One Day, in October (Diary)

Tuesday 22^nd October 2019

As you know I don’t really keep a diary, except maybe this blog.  But if I did, the entirely truthful account of one day in October would definitely be part of it. 

Very early, make way onto London train from West Country and armed with coffee and ipad, settle in for Netflix until I feel strong enough to read Board papers.  Have progressed part way through truly terrible but highly watchable film called The Week Of, starring Chris Rock and Adam Sandler.  It is about the ‘hilarious’ week-long run up to a mis-matched wedding. I then downloaded it so I could complete this film on journey.  Begin watching, with headphone of course, at start of Stag Party set in ball-pit/foam party/bowling club where all male actors in film, including great uncle who has lost both legs, are interacting with hostesses of club, who are clad in neon-lit bikinis and nothing else.  Much grinding top-volume music and coarse language accompany this.  As legless uncle is tipped into ball-pit with club hostesses, and scene reaches climax of vulgarity, man in seat ahead leans directly into my space.  I start and he says:  just so you know, you are broadcasting this to the carriage.  Mortification of highest magnitude overcomes me.  I had failed to observe the first rule of headphone use:  check with headphones OFF your head that the jack is fully inserted.  Complete rest of lengthy journey in state of complete shame.  Why was I not watching a worthy documentary?  Or a pod-cast on Brexit?  Why was I watching lowest common denominator of viewing, as always?  Conclude that am low-minded simpleton whose capacity for trash now in epidemic territory.  Continue to blush horribly all day every time I recall this incident.  Was also forced to remain in seat with sun glasses on until everyone got off at Paddington before I could face departure.

Arrive at destination, very swanky private club where I will be conducting some interviews.  Like this location, which is choice of client though always feel uneasy at uniformly slender and youthful profile of all staff.  Today, the interviews are taking place over a long period of the day and so by lunchtime, this is a very noisy and distracting environment and, I think, not suitable for often confidential discussion but that is not up to me.  In break in interviews, I seek ladies lavatory.  This club has adorned its loo doors with images of ladies and gents, in long dresses and frock coats so for a fleeting moment I mistake the gents for the ladies and lightly place my hand on the wrong door.  I realise at once and do not go in, but turn to the ladies, preceded by a woman whose accent, when she addresses me, I believe to be German. ‘Ah!’ she says. ‘I see you are a transgender woman.  How very interesting.’ By this time we are in the ladies, alone, together. No, I murmur not at all and seek refuge of cubicle where I fume because …. so what? So what if I am?  I mean, I’m not, but who is anyone to guess how I or anyone identifies?  And why did it so embarrass and discomfort me?  For her information, I identify as part-dragon, part-dachshund.  We meet again, at the hand basins and I am scrutinised by this woman.

Fuming, but inwardly, I resume interviews. But by now the club is busy with lunch and there is a couple at the next table.  I now have a triple challenge.  First, I am obliged to shout my questions across the table due to volume of background babble.  This is tiring as is trying to hear and write notes.  Second, I am very, very hungry and the smell of food, none of which is offered to me, is making me grumpy and liable to stare at plates as they pass, borne to other fortunate diners on the slender finger tips of gorgeous staff. Third, I become very aware of food and conversation of couple at next table.  I can smell only pudding smells – and I have, due to being part-dachshund, an amazing sense of smell.  So I wonder:  when did they eat first or second courses?  The non-pudding courses?  And I surmise that they are eating only cake. But, they are having multiple servings of different cakes.  A lunch, made up only of cake, and I think they have about 4 or 5 different sorts.  Can you imagine how distracting and intriguing this was? I know you have a very vivid imagination so I think you can imagine that. 

He – Brioche* – was nibbling daintily at each successive cake offering and making notes.  She – Madeira* – was applying herself to each plate with more alacrity, and I felt she was making a proper effort. Sometimes, Brioche would push his plate away with a sigh, obviously replete after 1 dainty crumb.  Madeira sometimes finished his.  I missed most of the conversation as I was supposed to be working but it was a bit like this (and you need to imagine their voices as really posh, with a hint of deliberate estuary and a liberal sprinkle of glottal stops; think Prince Harry, basically a posh lad, who has adopted a cockney glottal habit presumably in order to be real with the kids and not sound like his Nan. In your head, just remove the consonants): 

Madeira:  oh wow, Brioche (emphasis on the name thus:  Bri-OCHE). Your job is like – so, so, so cool.

Brioche (so languid, almost melting off the velvet bench seat onto the floor):  Yah…

Madeira:  so…our readers will be, like, dying to know how you like, landed this dream job!

Brioche:  Yah…

Madeira:  so…how did you, like, land this dream job? (she also notices at the same time as I do that Brioche has finally finished a tiny slice of pudding-y cake; she snaps her fingers and demands another piece.  Who snaps their fingers?  RUDE people, Madeira, that’s who).

Brioche:  yaaas…so…I just, you know, started doing it.

Madeira: (and kudos here, Mad, cos I’d have given up by now with sulky Brioche, grabbed all the cake, ground it into my mouth and left) I mean…like…what made you decide to become a cake reviewer?

Me:  (in my head!  Calm down, even I have SOME boundaries) What The Actual Fuck?  Brioche is a CAKE REVIEWER??

Brioche:  yah, so, like…I just saw like a gaaaarp in the maaarket (silent T, obvs) so I just, you know, started reviewing cakes and cake shops…

Madeira:  oh, like, WOW. And like, so, like how did you get them, like published?

Brioche (rolling eyes out of head): well, so, like…I just made a website. Yah? Cake Reviews Weekly On Line*.

Madeira:  ohlikeWOW! our readers will LOVE this stuff – thank you SO much for being interviewed by Influencers Weekly On Line*…

I am still interviewing someone about something plc-related.  We finish, so I never get to hear the end.

On way to underground, I note that I am early and start making a determined effort to catch earlier train than planned. Arrive at Paddington, sweaty and with triumphant smile – 4 mins to spare.  Hurl myself onto train, very very smug at having won back a precious hour. See my reserved seat; also observe woman occupying my seat.  Check ticket. Yep, coach D, seat 48. Commence traditional event sequence that is required by British law if you: a) are sure you are right; b) wish to remain super-nice and polite; and c) do not want to make massive fuss but feel compelled by something British in DNA to occupy the right seat, as if life of first-born depended on it. Nice Woman (NW) perceives that I am hovering and smiles, slightly anxiously at me.  As well she might. I say, haltingly as is prescribed by law on such occasion that I think, but maybe I am wrong…but…? (in tone that admits no such possibility)…but I think I have booked that seat…? she checks own ticket and says, equally haltingly, how odd! so does she! we agree that it is odd.  Nice Man across isle says he also has had endless trouble with First Great Western’s booking system recently.  NW says, oh look, there’s lots of room, I’ll pop over here, and she makes as if to move. I demur, she insists, as is mandatory in this circumstance and I, with modest show of regret, assume rightful place. NM and I chat for a moment about how the booking system has suffered since they moved the on-line bookings from Glasgow, and they had all the new carriages. 

Ticket collector arrives. I produce ticket and in doing so, notice for first time, that I was booked in for coach D, seat 48 – but on next train, 1 hour later.  Thank the Lord, I had an open ticket anyway so could travel at any time, so I was not publicly exposed for absolute fraud as I really did deserve, and complete liability that I clearly am.  Still, feel suffused with shame almost as bad that experienced on in-bound journey.  Decide to sit very still all the way back, not watch Netflix, not speak or make eye-contact.  There is no lift for me, on arrival at station as I am of course, pointlessly an hour early so I get a local train to Bridgwater and then walk to town, dressed in London things, in pouring rain, and sit in cafe, literally steaming until am collected, like parcel, by patient family member recovery team. 

*I made these bits up, but the rest is absolutely true, I am very, very sorry indeed to say.