My First Contact Lens Fairy Cake

As my last post involved an appointment with someone I thought I might continue the theme by describing a visit to an optician I had recently.

The optician in question was a woman handling contact lens prescriptions, apparently getting one's eyes tested for glasses is not enough to tell which contact lens you need. As my sight has steadily got worse over the last year I have been having to wear my glasses more and more and I don't like the way they break up the consistency of my beautiful face. I'd also quite like to change my eye colour.

This is not arrogant, vain or childish as some people, who I have described my plans to have labelled it. Just a fact.

Shhhh. I don't care to hear your definition of fact.

I arrived for my appointment at 10:40 am and waited in the disinfectant smelling shop floor of the opticians. Unsurprisingly the walls were lined with racks of glasses displaying styles such as 'huge square Hipster glasses,' to 'patterned huge square Hipster glasses,' and even 'slightly smaller but still obnoxiously large Hipster glasses.' I heard one woman browsing the shops wears describe them as "nerd chic," although I am presuming she was trying to be ironic as anyone using this as a serious description of the shops wares would have to have been severely brain damaged.

Opticians' shops always make me slightly uncomfortable, I think it might be something to do with all the walls being lined with staring reflective gazes. Looking unerringly out, waiting for some poor person who has had their sight robbed by genetics, age, or too much time playing World of Warcraft, to try them on and then... BAM. They stick. Clasping the ears, temples and face like those monsters out of alien, except, instead of invoking tentacles and fear in the horrified on lookers they create an overwhelming sense of a terrible fashion sense and a pretentious plonker with no self-awareness.

Interestingly (in reference to my former comment) you can find same blank stares as the glasses gave me, in the audiences of any of the following movies:

Twilight

The Bratz Movie

Princess Diaries

Any film by Judd Apatow

Any film starring Taylor Lautner

Twilight

Transformers

Any film from the Big Momma series

I had been waiting about twenty minutes in the unnerving gaze of the glasses when I realised that the person I was meant to be seeing didn't seem to be calling me and I should probably check to make sure she knew I was here.

I went to desk to consult the receptionist.

"Excuse me, I've been waiting about twenty minutes and I haven't been called yet. Does she know I am waiting?"

The receptionist appeared to be playing angry birds on her phone.

"She's not arrived yet." She said without looking up.

"Err, could you possibly call her, I've got to get college this afternoon and I can't really be late so..."

I stopped because she had ceased playing her game and fixed me with a hate filled stare that could probably have pinned a pack rabid wolves in place with its intensity. I felt for a moment like all the refrigerators in the world had had their doors thrown open as the temperature plummeted.

"I'll just wait then." I said quickly, feeling the hairs on the back of neck rise - I imagine this is how small furry animals feel when confronted by a very deadly predator.

I went back to my seat and watched people try on lots of slightly different glasses over and over, nodding and commenting on their reflection to whomever was browsing with them, or the sales person who was expertly flattering them, as if each individual pair added a whole new dynamic.

Twenty minutes later my optician finally arrived.

She was fat, blond and American (although I didn't know this until she spoke). She wore glasses, which, as she was the contact lens woman, I took as a personal insult right then and there, not to mention her lateness. She waddled in, her face plastered with a happy grin, she was breathing hard as if she had been running, however I'm sure that simply getting out of bed would have caused her heart rate to rise so it didn't fool me as being a sign that she had been rushing to get to my appointment.

She saw me, glanced at the receptionist. Then waddled over. "Hi, hi, Dr. Van Dorff," she greeted me. "Lovely to meet you. Sorry I'm late. My daughter connie was ill. You know what its like having a three year old, well you probably don't actually, being a child yourself." (I'm twenty in case people haven't read my previous posts and I don't look particularly young for my age) "Very taxing, especially when they're ill, you can lose track of time."

"Yes." I said, trying to convey as much disapproval as possible while still remaining agreeable.

"Lets get straight to it then!" She flicked her hair and started off towards her office at the back of the shop. After an awkward moment when she got stuck in the door frame we made it into her office.

"I used to have an office to the first floor," She laughed, collapsing into her office chair. "Now that would cause problems. I don't know how anyone manages to get up those things."

"You live in a bungalow then?" I asked politely.

"Oh no! A three floor house."

"Then how-"

"We had an elevator installed a few years back. It's been wonderful. We weren't able to use the upper rooms of the house before that, it was such a waste, but now everything is in use!"

I briefly imagine, Dr. Van Dorff with her family, huddling together on the bottom floor of the house, unable to ascend the stares without greasing up the walls and banister. The upper floors dusty and dirty, cobwebbed and damp full of blank walls and unfurnished rooms which the family could never use or visit.

"Anyway," I said. "Can we get on, I need to be in college for a meeting this afternoon."

"Yes, yes. So what sort of contact lenses were you looking for? Long term hard wearing or one day use?" She asked.

"I-"

BLING BLONG BLOOP!

Her phone made a series of loud screeching and beeping sounds, vibrating around on the desk where she had placed it moments before. She reached for it immediately. I stupidly assumed she was going to turn it off. Instead she picked it up clicking a few buttons. She smiled. Then laughed.

"My daughters making fairy cakes," she said in way of explanation. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I-"

BLING BLONG BLOOP!

Again she checked the phone. "Aww look." She shoved the phone in my face. "Pictures!" What I saw, with the phone literally an inch from my face, was an indistinct blur of brown and pink mixed with what could possibly have been a small girl in red pajamas. She jerked the phone away and started to message back.

"As I was saying," I started. "In answer to you question before. I was looking for one day use lenses but I also wanted to check for longer use lenses in case the one day use ones cause my eyes problems as I know they are made of different material that has a higher rate of allergies associated with it."

As I said this she nodded still messaging on her phone all the while going "Mmm." "Yes." "Mmm," in what she probably thought was an attentive and knowing manner.

"Are you listening to me!?" I asked. I think I was in shock of her rudeness at this point.

"Of course. So you want long-term lenses to start with?"

"N-"

She interrupted "Good. I can fit you with those. Are you considering coloring?"

"Possib-"

BRIIIIIIING! BRIIIIIIING!

Her office phone went this time. Interrupting me again.

She picked it up with no hesitation.

"Hello...? No I'm with a client at the moment."

I had to admit that this sounded slightly more professional. Instead of hanging up as I was expecting, she went to call the person on the other end of the line "snugglepuss."

"Yes I got the pictures!" She trilled as if talking to a baby. "There lovely, yes I know snugglepuss I love them so much, your doing such good work."

"Your child?" I asked in a flat tone.

"No. That was my husband."

I tried not to vomit at this point.

I considered pointing out that she called her husband "snugglepuss," and talked to him in a voice most mothers reserve for very young children, but I realised it would be pointless. In the moment of clarity that this realisation brought I saw Dr. Van Dorff with her husband eskimo kissing at their marriage ceremony dressed in giant cuddly bear suits, unable to properly kiss over their huge stomachs. The fact that they had a child mystified me somewhat.

It also came to me that this appointment was completely unacceptable and I had had enough.

"This is completely unacceptable," I said angrily. "And I've had enough. You were forty minutes late for my appointment, you've been texting your sick child since my appointment started and accepting calls from your husband when you should be focussing on me, your client."

She looked taken aback for a moment and then she nodded gravely. "Your right." She agreed.

"I am?" I said, slightly surprised, I had been expecting someone as obviously delusional as her to put up a fight.

"Unacceptable that you came to this appointment at all considering the state my gorgeous daughter is in."

She squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. "I understand you know," she continued. "We all make mistakes. You probably didn't mean to drag me here, make me battle through all the traffic to get to this appointment and be separated from my baby in her hour of she need." She began to wail.

"Wait wait wait." I began.

"Oh. You've seen the error of your ways. I Know!" She gasped. She then lunged grabbing me in a bear hug. I think I felt my lungs flex slightly under the pressure. Perhaps she was so big she had her only special sort of gravity that compressed any object in her immediate vicinity. Whatever it was it hurt and she wasn't letting go.

She cried into my shoulder "I forgive you! Don't worry. I'll explain to my husband and my daughter, we'll all forgive."

She finally released me. Sitting back and nodding to herself. "Unacceptable indeed. I should go shouldn't I?"

"Erm. I'm not sur-"

"Of course I should go! My baby needs me." She shouted. She picked up her bag and phone in one gargantuan sweep of her arms and waddled at high speed through the door, damaging its structural integrity considerably in the process. She poked her head back in a few moment later.

"I don't know how long I'll be gone. It's probably best you make an appointment with one of the other opticians." She said as if as an after thought.

She went.

Then her heard appeared again "Oh and you could send a fruit basket to my house, or some cookies or something to show you're really sorry. Perhaps not fruit, but something to eat, we do like our food in our house, though you'd never know it. Get my address from Lindsey. And don't worry you didn't do that much harm, you don't have to feel too guilty."

And then she was gone.

I sat disbelieving in the office for a few moments, then stood up as if in a daze and walked out.

After taking out several life insurance policies I managed to pluck up the courage to approach the receptionist to make another appointment at a later with a different optician.

Definitley Not Salon

As is normal - or as normal as the flux of weirdness that dominates my life - my hair has contrived itself to grow as long as possible at the coldest time of the year. After several weeks of impractical washing and barely being able to see I finally gave up the inexorable battle against my hair and decided to have it cut. I can never win, hair never loses, it just sits there on your head and waits until you cave.

However, the decision lead to a much deadlier and more ruthless conflict between my mother and I. A battle which will probably be enshrined on the walls of our tombs in ten foot high lead lettering as a warning to future generations; THE HAIRCUT BOOKING.

Since early teenage-hood when I exited out of my never-want-my-hair-cut-again phase, my mother has been trying to get me to go to her 'simply lovely,' salon where she 'gets her hair done.' By this she means a group of overpaid sycophants without even the most basic of skills or intelligence who run brushes coated in cloying, bleach like chemicals through her hair in the hope that they will improve her appearance. And then charge £50 for a treatment that costs 50 pence and ten minutes of their time.

I on the other hand have always elected to get my hair cut at sensible establishments where they don't bother washing your hair with "The Scented Fragances of Lady Lilybottom." They just cut what is needed and charge a fiver.

On this particular occasion I was destined for failure. I arrived home on Friday, extremely tired. In my impaired state brought on through lack of sleep I had the suicidal urge to make idle small talk with my mother while I ate dinner and I mentioned I wanted a hair cut. I vaguely remember her eyes flashing as the words left my mouth, like the savage hawk who's black eye catches the sun for a moment as it ducks serenely in the air and drops towards its helpless pray, faster and faster, CLOSER AND CLOSER...

'I've booked you an appointment for Tuesday with Dylan at The Salon darling!' My eyes snap open, it is the 7 AM next morning, I remember falling gratefully into bed ready for a very, very long sleep. There are however some basic animal senses that, when triggered by the right stimulus, can be the equivalent of several cups of very strong espresso injected straight into the blood stream. One of these is the idea that I might have an appointment at "The Salon."

'You did what!?' I shout.

'I just made you an appointment at The Salon, remember, we talked about it last night, you said you needed your haircut, so I thought I'd you a favour and make you a booking.'

'I don't want it. Cancel it.'

'It's too late for that.'

'It's two days away, how can it be too late!?'

'The Salon is very exclusive,' she says this with in a voice that one might use to introduce an important royal diplomat, 'it was only because they know me that I was able to get you an appointment.'

No, it's because you're only the person delusional enough to make a repeat booking, I thought in the privacy of my own head.

'If you don't take the appointment you'll have to pay the £75 for the haircut out of your own pocket.'

'£75?' I said, in slightly dull voice, not quite believing it.

'Yeeeeeees darling, it's Dylan you know, he's one of their lead stylists, he's very good. I watch him do Val's hair every Saturday. In fact I watched him do it this morning. Oh he's such a good looking man... such a sweetie... pity I'm too much of an old bag... he must have women falling over themselves for him... he's so fashion savvy... and well groomed... and...'

I layback, tuning out, with a sense of dread descending on me, that is so profound it has its own mythology and a group of philosophers studying it called the "Dreadites."

Eventually my mother stops her cyclical wittering about how "dreamy," Dylan is and and asks 'Darling? Are you feeling ok. You're looking a bit grey.'

'No I'm fine. Fine! I've just seen my life flash before my eyes in preparation for the my ritual execution by a cult of women with giant fingernails and simpering men with bleached hair, I couldn't be better.'

She laughs. 'You do say the funniest things. I've booked it for two o'clock on Tuesday. Remember not be late... I'll be checking.' She grins, it is not an entirely nice, more like the grin of an Hyena which has its pray delicately pinned upon the edge of the cliff and is deciding whether to rip their throat now or push them over the edge and feast on the splattered carcass later. While the throat ripping does indeed offer instant gratification and more food, watching a helpless creature plunge to its death can be terrible fun.

As tuesday rolled round a sense of impenetrable dread began to sweep over me. I was unable eat or even sleep. The merest moment of rest was punctuated by nightmares involving seas of scented hair wax crashing in along a beach of combs. A tsunami shooting towards me. Upon the great wave ride hair dressers on comb boards, scissors glinting and ready to cut the hair from my head and then the living flesh from my body.

Tuesday was grey and windy, the world doing its best to muster up as much pathetic fallacy for me as it could. There were no lightning storms or the dead walking the earth however so it wasn't really that convincing to me.

I walked down to the Salon in the cold as if my shoes were made of iron. I arrived "The Salon" nausea rising and pushed open the door. The bright pink interior hit my eyeballs like a truck and I shied back for a moment, wondering if I had opened the door onto a violent explosion coming the other way. No such luck. As my eyes adjusted to the pink, which adorned almost every surface, I walked in.

"The Salon" reception desk, just around the corner, was picked out in a fluorescent green, behind it sat a small blonde woman filing her nails who was wearing only bright orange. It occured to me there was a theme to the colour code and it made me feel even more out of place I did already. (I found out later that people who work in Salon's on average have a highest proportion of eyesight problems than any other demographic in the world. They are also one of the only groups of people who have been able to tune their eyes sufficiently to see into the ultraviolet spectrum beyond what normal human beings can perceive. I think I know why)

'I've come for an appointment with Dylan,' I say haltingly. She stops filing her nails, looks up at me, scowls, nods, rolls her eyes then gets up from the reception desk and leads me down another bright corridor to the main salon, her sharp high heeled shoes clicking liked razors on the floor, where I meet Dylan.

Dylan is wearing a top so shockingly pink that all the other pinks in the room seem like washed out shades of grey next to it. It radiates the incandescent hue as if it has an extra physical property extending several feet outside of where the material of the top ends.

The apparently mute receptionist stamps her foot irritatedly to catch Dylan's attention. He is talking animatedly to a woman who is dressed entirely in bright yellows and has long black hair that seems to been mixed up in a jewelry store robbery. Dylan turns, nods and comes over. The woman tinkles quietly away into the back of "The Salon" and receptionist returns to her desk where she can presumably file her nails in peace.

'Hi,' Dylan simpers as he reaches me. And it really is a simper, I get the unnerving impression that I might be a cute baby again or some sort of furry animal his simper is so strong. It radiates tones of 'awwww' and 'isnicuteissocuteoaoaoaoaoaoaooowhosacutie' into the ultrasonic, bringing up a brief personality paradox in me, as noted above.

'Hi.' I reply weakly.

'Sit down, in the cutting chair my darling and lets find out what we're doing today.'

'err.'

'Just a cut?'

'Yes'

'I can do extension and colours too.'

'No Thank You.'

'They'd suit you'

'No.'

'Suit yourself.'

'Just sort of generally shorter I think.'

'I'll do a nice cut on the top and keep it a little longer over the ears?'

'errrm.'

'You do have quite big ugly ears so its probably best to hide them.'

'errmm-'

'Okay then lets get your hair washed and we'll start. CHANTELLE!!!!!!!'

The woman, presumably Chantelle, who's hair is encrusted with little sparkly gems, to the point that she appears to be carrying around some sort of mythical serpentine creature on her head, reappears. She takes me over to the hair washing sinks, sort of like basins with a chunk taken out of one side and I sit down to have my hair washed. This is probably the best part of the experience as she gives a quite a relaxing head massage and shampoo. It is ruined somewhat when one of her metallic strands of her catches on a shelf, stretches as she turns and then whips out to spring across me, lodging like juddering dart in the leather of the seat in which I am sitting, inches from my face. It gives me a nasty fright and I comment 'Perhaps that's enough.'

I return to the cutting chair and Dylan comes over from idly twiddling his thumbs, I learn later that it would be demeaning for a lead stylist to wash hair and that is why Chantelle has to do it.

Dylan begins by cutting my hair in silence. After a few awkward moments and because the radiation from Dylan's shirt is beginning to effect my brain I strike up a conversation. 'So how did you get into hairdressing I ask?'

Dylan smiles, flutters his eyelashes in a weirdly effeminate manner and then simpers 'Well. I sort of fell into you know. Left home. Thought. What am I good at?'

'Hairdressing,' I smile.

'Seeing the vision.'

This blind sides me a little.

'The vision?' I ask.

'Yes. The vision. The vision of style. I can see what people really need. What makes them beautiful. And that is why I knew I had to work in a Salon. I knew as clear as day it was my destiny. I said to myself Dylan, look at you, your a genius, you might be good at football or being an electrician or something else, but that isn't true work, there is no vision in that. no... magic!'

'Yes...' I say diplomatically.

He pouts. Shakes his head. Seeming to notice my uncomfortableness for the first time he says 'I'm not gay though.'

'No.' I agree. Then, because even with my brain irradiated by Dylan's top, I can still summon up some spite, I say 'Not at all,' with as much concealed sarcasm as a knife wreathed in velvet.

'Yeah. well, just ended up doing it. But yeah, not gay like. I mean I've got a wife.' He simpers this last part slightly unsurely.

Because I am still feeling a little resentful towards my mother I ask 'What's her name?'

'Errrm. Kristal.' He simpers, uncertainly.

'Oh right. Two kids as well I expect.'

'Yeah. And gays can't have kids.'

'Surrogate mothers.'

'What?'

'Nevermind.'

The rest of the haircut passes in silence. Except for one simpering comment when he notes that I might be getting a few grey hairs and I'm also going bald and should probably consider plastic surgery for my face. I dismiss these suggestions accordingly.

As he brushes me off and I stand up to pay a strikingly tall man in iridescent reds and purples bursts into the Salon. He is made more striking by the fact that his face is also bright red with rage and matches his clothes quite well.

'You Whore!' he screams and Dylan.

'Ricardo no! What are doing here?' Dylan manages to simper and still sound loud and aggressive somehow

'You slept with my brother! Oh all the people Dylan? You betrayed me for him!? What am I going to tell our kids.'

'Nothing.'

'I can't tell them nothing. This relationship is over.'

'No Ricardo. No!' Dylan simpers and sobs.

I consider briefly asking the livid Ricardo if he's actually called Kristal and then think better of it.

Dylan sinks to floor crying as Ricardo stares at him balefully. 'Goodbye Dylan,' he whispers. Then savagely. 'Goodbye forever.'

Ricardo storms out. Chantelle tinkles concernedly back into room and tries to comfort Dylan where he lies on the floor. He shakes her off and continues to cry.

'I'm going to goooo...' I say quietly. 'I'm sure my mother will pay when she's in here next.'

'Just go!' screams Chantelle. Can't you see this man is having a major life crisis.' She then coos to Dylan. 'Come on darling, there you are, its ok.'

I leave. Happy to be free of the horrible suffocating place.

Later my mother comes to room and tells me what a nice a haircut I've had. I can't tell if she is being sarcastic or not.

She asks also 'What did you think of Dylan? Lovely isn't he.'

'Yes.' I agree, trying to keep a straight face.

She looks worried for a moment then says 'Do you think he's gay?'

'No. Probably not.' I say.

She nods.

Two Black Swans

It seems to be a cosmic law of the universe that every extremely crowded train journey comes with an obligatory couple or group of friends who talk in loud, jolly voices and are apparently unaware of the horrible conditions in which they are traveling, that they are pressed uncomfortably against other passengers, faces inches from each others and trying to awkwardly avoid other people's gazes.

Said friends that materialized as reliably as gravity in the train journey I made on Monday morning, manifested themselves as a couple of Australian women who were particularly loud and unnecessarily happy for 08:00 on a Monday morning.

Upon squeezing their way unceremoniously into the carriage and giggling every time they knocked into someone the women proceeded to talk at length about a man called "Dave" who turned out to be the estranged husband of one of the women. "Well he just wouldn't listen in the end, didn't want to hear me talk anymore," the apparent wife said as a conclusion to why they were divorcing. There was a moment of silence when I imagined most of the carriage were probably thinking this wasn't much of a surprise, while the other half who were nursing their bleeding ears from the EXTREMELY LOUD, self-indulgent crooning of the two women.

After this brief pause the wife, who was looking into the middle distance with a sort of dark-night-of-soul expression, likely brought on by the clanging bell of irony that had filled the silence in their conversation, looked up brightly and said "I saw Black Swan this week, finally! Had to wait for to it come out on DVD but it was still fantastic."

Her friend nodded enthusiastically, "yeah, I saw it at the cinema. The music-"

"Amazing!" cut in the wife.

"I know, I know. Doo-do-do-do-do Doo-do-Doo Doo"

At this point they both began to sing the theme from swan lake. Their representation of Tchaikovsky's masterpiece was as a beautiful, sequined dress is to a dirty axel grinder covered in blood. As they launched into the high notes at the themes climax a man several metres away who had managed to get a seat convulsed, spitting the coffee he was drinking out onto an unfortunate set of school children who were sitting in front of him. I don't think the children noticed however, as they seemed to be reliving a host of infantile terrors brought on by the shrieking banshee voices of two women, which extended deep in the subsonic realms of instinctual fear.

I was probably only saved because I was behind on the glass dividers in the carriage.

After the tunes climax they collapsed into laughter. Upon regaining their composure the friend commented again "fantastic, fantastic, really gets your juices going."

I shuddered at this.

The wife jumped in with "You know what really gets MY juices flowing, that Vincent Cassel."

The rest of the carriage shuddered.

Several people nearby the two tried to distance themselves subtly lest the idea of Vincent Cassel as being attractive become somehow infectious. Of course as the carriage was so crowded it simply had the effect of compressing everyone into more uncomfortable, contorted positions while not putting any meaningful distance between the passengers and the two women.

"Very sexy." agreed the friend.

"Mmm. Very sexy indeed..."

At this point I thought I heard a woman several seats away grown and vomit as her belly finally gave up from the combined assault of the singing and the images of Cassel. I can't be sure though.

"And he got that lovely Natalie Portman." Continued the wife.

"She looked so good in that film." the friend commented. "So good, I don't how she does it."

"Very thin, I wish I were that thin sometimes." nodded the wife making a twisting movement with her hands around her waist.

While she was obviously disillusioned about her singing and Vicent Cassel, she had evidently realized certain things about her weight, even if she did relate them in the conscience clanging steel of understatement.

"I heard.. I heard that she only ate celery the entire time they were filming. And...! That a lot of the weight loss was actually due to all the blood she lost during the film."

"No!" Said the wife in apparent disbelief. "Really?"

"Yes! Yes! If you look at carefully at the beginning of the film you can see she is weightier than at the end. All those scenes when she had to cut herself took their toll."

"And I thought they were just fake." Replied the wife, without a hint of sarcasm. "Well, makes you think, she must have to work very hard acting AND cutting yourself. But I couldn't do all that, I've got a good amount of blood in me, that's probably why I'm slightly heavier."

"mmm," nodded the friend, with slight reservation, "probably." It seemed that even her cheerful enthusiasm could not quite bend reality that far.

"Definitely, both of us. We don't need to become anemic and arty like those skinny bitches!"

Both women laughed at this, the friend cheering up as she had now been included in the excuse for her weight. They clapped each other on the back and giggled for several minutes without a break, seemingly overcoming the human need for oxygen.

"Oo! It's our stop!" Shouted the wife, her head whipping round. Both women bulldozed their way out of the carriage just before the doors closed, crushing several slighter people in their path.

As the doors closed the carriage collectively breathed a sigh of relief. The ordeal was over...

There was a loud delighted shout from the other end of the carriage. As the Australian women had exited from one set of doors a group of three teenage girls had got on, discussing make up tips in their best shouting voices, thus maintaining the equilibrium of socially obnoxious people in a crowded space.

The battered passengers, minds assaulted, ears bleeding, soldiered on.

Coming of Age

For those who don't know I turned twenty last week. In preparation of my departure from moody, spot ridden teenage-hood to responsible, self-important adulthood I had prepared bag containing several different types anti-depressants; to deal with the responsibility and the realization that everything goes down hill from here - and a catalogue of mediocre (but worthy) novels to read in all the free time I wouldn't I be having.

When I awoke on the morning of my birthday I was surprised to find that my skin hadn't suddenly turned gray and that shoulders weren't slumped under the weight of all those things and jobs I had to do. Even more surprising was that I still felt just like a teenager from the previous day. Where were the wrinkles? The liver spots?! The vague sense that something was missing from my life and could never be recovered?

I went down stairs for breakfast expecting to be greeted by my parents with a grim mutual respect and realization of my new place in life. Instead my mother jumped down my throat for "leaving your shoes untidily in the hall," and when sat down for breakfast to remind to "please have a piece of fruit.' Then-"and put less butter on that toast you'll have a heart attack." The-"and make sure you dry your hair properly before you go out, I don't want you getting a cold. I don't need a sick child to deal with."

(Now I don't mean to quibble about word definitions but I'm pretty sure that after nineteen years of age one can't be referred to as a child. I don't have a high voice anymore or spill food over myself OR do infantile things) (Not very often... anyway.)

So maybe being twenty isn't all that different?

The day my mother stops seeing me as a child will be...

probably never.

Lunch at Valeries

I arranged to go out to Valeries with two friends this weekend. It's a lovely patisserie in central London run by a pack of neurotic pseudo-french people who make a point of punctuating your meal every 10 minutes with a new receipt featuring a running total of what you've ordered so far, and to ask in unnervingly predatory manner if "you ah enjowying you'are meel?"

We arranged to meet at twelve in Leciester Square Station, which meant I had to set off at ten AM and spend an hour on the tube. The carriage I chose at the last moment before the train left, turned out to be monopolized by a group of twenty middle-aged northern women who refused to use the supports provided in the carriage and consequently fell over squealing the giggling every time the train moved. As I watched them harassing Margaret - the most prolific faller-over - each time she collapsed on the tube floor, I wondered if I was witnessing a very slow process of natural selection.

Despite this I managed to survive my ordeal with the northern women and emerged from Leceister Square Station healthy and unmothered. Simon was waiting for me. Despite being ten minutes late there seemed to be no sign of my other friend Phil. We waited. Having not seen Simon for the entirety of summer we had a lot to discuss, he'd travelled to Tibet and had recently got a new girlfriend who was the main subject of our discussion.

"what was she like?"

"what is she interested in?"

"Is she evil and psychotic?"

The usual questions.

I always feel a little uncharacteristically sentimental and needy when I ask people unendingly about their relationships, like a sort of impoverished child standing outside the cake shop looking hungrily in.

After having exhausted all the boring questions on Simon's girlfriend (i.e. those not pertaining to their sex lives). I had got him into a state where he could talk about her perpetually without any prompting. Phil still hadn't appeared. Simon took a break from giving me a categorical narration of his relationship history to give Phil a call. After a rather ambiguous series of yes's and no's he informed me that Phil had misjudged the timings and was only just getting on a train. We elected to go to Valeries and wait for him there.

Upon arrival we were seated at the back of café (presumably so we were out of sight of more eligible customers) by a rather haughty waiter who handed us the list of overpriced confectionary trying to pass for being a proper menu. He instantly asked us "ah you reedy to ourdeer?" We reluctantly ordered. In the moment of silence as the waiter left Simon jumped in continuing his previous anecdote about his girlfriend - somewhere in the middle of a sam-ey story I had completely forgotten about by that point. He continued while our food arrived and after five minutes of intermittent tea, cake and narration finished. There was another moment of silence which he thankfully decided not to fill with the beginning of another anecdote.

I decided to ask what I like to think of as a "cutting," question.

I looked him in the eye.

"Are you happy together?" I asked.

To be honest this is more of a selfish question which comes from being single. I always hope that the person will burst into tears and grab my shoulder, in need of consoling as they admit they have never really been happy. That their life has been a lie!

To my slight annoyance Simon smiled and said "yes. I'm really happy."

Silence.

"It's strange though, obviously it's a lot of fun spending time with her but I think the best bits are when we are doing chores together, like cooking..." He takes a bite of his donut.

I wonder momentarily if Simon has a food fetish and take a second to tactfully move my scones a little further away from him.

"... or even, you know, cleaning together, making beds that sort of thing. I can imagine a family."

For a second I am struck with an image of Simon and his girlfriend buying a house together (somewhere quiet so that their fetish won't easily be discovered). They seem quite happy. Each morning they wash their sheets (which have been dirtied with some sort of cream, chocolate or fruit) and remake their beds (in anticipation of the evening). Years go by. They marry. Both get each other rings themed around food or menial household chores.

Finally kids arrive. Somehow they survive the rather unhealthy edible environment that spawned them, and none of them are born with celery or bred rolls as limbs. Both Simon and his wife have to be careful about not letting the kids find out about their strange tastes. Washing up and bed making is done in the dead of night and they are now confined to quiet foods like bread and Tahini.

This puts pressure on their relationship as they are unable to enjoy the more extravagant side of their unique tastes. Simon loves chocolate, his wife cream, both enjoy jam. Despite this trouble and pressure they are not completely loveless. They mainly stay together for the sake of their children. For Alfie's fourteenth birthday they buy him a video camera. He is happy and promises to make fantastic little films. Several weeks later Alfie goes to a friend's for a sleep over and Simon's other kids are away at summer camp. Both he and his wife have the house to themselves. They decide to roll out the chocolate and cream, the jam and nutella. In the middle of their food fuelled debauchery their bedroom door opens and Alfie pokes his head round with his camera. He is followed by his friend and his friend's parents. It is Simon's birthday and his son wanted to surprise him with a present, a cake, and a film of the whole lovely affair. What is instead revealed to the surprisers is a hellish scene of food and sex.

The children are taken away.

Both Simon and his wife are admitted to separate mental institutes.

Three weeks go by.

Another week.

The head psychiatrists at both institutes meet.

They declare the couple incurable.

A month later both Simon and his wife are lobotomized.

All of this goes by in a second, probably stemming from that selfish question that asked whether he was "happy" in the first place.

I realize Simon has stopped because I am staring at him glassily.

There is an awkward moment in which I wonder frantically if other people can hear what I think.

At this point Phil arrives in the Café, headphones and gamer-chic in tow to interrupt the awkwardness.

The waiter returns commenting tightly that he "weel breeng anouther menuu."

Phil looks at it for a moment.

"I think I'll have the chocolate cake filled with cream and jam."

"Yeah I thought that looked particularly good." Says Simon.

I glance between them and quietly wonder.

Dog Parents

I recently attended a family dinner in celebration of my step-brother's sixteenth birthday. It's worth noting that it didn't seem to be party for him but more a self-serving event for his mother and her sister to make dinner and invite some friends over. The final "guest list," consisted of me, my father, my step-mother, her sister Laura, my step-mother's father and her two friends Tim and Gillian.

Tim is a part time gardener and professional drop out who lodged with my step-mother when he was younger and looked after my step-brother.

Gillian is a loud South African woman who drinks insatiably and is the mother of some of my step-bother's friends. But, through some bizarre universal mistake has managed to ingratiate herself with some core family members and now feels licensed to invite herself to practically every family event including Christmas and Easter.

My step-mother's dinners are always a little weird. She encourages people to make forced speeches about "how happy," they are to be together with the family and how lucky we are to all have each other. She of course makes her own speeches in kind. Her sister and son also like to make these rather awkward speeches as well, and so I was unsurprised when upon reaching desert people started tapping glasses (quite unnecessarily as there were only seven of us) and standing up to make stilted discourses to the table at large.

First came my step-mother's sister who's only speech subject is her dead mother. I would of course normally have no problem with this, but she likes to introduce these eulogies by saying things like "And now let us remember a person who can't be here today... a very special person who we all love very much... a person who is a person who is not with us as a person anymore but as a person in heaven... we all know this person... or knew this person in life... (etc. etc. etc.)"

Then came my step-bother who just sort of looks at his feet and then to his mother and then back again while stumbling over his words. Feet --> Mother --> Feet --> Mother as if the combination of the two might hold the key to half decent public speaking.

Finally came his mother. And this is where things got a lot weirder than I am used to.

She said something along the lines of this:

"Now my son, you've reached a very important age... and I feel that you've never had anyone but me to truly guide you... we've never been a religious family so you didn't end up having God parents... I've come to regret this and so [and here she looks fixedly at Tim and Gillian] I would like to nominate a new sort of God parent... Dog Parents!"

At this point she produces two pieces of paper which have been drawn up with a picture of a dog on them and gold lettering across the top reading "CONTRACT OF DOG PARENTSHIP."

She continued:

"I didn't think we'd change to being religious! So I came up with Dog Parents, because it's like God backwards... HA HA HA... The duties are essentially the same though... Gillian. Tim. You need to guide my son into adulthood from this important age... But first all three of you need to sign the contracts so you can become his Dog Parents and he, your Dog son."

There was a short pause at which point I gave my father a quizzical look, but he seemed to have taken a sudden and fixed interest in the corner of the table cloth and so did not return my gaze or try and reassure me that his wife had not lost her mind completely.

Then things started to get even stranger than I could have guessed.

Gillian piped up "Why don't we sign them in blood!?"

Finally my father felt compelled to say something "Gillian I don't think that's really a good idea or at all appro-"

Step-mother interrupts: "That's fantastic Gillian, that will seal a bond."

Tim: "Yeah, yeah, defo! Do you have a pin?"

My step-bother looks a bit scared which I point out and ask "You don't really want to do this do you?"

He agrees: "No."

Tim responds by saying "Don't be a pussy mate. It's only a tiny prick on the finger, I've had dog bites that are a lot worse than that, this is an important occasion and we need to do this properly."

"Yes!" Responds my step-mother ecstatically. She leaves to get a pin. I glance around the table to see my step-mother's father has fallen asleep while my father has gone back to his intense study of the table cloth corner. Laura is looking expectantly at her nephew. Gillian is swigging as much wine as she can get away with while her host is out of the room and Tim is relating to my step-brother his latest dog bite story with my step-brother staring at him mutely.

When my step-mother returns Gillian and Tim prick their fingers and try to sign the contracts in blood. It doesn't really produce enough blood for them to sign two pieces of paper properly and so Tim has the bright idea to take a knife to his finger at which point he cuts himself too deeply and starts spewing blood everywhere. Instead of stopping at this point he tries to make sure the blood goes on his plate so he can dip his other finger into it and sign the contract anyway.

It is then that my step-mother's sister decides that she can't take the sight of blood and vomits across both the contracts and into the lap of my step-bother, the birthday boy. While everyone is screaming and running around trying to mop up blood and sick to, as my step-mother shouts manically, "save the contracts! save the contracts!" I ask my father if he will walk me back to my house a couple of streets away. He nods quickly and we leave. I don't think anyone notices.

We don't say anything on the way back and when we reach my house I give him a look saying "What the fuck have you married into?!"

He nods and apologizes: "I'll talk to her."