Friday 23 June 8st 12lb, alcohol units 9, cigarettes 47, calories 6,876. 12.15am. Daniel
has just... Oh dear I think I'm going to be sick. Saturday 24 June 8st 12lb 8oz (weird miracle), cigarettes 7, calories 1,145, Instants 5
(won pounds 2 therefore total Instants expenditure only pounds 3),
lottery proper pounds 2 (number of correct numbers: 0). How
come have only put on 8oz after last night's over-consumption orgy?
Maybe food and weight are the same as garlic and stenchful breath: if
you eat several entire bulbs, your breath doesn't smell at all. V bad
situation in head. Would welcome removal for thorough valeting. Still,
was worth it for delicious night of feminist ranting with Sharon, Jude
and Tina. The
generous girls had each brought an extra something from M&S as well
as wine. Therefore, in addition to the three-course meal already bought
- I mean prepared by entire day's slaving over stove - by me and and
five bottles of wine, we had 1 tub hummus & pkt mini-pittas, 12
smoked salmon and cream cheese pinwheels, 12 mini-pizzas, 1 raspberry
pavlova, 1 tiramisu (party size) and 2 Swiss mountain bars to get
through. Sharon
was on top form. "Bastards," she was already yelling by 8.35,
pouring a glass of Kir Royale straight down her throat. "Stupid,
arrogant, manipulative, self-indulgent bastards. Oooh, pass me one of
those mini- pizzas, will you?" Jude
was depressed because her ex-boyfriend, Richard (the one who chucked her
for asking him to go on holiday with her), keeps ringing her up dropping
verbal bait suggesting he wants to get back together, to keep her
interested, meanwhile protecting himself by saying he just wants to be
"friends". Last night he made an incredibly assumptive,
patronising phone call asking if she was going to a mutual friend's
party. "Ah well, in that case I won't come," he said.
"No, it really wouldn't be fair on you. You see I was going to
bring this sort of... date with me. I mean it's nothing really, just
some girl who's stupid enough to let me shag her for a couple of
weeks." "What?"
exploded Sharon. "Arrogant
little prat. That's
the most repulsive thing I've ever heard anyone say about a woman." "How
dare he give himself licence to treat you any way he likes under the
name of friendship, then make himself feel clever by trying to make you
jealous," yelled Tina. "If he was really concerned about not
hurting your feelings, he'd have just discreetly kept his stupid 'date'
out of your way instead of waving her under your nose like he'd won on
the Instants." "Friends!
Pah! Bastards more like!" I shouted happily, tucking into another
Silk Cut and a salmon pinwheel. By
11.30 the Greenpeace victory over Shell had been transformed by Sharon
into an imminent feminist victory. I heard the phone ring at this point
but left it to the answerphone. "Ten years ago people who cared
about the environment were laughed at as sandal-wearing beardie
weirdies, and now look at the power of the green consumer," Sharon
was bellowing, scooping tiramisu into her mouth with her fingers.
"The same will come to pass with feminism. There won't be any men
leaving their post-menopausal wives for young mistresses, or trying to
chat women up by showing off about the unwanted love of other deluded
women, or trying to have sex without any niceness of commitment: because
women will just tell them to sod right off and men won't get any sex
unless they learn how to behave properly instead of cluttering up the
seabed with their SHITTY, SMUG, SELF-INDULGENT BEHAVIOUR." "Bastards!"
yelled Tina, slurping her Pinot Grigio. "Bastards!"
I shouted through a mouthful of pavlova. Just
then the doorbell rang. "I
bet that's Daniel, the bloody bastard," I slurred, yelling
"Wha' you want?" into the entryphone. "Hello,
darling," murmured Daniel in his gentlest, politest voice.
"I'm really sorry to bother you. I did ring earlier and leave a
message. I've been stuck in the most deadly board meeting you can
imagine for the entire evening and I so much wanted to see you." "All
right," I said grumpily, lurching back to the table. "Bloody
bastard." "Culture
of entitlement," Sharon suddenly shouted. "Cooking, shopping,
succour, young girls' bodies when they're old and fat - they think
they're entitled to all this stuff from us... here, have we run out of
wine?" Then
Daniel appeared up the stairs. He looked tired, clean-shaven and very
neat in his suit. He was holding a box of Milk Tray. "Oh.
Hello. I bought you these," he mumbled, looking endearingly
embarrassed. "Don't let me interrupt. I've done the shopping for
the weekend," he said, taking eight Cullen's carrier bags through
into the kitchen. At that moment the mini-cab firm the girls had just
rung phoned back saying sorry, they weren't going to be able to come for
another three hours. "I'll drive you home," said Daniel.
"You can't hang around the streets looking for cabs at this time of
night." While
he was gone I picked at the Milk Tray, feeling a bewildering mixture of
smug pride at my perfect new boyfriend who all the girls fancy, and rage
at the normally mad sexist drunk for ruining our ranting by being
freakishly well behaved. Huh. We'll just see how long this lasts, I
thought, going into the layer below for the hazelnut whirl. Huh. |