go with food?

Pretty wrong, actually.

That evening we were served cheese ravioli drowning in green pesto. I later found the 10kg bag of Aldi’s ‘Frozen Ravioli’ in our freezer. The rest of our meals for the entire month contained a consistently high quantity of chillies, despite my continuous warnings that I am, in fact, allergic to chillies.

The fourth sign: the five of us set up camp in the four-bed flat and I managed to nab me the biggest room, all to myself. However, when I awoke, I found that I was accompanied by two Irishmen.

Throughout the duration of our stay, the numbers and names of flatmates was in a constant state of flux, but we finally settled on a nice, round eight – four of whom resided in my bedroom; two of whom resided in my bed.

The fifth sign was the accumulation of the 20-hour days of hard manual labour with no risk-assessments or training, 83 crying fits, 5 exhaustion collapses, 4 deserters, 3 failed fire inspections, 2 serious hospitalisations, 1 visit to a chiropractor, and several ‘spiritual healings’ provided by the management in preference to a first aid box.

At the realisation of these signs, I should have left, but we all knew that each person who deserted provided a big dollop of work for the others who stayed. And, so, we continued for the sake of our friends.

Sounds heroic, doesn’t it? It wasn’t – it was the sleep deprivation making us crazy.

And yet, it wasn’t the stunning apartment that made my month, nor was it the maximum 3 hours of sleep per night, the back-breaking physical work, the occasional meals that I couldn’t eat, the 30 minute hilly walk in Scottish weather to work every morning, the lack of free time to experience the Festival (we were each allocated a maximum of 3 days off out of the 45 we were there), it wasn’t the inferior technology and slap-dash ‘box offices’ we were supplied with (I say supplied, we had to build them ourselves from scratch), no – it was the customers.

I have often thought that the quality of any business or job can be dramatically improved upon by the removal of customers, but, as a Theatre graduate, I was shocked to find myself believing that theatre would be better off without audiences. In fact, the demolition of all theatres and even the removal of the concept of ‘theatre’ I feel would be preferable to having to work with audience members like that ever again.

Every day I was yelled at because the managers of the company had moved a venue without informing customers; I was sworn at because we didn’t show a particular play one gentleman wanted to see; I had flyers thrown at me because one lady didn’t enjoy a play; I was ridiculed by a pair of men because I looked so tired and then told to “Smile, I’m the customer, you have to smile at me!” I was spat at for asking a drunk man to leave; I was snidely told I was incompetent because a show had sold out; I was accused of theft because a couple’s booking wasn’t on the system; I was threatened with legal action because I didn’t have to authority to refund tickets; I was threatened with physical action because a woman was so late to a show that it had finished two hours earlier and, therefore, I couldn’t grant her admittance; but the final straw was when a middle-aged man came and yelled at me because there were queue-jumpers.

I had not asked any one to form a queue: this was the first I had heard of any queue and the queue-jumpers in question were a small group of OAPs who had come inside to shelter from the freezing rain and stone-dust clouds created by some sculptors and their chainsaws, working right next to said queue. The ‘gentleman’ stood across the room from me and pointedly scowled at me for almost 40 minutes, refusing to leave until the queue-jumpers had returned to the line, before demanding I make the OAPs leave by force. They all refused to re-join the line and told me I was rude for asking. The Arse then slammed his fist on the counter and shouted at me that my attitude was unacceptable. At that point, another show opened its doors and its audience filtered in. The man then yelled at me yet again because people from his queue went in. When I pointed out that it was a different show, he demanded I go and get them out, as they were obviously trying to find new ways to queue-jump.

In my head, I picked up my computer screen and smashed it into his smarmy, red face; in reality I started crying and ran away.

When I returned half an hour later, he was still there, arms folded, glaring.

I’d like to say that from this experience, I have learnt how to rough it, how to be more resourceful, how to stand up for myself and handle compromising situations; but, in truth, all I have learnt is that I don’t like sharing a room with boys, kitchens need to be cleaned, I am definitely allergic to chillies, you can only manage on 3 hours of sleep for so long, I should probably do more exercise, the customer is almost never right, and most importantly, that customer relations should only be undertaken by the deaf, blind and dumb, the insane, or skinheads who are able to throw computers and tell people, in no uncertain terms, to GET OVER IT!

The Magic of Edinburgh Festival: The 2nd Sign

The second sign should surely have been the 25 minute trudge with all my luggage; arriving, blistered, at what I still believe to be an imported Soviet ‘apartment’; risking life and limb heaving my luggage up three flights of spiral concrete stairs and then hearing the company van pulling up outside. “Oh, I could have given you all a lift.” Really? Super.

I threw myself onto what can loosely be described as a sofa and quickly jumped back up when I saw the bird shit dripping down the sides of it.

Now, I don’t feel I’ve stressed quite enough the miserable state of our flat. The floors were crispy, the windows didn’t close, the kitchen was only half-built, there was no lounge, the bathroom had a bath, sink and toilet but no standing room (we measured, and the linen closet was honestly larger) and the only thing keeping that sink stuck to the wall was condensation.

I came back one evening to find the front door wide open, which started a small row over who had forgotten to close it. However, the row soon dissipated when we realised that the sentence, “Some one could have come in and stolen our…” could only be completed with, “…general air of depression.”

One Monday morning when leaving the flat, we noticed that the concrete stairs were covered with water. There was obviously a stair-cleaner at work here, but why, first thing on a monday morning, when residents are still half asleep and not paying attention, and the Scottish weather could turn blood to ice, would you pour gallons of icy water down spiral concrete stairs?? It was suggested that this was simply Scottish Natural Selection.

I concur.

Luckily, we were naturally selected and made it to the bottom. However, on arriving at the foot of the stairs, we bumped into a man, flanked by two youngsters, who proceeded to climb the icy death trap and let themselves into our flat.

Please, allow me to pause for effect.

It transpired that this was the landlord and he had been showing prospective tenants around the flat when we were out.

Without telling us.

When all our belongings were in there.

...!

However, again, it occurred to us that the wall of depression would hit them as soon as they stepped across the threshold and, therefore, probably wouldn't have the morale to steal my hairdryer.

So on we trudged.

To be continued...