Oh no stamps, no apples, no translations, no… November 20, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
…to be sung, hummed or straightforwardly said to the tune of Oh no John.
It’s more crises of confidence at the BiB hovel. Needless, probably, yet frantic worry about everything. About blogging, about socialising, about work, about money, about my hair, about… everything.
Darlings, can everyone who is obeying the laws of mathematics and time – all people getting younger, switch off now – tell me if worry and ageing go hand in hand? I’m sure they do, of course, though I can’t see the logic. Yet having sneered at every female relative of mine every day for the last 36 years – they are ALL scared of EVERYTHING – I have now turned into a gay composite, worrying about everything from missing a flight I might potentially take next year to me getting my signature wrong when I get to the till at the supermarket. And I don’t mean because I’ve stolen the card.
The Russian and I did our best at appearing normal on Saturday and accepted a dinner invite. This, naturally, led to many days of worry beforehand. Would I be the pinkest person there? (Certainly the oldest, but that was OK, as I feel sorry for young people having to be so young.) Would I be dressed like a cunt? (Yes, it turned out.) Would I have to sit in silence in a corner having given up on trying to speak German after three minutes when I was once again frying-panned over the head with the realisation that I just can’t converse in non-English? (Yes, but I hope it made me look wise and aloof to the youngsters, when really my head was as empty as a teenager’s on messenger (or whatever it’s called. Has myspace taken over?).) Would I drink myself bloated? (Yes.) Would I annoy everyone by smoking? (Yes.) Would I politely desist? (No.)
In any case, to give me something extra to worry about, we set off ludicrously late. And, darling, no, if we’re due at the other end of town at 6 – yes, 6! – we cannot leave home at twenty past and make a detour to the post-office to buy one stamp to send some pus to Reader’s Digest by frustratingly fingering 55 one-cent coins into the machine only for it to spit them all out again just as you’ve fumbled the 53rd one in. No, darling, no. And then more frantic worry at going to a flat I have never been to and being completely in the Russian’s hands, and him saying reassuring things, as I looked hesitantly at my watch about eight times a second, like, “I must look at map. Can never remember if we must get off at Westend or Westkreuz”. And then we had to go shopping. And then we arrived obscenely late, me preparing my excuses in a selection of languages as we trudged up the stairs, only to be met by a host who clearly hadn’t given his watch a second glance all evening.
Apples are a poor choice of snack if you have a worry-induced hunger pang.
But, darlings, the work! Hacking blithely away at this blog and the old one over the last week and ignoring translations as best I could – I can be very good at that – now means I will have to work like a demon for, ooh, DAYS, so I’ll have to do a bit of worrying about that. Believing, I think rightly, that a trouble shared is a trouble doubled, I thought I’d let the Russian in on my woes. “Darling, am I the worst person on earth? Can’t you get a nice job so I can be a kept queen and never have to do another translation again? Should I just nicely throw myself off the balcony this sec?” “No, you just need haircut.”
Better go and worry about something.