Diary of a Free Woman – a disorganised life
My journey back to Suffolk on Sunday morning is peppered with texts and phone calls from girlfriends giving me the lowdown on the remainder of the previous evening, which seems to have proved entertaining. I hate weekend travel by rail when part of the journey is by replacement bus. I vow to start driving into London, something I haven’t done for years but the memory of dicing with death around Trafalgar Square, an eight month pregant girlfriend in the passenger seat and convinced the trauma may cause her to give birth at any moment persaudes me against such a risky course of action.
I realise that at some point during the week I will have to clean the house as a girlfriend is coming to stay for the weekend. Whatever happened to the domestic goddess who at some time in the distant past took pride in spending every Friday evening hoovering, dusting, washing; looking with smug satisfaction at the result of her labours. Now the hoover comes out of the cupboard only when absolutely necessary, any surface in need of dusting is given a cursory flick and the kitchen floor is washed when I stick to it with both feet. As usual I put off the cleaning until the last possible moment.
Mr N messages to ask when we can see each other and enquires as to whether the purchase I made for him is still tucked in my bra. I tell him that no I have it stored safely and at that moment the realisation hits me that I have no idea where I stored it. I try to think what I might have done with it, and reason that as it was in my bra, it should be somewhere in the bedroom which seems a good place to start looking. A search of my special underwear drawer, which has strong links to my visits to Mr N, proves fruitless. I brave the dust and detritus under my bed and although I don’t find what I’m looking for I do find my Rabbit. The underwear drawer had revealed a pack of batteries that fit the rabbit so the search has at least proved semi successful. My ability to store items safely without them ever reappearing is well known. I recall things in the past which have been stored never to be found; a memory card reader for the camera, several pieces of jewellery, driving licence, spare car keys, the list is endless and I wonder if it would be worthwhile writing a note to myself everytime I put something in a safe place and pinning the list to the fridge.
My search continues in the bathroom, under the increasing pile of unironed clothes and eventually downstairs. I find my new credit card, two unpaid parking fines and a final reminder for the TV licence but still not what I was looking for. Exhausted I decide to sit in the garden with a gin and tonic, confident that the packet will reappear. I wonder if I should worry about living my life in such a chaotic bubble but once again think of Janet Street Porter’s words. If I was into wearing tee-shirts with slogans I would definitely have one with ‘Life’s Too Fucking Short’ emblazoned across the front but the only printed tee-shirt I allow myself is my treasured Springsteen one with ‘Tramps Like Us’ across the chest.
Back in the house I open a kitchen cupboard to find a bottle of mineral water and out falls a small tupperware box. As I throw the box back in amongst all the other jumble of tupperware and realise, with a sense of relief it contains the elusive packet. I decide to put it into my special overnight bag straight away, after all that is something I always take with me when I see Mr N and it will surely be safe there.
Having spent one evening searching the house and two trying half heartedly to tidy the garden, Thursday has to be spent making an effort to make the house acceptable for C’s visit and by the time I pick her up from the station the house is marginally presentable. I remember that I have to make desserts for a party the following day but there is no time as C and I are meeting a girlfriend of mine for dinner. I drive to the restaurant but it takes little persuasion for me to join the others in hitting the wine and leaving my car until the morning.
As usual the next morning my best intentions don’t materialise. I ring for a cab to take me back to the restaurant, a 15 minute journey. The cab driver begins by discussing local restaurants and seamlessly moves to why we should not be in Europe, bemoaning the nanny state in between. I realise that we have missed the turning to the restaurant and would have pointed out the mistake if I had been able to break into his conversation. By the time he realises his mistake the 15 minute journey has become 45 minutes and the time for C and I to depart for Surry is fast approaching. C rings with a list of shopping she needs me to pick up from Waitrose and I abandon all thoughts of making desserts, opting instead for a selection from the freezer cabinet.
We eventually leave at the time we should have been arriving in Surrey after I realise I have no oil in my car and have to call on a neighbour to unscew the oil cap. I loathe being a helpless female but am cheered when even the neighbour has a struggle to dislodge the cap. We fly down the A12 at 110mph and I pretend not to notice C clutching the door handle but the 10 miles of M25 to the Dartford Crossing is solid with traffic. I take the opportunity to change C’s taste in music; she is rather fond of Lionel Ritchie but instead educate her in Faithless, Springsteen and Kings of Leon.
We finally arrive in Surrey and at 3pm I have my first gin. Eight hours later and having swapped gin for a lethal punch, Bollinger and 9 shots of tequila I drift into a blissful sleep or pass out as has been suggested, on the sofa, the last thing I remember is asking a friend to find my phone so I can ring Mr N.
By Ms Naughty
