by Lynne Truss
“Chazza,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“All these weeks I’ve kept meaning to ask. There’s the Cringer and the Whiffer. What does that make ME?”
[Cheerfully] “Oh, you’re the Pedant.”
Ah. Well, it could have been worse. But I was crushed anyway. I didn’t tell him I’d secretly been hoping for “the Loner”.
“Chazza,” I said again.
“Yeah?”
“Is there anything wrong with Shakira?”
“Why?”
“She seemed a bit odd when she went off tonight.”
[Confidential] “Oh, she’s CHANGED,” he said. “She’s been a bit funny for weeks, but this afternoon, she suddenly went all peculiar and announced she was leaving. Leaving immediately. Said she couldn’t work any more on a show that glorified manufactured external attractiveness.”
“Really? That’s a shame. Oh, that’s such a shame.”
“We think it came home to her that she’s a bit, you know, a bit of a dog, when she heard that conversation between you and Jake.”
[No idea what this is] “Which conversation?”
“The one when you said she’d be great to take out on a date coz you wouldn’t have to take an interest in her.”
“Did I say that? I didn’t say that!”
[He thinks about it] I pictured Shakira’s little face, looking up at me, all crumpled, saying, “Oh, Alastair!”
[Dead] “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. We got it on tape if you wanna see it.”
I felt terrible. Shakira had been so good to me.
“And Shakira’s seen this, has she?”
“Yeah. We had it on in the office just today.”
[Pause. Alarm] “I didn’t say she was a bit of a dog?”
“No, no. Course not. Jake did.”
[Phew]
“But you didn’t say she wasn’t.”
From then on, funnily enough, I wasn’t on very good form.
“This is Gillian.”
[A grunt]
“Say hello, Alastair.”
[Distant] “Oh, hello.”
It was as if someone had struck me a glancing blow on the head with the back of a shovel. I couldn’t snap out of it. Luckily, the Life Groomers had never seen suicidal remorse before, so they assumed I was merely nervous.
“Big night, Alastair!”
[In agony] “Mm.”
“Good luck!”
[Sick with guilt] “Mm!”
All I could think of was Shakira. I was jangled, in torment. As I sat at the table with the lovely Gillian, all I wanted to do was moan aloud with my head in my hands. As a fun date, I ranked just about equal with the ghost in Hamlet. How could I have said something so horrible about Shakira? It was unbearable to think about. I only meant that we had a lot in common! I only meant, actually, that she wasn’t a tiresome, illiterate egomaniac like all these other women with their sparkly make-up and strappy shoes. Blimey, [a laugh] if anything, Shakira and I were made for each other! The other day, as we were walking past a café, she said, “Look, Alastair, fancy writing ‘paninis’, when panini is ALREADY A PLURAL WORD”!
“Excuse me,” I said, “Won’t be a sec—” and I ran to the Gents with my mobile, where I tried to phone Nick, but of course all the contestants have their mobiles confiscated and switched off during an all-London final, so there was nothing I could do, nothing. I looked around in a kind of panic. I’d left my wallet in my jacket. If I stayed away from my date for more than a minute, a bunch of well-meaning youths with space-age earpieces would descend on me and ask what was happening. What could I do? I had to speak to Shakira!
There was nothing I could do, I thought, nothing; or nothing unless [ho ho, not very likely] I removed my microphone, ran some water to cover any tell-tale noises, climbed out of that toilet window, and sprinted in the rain up to Highbury like something from a Richard Curtis film. [Beat; he did it] Blimey, Al, I thought, as I unpinned the mike and reached for the tap. It wasn’t in a direction anyone was expecting, but you really have CHANGED.
Scene Six: a few months later, at the café of the first scene; hubbub
Excuse me. [Raises voice] Excuse me, the answer you require is “Rayon”. “Shedding light on synthetic fabric.” “RAY, ON – rayon.” That’s OK, no problem. [Smiling, used to having people recognise him; under breath] Yes, I WAS on the telly. Yes. Yes, I was the ugly, hairy git who was the biggest ever failure on Life Groomers. Yes, yes, completely useless. The one who’ll never have a girlfriend. Yes, that’s me. [Giving an ironic wave] Hello!
[Yet he seems happy. Is this because he has reverted to type? Or did he climb out of that window? We don’t yet know]
We lost that final, you know. It was all Nick’s fault, though – not mine, although it may have been a bit distracting for everybody when I burst in at the start of the second round, shouting, [gasping, exhausted] “Shakira, I love you! I’ve been an idiot!” and collapsed from exhaustion and hypothermia on a pile of wet smelly coats in the corner. No, it was Nick. In the last round, they were neck-and-neck with the Hackney bunch when one of those motor racing questions came up and Nick said, [with great assurance] “Brands Hatch!” and for the first time ever, it wasn’t. Poor old Nick. Murray Walker must have put up a firewall. You can’t blame him, really.
But the bursting-in thing was definitely the right thing to do. Because it’s been Life Groomers in reverse for the past couple of months, and it’s been fantastic. Shakira and I take turns pointing out hilarious mistakes on menus. We go and see old French films together on purpose (instead of accidentally) and wait till the very, very end of the credits, drinking in as much information as we can. I’ve grown back the beard and bought several new cardigans to replace the ones ceremonially shredded by Jancis. Shakira’s coming with me this morning to the Chelsea Book Fair, where she’ll meet more short-tempered beardy-weirdy book dealers than you can shake a stick at.
“Did you know they called me the Pedant?” I said to Nick yesterday, as we leaned on the counter and stared out mournfully at the cretins on Charing Cross Road.
“Ah,” he said.
“Ah?”
“Well, that was me,” he said. “When I first contacted them, and I spoke to Shakira about you, she asked if I could come up with a snappy one-word description.”
[Shocked, disappointed] “And you said Pedant?”
“No, actually, I said ‘Tosser’ but we decided to tone it down.”
“I see,” I said. “You don’t think ‘Loner’ would have had more of a ring to it?”
[Scoff] “Loner!”
“All right. Calm down.”
[Guffaw] “Loner!!”
“All right. All right. How about some Lapsang? Shakira’s introduced me to this new one, that’s the same but different, if you know what I mean.”
[Mocking] “The same but different. Like a half-formed statue by Michelangelo? Like the lovely Alastair after Life Groomers? Oh Alastair, I’ve been meaning to say: you do know you’ve written ‘BOOKS’ with an apostrophe over there?”
[Alarmed] “What? Where? Quick!”
“Ha!” said Nick. “Got you.”
The Cat Lover
JO is in bed, with the cat. She has been in bed with the cat for quite some time – i.e. days rather than hours. She is happy.
Scene One: Radio Four – in particular “Woman’s Hour” – in background
I’m going out mountain-biking again today. [Happy relaxed sigh] After which it’s the tennis lesson with Pierre and a date in the evening with Ron Weasley, the jet-setting Californian dotcom millionaire I met on my first day. Currently, however – hang on, I can’t concentrate with Jenni Murray talking about incontinence pads – [switches off radio] currently, however, as you can see, I am floating on my back in the turquoise hotel pool in my day-glow orange swimsuit, relaxing after a vigorous sea-salt scrub executed by a Swedish woman in a white coat, the sun kissing my exquisite golden exfoliated bod
y, arms outstretched, and my beautifully painted toes stretching blissfully in the light, sparkling crystal water.
I bet I look lovely in this swimsuit. Tanned thighs, narrow waist, wide athletic shoulders, glittering jewellery. [Happy sigh; eats toast through next bit] I tread water to survey the scene. A handsome Frenchie waiter delivers a cool fruit punch to my sun lounger, where my third fat romantic novel of the week so far – packed with episodes of hot sex at polo tournaments amongst the internationally rich and famous – crisps and curls under the fierce rays of the Mediterranean sun. There are clinking and bustling sounds from the kitchens, where a buffet lunch of tasty haute cuisine low-cal savouries and oily salads is taking shape. The odd female scream from the nearby beach. [jerked back to reality] Where’s the cat gone? Buster? [Indulgent] Oh there you are. [Back to scene] Where was I? Oh yes. And here’s Ron Weasley back from shopping in St Tropez, diving neatly into the pool to splash water at me and make me laugh my tinkly laugh. [Suddenly serious] I wish I hadn’t chosen the name Ron Weasley. But that’s the trouble with getting the names out of your Harry Potter in a bit of a panic when your friend Linda phones out of the blue and asks how you’re getting on. However, look on the bright side. At least I didn’t choose Hagrid. At least I didn’t choose Voldemort.
I don’t feel a bit guilty about deceiving Linda. The thing is, she would never have let me spend my week’s holiday in bed with the cat. I know that sounds ridiculous – your friends can’t control your life, can they, however opinionated and bossy they may be. But with Linda, I don’t know how it happened, I’m ten years older than her for a start, but sorting me out seems to have become her life’s work, and I don’t have much of a say in it. Perhaps you’ve never got into this situation with a friend, where in terms of bowing to superior knowledge she’s the big white missionary with the bible and you’re the native with the blow pipe and the bone through his nose. But that’s how it is with me and Linda. “Tell you what you should do, Jo,” she says. “Get your hair cut. I know what you should do, Jo. Join my gym; there’s a discount at the moment, you could come with me at lunchtimes. Here’s what I’ve decided, Jo. Get rid of the cat.” Bought Ledger used to be such a happy department. But since Linda came six months ago, she’s appointed herself my older sister, confessor, guru, unpaid personal trainer and saviour of my soul. You know that programme Would Like to Meet on the TV? Where an expert panel of smug midgets with bright lipstick interfere with some poor woman to make her more desirable to the opposite sex? Well, imagine those smug midgets rolled into one nightmare colleague sitting at the next desk in Bought Ledger and, trust me, that’s Linda.
She was the one who insisted I go on holiday to the South of France. “You’re turning into a cat lady, Jo” –that’s what she said. A cat lady? Well thanks a lot. “You’ve got to clear that picture of Buster off your desk, Jo. You’ve got to stop reading books called things like Moggy and Me. Just because Jeff was a louse who messed up your flat and took some of your belongings, you’ve given up on men and you sit watching Would Like to Meet shouting bitter ripostes like, ‘Why don’t you look at yourselves for a change!’ with the cat resting its paws round your neck. I’m coming with you to book that holiday at once.” So we went to the travel agents and before I knew what was happening, I’d booked a very expensive seven-night package on the Côte d’Azur. Linda spent the next week picking swimwear out of a catalogue. Of course I went back to cancel the holiday the same afternoon, which really hacked off the girl with the short skirt and the grubby keyboard, but there you are. I know I should have told Linda what I’d done. But seeing her so happy, you see – seeing her live each day to the full like that – it seemed a kindness not to tell her.
Which was why, when I left work last Friday saying, “See you soon! Thanks for all the factor eight!” I felt she had left me with no choice as to how I spent the following week. I got home, locked the door, unplugged the phone and just went to bed with the cat, where I have now been lying and luxuriating without significant interruption for [excited] four whole days (!). [Happy sigh, yawn] Sometimes I turn this way [turns over, rustle of bed linen] and sometimes I turn that way [more rustling]. The only fly in the ointment is that every day at 2 p.m., I have to put down my Harry Potter and answer my mobile. Because it’s Linda, you see. Checking up on my progress, on her way back to work from the gym. “Hello!” I yell, as if I’m answering at some exotic distance and not actually just half a mile away from Worrington’s in my flat in South Croydon. “Linda? Sorry, can’t talk! Too busy with swimming pool, French blokes, exercise, Swedish massage, that sort of thing!” And then I switch off the phone for another day and give Buster a fantastic comprehensive stroke which starts with the gorgeous pussycat back-of-the-head bit between his ears, travels along all the ridges of his beautiful tabby back and ends with an affectionate yank of his lovely, lovely tail.
I’d have switched the mobile off completely if I hadn’t found this. [Cuckoo clock noise] Hang on. That’s track 6. Track 5. Here we are. [Beach sound; waves; distant laughter] It’s a BBC sound effects record Jeff rather typically left inside my Shania Twain CD case. I discovered it quite quickly, because obviously when we split up just before Christmas it was Gutsy Shania I turned to. But what did I find when I put her on? Was it a glamorous country gal with ballsy attitude in a floorlength leopardskin coat and hood singing, “That don’t impress me much”? No, it was a lark ascending. “What?” I said. “Tweet, tweet-tweet, tweet, tweet,” it went. “Twit-twit.” Well, I thought, as I took it out of the machine, [Shania quote] THAT don’t impress me much. But then I recognised the hand of Jeff, of course, and I had a little weep. You always got something back from Jeff, you see – however insultingly small and randomly chosen. Give him a car, and by way of thanks he’d present you with an only slightly soiled fashion magazine he’d thoughtfully picked up on the tube. Give him a camera and he’d reciprocate with an interesting doormat he’d found in a skip. People say cats bring home presents you don’t want, but they should try living with Jeff. He used to buy CDs for people at Christmas and tape them first, which I suppose other people sometimes do without admitting it – but when Jeff did it there was this tiny difference: he kept the CD for himself and gave the tape as the present. I remember he said I was very shallow and ungrateful when I said, “Hang on, is this what I think it is?” looking at a tape with “Van Morrison” scribbled on it. He said nobody had minded before. But I looked at my tape and said I bet they have, actually, and he said that any views on normal human relations coming from a person who idolised a pussy cat should be treated with extreme caution, and I said, oh bog off and die, Jeff, which I seem to think he shortly afterwards actually did, except for the dying part as far as I know.
Anyway, the rough inventory I made after he left showed he’d taken not only my Shania Twain, but an enormous number of biros, half the bedding, all the storage jars, the fridge, and what was the other thing? Oh yes, I nearly forgot, my childbearing years. In return for which, at first I couldn’t find anything at all, and was quite wounded, until I found this sound effects sampler CD which certainly wasn’t mine, and probably wasn’t Jeff’s originally either – somebody else had probably chucked it out and Jeff had snapped it up as always, doubtless thinking – as he always did about broken chairs or quarter-full paint tins – that it was just far too precious to be thrown away.
[Sound of lark ascending] This bit’s lovely, though. I’d love to know exactly what sort of bird it is, but of course typically I don’t have the list. But as I say, it’s been a godsend. The first day Linda rang, I picked up the mobile in alarm, and was just about to switch it off when I thought hang on, selected a track at random, and found this [airport noises]. It was a miracle. I was saved. “I’m at the airport, Linda!” I yelled. “Feeling immensely energised! You were right about me needing to get away! Thanks, Linda, speak to you soon, they’re calling my flight!” and hung up in case the track finished abruptly. The next day, when she rang again at the same time, I
skipped through the tracks and found this [restaurant hubbub noises, quite loud]. Fantastic. “Who?” I shouted. “Linda? Linda, sorry, can’t talk. Yes! Fantastic time! Met a chap called” – hasty perusal of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire – “Ron Weasley! You were so right!” At which point I turned it up. [More hubbub, turned up] “‘Oui, pour moi le salade niçoise, merci! Avec les haricots françaises!’ Sorry, Linda, speak to you soon.” Then I hung up, turned off the CD, put the radio back on for The Archers and lay flat on the bed till Buster climbed on my chest for a snoozing session that lasted the full distance of The Afternoon Play and right through to PM at five.
Scene Two: still in bed. Soft classical music in background
I first got Buster when he was six weeks old. That was fifteen years ago. He’d been called Fizzy by the children who owned his mother, but because he was a rather small and feeble newborn tabby-and-white kitten when I first saw him – the only one of the four-day-old litter unable to climb out a low-sided box – I challenged this tiny animal, “Come on, Buster, put ’em up” and although I considered some other names during his weaning period, it was Buster that stuck. Once it has dawned on you that calling a kitten Buster makes him, well, Buster Kitten, the idea becomes irresistible. Had he been a girl-cat, I always say, I would have called him Diane. Anyway, it turned out to suit my cat to be named after Old Stoneface Himself, because truly he’s a comparable master of body language. When there’s anyone else in the flat, such as Jeff, Buster can just sit with his back to them and sort of hunch his shoulders in a way that speaks more contempt and hostility than mere words could ever express. I worked out Buster’s horoscope once, and I won’t go into his moon in Virgo or his lucky number or anything, because you’ll think I’m incredibly sad, but he’s a Cancer cat, which makes him especially territorial. Bless him. He was also born in the Chinese year of the Tiger – which is handy, as it must be very confusing for cats to be born in the year of the Dog, mustn’t it? Or dogs to be born in the year of the Snake, or indeed rats in the year of the Aardvark or whatever it is. In fact, you’d think the Chinese would have thought of that really. It casts doubt on the whole system when you look at it that way.