In which I do not let the rain keep me from Hall and Oates.
Week one in the serial dramatisation of my thirties.
In the first full week of being thirty-one and past the free trial offered by thirty, I have been left wet and dishevelled in my pearls with the dawning sense that true adulthood, a life beyond thirty, is far less about choice than it is about being sucked into an unedifying whirlpool of random events and emotional tribulations. Here’s how the week unfolded…
Monday:
The week set in with the hard hitting reality that I have now crossed unambiguously into my thirties. The trial period of 30 is now complete and I can’t stop the currents of time from pulling me deeper into the worm-hole of grown up responsibility. Went to the gym for the first time in months but spent most of the time on the phone to my sister or eavesdropping on conversations in the sauna. The day ended with a much required Bloody Mary made from a highly recommendable kit from Fortnum and Masons which I received for my birthday from my aunt and grandfather after, I’m assuming, all too many stories involving Bloody Marys at the Douglas Arms (or on that one long haul flight from Singapore to Munich).
Tuesday:
After a standard day of home working I spent the evening celebrating the spectacular victory of our membership club racehorse in the owners and trainers area at Carlisle Racecourse. Champagne, ravioli and joyful whimsy were enjoyed in spades.
Wednesday:
Dreadfully consumed by ennui and lethargy, I made the decision to deviate from my gym plans and instead attend a queer print workshop led by my good friend. I was overcome by the joys of creativity and now have the zine-making bug. I wait in tantalising anticipation of the next session in two weeks where I will throw myself into grassroots creative journalism as yet another way to distract myself from the trials of age.
Thursday:
The misery of this climate, specifically the dreadful wetness and rain, have inspired me to brooding. I have spent the evening in the kitchen listening to Opera and cooking altogether more pasta alla Norma than requisite. The surplus became useful in feeding my youngest sister who arrived unexpectedly for a visit.
Friday:
After spending all day at a work conference, I was full of excitement to spend the evening in the Douglas Arms with my liberal social posse. Immediately upon leaving the office the dreadful rain I have come to hate so prolifically resumed its assault; subsequently, by the time I arrived at my destination, I was soaked to the skin, my two piece suit utterly sodden and my hair hanging in ropey strands. The effect of my forest green suit, string of Grace Kelly imitation pearls and single pearl drop earring (selected in homage to Hall and Oates) was rendered entirely impotent. After spending some time contorting myself between the wash-basin and the automatic hand drier in the bathroom I felt as prepared as I could be under the circumstances to rejoin the social current of the night. That very current carried us, like a fever dream, through a Hall and Oates lookalike competition and a “Yacht Rock” party. Stimulated and inspired by conversations with all my pals, including our most glamorous Provost who stopped by to judge the Hall and Oates competition, I over imbibed on red wine and coke (to be clear, I am referring here to a mixture of red wine and the popular cola beverage) and danced my way into the weekend.
Saturday:
Filled with melancholy and tired from the exertions of Friday I stayed in comfortable clothing and spent the entire day playing a video game based on political control in 1066, painstakingly producing children and making advantageous political marriages for them across the great houses of Europe. I’ve reached 1300 in this play through and am concerned that my zealousness as the grandmother Lady of Galloway in the 1000s has led to unfortunate levels of consanguineous marriages between cousins; although I have Europe in a Celto-Norse power state chokehold and I do wonder what the world might have been like if I’d been around in those times to engineer such marriages and alliances. In my Jaquetta of Luxembourg era.
Sunday:
With equal melancholy and contempt for the weather, I remain in the pyjamas, drifting from room to room and performing half-hearted house chores without vigour or intention. The whole effect is somber and ghostly (excepting the fox print pyjama trousers tucked into socks). As I haunt the halls of the house, so too am I haunted by snippets from Friday’s social outing, notably flashbacks of me telling anyone who would listen that one of the “Hall and Oates” lookalikes “did my teeth” (he was, once, my orthodontist and the man who forged and launched the new me). At time of writing I am late to dress, but I am expected to deliver a box of frozen imported pies to my father and I have run out of Parmesan cheese because when I got home on Friday night I took the remainder of a block and air fried it to create “the master Parmesan crisp” which I then ate with what I called (very wrongly) a light salad. Therefore, leaving the house is a necessity yet to be achieved
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