Lucy's Bedroom

Not Playing With Condoms

My allergy test reveals that I’m allergic to…everything. Even the placebo they gave me as a control test and that was a saline solution which, as the consultant pointed out, “Is made of two of the things you’re made of, and so you really shouldn’t be allergic to it.”

I have to wait now for the result of a blood test to confirm a suspected allergy to latex, which was my most spectacular reaction. The consultants (I had three, pampered over-indulged thing that I am) checked I hadn’t recently been exposed to latex in a way that might cause a false positive. “Have you been wearing rubber gloves? Playing with balloons? Or condoms?” And bless them for taking a look at me and deciding I might be more likely to have been playing with balloons than condoms.

The prize for rudest person to be employed in the NHS is shared by every nurse whose job it is to run blood clinics because in my experience of them they’ve all been sullen, ignorant and bovine. Today’s specimen had to be stopped from putting a sticking plaster on me.

“Um, I’m allergic to sticking plasters.” (She’s taking a blood sample for a latex allergy test. It’s written on the specimen bag. She read it. I watched her. Sticking plasters are made of latex.)

“So what are you going to do?” (What am I going to do?)

“Have you got any gauze?”

“No” (Because you work in an allergy clinic where there’s a fair chance you’ll encounter people who are allergic to things, but that’s no reason to make sure you have a stock of hypoallergenic* alternatives, oh no.)

*Because D tells me off if I'm unscientific, I checked hypoallergenic and it turns out to have been made up by advertisers. More startling is the news that you can buy allegedly hypoallergenic pets and one type of hypoallergenic horse, the Bashkir Curly, which Wikipedia describes as 'not flighty' and with 'a great work ethic'. That's all we need, Protestant horses.

Whacked

I got whacked in the head in the swimming pool today by one of those elderly men who plough up and down like hairy torpedoes, wearing Speedos, caps and goggles and doing something complicated like butterfly stroke. Normally I just get blown off course, spluttering furiously in the swell of their wake, but this one clonked me really hard and for a moment I went right under and felt properly dizzy before pulling myself together and deciding against drowning.

He didn’t even notice.

I got out with trembling legs and decided to cheer myself up with a hot chocolate but I found myself sitting in the café with my hair dripping chlorine-laden water into my drink while I had a sniveling cry, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

Tomorrow’s my allergy test and I’m feeling quite tense about it. I’d pushed it out of my mind until Saturday but once I started thinking about it, the idea kept bobbing back to the surface. I’ve only just thought of this but my swimming mishap is a good metaphor for how I feel. I’m paddling along doing my best but at any moment something’s going to come crashing into me and knock me under.

I’m ashamed of myself for being so self-pitying but I also think sometimes I go too far the other way and ignore things I should be paying attention to. The allergy test itself is nothing to be worried about but it is the beginning of the build-up to having a second go at the operation, and the thought of this makes me feel very tired and anxious.

I had a weird moment on the way home. Because the clocks have changed and the evenings are lighter, I walked through Corams Fields but, in my distraction, came out an unfamiliar way into a street I didn’t recognise. Just for a moment I was seized with the idea of keeping walking, always turning into an unfamiliar street; a heroic walk like the walks in Dickens novels, from Whitechapel to Rochester.

It was, I suppose, one of those ‘self’ moments, where you seem to stand outside yourself and see how small you look. And a man in a white van, who leaned out of the window, banging on the door and yelling “Phwoar! Knockers!” broke the spell.

Hello, I'm On The Train

We’re on the train back to London and, to ensure I don’t draw any unwanted attention to myself, I’m wearing pink fluffy rabbit ears. And, y’know, actual clothes too, because if I was naked except for pink fluffy rabbit ears, where would I keep my ticket?

D, who is bored and reading this over my shoulder, is now demanding I do strip off everything except the pink fluffy rabbit ears, “…because I can think of somewhere you could keep your ticket.”

After some slightly testy negotiation I’ve agreed that I will definitely do this in return for a Chocolate Tahitian pearl necklace from Tiffany, which is a snip at only £31,600 (because you see I have the advantage of the inter-web which allows me not only to choose my price but also to learn what chocolate pearls are, so now there’s something else in my little world that I want but can’t have).

D’s only response to this is to harrumph and pretend to be looking out of the window. I wonder, if I go on surfing the Tiffany site, and he goes on watching out of the corner of his eye while pretending not to, I’ll finally hit upon something he’s prepared to buy me to secure my public nudity? I’m curious to discover what it’s worth.

Oh wait, D’s back in the conversation.

Well that turned out to be a surprisingly touching apology for not being able to afford to buy me a Chocolate Tahitian pearl necklace from Tiffany. I feel like a bit of a louse.

Wait, now he’s spoiled the effect by pointing out how filthy ‘Chocolate Tahitian pearl necklace’ sounds.

*Sigh* well we’ve just had to sit in a stationary train for twenty minutes then crawl into Northampton, get off and sit around in a stuffy waiting room then get back on the next train because some band of intellectuals hurled a brick at the driver’s cab and smashed his window.

This train contains a delightful child called Tabitha. We know she’s called Tabitha, because every time she starts screaming or stamping her foot or pouring her Ribena on the floor, her parents say mildly, “Now Tabitha, I don’t think that’s very nice, do you?” I don’t know why they keep asking her that because it’s obvious Tabitha thinks it’s spiffing.

This train is also splitting at the seams with passengers. D’s sitting on the floor with his feet wedged against the wall and I’m sitting on D with the laptop perched on my knees. The motion of the train is inducing a certain stirring of interest from D and he’s trying to distract me from the very important job of typing stream-of-consciousness drivel on my blog by nudging my shoulder with his head. This, I now realise, is in imitation of my cat, who gains my attention my marching up and head-butting me.

We’ve discussed it at some length and in whispers now and reached the conclusion that the best response to D getting an erection on a crowded train is, “Absolutely not, shut up and go to sleep,” because all the charm has gone out of trains for me today, even though I am still heroically wearing my ears.

All The Usual Methods Of Payment

Rigorous scientific enquiry has led me to the conclusion that you should never try to fuck on an inflatable mattress. We’re still in Birmingham, still being put up by friends and to be honest I’m not totally convinced it’s good manners to attempt fucking in someone else’s house (without at least inviting them to join in, which we didn’t do because these are nicely brought-up friends and not the usual amoral skanks we hang out with in London).

D doesn’t agree with my ‘not fucking in other people’s houses’ thing. He thinks that’s exactly the kind of place you should try to do it, hence last night’s slightly inconclusive festival of uncoordinated bounciness. This morning we both have strangely bruised knees.

Birmingham (motto: actually a bit nicer than you’d imagine) has it’s own siren rocks in the form of the Bullring Shopping Centre, which I dragged a struggling, mewling D around all Saturday afternoon until he was actually threatening to just lie down on the floor and make me pull him. I appeased him by promising to take my clothes off in Selfridges.

This was actually a cruel way of tricking him into standing outside changing rooms while I went, “What about this? What if it were blue? Will you get me another one of these? No, not that one!” Once he realised I had now tried on every floaty little Parisian chic dress in the Heimstone range and was starting to try some of them on for a second time, he snapped and growled, “Quickly, pick three!” which he then marched over to the till and bought before I was decent enough to leave the changing room. So in an unintended way, that worked very well.

In my simple way, I think dress-buying on that heroic scale deserves sexual favours as a reward. I realise this isn’t very enlightened of me and I shouldn’t see our relationship as a form of economic barter, but who am I kidding? Would I have got the nice French frocks if I wasn’t the blow job queen? I don’t think so. And besides, I think Borders is a good place to put your hand on your boyfriend’s cock and stage whisper, “Fancy a good time, mister?” (It’s certainly a better use of Borders than as a place to buy books, a purpose for which it is fucking horribly suited.)

I’d like to thank the staff of Wagamama who signed the rota to show they’d checked the cleanliness of the toilets at regular intervals. They made an excellent venue for a blow job, followed up with big bowls of chicken ramen. D pointed out that their menu says “we accept all the usual methods of payment” but I suspect this method’s only usual in our house.

Offering Up my Suffering

My day has been dominated by a malfunctioning bra. Who thought it would be a good idea to put metal in underwear? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m as much a fan of the ‘boobs aloft’ Wonderbra profile as I expect you are. And it does mean my tits enter the room several seconds before I do (now if only I could train them to report back on any potential hazards). But I finally lost all sense of reason in Waterstones and ripped out the under-wiring – in the ladies, not in the middle of Military History – heaving a huge sigh of relief as my puppies nestled back down on my rib cage and went to sleep.

And that would be where that anecdote ended if I didn’t live with an evil doctor who insisted on examining my angry red welts and prescribing a rigorous regime of baby oil massages and a protein-rich diet of spunk as the only hope of a cure, “With the possible exception of the all-naked, flagellatory pilgrimage to Lourdes, and I’m saving that up for a special occasion.” This is actually a very bad mixture of things to be prescribed and a last-minute oily slither meant that most of the spunk went up my nose, which stings like heck.

D: Tsk! Now you’re going to have to do it again, you silly girl. But not for at least twenty minutes, if that’s alright with you love.

L: OK, tell me more about the all-naked flagell…flag…thing you said.

D: It’s pretty much as described really Lucy. When I say all-naked, I should perhaps clarify that only you would be naked.

L: And the flagel-thingy?

D: That would be an appropriate punishment for your sins.

L: Would you be administering that?

D: Not on my own. Any nuns we encounter on the way could have a go while I had a little sit down.”

L: Would these be nymphomaniac 18 year old nuns who are entirely naked beneath their scratchy habits.

D; Yes, they could take their habits off but I’d make them keep their wimples on.

L: I’d have made a good nymphomaniac nun, don’t you think?”

D: Right up to the point you got walled up alive in the cellar of the convent for being a familiar of the devil.

L: But that wouldn’t have been for ages. Inquisitors would have chained me up and threatened me with white hot burning brands for ages before they got round to walling me up.

D: That’s true. And I imagine they’d have thrown you in a pit of some kind to be scurried over in the dark by rats at some point.

L: I don’t think I’d like that.

D: In fairness Lucy, I don’t think you’re meant to like any of it.

L: If you were an inquisitor with a white hot burning brand, where would you apply it?

D: (thinks for a bit) Here. And then here.

L: (wide eyed) Oh!

D: If you were a naked nymphomaniac nun in a wimple, do you think you’d like that?

L: What you’re doing now, with your fingers? Yes, I think I’d like that. If I were a nymphomaniac. Which I’m not.

D: You know, it might not take the full twenty minutes before we have another go…

L: (raises eyebrow)

D: Don’t get over-excited, it’s just a prophecy of things to come, not a resurrection.

L: Would it help if I confessed some of my sins?

D: Possibly. Start with the ones you’ve committed with your fellow novices…

Peppermint Creams

I have the place to myself. D’s playing poker in Willesden Green so I’ve unplugged the phone, put on my fluffy slippers and I’m eating Waitrose olives and marinated artichokes for supper. And as if that’s not exciting enough, when I’ve done that I’m going to wax my armpits and bleach my moustache. Are you unbearably aroused yet?

Last night’s telly crisis passed without major incident. Three things I wrote got used, one bit I expected to be cut was cut. And a throwaway idea I wasn’t really paid for got expanded into something else. So television is my friend again and I’m going to celebrate by watching the second part of Red Riding so I can lust over David Morrissey.

I’m thinking of starting an occasional series here called Don’t Try This At Home. Number one in the series would be ‘anything intimate with a bag of peppermint creams’. I’m inordinately fond of peppermint creams and D laid a trail of them across the landing last night to lure me away from my computer. And that was fine. But it’s what he did next with them that was the problem.

So unless your erotic landscape fully encompasses searching around in some bewilderment with your index finger; stripping the bed and putting the sheets in the washing machine; and lengthy and intimate work with the shower nozzle, then just say no to peppermint cream sex games kids, just say no.

Anxiety And Noise

Nervously awaiting something I worked on being on telly tonight.  It’s hard to say whether I’m more wound up at the thought that they’ve left what I wrote in or cut it out.  I’m insufficiently high up anyone’s food chain to see previews (actually, I probably could if I made a fuss but ‘assertive at work’ isn’t one of my talents).

 In an auto-didactic flurry today, I bought The Rest is Noise: Listening to the Twentieth Century, which is probably doomed to sit next to all my other ‘teach yourself’ books, unloved and unfinished.  I only tell myself that twentieth century classical music is a shameful hole in my education that must be plugged.  Really, I just fancy having an exchange with someone that goes, “What’s that terrible noise; is someone dismantling a greenhouse?”  “No, it’s just me dancing to my Stockhausen records”.

If, like me, you’re just sitting around anxiously, click here to listen to some Stockhausen being played by three orchestras simultaneously.  It will suit your anxious mood.

 If that’s not your bag, then this evening’s ‘you’ve forgotten how good this is’ can be found here. 

An Inappropriate Moment

Bunked off this afternoon as ‘aimless wandering’ was calling me.  I went to the Salvation Army store just off Regent Street

to rummage through rails of clothes in surprising calm.  The afternoon is the unfashionable time to go – in the mornings, when new stock is on the rails, it’s heaving with fashion students who’ll trample you under their 1974 Mary Quant platform boots to get at a 1982 Gloria Vanderbilt silk bomber jacket. 

 Sadly, the store has changed in recent years.  It’s much more expensive than it used to be and there’s been a decrease in the amount of genuine vintage they’ve got.  Some things stay the same though; the staff are as rude as ever (“No, you can’t use the changing room, it’s our busy time”). 

 I came away happy with a baby blue Max Mara cashmere jumper for £2, having resisted the lure of the Christian Lacroix turquoise evening dress with marabou trim.

 Tempted to put the jumper on straight away, but as I shall be spending my evening reading about inflationary pressures in early eighteenth century food prices and eating pickled onions straight from the jar, I may wait for a more appropriate moment.  

Self-Restraint

Word of the day is eudaimonia (felicity). Epicureans thought this was the purpose of life, though they believed the way to achieve it was through self-restraint, not self-indulgence. I’ve done my best to achieve eudaimonia today in the following ways:

I’ve written the date of my hospital appointment, which arrived in the post this morning, in my diary. I feel happier now I have a fixed point to focus on. This is the appointment to have allergy tests in the hope there’s a muscle relaxant that won’t kill me on the operating table, after my recent near-death experience (and BTW atheism rocks – there’s no tunnel of light, no smiling Baby Jesus). I’ve exercised self-restraint in not asking why my allergy test is being done at a Rheumatic Outpatients Clinic in a Maternity Unit (was the Haemorrhoid Clinic fully booked?).

I’ve done my panic attack breathing exercises in Gower Street after I went to pay my bill in a café only to be told, “The gentleman paid.” What gentleman, who, what did he look like, where did he go, is he watching me now?” And relax. This has freaked me out quite a bit but, again, I’ve shown self-restraint in not lying face down on the pavement weeping and desperately stabbing 999 on my mobile phone. Long-standing readers may recall I’ve attracted the attentions of a stalker in the past, now safely in a secure psychiatric hospital – or is he? (Cue dramatic Eastenders-type electronic drumbeats.)

I’ve also not wigged out when an ancient drunk Irishman befriended me on the bus, breathing whiskey fumes into my cleavage (which is about where he came up to) and declaring me to be a lovely girl and his new best friend. The urge to belabour him about the head with an umbrella was very strong but I’ve only got a telescopic umbrella when really, for proper belabouring, you need a silk umbrella with an ivory, parrot’s head handle. After a while he got tired of me being his friend and I became an ungrateful woman, no better than the rest of my unfaithful gender and not fit to walk the same earth his darling daughters (who must be so proud of their dear old dad, what with him being a shambolic, passive-aggressive drunk, and all).

What I’ve learned from all this is that the Epicureans were wrong. The true path to felicity is watching frogs hop along the patio and launch themselves into the pond (and if frogs could talk they’d be gleefully crying “Way-hey!” as they plummet). Because joyful leaping will trump self-restraint any day.

Built To Jiggle

Bleurgh. I’m hungover and two Bloody Marys haven’t really helped. I’m also dressed in borrowed clothes, in a pair of Danny’s jeans rolled up at the end and a vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Everything else I own is stuffed in a plastic bag. I feel like a small child who got over-excited at a birthday party and had to be hosed down.

Danny’s little brother is here. Matt’s 15 and he’s a surprisingly bright shade of pink. Perhaps he hasn’t spent a lot of time in the same room as a lady with no bra on before. Either that or he’s very slowly having a fit and we’re all callously ignoring him. Danny’s already told me off for ‘jiggling’ as though I’m doing it deliberately to kill his brother but I can’t help it, I was built to jiggle.

I’ve spent all my money and I’m too lazy to walk to the cashpoint (which would, in any event, mean putting on the torture devices sold to me under the guise of shoes again). So instead I text D and beg him to come and fetch me.

L: pleeeeease i’m lying naked in a gutter

D: it’s where I always knew you’d end up

L: you don’t even care which gutter do you?

D: *sigh* which gutter?

L: outside a brothel in buenos aires

D: I know the one you mean

L: so will you come and get me?

D: oh lu, you could easily earn your bus fare from there

L: !!!*&@?

D: ok ok I’ll come and get you

While I’m waiting I’m snooping on Danny’s internet history and adding a couple of incriminating sites to his bookmarks. And if he’s not nice to me I’ll finish off his brother by giving him a big kiss when I leave.