Life & Society
The air is thick with innuendo
Published 17 July 2006
Soon after I moved in, I realised that my country house needed to be rewired, re-plumbed, re-roofed and re-windowed. So now, every morning at 8am, I open the door in a kimono and five or six topless workmen saunter in. It's not unlike being on the set of a gay porno film. (Or so I imagine.)
As I hand out tea to the thirsty, tattooed workers, the air is thick with innuendo. Yesterday, the plumber said: "I'm going to stick a thick, solid pipe down in your basement"; the roofer said: "I shall be tackling your chimney round about lunchtime"; the electrician explained he'd have to cut off the electricity but then added: "I hope to turn you on in an hour or two." And so on. Even the carpenter told me he was "expecting some wood today". I blushed and clutched at the invisible string of pearls around my throat.
While they get on with their various jobs, I like to get out of their way, and so retreat to the far end of the garden where an old sewing table stands under a hazelnut tree. Here I tinker with my novel, which I'm trying to persuade a reluctant publisher to call Dead Man Wanking. (It has a certain rhythm to it, I think.) I've reached chapter six and several vile sex murders have taken place. No one knows who did them. Including me. My editor has had the bad taste to send me a book entitled How to Write Crime Novels. I've sent him one called You're Getting on My Nerves.
My novel is set in the world of showbiz so, to get him off my back, as it were, I've decided to make Claire Sweeney my prime suspect. She looks the sort and, let's face it, no one would be sad to see her locked away. I'll have to make Nicky Campbell her accomplice, though. Semen stains have already been found on a lampshade.
Job done, I decided it was time to dig up the potatoes that I planted at Easter. This was a proud moment for me. My first home produce from my new garden. They were plump and perfect. I texted my mother the exciting news, but her response was rather withering: "How nice. Now you know what it's like to give birth."
While they boiled I perused the papers. Shocking news. A tabloid has had the nerve to imply that Victoria Beckham is in danger of losing her crown as Queen of the Wags. Coleen is eyeing it up, apparently. Posh was forced to walk down Bond Street in a leather miniskirt to ensure some press coverage. I don't like to hear such dirty talk. Mistress Beckham is only now entering her prime, and to cut her down would be to trash the harvest so long nurtured by us all. Long may she reign.
I gave up alcohol three weeks ago to see if it would make me feel better, and it has. I'm kinder, more patient and wider awake. So I've now given up bread and chocolate. Wheat, meat, dairy and fizzy drinks are currently eyed with suspicion. Cigarettes are the Devil's work. But if I give up everything and take up nothing, what will happen to me? Someone stop me before my body becomes a temple and I'm forced to start drinking my own urine. I'm not much fun at dinner parties as it is.
Last Friday morning I was browsing around Tesco at midday when an announcement was made. To show our respect for the victims of the London bombings a year ago, we would all now observe two minutes' silence. My fellow shoppers and I stood, heads bowed, and not a trolley squeaked. Collective moments of united grief can be very powerful.
Unfortunately, the management had failed to turn off the music and our sombre reflections were somewhat disturbed by James Brown telling us how he felt like being a sex machine. We've all got our needs, James, but there's a time and a place for everything.
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