mirror. If I lie back on the sofa, it subsides slightly, but then comes the urge to vomit so I must sit up again. By the time the blonds return from their tour, I am considering gouging my own eyes out with the coffee spoon. As they mutter goodbyes, I stand up and try to apologise to them again. This sudden movement coincides with a full-frontal waft of Arsehole’s aftershave, and I have no option but to retch. I throw up mostly in my mouth, a tiny bit on one of the trouser suits. They leave. I throw up again.
It takes three hours to recover enough to become mobile. During this time, I develop a surprisingly ferocious self-loathing. Without Isabel, I am a sad, lonely man who gets drunk pointlessly and still plays computer games at the age of twenty-nine and thirteen-fourteenths. I eat junk food and fail to ablute properly. If I was American, I would live in an Appalachian trailer park, shout ‘Jerry, Jerry, Jerry’ at the television and cultivate maggots in the folds of my stomach.
As I lie in a foetal position, clinging desperately to the base of the toilet, I hatch an extensive plan to restore my self-respect. The minute, the very minute, that I feel better, I shall shower andchange and clean the flat and go for a run and write a letter to my godmother and start reading Dickens and go out and buy a present for my sister and change the Hoover bag and stick the bit that’s fallen off my backgammon board back on.
Sadly, the very minute comes at the same time I remember I haven’t watched the second movie. And a small voice says, ‘Why don’t you just watch the film, my precious? Isabel won’t know. There’s still time to tidy.’ And then it says, ‘Bloody Mary will help, my precious. Drinking in the daytime is good. Write letter to godmother another day, my precious. Play more computer. Play more. Play more.’
It’s 4 p.m. and the doorbell goes again, and it’s Arthur Arsehole, amazed that I’m still loitering, gobsmacked that the flat is still looking like a Glaswegian squat. He has in tow a nice couple who smile and introduce themselves. I stand and stumble on legs shot through with pins and needles. I offer a gnarled and clammy gamer’s claw. They umm and aahh their way around the mess: ‘Umm, you’ve reached level forty-seven. Aahh, we’re not buying a flat from someone who drinks vodka in the daytime.’
Andy calls. He’s back in the country. Am I free for a couple of beers? No, I explain through tears of anguish. I must stay in and tidy.
I stay in and play the zombie game. I am horrendous.
Sunday 10 July
Isabel returned today. We had a lovely evening watching her programmes and eating vegetables. I didn’t even flinch when she mentioned that her mother had found a suitable house for us in her village. And that we could have a look at it on the way to Francesca’s wedding next Saturday.
All I said was, ‘But I thought you weren’t sure about moving out of London just yet.’
And all she said was, ‘I know, but it does look very spacious. And you’re right about growing vegetables. It would be marvellous.’
And all I then said was, ‘Okay, not a hundred per cent on your mum’s village but worth having a look.’
And all she said, ‘So how did the viewings go?’
And all I said was, ‘Fine.’
THINGS I DON’T WANT TO BE DOING WHEN I’M 50
Playing PlayStation
Behaving like a bachelor in any way whatsoever
Wearing jeans
Waking up on a sofa at 3 a.m. in a dark room lit by a flickering TV
Wearing the same underpants two days running
Only ever eating anything green when someone forces me to.
Monday 11 July
Another bad start to another week. It was Isabel’s turn to make breakfast, which means soggy cereal. What she does is go into the kitchen, get the bowls out, pour the cereal in, pour the milk in, then put the kettle on, wait for it to boil and make the tea. The proper way to do it is to go into the kitchen, put the kettle on, do whatever you like while you wait for it to
It takes three hours to recover enough to become mobile. During this time, I develop a surprisingly ferocious self-loathing. Without Isabel, I am a sad, lonely man who gets drunk pointlessly and still plays computer games at the age of twenty-nine and thirteen-fourteenths. I eat junk food and fail to ablute properly. If I was American, I would live in an Appalachian trailer park, shout ‘Jerry, Jerry, Jerry’ at the television and cultivate maggots in the folds of my stomach.
As I lie in a foetal position, clinging desperately to the base of the toilet, I hatch an extensive plan to restore my self-respect. The minute, the very minute, that I feel better, I shall shower andchange and clean the flat and go for a run and write a letter to my godmother and start reading Dickens and go out and buy a present for my sister and change the Hoover bag and stick the bit that’s fallen off my backgammon board back on.
Sadly, the very minute comes at the same time I remember I haven’t watched the second movie. And a small voice says, ‘Why don’t you just watch the film, my precious? Isabel won’t know. There’s still time to tidy.’ And then it says, ‘Bloody Mary will help, my precious. Drinking in the daytime is good. Write letter to godmother another day, my precious. Play more computer. Play more. Play more.’
It’s 4 p.m. and the doorbell goes again, and it’s Arthur Arsehole, amazed that I’m still loitering, gobsmacked that the flat is still looking like a Glaswegian squat. He has in tow a nice couple who smile and introduce themselves. I stand and stumble on legs shot through with pins and needles. I offer a gnarled and clammy gamer’s claw. They umm and aahh their way around the mess: ‘Umm, you’ve reached level forty-seven. Aahh, we’re not buying a flat from someone who drinks vodka in the daytime.’
Andy calls. He’s back in the country. Am I free for a couple of beers? No, I explain through tears of anguish. I must stay in and tidy.
I stay in and play the zombie game. I am horrendous.
Sunday 10 July
Isabel returned today. We had a lovely evening watching her programmes and eating vegetables. I didn’t even flinch when she mentioned that her mother had found a suitable house for us in her village. And that we could have a look at it on the way to Francesca’s wedding next Saturday.
All I said was, ‘But I thought you weren’t sure about moving out of London just yet.’
And all she said was, ‘I know, but it does look very spacious. And you’re right about growing vegetables. It would be marvellous.’
And all I then said was, ‘Okay, not a hundred per cent on your mum’s village but worth having a look.’
And all she said, ‘So how did the viewings go?’
And all I said was, ‘Fine.’
THINGS I DON’T WANT TO BE DOING WHEN I’M 50
Playing PlayStation
Behaving like a bachelor in any way whatsoever
Wearing jeans
Waking up on a sofa at 3 a.m. in a dark room lit by a flickering TV
Wearing the same underpants two days running
Only ever eating anything green when someone forces me to.
Monday 11 July
Another bad start to another week. It was Isabel’s turn to make breakfast, which means soggy cereal. What she does is go into the kitchen, get the bowls out, pour the cereal in, pour the milk in, then put the kettle on, wait for it to boil and make the tea. The proper way to do it is to go into the kitchen, put the kettle on, do whatever you like while you wait for it to
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