Life & Society
Rich people manage to while away the years shopping, having affairs and dabbling in charities
Published 14 June 2007
I have empty nest syndrome. Without my book to fret over, I'm a bit lost. I might have to take up Sudoku or read the New Statesman. I never thought it would come to that.
You know you've got time on your hands when you spend ten precious minutes watching someone with a very low IQ wearing a feather boa and eating a packet of crisps on Big Brother. I can indulge in such excitement now my novel has finally gone off to be printed in some third world country. (As I write, undernourished children are slaving away in a basement for the weekly wage of a Mars Bar. Still, they’d only be at home, happy-slapping their grandmothers.)
The truth is, I have empty nest syndrome. Without my book to fret over, I'm a bit lost. I might have to take up Sudoku or read the New Statesman. I never thought it would come to that.
Rich people don't work, do they? Yet they manage to while away the years shopping, having extramarital affairs and dabbling in charity work. If only I had the Duchess of Kent's number I'd phone her up and ask her how she doesn't die of boredom.
I did spend a very pleasant afternoon by the canal enjoying my village's annual raft race. As this is a fundraising event for the local church, each raft had a biblical theme. Here comes Jonah and the whale; there go the 12 apostles. One disrespectful couple got it wrong and were dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and a very unconvincing wolf.
My boyfriend and I chatted to an elderly gentleman who was sitting in a deckchair wearing a panama hat and sipping Chablis. "Which one of you does the cooking?" he asked meaningfully, as if this was the clue to our bedroom roles. We blushed and turned our attention to the water, where the Virgin Mary was clouting the Angel Gabriel over the head with a paddle. My boyfriend works in advertising, which isn't what I'd hoped for. He's not around much to fill my empty days, leaping out of bed to go brainstorming over a croissant. When he is here he talks about Adidas campaigns and Olympic logos, while I drink gin to dull the pain.
My parents have abundant leisure time, too, so it was decided they should get a dog to encourage exercise and repel intruders. It hasn't worked out that way. I took them to the Dogs Trust, where dozens of homeless mutts await selection. My father chose a small, five-year-old, black-and-white arrangement called Suzi. I'm not saying she's ugly, but it's hard to tell which end is which. "What do you think?" he asked. "I'm speechless," said my mother.
Suzi was found wandering the streets of Glasgow. The biggest clue to her past is her nipples: these drag along the ground, big and pink and tender, like ET's fingers. (Not unusual in Glasgow, I'm told.) Despite her challenges in the looks department, it's thought poor Suzi may have been kept permanently pregnant in some nasty shed on a scurrilous puppy farm. Randy stud dogs were doubtless blindfolded and force-fed Viagra before being sent in to do their duty.
Suzi is frightened of going for a walk. If you put a collar and lead on her she assumes the look of Ruth Ellis on her way to the gallows. As for her duties as a guard dog, it's not looking hopeful. "Let's put it this way," said my mother, "she's scared of sparrows." Suzi is not quite what they had in mind . . .
A friend gave me a hammock for my birthday. Maybe I could spend the summer swinging between a greengage and a damson tree in the dappled sunshine? I could watch the birds and recharge my batteries at the same time. That was working for me until I caught an episode of Springwatch. Five cute baby owls were sitting in their nest when all of a sudden the big, butch one swallowed his smaller brother in one gulp. I was nearly sick. I can't set foot in my garden while that is going on in the hedges around me.
So there's nothing for it but to watch Big Brother. At least they don't eat each other. Although I wish they would.
Julian Clary
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