What's your book about?
I can't really talk about that, I feel funny about it.
Why should we read it?
You shouldn't, it's AWFUL, it makes me feel sick to my stomach.
So. I am currently 45% anxiety, 20% relief, 20% pessisism, 10% holy fuck, now what? and 5% eery calm. In a gesture of great stupidity and empty symbolism, I decided to set myself a deadline to complete it simultaneously with my last day in the office, so as of now I am doubly unemployed. Brilliant. That won't be at all psychologically challenging, will it? There is absolutely no way that I will be spending tomorrow curled in a ball at the bottom of the wardrobe shaking and keening and drinking cooking sherry. Nope. It should be good for blogging though, what with me having fuck all else to do except worry myself into an early grave, so that's something to look forward to. Maybe you could suggest an amusing project for me? My sanity may depend on this, but no pressure, obviously.
In order to delay the onset of yet another self-induced life crisis, I went to London for the past couple of days and had a variety of rather brilliant times. Mrs Trefusis and I played truant, trying on clothes and hats (Mrs Trefusis looked AMAZING in every hat she tried on), admiring dog shaped handbags and going to the Savoy for cocktails (actually neither of us was playing truant, but cocktails at 4pm on a weekday must always feel like truancy). Several observations about the Savoy:
1. The refurb, although accomplished and rather brilliant in parts (there is a rather glossy black lacquered teashop type thing that I liked a great deal), is sadly soulless and theme park-esque. The frontage remains heartbreakingly beautiful, but the inside is a bit generic, deep pile swirly carpets and a great deal of gilt. Also, many many people, milling around gormlessly, like the whole of Charing Cross station has disgorged into the lobby.
2. The American Bar, in particular appears to be staffed by YTS trainees, who, whilst amiable, were completely lacking in gravitas or the kind of weary, knowing acceptance I want in a cocktail barman. You got the feeling that the louchest thing any of them had seen was a Christian youth club disco. One particularly eager teenage trainee described a cocktail to Mrs Trefusis as "like a party in your mouth", which is a phrase so full of wrongness we were both floored by it for about ten minutes.
3. There was a distinct theme of weepetty/greyhoundy bibelots, many of which looked like they had come from the specialist shops along Wigmore Street that cater to the tastes of African and South American dictators (full sized gold puma, anyone?).
I love Wigmore Street for this, incidentally. The exiled dictator can see his various Harley Street practitioners, pick up esoteric medication at the wonderful John Bell & Croyden, buy a pair of double life size bronze antelopes and select a natty outfit involving cravats and opulent silk at that shop opposite the sports shop on the corner of James Street. I am getting distracted by my dictator shopping itinerary, what I meant to say was, the weepette (greyhound really, mais on ne va pas se formaliser) is having a decorative moment, there were also several in the Guardian magazine yesterday:
Excellent. If things continue in their current apocalyptic vein, I can have mine stuffed, and possibly flocked, then place him in an East End interiors shop with a rapacious mark up.
Apart from that, I:
- lusted after a £12 Christmas tree owl:
- ate so much Mexican food I had indigestion for 48 hours
- went on a pathetic nostalgia trip for breakfast at my old Patisserie Valerie and took a wistful photo of my old flat:
- laughed until it hurt about dweeby teenage hobbies. Mine: creating a minutely accurate model stable on the floor of my wardrobe, filled with straw and chaff, wearing a Pony Club tie at all times, spending my pocket money on single pieces of plastic fencing from the Monk Bar Model Shop to complete the tableau.
- Went to the Diaghilev exhibition (again with Mrs Trefusis) and wished I had £75 to buy a beautiful petrol set of green feathery ears. I'm not explaining that well, but they were beautiful. So was the exhibition.
- received a proposal of marriage from a taxi driver. Well, I hope he was a taxi driver, he might just have been a dangerous lunatic in possession of the oldest, most rickety hansom cab I have ever been in (I was running late, OK, and it was raining and I was among the zombie hordes of South Kensington and desperate). He drove me to St Pancras to the accompaniment of a Michael Bublé medley, sung by him in a winsome, heavily vibrato tenor. The climax, on Euston Road, was a short burst of Liza Minelli numbers, fortissimo. I learnt many things: he is learning sight reading at evening classes, he has been on X-Factor, he eats healthily and loves muesli (this was not immediately obvious to look at him), he thinks Jamie Lee Curtis is very attractive and Camilla Parker Bowles is a "bitch", he has been the subject of a number of complaints to the Licensing Board. I was flattered but declined, citing my need for personal space. Sample conversation:
TD: Do you like Cliff Richard?
E: He's not really to my taste, though obviously I admire his long career and youthful appearance.
TD: He don't look his age. 70 isn't he? Paints his hair though.
E: Does he?
TD: Yes. You think I should paint my hair?
E: Oh, no, I don't think so. It's risky, hair painting. It can go badly wrong.
TD: So you really think I've got a good voice?
E: Lovely. Simon Cowell must be mad.
I cannot imagine how this week can possibly measure up.