In which I reflect on social commentary and concede: I am Kate Garraway.
In this week I am carried into an existential line of questioning which draws me to conclude that I am, in fact, Kate Garraway. Read on to see why…
Monday:
As Mondays go, this one was much like the others: unremarkable in every conceivable way. I drifted through the day in a state of malaise before settling into an evening of similarly unremarkable activities. If ennui were to manifest as a specific Monday, it would be this one.
Tuesday:
I’ve learned that book clubs are like buses: you wait ages for one and then two appear at once.
Dougie Book Club is back, which is thrilling, because I was fairly sure I’d killed it off last time by failing to turn up to the last session due to being stranded on the Champs Élysées. Its revival means the return of those perfect Tuesday nights in the pub by the fire, alternating coffee and wine and discussing books. Frankly, a vibe.
Before heading out, I messaged my eternal darling Mrs Katie Boyce to see if she’d join me. She replied that she’s now thoroughly settled into married life and mistress of her own book club, which I immediately joined. This leaves me as a member of two book clubs at once, which feels like a personal brand upgrade, and therefore I’m fully committing to the bit.
At The Dougie’s we chose Jackie Kay’s Trumpet; in Katie’s, Penelope Douglas’s Birthday Girl. I shall be industrious in my reading, but doubly enriched come the end of the month.
Sufficiently stimulated, I rode the bus home clutching two takeaway pizzas and a renewed sense of self-righteousness.
Wednesday:
Full of career enthusiasm and deeply connected to the latent intellectual hiding beneath my dizzy blonde exterior (though brunette now), I found myself in the gym this evening rotating through machines while listening to podcasts on current affairs. Doing leg curls and battling the hateful chest press while hearing analysis of British politics was oddly empowering and certainly more motivating than Sabrina Carpenter ever could be.
I carried this new obsession with micro-learning into my walk to the supermarket, where fireworks lit up the night, visually charming, aurally catastrophic.
Thursday:
Like most of the country, I’m entirely taken by the Celebrity season of The Traitors. Tonight was the final, and the result, which I won’t spoil, was breathtaking.
Two reflections. Firstly, I think I might be in love with Joe Marler. Secondly (and supported by peer feedback), I think I actually am Kate Garraway.
My gateway drug to the series was Clare Balding, naturally. My grandmother, a celebrated fixture of the Scottish racing scene by way of her Barclay name, was devoted to the sport, so Clare Balding was an eternal presence (in audio/visual format). Whenever she appeared on the television screen, Granny would tap me on the arm and remind me, “She’s queer, you know.” Later this evolved into a wordless arm tap and an excited gesticulation.
In her honour, Derry and I now do the same. But over time I became utterly enchanted by Kate Garraway. Beyond the flawless blowout (hours of hair inspiration), I feel an affinity with her: clearly capable, serious about her job, yet somehow everyone’s pick for a dizzy blunderer.
Overcome with admiration after the final, I ended the night brushing my hair and wondering why I felt so spiritually aligned with Kate Garraway.
Friday:
I think I’ve found the answer. After a day in the office, I retired to the Dougie Arms to meet my usual assortment of glittering gems and celebrate the week’s end with a bottle of Prosecco.
We were thrilled by the return of our singing starlet Jen Mac (of Radio One fame), and spirits were high. During one of Conor’s stories about a traumatic night at the Dougie long since passed, I missed a few key details and mixed up several principal characters, mangling my comprehension of the story into bafflement. Confused, I asked for clarification, much to everyone’s amusement, and declared, revisiting a comment from friends of last Friday in this very same pub, “My God, I am Kate Garraway.”
This was confirmed later when I saw a meme entitled “Kate Garraway repeating things”. The show-reel footage of Kate repeating back other people’s declarations triggered a That’s so Raven style flashback of every episode of Speaking Queerly (“We are going to be talking about Wicked, yes”) and I don’t know whether it suggests great journalistic potential or not. Regardless, I feel a renewed sense of potential in broadcasting.
Unsettled but not unpleased, I instructed my husband to drive us to McDonald’s for chicken nuggets and officially closed the week.
Saturday:
I was meant to be going to the ice hockey with my dad, but it turns out I’d been given the wrong date, so that will have to wait.
Instead, I went with my mother, aunt and grandfather to the Scottish Borders for a spontaneous trip to the Trimontium Roman Fort Museum, apparently co-founded by my great-aunt.
After much laughter in the museum, a detour to the garden centre, and the opportunity to buy globe artichokes and pomegranates in a zero-waste grocer, we returned home for pyjamas and television.
Sunday:
Derry drove me out to Carsethorne for a lovely Sunday lunch at the Steamboat Inn. I gorged myself on mussels and roast beef and am now both nourished and content. I intend to live in this feeling for the rest of the day.