The garden of my west London home adjoins a mosque. If I peep over the wall, I can see dozens of men praying on mats, heads pointing, rather flatteringly, towards my house
I was staying away last weekend when, in the middle of the night, I got terrible toothache - an agonising surprise, as I've never had toothache before. The pain was such that I stuffed four Nurofen Plus down myself despite the warning on the packet that two was the max, and crept downstairs in search of ice. How sad to find yourself in someone else's house, scrabbling about the blackened walls for the light switches, unable to find the freezer, attempting to hammer ice out quietly into a bowl, tiptoeing up the stairs while trying not to squawk with pain, and terrified that you might be found in the morning dead either from pain or, worse, from painkillers.
As I quietly closed my door, I wondered whether, in their various rooms, the other guests were having such an interesting night - were they having whispered arguments about divorce, masturbating to masochistic fantasies, finding the mattress so uncomfortable that they ended up sleeping on the floor, rolled in their overcoats and the bedside carpets? And wondered if, when we came down to breakfast in the morning, freshly bathed, we would all reply to our host's polite: "And did you sleep well?" with "Oh, fine, thank you!"
The pain was so great that I had to break short my stay and come down to London early to have root canal work carried out by a Yellow Pages dentist at ten on Sunday night. He opened up his surgery in Kensington, pulled on a white coat, saying he'd just been out with friends: "But don't worry, I haven't had too much to drink." He took £120 off me in "cash please, if you don't mind".
The next morning, I woke in agony. I've often cried with depression but never with pain. As I wept and screamed in agony (truly), I couldn't help almost laughing to myself as I said: "It's only pain! It's only pain! It's not depression! Thank your lucky stars!" But when the pain got to such a point that I could hardly think, and I started to get frightened, I rang the Samaritans. Why the Samaritans? Because at least they don't say, like friends do: "Have you tried echinacea?" "What about oil of Olbas?" "Have you thought of ringing your dentist?" - all of which kindly remarks always make me wild with rage.
I've rung the Samaritans about eight times in my life. They are brilliant. I only have one bone to pick with them. That is: I don't think it is right that if someone gives them their name and address and then reveals that they have taken an overdose, the Samaritans will only go round to save them if given permission. Giving your name and address is giving permission in itself, and a symptom of depression is seeing everything as negative, so no depressive can ever answer in any kind of positive way. I explained my view once in the Independent, and Chad Varah, founder of the Samaritans, took exception and, in an opinion piece, described me as "malicious".
At last! I had been libelled! I could expect thousands of pounds to come rolling in! My fortune was made! Even my solicitor swore I had "grounds". But, unfortunately, I was stymied. I could hardly sue St Chad. Nor could I sue the magazine he was writing for, it being one of the noblest and most worthwhile publications around, the Big Issue. Damn and blast . . .
When I told a friend about my toothache experience, she said: "Oh, it's at times like that that you suddenly want your mummy!"
Er, no, actually. Like half the women I know, I'm writing a book about me and my mother. No fun. My mother was a fashion icon, and also an alcoholic. I toyed with the Mommie Dearest approach: "I was neglected and abandoned by my alcoholic fashion-crazed mum, poor me, evil her." Didn't like it. Didn't ring true. Then there was the other option: "I was neglected and abandoned by my alcoholic fashion-crazed mum, poor me, but now I am older I forgive her, I can let go of all my rage, and realise that she was only doing her best, bless her." Didn't like that, either. Didn't like that one bit.
But there was another approach, one that I haven't seen used by any other author: "My fashion-crazed mother was driven to drink by giving birth to a miserable, whining, selfish, angry little girl." Well, I didn't mind that one, but all my friends have tut-tutted like mad when I've suggested it. Still, I think there may be a grain of truth in it.
I have just Blu-Tacked my Don't Attack Iraq poster to the window, and watch the QPR football fans goggling at it as they pass by along Loftus Road. We're not very political in west London, and a statement like this is pretty dramatic. I don't expect bricks to be thrown, however, because my garden adjoins a mosque, where a wonderfully tall, slender and gentle imam holds services, and sometimes, if I peep over the wall on sunny Saturdays, I see dozens and dozens of men praying on mats, heads pointing, rather flatteringly, towards my house.
Being a bit of a lettering and design freak (my dad designed the reverses of the decimal coins), I'm relieved that the poster itself is a graphic sensation, a poster to keep, in black and blue. It's designed by someone called Katrina Foote (coincidentally an ex-Central St Martin's student, like my father) and it's available from www.stopwar.org.uk.
Get one. Put it up. Wherever you live.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
