Imagine: isn’t it rich…are we a pair…me here at ….. (I've been watching the search for Nancy on BBC because I have no life) but hummed to the strains of mmm mmm m mmmmmmmmm…m m m mmmmmm…m m m
And then I go very quiet because I can’t hit the high notes, even when only mmming
But seamlessly, an editor across the room comes in with a lovely clear soprano (aha, she's been watching it too. she has no life too, ha ha ha)
m m m mmmmmmmmmmmm, m m mm.
sings Mandy, who then whips out her guitar and…. No that’s a lie. Mandy does have a guitar and furtive mentions are made of Open Mic nights, which I think means playing an impromptu gig in a club, and not an affable Irishman, up for offers, but the guitar is nestling behind Mr T’s office door with his raincoat, though I do not think the two things are related.
Give us a song Mandy, we beg and we plead but nothing doing. Mandy refuses to strum her strings and turn the office into Club Karaoke. It’s just as well as I have a limited range, about as high as my heels, ie flat.
Mandy is visiting us from Down Under and has cast doubt on the sanity of all Australians by coming all this way to, well, sit in an office and work... I ask her where she’s off to next weekend.
'New York,' she says.
'It’s a wonderful town,' I respond.
'Yep, and the Bronx is up and the Bowery’s down….'
Ha ha ha ha ha.
Ah, the publishing life. Wit, song, and a laugh a minute.
The weekend that follows is an anticlimax.
Friday night I am treated to three verses and a chorus of * Off I Hate You, that old favourite so beloved of professional teenagers the whole world round. I wish I had the copyright, I could have made a fortune. I don't exactly know what great sin against humanity I have committed - it may have been something to do with mentioning room and vacuum cleaner in the same breath. I was told, rather luridly, that the whereabouts of the aforementioned household appliance, were in fact already known to the defendant, but I think I could be forgiven for not having known this since there is no evidence to back it up.
'Everybody in this house hates me' I'm reliably informed. Since it's only the teenager now that her father has left that doesn't carry as much weight as it did when it was awash with other children, nor, I add, is it much of a surprise. I could have it printed up on calling cards and hand it around when I introduce myself, or when we have guests.
'Oh yes, do come in, and let me take your coat, by the way, everyone in this house hates me, do have a seat.'
On Saturday I went to a birthday lunch for women only - no doubt the birthday girl is practicing for when all their husbands are dead and they are welcomed to my husbandless world with only each other to shore up our social life. I would rather have had it the other way round - all of the husbands and none of the wives.
Anyway there were twenty four of us, and I was the second youngest since another women with one of those soft, buttery Kensington voices beat me with 49 in May. Damn her.
The girlfriend who accompanied me, immediately latched on to one 'interesting' woman after another after announcing to me that she didn't want to sit next to me as she could 'talk to me anytime'. So I paddled in the shallows of:
'Oh really, and how many children do you have?'
'Fascinating - Laos you say? And when does Primula get back from her gap year?'
'And where did you say she went to school again?'
'Mmm Bristol University, laaaavely.'
This wasn't because it was all they had to talk about but more because I couldn't really compete with the 'early retirement academic' and 'television'. I tried to talk about 'being in publishing' but soon found myself admitting that I was someone's assistant and had only been doing it for three months.
Nevertheless, I did plug the book, and in turn listened to all the other yummy once-upon-a-time mummies plugging their own books (is there anybody out there NOT writing a book?)
I did quite well until someone commented on the fact that she didn't recognise me since I had changed my hair colour (this is a frequent occurrence for two reasons, first because I often change my hair colour and second because I am so bloody inconspicuous and bland that if I go two shades lighter then immediately people thing they have never met me - it's the equivalent of the Harry Potter Cloak of Invisibility - if John Pilger had my gift he could just have bought a box of Clairol instead of going to the trouble of faking his own death). Yes, I've gone brown. There follows long conversation about it looking nice (her) - you know, first class late night review stuff. I've got Mark Lawson, nodding knowledgeably along in my head.
There then followed some musical entertainment; a Roger Whittaker impressionist playing an accoustic guitar.
He asked for requests.
Finally, I thought. A sing song. I was just about to ask for a nice rendition of Bye Bye Miss American Pie when...
'Fado?' said one.
'Any Bach?' asked another.
'What about Vaughn Williams?' Piped yet another.
All those over educated over achieving woman. Damn them. I bet they can't sing all the lyrics from The OC soundtrack. I bet they think the OC is half a psychological disorder and not a cult teen drama.
Roger then played a Flamenco and some Segovia. And I finally, once and for all, just shut up.
Roger then played a Flamenco and some Segovia. And I finally, once and for all, just shut up.
