12 February 2008

'Phone Fury



I had THE most frustrating evening ever last night. I lost my mobile ‘phone. As I rummaged furiously through my bag, through the maize of lipglosses, chewing gum wrappers, vitamins, food diary and the various notebooks I use in a vain attempt to organise my life, I was overcome by a serious sinking feeling of loss.

There followed a blood pressure raising hour and a half of stomping angrily up and down the high street, retracing my steps, accusing everyone in my path of stealing my beloved ‘phone. In my local Tesco, where the staff are of sub-average intelligence, never have any clue of what stock they have or even what day of the week it is, and are capable of little more than staring at you blankly, whatever the request: “Were you in here this evening?” Yes, of course I was, you idiotic twat: why else would I waste my time searching for my ‘phone in here otherwise? At my local tube station, where the staff deserve an award for pompous disorganisation, appalling customer service and utter incompetence (to be fair to them, though, this seems to be the ethos of London Underground in general), they were even more unhelpful. Did you know that if you lose your ‘phone and file a lost property complaint, they will REFUSE to look for it unless you can provide them with your sim card number. HOW CAN I GIVE THEM MY SIM CARD NUMBER? I HAVE LOST MY BLOODY PHONE!!! Oh, and they suggested mailing the lost property form: “you can hand it in at the station, but we might lose it. It’s a mess in here.”

This happens every time I meet a man I decide I am interested in: I lose my ‘phone, which obviously makes it difficult to obsessively check my messages every 2 minutes. The last time I was interested in someone, I dropped my ‘phone down the loo and had to cancel an entire afternoon of meetings so that I could replace it.

Thankfully, the incident ended happily, but not before I had thrown a huge, public hissy fit and practically threatened to kill the staff of London Underground. My ‘phone was on my bed, where I had carelessly tossed it when I returned home last night. I had tried calling it to see if I could hear it ringing (twelve times, to be precise), but as the dryer was on at the time and my ‘phone was on the silent-vibrate setting, I was unable to hear it.

So I am happily reunited with my lifeline: my mobile ‘phone. And Love Object - he of the Oscar-worthy, outstanding dating etiquette - has just called me for 20 min conversation (in between running around buying another company), and even asked me what colour the dress I'm wearing to my cousin's wedding tomorrow is!




I love my lovely 'phone.

08 February 2008

Doctor Dolittle


Either Britain's medical schools are advocating a new type of bedside manner, or my doctor has just attempted to make a pass at me.


I have chronic eczema all over my body (it's disgusting), which refuses to go away, largely because I insist on training daily until I collapse in a sweaty heap, and this of course exacerbates the skin condition.


After battling the ridiculous NHS appointment system and fighting for my rightful position at the head of the queue in front of hypochondriac children and malingering geriatrics, I finally managed to secure an appointment this morning with what appeared to be a student doctor.


Having described the problem, I whipped off my top (yes, of course I am wearing a sexy Myla underwear set today, but the effect is ruined by the open sores and angry red lesions all over my chest). I expected him to recoil in horror and excuse himself for a minute so that he could vomit in the sink behind him. But instead:


"Hmmm," he purred, circling me and gently stroking my back. I felt shivers shoot down my spine. "How horrid for you," he continued, caressing me lightly and now whispering, "it must be so painful". His touch was very sensual, and continued for longer than was necessary.


(I swear I am not exaggerating this, by the way.) I studied him closely as he sat down in his seat, avoiding eye contact with me. Quite attractive, in a foppish English schoolboy way; one of those public service workers (eg teacher, police officer, etc) who, despite being fully adult, looks incredibly young to me, as I secretly still think I'm 21 and that public service workers are all much older than me.


The young doctor coughed nervously, and as he moved his hand to cover his mouth, I noticed that his palm was sweating.


"Do you... have a... boyfriend?" he asked, looking down at his keyboard.


"WHAT?!" I replied impatiently, failing to see the connection between my relationship status and a vile skin condition.


He reddened. "Well, just that when I had eczema on my hands, I felt too self-conscious to hold anyone's hand, and, um..." He coughed again, looking desperately at his computer screen.


Just then, the door burst open, and in walked Doctor Windbag (not his real name, obviously), my regular doctor, brandishing a camera. Oh yes, I had forgotten. Windbag is an expert in dermatology and has a bizarre academic interest in eczema. And now he wanted to photograph my chest for his latest lecture.


When I left the surgery 20 minutes later, I couldn't help thinking that I had just inadvertently played a part in a perverse, pornographic fantasy.


What has become of the NHS?!

06 February 2008

The Way We Are... Or the Way We Want to Be?



I finally watched The Way we Were last night, and oh my god, what an amazing film! Supergirl (nee "my friend I" – I have rebranded her) and I swooned over a very young and very gorgeous Robert Redford, although Supergirl managed to ruin the fantasy by googling his height mid-film, and moaning throughout that he was only 5"10.
I think the film raised some very interesting issues about what I shall loosely term performativity. Every reference to the film that I have ever seen or read (including that travesty episode of Sex and the City) has focused on the notion that men are simple creatures who avoid complication and confrontation at all costs, and may be passionate about strong, intelligent women, but will ultimately end up marrying the doll-like, intellectually unchallenging bimbo. And the film is about all those things, but so much more, too.
Leaving aside the obvious point (which I am tired of making) that you cannot categorise and simplify sex and gender in that manner, I think the film goes beyond this. Far from suggesting that Hubble and Katie are best off sticking to what comes naturally to them – he as a womanising, gorgeous, commitment-free lurve object, and she as a curly haired, ungroomed social rights campaigner – and that by being together, they are denying their true selves, I think the film does a good job of problematising categories of identity (which is my "thing"!).
Katie has started ironing her hair before she runs into Hubble again and gets it on with him. She may have made the (nauseating) effort to run around after him laundering his uniform, spending her food ration on steaks for him and generally being a bit giggly and flirtatious, but what he was attracted to – before, during and after they were together – was her leftish feistiness and political engagement. He still loves her at the end of the film when she goes back to unironed hair and shouty politics. Hubble can see beyond whether she has groomed or wild hair, and in turn Katie loves him whether he is being a lazy sod or a successful writer.


Ultimately, though, 3 things win: (1) political commitment over living happily ever after with Robert Redford (an heroic – if somewhat dubious – win); (2) going for the safe relationship over the passionate, exciting one (Hubble with the Mute Barbie and Katie with the faceless Step-Father to her child, who lets her walk around with that awful hair), and (3) while both characters struggle with their inner contradictions, actually, the woman is the powerful one who gets what she wants, while poor old Robert Redford ends up miserable, I think. Katie manages to nail her man thrice; she has him wrapped around her little finger, and she is simultaneously independent, fiercely supportive of her man, feminine, gorgeous (some of the clothes are amazing, as are Barbra Streisand’s cheekbones), highly intelligent, lovable, articulate, dynamic, etc etc. She gets to be a mother as well (good for her, if this is what she wants), and strengthens her matriarchal genealogy by naming her daughter after her mother. She ends up with her tragic hair in its natural state and even though Robert Redford leaves her, she finds a man who adores her unequivocally enough to take on the fathering of her daughter. Robert Redford ends up miserable, missing her and shagging a Mute Barbie. I know who I’d rather be.
Interestingly, though, the film turns a lot of popularly-held stereotypes on its head. Hubbell’s weakness is not other women – he only has one affair while with Katie, towards the end of their relationship. His weakness is Katie herself. The relationship is doomed from the beginning, and they split up at least twice, but he keeps on going back to her. He knows that no one will ever match up to her, and even his friend acknowledges (when his own partner has left him) that Katie is a special woman, and that being a man whom she has left must be particularly devastating. Another cliché the film turns on its head is that of the woman feminising herself to bag her man. Katie doesn’t need to do this. Although she transforms herself into a bit of a babe who cooks and irons for her man, what he is most attracted to is her feistiness and her passion and her mind (even at the end of the film) – although ultimately, it is all these things in the end which make them too different and make the relationship unworkable.

It’s just so depressing, isn’t it? Attraction: not enough. Lights on, windows open: not enough. I guess if two people are too different, the relationship can work for a while, but not forever. The worst thing is that Hubbell knows that no one will ever understand him or love him or support him in the way that Katie did - but he will still choose the easy option over her.
Where does that leave us, girls?