Life & Society
One stinking dog
Published 24 July 2008
The supermarket buyers suggest another title for my second novel – The Devil Wears Bifocals
The dog has BO. The shame of it. I first realised there was a personal freshness issue as we were travelling down to Kent. I was at the wheel and Valerie was in the back seat doing her finest Kerry Katona impersonation (licking the windows and sniffing a lot). As we drove through Balham, I thought it wise to close the sunroof and lock the doors. I didn’t want some tooled-up scallywag reaching in at the traffic lights to pinch my extra-strong mints.
Then the farmyard smells began wafting over me. That's south Londoners for you, I thought, just as Valerie manoeuvred herself on to the armrest in between the driver's and passenger's seats, wagging her tail and putting her tongue in my ear, achieving impressive penetration.
Suddenly the source of the aroma became all too clear. The dog was humming. The odour was a mixture of stale oxtail soup and a rural Moroccan's funky underpants. I rather sheepishly opened the windows again to let the fresh air in. As soon as we got to our destination it would be time for a doggy deep cleanse.
I frowned to myself. The last time I gave Valerie a bath, she not only carried on as if I were trying to load her into the Aga for lunch rather than pop her into my luxury roll-top for a shampoo, she also scratched the enamel in her attempts to escape her fragrant fate. I'd have to put some old towels in first to prevent further damage. (Even the boyfriend removes his Cartier nose ring before a bath. It once got caught up with the plug chain and he spent a very uncomfortable night bent double over the Georgian bidet. We've all been there.)
I have started writing my second novel, which is about an evil old woman, and provisionally titled The Devil Wears Incontinence Pads. My publisher sent me an email this week informing me that there were “quiet grumblings” from the supermarkets’ book buyers about the title. It seems there may be a problem. Incontinence pads make people think of wee, they pointed out, and this doesn’t tend to put the punters in the mood for shopping. They suggested The Devil Wears Bifocals as an alternative. Blimey, wait till they see the first chapter. You won’t be able to face so much as a rice cake once you’ve read that.
Life as we know it more or less grinds to a halt once I immerse myself in the creative process. I'm lost somewhere in the labyrinths of my sordid imagination, a place where the public is not invited to join me until publication day, some time away yet.
Last weekend I thought it best to warn the boyfriend that I am at present inhabited by the spirit of one of my central characters, a nasty drag queen called Miss Genita 'Warts. She drinks a lot of gin, makes evil comments about people the moment they leave the room and lusts after Portuguese footballers. He reassured me that I seemed my usual self.
In order to get myself properly in the mood for the slog ahead, I've been reading about the working life of the prolific author E F Benson. He had a cold bath every morning, breakfasted at nine, then wrote until lunchtime. In the afternoon he had a nap, went for a walk, wrote for a few more hours and then had a hot bath before dressing for dinner, which he was in the habit of doing even if he was alone.
I'm going to give this routine a go. Except I'll skip the cold bath and the breakfast, and I prefer a mid-afternoon luncheon. Also, the dog likes her walk in the morning and I often enjoy a nap in a hot bath, which I tend to take after dinner, eaten in my silk-effect pyjamas. How I'm supposed to write a book as well, I cannot imagine. I haven't even got round to washing the dog yet.
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