by Rae Earl
That said – no-one in the pub jumped on top of me so I’ve got a way to go yet.
I told him it was the tonsillitis. It’s not. It’s my amazing willpower over Jaffa Cakes and my new found love of Ski yoghurts.
It’s not a love really. It’s a means to an end. Or a Haddock.
Wednesday 27.3.91
9.55 p.m.
Fig wants to go out with Dobber again.
I’d go out with Dobber if I was a boy.
I’m keeping it together. I walk everyday with music. Miles and miles. Either to Tolethorpe, Toll Bar and back again or to the fourth Meadows with compilation tapes on my personal stereo. Burns up calories and I can think.
I still hit myself because I can’t get the thoughts out of my head . . . If I think ‘die’ I hit myself and it cancels it out with God.
It’s sense.
It’s not sense but it’s sense to me.
It’s funny I never wanted to write it but now I think sod it. It’s only you diary. Why not? I didn’t tell the shrinks as much as I write here.
Some were OK but the psychiatrist who said I was punishing Mum for what happened was talking SHIT. It was NOTHING to do with her. Random evil paedophiles are no-one’s fault but random evil paedophiles. I knew that at 12, thank you. It just fucked me up. My mum was brilliant. All my family were. That was having a go at me AND Mum. I was right to threaten him with throwing a typewriter at him. Though in the long run I don’t think this made him particularly warm to me! HA HA HA!
Piss off with you GCSE psychology. I was mad before the pervert came along. I know it. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t. They always pick up on the obvious stuff – of course it was horrible but my head has always been horrible. No 8 year old should be terrified of malaria when they live in Lincolnshire. At least nuclear war makes more sense. Or made more sense. Thank you Mr Gorbachev.
You see – nothing to do. I’m going into things here that I can’t fix. My brain needs something. That number one wall chart that I made or type up my record collection again (without throwing the typewriter at the shrink). The diet is helping. It’s something to focus on. A list to tick.
‘You Got the Love’ by The Source and Candi Staton is blowing my head off it’s that good. There’s also this Banderas song called ‘This Is Your Life’ which is fantastic but it’s asking me every question in the lyrics that I can’t answer. Then it keeps reminding me in the chorus that ‘This is your life’. I KNOW!! I’M BLOODY TRYING TO SORT IT!!
Friday 29.3.91
7.42 p.m.
Today I spoke to my dead great granddad for half an hour. I said I know World War One must have been just dreadful and I feel bad asking this but can you help me out? I know being in the Somme and watching young men being butchered to shit makes my life look like the best thing ever but I just need a break. I need something to go right. Give me the power to stick at things. You were in a trench. You survived. Give me what I need to get through this and not go mad.
I’ve never shoplifted because of my great granddad. He was in no-man’s-land about to nick a gold ring off a German and the German opened his eyes. He said that was God telling him not to thieve.
Actually I think it was just the German dying. Probably horribly.
Perhaps the whole family were mad. I’m just the strengthened version of it. I’m the bottle of nuts-squash without the water.
Does talking to dead people make you mad? Doris Stokes made a career out of it and no-one made her go to group therapy and work with clay. I better not tell anyone though. They are all waiting. Looking for the signs.
Saturday 30.3.91
5.32 p.m.
I got stuck by the gas fire today for ages. Why don’t they make gas fires you can unplug? If you press plugs in your palm you know you’ve turned them off. When you leave the house you can see the imprint of the plug. There’s no comfort with gas.
Sunday 31.3.91
3.14 p.m.
Asked Mum today if we really need gas. Why can’t we just have electric? Apparently it’s the boiler and Mum likes to see a proper flame when she’s cooking. Yes – because my mental health is less important than seeing fire when you’re doing your baked beans.
7.34 p.m.
‘Crazy For You’ by Madonna is back in the charts! It’s like the universe wants to remind me that every end of every disco in the 1980s was spent in the toilets hiding from rejection.
Well – the diet is still going well. Odd. I don’t feel like eating much sometimes. I don’t feel like getting out of bed sometimes. I like being asleep. That’s my main interest.
Wednesday 3.4.91
11.10 p.m.
My mother talks basic crap the majority of the time but she’s right about one thing. I’m going mad here.
1) Wasting all I’ve got.
2) Mind collapse.
I partly live for Vic Reeves Big Night Out. My brother told me about it. It’s brilliant.
Vic and Bob
Vic and Bob I’m glad you’re here
Because the dole cheques are wrapped around my mind
Sent it round the twist
So I’ll slip a plum underneath a viper
Very Poor.
Thursday 4.4.91
10.23 p.m.
Mort came up with this fantastic idea when I rang her tonight. UNESCO (the education part of the United Nations) do these trips to Poland. You go there and teach English in a boarding school and then tour across the place. Mort and me can do it when she comes back from South Africa. Yes. It scares me to the point where I can barely breathe but I’m sick of being here left behind as the nuts one. I can’t risk another mess. I have to do something and Mort makes me feel safe. She wouldn’t let me die. It’s for a month. I know. The most I managed away on my own before without my mum is five days but . . . I have to do it. And Mort is there. She is with me. So I’m going for it. Poland has only just stopped being communist so God knows what it’s like but . . . have to try. Have to learn to get out and not feel like I’m dying. And there’s no InterCity trains back from Poland. Once I’m there, I’m there. With Lech Walesa and . . . I can’t think of anyone else famous that is Polish. I think I need £200. I’ll get it somehow.
Poland. Bloody hell. I can’t even believe you can get to Poland now.
Friday 5.4.91
11.22 p.m.
Soon my Wednesday nights will be so grim,
With my hanky I will sob,
To turn on 10.30 on Channel 4
And there will be no Vic and Bob
Had THE most horrendous experience ever tonight. Shelboss rang me up and took me out for a curry with her boyfriend (Cancerian, incisive gent type). Anyway he bought his mate. It was a bit double-date-feely but I wasn’t attracted to him at all. THEN my brother came in the Indian (WHY DOES STAMFORD ONLY HAVE ONE INDIAN TAKEAWAY??!!) and said Hello and this bloke made a phallic joke in front of my brother! It was TOTAL death from social embarrassment. A nightmare. I just feel so prickly and uncomfortable with the whole men thing.
Told Shellboss about Poland. She thinks it’s a great idea.
So does Mum.
Everyone does.
I do but I’m shitting it.
Perhaps life IS just shitting it a lot of the time. You have to just get over it. With a bloody paper bag.
Saturday 6.4.91
Fig and Dobber are well loved up again. Good – I like them both and Dobber deserves to be happy.
Loads of people back down the pub tonight. Lots of ‘what are you doing Rae?’ Er . . . I’m GOING TO POLAND. Finally I have an answer better than ‘I’m sitting in fields listening to Morrissey thinking about sex with Haddock and writing poetry that you will never get to see.’
A few people asked if I had lost weight. I told them I’d had tonsillitis for a very long time. How long can I use that excuse before I have to admit I’m on a proper massive sex goddess diet?
Sunday 7.4.91
11.44 p.m.
I just watched THE best thi
ng with Mum – Prime Suspect. Basically Helen Mirren is this detective trying to solve this murder and rape case and the men working with her treat her like shit BUT she just carries on tough as nails. It was bloody FANTASTIC. She was completely amazing. Mum said ‘That’s how it is Rach – men give you crap, you come back tougher.’ I have no desire to be a policewoman as I nearly vomit when I stub my toe but what a show. UP YOURS SEXIST SHITS! Second part on tomorrow.
Monday 8.4.91
11.37 p.m.
Prime Suspect I swear was the best television programme I have ever seen. At the end when she caught the total bastard all the blokes working with Helen Mirren had to admit that they had been totally wrong about her and they sang her a song. It was . . . oh I couldn’t look away. TENSE! Even Mum had to admit that it made Bergerac look like Noddy. The most dangerous person in Bergerac is Liza Goddard! She was married to Alvin Stardust and was on Give Us a Clue for years. That says it all!
Tuesday 9.4.91
9.12 p.m.
I have to admit now I might be slightly sick of 8 ounce jacket potatoes. It’s the weighing them that is the complete pain in the backside. You look like a right weirdo in the Co-op trying to get ones that are exactly right.
I’m not giving up though.
I have also started doing Cynthia Kereluk’s Everyday Workout on the Lifestyle Channel. I look like a total tit doing it so I shut the curtains.
Wednesday 10.4.91
Mum has been informed that I’m ‘shutting curtains a lot’. No I’m not joking. Some people round here have that little to do that they report on curtain and blind movements.
I told her I was doing aerobics, that I didn’t have a decent sports bra and my breasts were bouncing everywhere.
That completely ended the conversation. If there is one thing my mum fears or is jealous of it’s my tits. She would not want there to be an Edinburgh Road boob bounce display under any circumstances.
Thursday 11.4.91
6.12 p.m.
No Mum – I have no desire to watch a recording of The Darling Buds of May on video with you. As far as I can see it’s mainly about eating really nice farmhouse food round a really big farmhouse table. That’s not good for the diet. Also it’s Del Boy trying to have sex with his TV wife. That might be good for the diet.
Friday 12.4.91
1.11 p.m.
I’m trying to fill in a form to go to Poland. I’ve just mucked it up which is ridiculous as I actually REALLY want to do this.
If you could groan I know you would. You know – no. I am not going to write it anymore. I haven’t seen Haddock for 6 months. He’s meant to be out tonight. He could have grown two heads and a tail by now and turned into a total twat features. But I’m in KNOTS at the thought.
11.45 p.m.
Where do I start? God, life is funny. I mean – you just can’t predict it.
Battered Sausage and Fig came round first. It was brilliant to see them both. Dobber and me were having a real laugh in the Vaults and then Haddock flies in and just completely ignores me. I mean – COMPLETELY. Mr Pissy Arse. Battered Sausage said ‘Aren’t you going to speak to Haddock?’ No – why should I go over and see him? Of course I wanted to but WHY SHOULD I? I’m not chasing him. No. Bloody no. If he wants to play silly buggers then oh – I’m crying. Everybody was so lovely and the ONE person you want to just be thrilled to see you and NOTICE YOUR weight loss decides this is the night he is going to act like a total knob end. Then he . . . Oh pissed off. Write more tomorrow.
Saturday 13.4.91
9.45 a.m.
Seeing Haddock just threw me completely. And then ALL he eventually did was speak to bloody Dobber about his on/off girlfriend. Had she heard anything? Did she know anything? He grunted at me. It was like April 1989 again. The grunt. The gorgeous idiot. Only I know that’s not him now. Which makes it even worse.
Sunday 14.4.91
10.13 a.m.
Haddock just knocked on the front door. My heart leapt ten foot in the air like his eyebrow. I kept casual though.
CONVERSATION AS FOLLOWS. IT BEGGARS BELIEF.
HADDOCK: Is Battered Sausage here?
ME: No, he’s not.
HADDOCK: See you then.
ME: Er . . . Haddock. Have I . . .
HADDOCK: Rae I really can’t talk right now.
BYE THEN. SOD OFF YOU.
I didn’t say that. I just said ‘Bye!’ He ran off. I slammed the door. I slammed the door in a way that it was BLOODY OBVIOUS that I was totally and utterly PISSED OFF.
And I put it all back in the box called Haddock.
I haven’t got an actual box called Haddock. There’s just stuff under the mattress. I mean in my mental head box called Haddock.
I haven’t got a heart to smash anymore. I’m surprised I’ve got any circulation left.
9.12 p.m.
I can’t seem to explain to Mum that The Darling Buds of May will not make me feel better right now. She says ‘But it was lovely watching Prime Suspect together.’ Yes it was. Watching a woman solve a horrible murder against the odds was brilliant. A massive family being happy in Kent is not going to improve my mood.
She’s still waiting to hear about Adnan coming back to the country. She wants me to take her mind off it I think but . . . let Ma Larkin and her stupid pies and ridiculously idyllic lifestyle where everyone fancies her despite her being massive be a distraction. I’m sick of being everyone’s clown.
Monday 15.4.91
8.13 a.m.
Got an interview at the Chequers Inn tomorrow for a bar job.
Tuesday 16.4.91
11.14 a.m.
I’m just down the meadows.
Well, just went for an interview at the Chequers Inn. I think I’ll pass on that one. The landlord was a bit of a humourless sod. I’ve noticed that people actually don’t want a discussion in life they just want to TELL YOU SHIT. I’ll get called a jibber but who gives a toss?! I think most people I am friends with have that opinion of me anyway and whether it’s true or not I doubt I can change it.
Anyway back to more important issues than jobs – Haddock. It’s weird all that time I was worried about using his girlfriend but actually both of them were using me. Inadvertently. I don’t think they did it deliberately. But I’ve been their total marriage guidance counsellor. Serves me right. Now I’m not needed amymore and
FUCK!
FUCK!
Was just writing that and Haddock appeared from behind me. Thank God I moved this quick.
Conversation as follows
HADDOCK: Hello.
ME: Hello.
HADDOCK: Sorry I’ve been bit off. I’ve had a lot on and there’s stuff I want to say to you.
ME: Yeah. No worries Haddock. I’ve got to go actually I’ve got a job interview (LIE – BUT SOD YOU!)
HADDOCK: Oh OK. Well, see you soon then.
He looked a bit upset. GOOD. I can hurt people too.
Then I went.
7.20 p.m.
Now I feel like shit. Well done Rae. Another stellar performance from the lady the Stamford Mercury is calling ‘this region’s most massive crashed and burned buggered up mess up merchant’.
It didn’t say that but it would if it was doing a special report on idiots.
Wednesday 17.4.91
5.13 p.m.
Why was I such a bitch to him?
Because he hurt ME! You can’t just pick people up and drop them when you feel like it Haddock.
I suppose you can when you have absolutely no idea that they are completely in love with you and that you are living on sodding Ryvitas, Slim a Soups and apples so one day you can snog them. THE SECRET SACRIFICES THAT I AM MAKING! I can’t remember the last time I had a Twix.
Thursday 18.4.91
8.12 p.m.
Just watched Top of the Pops. I love the Chesney Hawkes song and I love his mole. It shows imperfection is beautiful. In fact I want the mole of Chesney. I might draw it on with a biro.
James’ ‘Sit Dow
n’ is a work of genius but Zucchero and Paul Young need to sort it out. What a load of Radio 2 drivel. Something about being without a woman. Here’s a tip Zucchero – lay off the crisps. That’s what I’ve had to do. But he’s Italian, famous and male so women will be queuing up anyway to share his pizza. What never ceases to amaze me is how unfair life is. I’m fat and can’t get one piece of action. Zucchero is probably having a pepperoni pizza 3 times a day and models are cavorting round his table in feathers. I wish I was a man.
No – I don’t. I just wish I could be a PROPER woman.
Friday 19.4.91
7.34 p.m.
I went over to Mort’s. She goes away for ages to South Africa tomorrow. I got a bit emotional. She was like ‘I’ll be back before you know it’ but she won’t be. She’s there for ages. We are definitely going to Poland together but that’s miles off and in the meantime – oh . . . not being able to ring her. For the good things. For the bad things. For the REALLY bad things. There’s no-one else I can just say I’m in a mess to without them threatening me with places and tablets and things I can’t handle.
That’s not her problem though. It’s not Haddock’s either. They can’t fix me.
Anyway I hugged her goodbye and said have a wonderful trip but I really wanted to say ‘stay by the phone and don’t go and would you like a piece of privet?’
That’s our private joke thing. Privet. No it’s not funny to anyone else and neither is calling each other Feint and Margin in a Cornish accent – but that’s what best mates are partly for. Crap jokes that no-one else gets.
Sunday 21.4.91
7.36 p.m.
What the hell am I going to do without Mort?
Monday 22.4.91
12.23 p.m.
Sometimes I know I’m mad. Nutty as a fruitcake. Yet there is nothing I can do about it. There is nothing I can do to stop my brain saying if the ITV schools logo I am following goes to the top left corner of the screen then I am going to die.