I’m persevering with the Buddhist guide to Happiness which advises letting go of the ego and self-centredness. Goodness. I’d be stuck for things to talk about. Nevertheless, as instructed, I sit on the No 7 bus and do the exercises. I think of all the people who are worse off than me and send them silvery nectar thoughts of empathy floating on my outward breath, and draw all their pain into the white orb in my chest where, in theory it is released, and in practice merely lodges like indigestion. I soon get a sense of lightness in my head and begin to think I'm experiencing an out of body state of nirvana but then I realise I'm only hyperventilating. The man sitting next to me seems to think I am about to sneeze, and flinches away from me every time I exhale. He may also think I have lost my mind instead of vainly trying to hold on to it by practicing meditation techniques. He eventually scurries to the vacant seat on the other side of the bus and continues eating his Snack-a-jacks which is a result because the crunching was interfering with my Karma, and the vinegary smell was beginning to make me feel rather sick, especially since I was drawing it into my lungs with such concentrated effort. There was less of white orb of light over my heart than a chemical mix of monosodium glutamate and sodium.
If the less fortunate are to gain anything from this, I may have to kill the man first so I can concentrate.
I think perhaps it is time to try staring into space and let my thoughts run over my mind like a waterfall, but five minutes and the waterfall is springing through the eyelids. Self-pity Central. Alight here.
Obviously this is going to take a little more practice, but nevertheless, I feel a bit better.
Breathe. Compassion and empathy. Inhale. White orb of light. Dissolve.
But darn it, the only thing that’s dissolving is me. Bloody hell, I’m a narcissist. How do I chant my way out of this.
The man with the Snack-a-jacks, finishes the bag and crumples it up, shooting me another anxious glance. Then he starts on a pork pie. Huh, and he thinks I’ve got problems. At least I’m not full of additives, matey.
He sees me looking, and edges back against the window. I tell you, if I had a rucksack and a beard he would have called the Bomb Squad.
At work I am urged to find out the name of the Sales Manager of Bentley. I feel like a cold caller, the kind I hang up on, while I'm ringing and saying, excuse me, can you tell me the name of… so instead I trawl the web site. I go to the press office and scroll down the names, and there is a woman called Julia Marozzi who is Head of Lifestyle which sounds jolly good fun. I'd like to be Head of Lifestyle at Bentley - it must be all engraved hip flasks and fur lined lap rugs and men with double barreled names whose other car is a Land Cruiser, you know, for the dogs, darling while the wife has a little BMW sport's car for running up to town.
The name’s familiar and unusual both at the same time. The writer Justin Marozzi shares an agent with me, and he married my ex boss at the FT called Julia. Who would now be, , okay not exactly a clearing of clouds and the voice of God moment, but nevertheless it was rather amazing – duh! - Julia Marozzi.
And LO, this is she.
The woman who gave me my big break, now ruling the roost at Bentley. I ring her immediately and the years roll back, along with the kilos, until I was a mere slip of a forty-year old, less padded woman, walking along the Embankment to the FT to meet with her with my cuttings under my arm, repeating to myself over and over again another mantra, hoping that I might be in with a chance as her new restaurant columnist.
She wore rather alarmingly severe specs and examined me over the top of them, much as I do now, since I'm too mean to buy bifocals.
She’s taking me to lunch next week. I wonder if she has any nice, spare, Bentley owners knocking about who might be interested in self-centred egotistical lady novelist, one careless owner, but still very, very good runner in the right hands, who can type, reject manuscripts, cold call and cook dinner for 16 at thirty minutes notice.
I have a clean driving license and a dirty mind.
Okay, I suffer self-pity on buses, but in a Bentley, that could easily be a thing of the past.
I bet you Bentley owners don't eat Snack-a-jacks for a start
