Day 25: The toughest challenge of the month

Saturday 24 October

Social anxiety strikes in many vile forms. There are those who can present in front of a hundred people quite cheerfully, but who would curl weeping in a toilet cubicle if forced to network. Some shrink into corners at parties, others struggle to maintain eye contact, some cannot themselves to join in a group discussion even with people they know extremely well. Ask a confident person how they do it, and they will often admit to feeling the terror also: it is all but a trick. 

Learning the confidence trick doesn’t necessarily mean you’re always going to be able to pull it off. Here is where alcohol becomes a vital social prop. Instead of just being the quiet person shrinking quietly behind a friend, you are the quiet person shrinking politely behind a friend until the sixth beer takes hold, whereupon you become alternately loud, vibrant and alarming, climbing on furniture, telling strangers about the last time you wet yourself and spilling wine on a stranger’s thigh. But isn’t anything better than that crushing suspicion that all these strangers think you’re the dullest person they’ve ever met?  

My specific social horror, is any kind of get-together in an alien environment containing a mixture of strangers and anything less than three people who I know well. If the company is either all-male or all-female it is better. If any of the company are related to any of the too-few people I do know, it is worse. Not being able to stand near a door makes it much worse. If people are sitting down, especially around a table, there is no hope. But a pub, even an unknown pub, is always better than someone’s home. It is a multiplicity of irrational headfuckery. 

I freely admit I use drink to get me through social events comprising some of the above negative criteria. I am a good drunk, verging into the realms of becoming a gobshite usually only after the point when everyone else has lost all touch with what is occurring around them. Sometimes a little drink is enough; sometimes more is needed. Sometimes all the drink in the world will not do the job. Today, I was about to attempt the previously untried and face my worst social fear sober.

Dennis Badger’s brother was having a party in his flat in Blackheath. I live nearby. I lack the pretension to describe myself as Blackheath Borders although I would secretly love to be Blackheath Borders. My friend Dennis Badger thought I might like to come too. Why not? The brother live just up the road. Dennis is nice, therefore his brother and his brother’s girlfriend and all their friends would probably be nice as well. It would be pleasant to spend time with Dennis. Dennis’s brother has a balcony and I have a great enthusiasm for balconies. I am very nosey and love seeing where other people live. And I like parties.

Dennis drove us to Blackheath amused by my little packed lunch of non-alcoholic beers. I had already confessed that the lack of booze might render me somewhat shy and that I was unlikely to last much more than an hour. Now this leads me onto a little aside about Dennis’s manners. Not only did he offer to not drink for the first hour so he could drive me home once my social collapse was imminent, he also parked the car and then decided to turn it around so I didn’t have to climb out on the road side into the traffic. In a week that has mostly consisted of men telling me I have ordered Cheddar Cheese when I have not and other men throwing coffee up my back and informing me it’s my fault, Dennis Badger’s excellent manners proved little short of astounding. I am seriously considering selling him on eBay under the heading ‘man with manners’. He will go to a good home and I will get lots of money to spend on beer. Everyone’s a winner.

I digress. The flat was one of those rather looming concrete affairs that, like the Barbican, opens onto almost unheard of spaciousness. I shunned the lift, which meant I passed through the door with squeaking lungs and rasping breath. Dennis Badger’s brother’s girlfriend answered the door: she was tall and beauteous and gracious. I met people. They were all entirely lovely. No one seemed to be the sort to leave a girl standing friendless. I looked at the buffet: I cannot describe the wonder of the home-made pork pies or Scotch eggs or Indian rice balls because, due to my stomach having transformed into a tightly clenched fist, I could not have eaten a thing. 

Social anxiety for me, switches on the fiercest level of ear-brain-mouth-filter. This contains perforations so fine it becomes immediately blocked rendering me conversationally useless within mere minutes. People’s words filter through my ears in the manner of glacial water trickling through thick strata of rock. Had people the time to wait three years for the filtration of my thoughts and words, they would doubtless be amazed by responses with the purity and clarity of Evian. As it was, they were treated to conversational gems such as this:

Me: I’ve brought my own non-alcoholic beer

Dennis Badger’s Brother: What sort is it?

Me: [brief pause to allow large tumbleweed to blow past] It’s… it’s non-alcoholic

DB’s Brother: I gathered that. What sort is it?

Me: [sweat beginning to gather on nape of neck] Erm. Yes.

Really I should have been a bit more on the ball conversationally. Some poor girl was landed with me asking her at least seven variations on the question: “So you live in Islington, do you?” Thinking I’m boring people to death is a sure-fire recipe for ensuring that I absolutely do bore them to death. Nudged gently onto the subject of the glory of the home-made Scotch eggs, I was asked “So who does the cooking out of you two?” I pondered. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my brain a little voice was calling out to me. I strained to hear it. The little voice seemed to be saying “This nice lady is assuming you and Dennis Badger are a couple. Better put her straight on that one, eh?” My mental cogs whirred and clunked. I couldn’t think of a good way of saying it and was suddenly pierced by a memory of The Uncle taking me for a jacket potato in 1984, and the waitress saying “That’s nice of your daddy to take you out for lunch!” and me replying with a ferocity that left The Uncle bewildered: “That man is not my daddy.” 

Back in the real world, many long seconds had passed by and I had already missed the boat in terms of rectifying this misconception. The nice girl tried again with: “Is Dennis Badger a good cook?” Still floundering for the correct response I started at her, glazed with confusion and said, in hushed tones: “I don’t know.” I think possibly she may have gained the impression that we’d been married for ten years, but I was so dulled with opiates that I hadn’t paid attention to anything he’d done for the past eight. Still, at least I could later pride myself on not having shouted “That man is not my boyfriend!”

This is the fear at its worst. I almost burst into tears when someone remarked that Sagres was a good choice of beer “But mine’s … it’s… it's non-alcoholic!” I spluttered. I then attempted to open another bottle using a fridge-mounted bottle opener. Why did everyone else make it seem so easy? I poked my bottle top into an opening that suddenly had all the grip of a bucket of baked beans. I flailed and struggled. Not only had I been exposed as conversationally inept, but now everyone was going to realise I was physically useless as well. A man came to my assistance. I can’t remember what I said to him: he probably can’t either. I probably told him 18 times that Blackheath was very nice. Between us, we managed to knock the fridge-mounted bottle opener off the fridge and then had to stick it back on again. My eyebrows were starting to sweat…

Thus far I had been judiciously avoiding Dennis Badger so as not to tarnish him by association in my current incarnation as pleb-friend-who-cannot-speak. But we stood on the balcony for a few minutes, which was great because an icy wind immediately dried the sweat on my scalp.  As balconies go, this one was epic.  It was roughly the same size as my living room and overlooked beautiful tree-lined streets of poshness. I was momentarily calm, but having drained another beer in about 90 seconds, I made my excuses and attempted to depart. I say ‘attempted’. There were several doors leading off the hallway. A rational person would have deduced that of the doors that weren’t already open onto visibly occupied rooms, the front door might be the solid-looking closed one with a latch. Not me. I had to go and ask the gracious hostess to point out the front door for me. I then pelted across the road and leapt on the first bus that turned up (having inexplicably lied that my ‘usual’ bus left from right outside the flat). Once on the bus, I burst unexpectedly into tears, causing a tramp to look a bit disgusted and move a few rows back.

I managed to get the bus as far as Lewisham and walked through its unpeopled heart. Every doorway seemed to have recently been urinated in and discarded newspapers flapped around my ankles like drunken bats. Lewisham does not seem to be a top Saturday destination for a night out. Still in a lather, I popped into the Co-Op intending to buy the ingredients for a vegetarian chilli, but instead coming away with salsa, crumpets and a tub of half-fat custard. I phoned The Wife in Her Welsh Homelands for support. She seemed quite surprised that I could actually have been that socially disastrous and, by the end of the conversation had managed to convince me that he worst impression I could possibly have created was of being polite but dull. I fell into bed shattered beyond belief. Drink it would seem, is the only cure for this set of social circumstances. Or does anyone have a better idea?

Units Dodged: 36. Quite seriously, it would have taken me three bottles of wine to attain about 45 minutes worth of slightly wobbly nirvana by the point in the night when most people would be thinking about going home.

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: I took some Krombacher with me but I am sadly unable to explain what it tasted like. While at no point did I spit it out bellowing “What the hell is this bile?” it remains a mysterious fluid that was gulped in a panic and left no lasting impression. I am however amused to read that it isotonic. I might take a bottle to the gym with me next time I go...

The Unit Dodger

Day 24: Cheese-gate

Friday 23 October

There’s nothing like a Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday off work to make the Friday of your return feel like the longest day of your life. I crawled through the day with a deaf ear the kind of persistent cough that makes people sitting near you wince and an itchy throat. Everyone seems to be ill this week. Possibly the last thing I felt like doing upon lurching home was speaking to anyone on the phone, which naturally meant that everyone I knew took it upon themselves to phone me up, curse them. I was delighted to receive interruption from Two-Woman who was proposing swinging by my neck of the woods on her way home so we could go for an oesophagus-anesthetising curry.

I live in a neighbourhood not over-burdened with opportunities for eating out, so I am pleased that The Bengal is at least sort of decent. I do, however, wish they would paint it a different colour. It used to be bright orange and now it is bright turquoise: I think the luminous paintwork is meant to compensate for all the lights they won’t turn on. We plonked ourselves down while I went through my usual martyr-like “Do have a beer if you want one!’ routine. Two-Woman was suffering from a similarly razed throat and opted for a pineapple juice. I had a Diet Coke, although I had a horror-struck moment of thinking I’d actually said: “I’ll have another fucking Diet Coke." This month hasn’t half put me off carbonated drinks you know. 

Now here’s a funny thing with the Bengal Brasserie. They serve a perfectly toothsome Saag Paneer, which consists of spinach (saag) and that spongy, mild-tasting Indian cheese that doesn’t melt (paneer!). It’s a bit like the solid bits in cottage cheese, carved into cubes by some crazed cheese control-freak. Just to drive my point home, its name is paneer. Paneer Cheese. 

Now on the menu, the dish is described thus:

“Saag Paneer: spinach served with your choice of Cheddar or Paneer Cheese”

Is it just me, or is this as odd as going to an Italian restaurant and seeing the following:

"Margarita pizza: cheese and tomato served with your choice of either a pizza or an omelette."

I happen to think that’s odd. And the same thing happens every time I order it:

Waiter: Yes please?

Me: I would like the Saag Paneer with Paneer Cheese

Waiter: Er… sorry?

Me: Saag Paneer with PANEER cheese. NOT Cheddar.

Waiter: [scribbling] Cheddar Cheese

Me: No... NOT with Cheddar Cheese. With Paneer Cheese. I want Paneer. I want Saag Paneer with Paneer Cheese. PANEER

Waiter: Ah, sorry, could you just point…

Me: THIS ONE. But where it says the Cheddar Cheese I do not want the Cheddar Cheese. I want the Paneer Cheese.

And, just like last time, ten minutes later, a little sizzling plate was brought out consisting of spinach smothered with a thick yellow blanket of melting Cheddar. “I wanted Paneer!” I announced rather hysterically. I can’t have beer, now I can’t have Paneer, what other pleasures ending in E-E-R will I be deprived of next? The waiter (the same one who could not tell the difference between the words ‘Paneer’ and ‘Cheddar’) brought the manager over. He listened patiently before announcing: “Cheddar cheese is very popular with our customers”

Actually, Cheddar cheese is very popular with me as well. I like it in an omelette, a toastie, in cauliflower cheese... but just as I wouldn’t order a Prawn Dansak and expect to receive a bowl of prawns floating in Bisto (despite the fact that I believe Bisto is very popular with a Sunday Roast) nor do I wish my Saag Paneer to come smothered in Cheddar. To be honest, if they have customers coming in demanding these bizarre menu amendments, the staff should just march them outside, point at the pink, illuminated ‘Bengal’ sign and say: “Now. Where do you think Bengal is? Clue: it’s not in Somerset…”

The manager’s next step was to confidentially suggest that next time I attempted to order this dish, I specify in advance whether I wanted paneer or cheddar. This led to an inadvertent double scream of “I DID/SHE DID!” from Two-Woman and I, which caused the manager to step back in alarm and magnanimously offered to replace it free of charge. I’m sorry for shouting: but we really were at the end of our tether.

Ten minutes later they brought out a Saag Paneer (as opposed to a Saag Cheddar) with a flourish. “Indian cheese” announced the manager. Is this what I’m supposed to say in order to obtain Paneer Cheese on future missions? Perhaps this needs to be stated on the menu. I sat there and regarded it: I almost felt too drained to eat it. I don’t like to fight for my supper. The staff hovered smiling expectantly and I began to get a growing sense that Paneer Cheese is a big joke even in India and no one in their right minds would ever choose it over Cheddar. I wish I had a big bottle of Cobra right now, I thought limply.

Units dodged: Six. Two big bottles of Cobra. It would normally just have been one, but Cheese-gate took so long to rectify and was such thirsty work that I could definitely have done two.

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: I invited Two-Woman back to have a non-alcoholic beer before she went home. Either she was too washed out by Cheese-gate, or my offer was about as tempting as: “Would you like to come back to mine and have an apple?” If only I hadn’t drank all the Super Bock Stout already, I might have been able to have made my offer sound a little more enticing. But sadly for Two-Woman, it means she missed out on Bitburger Drive. What a great name. Now, after a few days of mildish, sweetish beers, the Bitburger was a shock to the system, puckering my lips into a replica of a cat’s bum. By God it was bitter. But bitter in a  very good way. The bitterness tricks you into thinking there’s a bit of a boozy bite. According to the website: “The alcohol is carefully removed, but only once the beer has fully matured so it locks in the famous Bitburger taste” 

I’m very pleased they have retained this taste. I did not know it was famous (I have actually never heard of Bitburger) but I like it and appreciate their efforts. It’s also meant to be the official drink of the German National Football Team. I hope they like bitter drinks and don’t sit there crying because they'd rather have some orange squash. 

The Unit Dodger

Day 23: A slightly fraught lunch

Thursday 22 October

And here is the last of my futilely wasted days off. Well – not entirely futile. I have been sort-of ill and I have been sort-of out and about. And in any case there are days when one simply needs to bond with one’s sofa. I will not bore you with the cups of tea drunk (many) or the minor household chores attended to (few). And I have lunched. 

Today I skipped breakfast in preparation for lunch with Rioja. We arranged to meet at the junction of Hatton Garden and Roupell Street in Waterloo. I like meeting friends at junctions. It reminds me of being 15 and living in a village and mobile phones not having been properly invented yet and making curiously rustic-sounding arrangements, such as “Meet me by the crossroads at seven” – and then having to stick to them. I’m not used to this any more: first I texted to say I would be ten minutes late. Then I turned up ten minutes later than that. 

On meeting Rioja, I was concerned to learn that she had “inhaled sushi” and wasn’t especially hungry. This could have been taken to mean that she had a maki roll lodged in her nostril, but it seems more likely that she had eaten lunch before meeting me for lunch. Hmmm. My problem was that I was hungry, greedy and unfed since Day 22. Luckily, Rioja then proposed a nearby Turkish eating emporium, Ev, which sprawls beneath a series of arches and comprises a take-away section, a bar section and a restaurant section. It took us ten minutes of mad ditherings to deduce that the restaurant section was located in the section marked ‘restaurant’. The waiter then refused to serve us a mixed mezze plate to share for £8.85 (“you must pay twice!”), which plunged Rioja into such confusion that she had to stare at the menu for the next 15 minutes before finally deciding she would just have what I was having. Needles to say, in the process of her deciding what she would have, we were asked at thirty-second intervals if we had decided yet. And the minute she did decide, we could have stripped and wrestled in our humous starter, battering each other about the head with flatbread, and we would still have been profoundly ignored. The time wasted over the course of this afternoon was beginning to exceed the boundaries of a traditional lunch hour. 

Eventually, we were presented with a selection of small aubergines stuffed with unnecessarily dry couscous. Far from being the melting, garlicky delight I had expected, they resembled the obscenely firm and gleaming droppings of some exotic, overfed and slightly constipated zoo beast. I think Rioja should have just inhaled hers. (Poor Rioja: I feel that my not-drinking has cursed our meetings. But do not fret: I’m back on the sauce from Friday. Would you and Jim care to pick an evening for a spot of Albert action soon?)

On leaving Rioja, I came home, blew my nose a lot and unblocked my bath. That is not a euphemism.

Units dodged: Three. Under normal circumstances I would have had a large glass of white wine to lubricate the passage of the obscene aubergines.

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: Super Bock Non Alcohol. Another lovely beer and the ordinary version of the Super Bock Stout I was salivating over on Day 18. This has got the balance right between sweet and bitter. It’s quite hoppy, adequately fizzy, ever so slightly tangy in the best possible way. And there’s a hint of honey in the aftertaste. I wish they sold it in pubs. Or confusing Turkish restaurants…

The Unit Dodger

Day 22: A tight spot

Wednesday 23 October

 

So very many things can go wrong with a pair of tights. The wrongest thing that ever happened to my tights happened at the age of 24 when white wine, unexpected rain and flimsy footwear combined to cause all five toes to burst unexpectedly through the end of one tight leg. In an attempt to salvage the situation, I propped myself against the wall of Burger King in London Bridge station and began to take my tights off by grabbing at the toe end and pulling and pulling and pulling – creating an effect similar to Paul Daniels pulling a never-ending string of hankies from his sleeve. It is times like this that you do not wish to be recognised, but, inevitably, I was spotted by a passing colleague, who, to this day, speaks of “that time you took your tights off outside Burger King”.

A more common tights issue that will have been encountered by most women at some point in their lives, is that of the ghost crotch. This is when you put on what purports to be a correctly sized pair of tights and, as soon as you are beyond easy-returning distance of your home, you become aware that the crotch of your tights is sitting several centimetres below your real and actual crotch. Remedies for this situation include furtive mid-thigh tight-hitching – or taking ridiculous three-at-a-time giant steps up flights of stairs to stretch everything back into place.

Todays tights issue was considerably more dangerous and complex. After a day spent lolling around in a frankly pathetic display of semi-illness on the sofa I realised that I was somehow going to have to acquire a copy of Bonjour Tristesse – tonight’s book club book, which I could – and indeed should - have bought last month when we picked it. A text from Vicious confirmed that it was “only 108 pages” so I reluctantly departed my pajamas at 3pm and left the safety of my burrow to go out and forage for reading materials in Waterstones in Trafalgar Square. The day was crisp, so I opted for an over-the-knee frock, over-the-knee boots and a great, big sludgy cardie and warm tights. I didn’t have any tights. Well I did but, on closer inspection, one pair had been gnawed by wild beasts and the other had been washed with a tissue and was covered in lumpy, grey bobbles that I lacked the patience to deal with. In the back of the drawer I found a lurid turquoise Primark pair, last worn at an 1980s music festival. Beggars can’t be choosers… 

By the time I had reached my local station, I was already having to do the giant-steps-up-footbridge thing. By the time I’d got off at Charing Cross I was forced to adopt a nervous shuffling gait due to previously unheard of hip-slippage. This proved so distracting that I forgot to blow £30 on books in Waterstones. I took my rather paltry-looking copy of Bonjour Tristesse up to Costa to start binge-reading. Ensconced in a seat with a peach muffin and a vast two-handled tureen of coffee, I wriggled about in my seat in an attempt to rectify my tights. People avoided me: I expect they thought I had worms. I continued to attempt to read my book as the nylon bagged and sagged around my knees. The waiter came to check on my eating/drinking progress every three minutes (he must have been fairly desperate to get his muffin saucer back again). The café was filling up and people were starting to eye up the seat opposite me despite my frantic wrigglings, and I found myself having to unleash the full force of the fuck-you death stare. This was not the relaxing literary experience I had hoped for.

Ninety minutes and the book was read. I departed Costa, taking giant steps down the stairs again. I had been looking forward to a pleasant twenty-minute stroll, taking in the sunset from Hungerford Bridge. But, by now, my tights had the bit between their turquoise teeth and had developed a master plan that did not involve my legs in the slightest. I scurried along hitching furiously as I went. Hitching with a multi-layered frock is no easy task and leaves anyone walking behind you under the impression that they are dealing with a multiple mooner. I was lucky no one called the police and was starting to feel hysterical and powerless. I paused for a minute outside an Aberdeen Steak House and it was here that my tights finally slithered down over the tops of my boots. For a moment I felt strange calm. Yes, I could see my tights had fallen off; and yes, so could the customers in the window of the Aberdeen Steak House. But then they had come to London and had chosen to eat dinner in an Aberdeen Steak House so they were in no position to criticise. My options were various, but I decided it would be easiest to attempt to tear my tights through the middle and then tuck each newly created ‘stocking’ into the top of a boot and proceed nonchalantly on my way. I gathered the crotch of the fallen tights in my fists, checked again for policemen, took a deep breath and yanked as hard as I could. Not only did the material fail to tear (Primark tights are clearly designed by NASA), but I also managed to pitch myself forward, striking my head against the window of the Aberdeen Steak House and probably causing people to regurgitate their onion rings and pour Sauce Diane directly into their laps.

Crushed, bruised, shackled by fallen tights I eventually managed to shuffle to a pub called the Sherlock Holmes where I whipped off my tights in the loos and resigned myself to an hour or so of chafing boots. To any puzzled Sherlock Holmes staff I can only apologise, and promise i will come in for a real pint of your warmest lager very soon to make up for my gratuitous toilet usage. And also: thank you for being there.

On reaching The Walrus Social (our usual book club venue, chosen because it has nice staff, big tables and, at about 7pm on a Wednesday it is generally quite quiet) I walked in to the deafening noise of a football match and a full-scale buffet. I marched up to the bar: 

Me: Is this a private function? I do not understand why there is quiche [I always like to start conversations in the style of a 1950s ‘teach yourself English’ text book]

French barman: Eet is not private. You want quiche you may eat quiche. You want drink, you ask ze barman [leaning forward and winking] zat is me

Me: A pint of lime and soda please. Are you celebrating something?

Barman: Non

Me: Oh

Barman: You see – we are open. You want potato wedges?

More than I could take. A lovely idea by the walrus staff to celebrate the openness of their pub with quiche and potato wedges, but as everyone turned up and we upgraded to suitably larger and larger tables, we became slightly oppressed by the bar staff pursuing us with bowls of beige and brown “party food”. I was mystified by what looked like either a chocolate dessert or a marmite open sandwich in the corner. Vicious checked and announced it was ‘burnt quiche’ whereupon we immediately stopped staring at it in case we caused a stampede of bar staff eager to place it in the centre of our table.

I had three pints of lime and soda. Again, no non-alcoholic beers to be had in The Walrus. A pity, but it is a most recommended pub on all other counts. I would have liked a pint of Strongbow to calm my nerves after the tights fiasco, but I did find that sobriety curbed my usual literary, nonsensical, meandering excesses, which must have been nice for the other group members.

Units dodged: Under normal circumstances, having been forced to whip my tights off in a pub toilet it would only have been polite to follow it up with a pint at the bar afterwards. Sherlock Holmes: I will be back to do just that. And a book club night where most people leave early (tonight was one such night: I think the beige food was causing acid reflux en masse) is generally a mere 2.5-pinter. So that’s seven units dodged tonight

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: Sagres Zero. I decided to treat myself when I got in. What – really zero? You mean I don’t even get 0.5 per cent? Pah. I checked and actually you get 0.3 per cent. This was kind of generic-tasting non-alcoholic beer. Nothing to get excited about, but nothing to be repulsed by. I did get a slightly saline undertone, but that may have been linked in more with the fact that I was eating a Bounty at the time and therefore had an unclean palate.

The Unit Dodger

Day 21: The best-laid plans…

Tuesday 20 October

I have three days off work to go and visit my lactating friend, BigMouth, in Sutton Coldfield. BigMouth had a baby in May and I work off the principle that anyone who’s been teetotal for nine months, is unlikely to want to drink twelve vodka Red Bulls at the drop of a hat and go to a nightclub. She seemed like a good person to go and visit under my present circumstances. Seemed. She was ill. Bah. Virgin promptly declared they couldn’t refund half or my journey and were going to charge me £10 for the dreadful inconvenience of my canceling the other half. I hate Virgin.

Which left me alone and ponderous and slightly unsure of how to proceed. Hurrah for Facebook. Up popped Dave and proposed lunch. Dave works in the city, which is exciting because I do not. I always imagine it is where the proper grown-ups work. We met on Finsbury Square where Dave works and I goggled at the big buildings while he said helpful things like “Look at that column!” (I like columns). We had lunch at a pub that did not serve Becks Blue and I commented on how nice Dave’s tweed coat looked combined with a shirt and tie rather than with a sweat soaked  T-shirt and shorts (his outfit on Sunday). We had pasta and a chat and then Dave me manly directions on how to get to Books Etc so I could buy the book I needed for Wednesday’s book club. 

After book shopping, I met Chap-A in Lewisham. Chap-A has her own local amenities in Tooting, but her TK Maxx does not include a homeware department and she needed a lampshade. I located her in the homeware department but she was not looking at lampshades. Oh no. She was holding a picture of a cup of coffee, a metal-plated picture of Betty Boo and a photo-frame that looked as if it had recently been wrenched from the jaws of a Great White Shark. “Are you alright?” I asked. She did look a bit flushed. “Do they have any less mangled versions of that photo frame? What are you doing?” The problem with TX Maxx is that it sells all sorts of dreadful shite, but it’s all so terribly cheap that you can convince yourself you really are getting a great deal on a china dog ornament or a set of turquoise velveteen coat-hangers… or a shark-gnawed photo frame.

Chap-A agreed to relinquish the objects she was holding and come to Muffin Break with me instead. I was excited about this. I like taking newcomers to Muffin Break. I hoped Debbie would be serving and – oh yes! Yes she was!

I started off on a predictably existentialist foot with Debbie:

Me: Have you got any vegetarian quiche

Debbie: Yes. Do you know why you can’t see it?

Me: No. Why?

Debbie: because it isn’t there. See? It’s over here. I haven’t had time to move it there yet, which is why you couldn’t see it.

I silently begged that she would tell Chap-A that all the food was made on the premises as I went to sit down. Chap A returned trembling with laughter and reported the following exchange:

Debbie: [leaning forward and lowering voice] You know, we make everything on the premises?

Chap-A: Everything?

Debbie: Everything. Is this your first time?

Chap-A: [also whispering by this stage although not sure why] yes.

Debbie: [in low-pitched growl] You’ll be back

Oh Debbie. Anyway, Chap-A was duly thrilled by her muffin… and also by the smiley face painted on the bottom of her coffee cup. She will indeed be back.

Units dodged: Well, none at all today I think. I would not have drank had I gone to see the lactating BigMouth in any case. And a pasta lunch and a Muffin Break do not require alcohol either.

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: Becks Blue. The old favourite. I’m glad my selection pack contains this as I felt a bit seen of when I couldn't have have one at lunch. I stuck the bottle in the freezer for 15 minutes and relished the farty whiff as I popped the bottle top. Burnt toast and bitterness. Delicious.

Day 20: The train rage spilleth over

Monday 19 October

If you are fit and well and not laden down with luggage, it is wrong to think you can ‘go slow’ at rush hour in London. Do you really wish to infuriate your fellow commuters by making them 45 minutes late for work? Remember: speed is always of the essence.

Going slow is probably a lovely idea if your commute involves a 20 minute cycle up a cobbled street, saying hello to the butcher the baker and the candle stick maker en route, and requiring nothing more complex than making sure you don’t run over a cow along the way. But if, like me, you have a one-and-a-half-hour commute that can so easily be transformed into a two-hour commute by some open-mouthed 45-year-old-chap plodding along at 0.25mph and making me miss my connection because he’s panting over the latest Harry Potter, then truly you deserve to get your leg sucked down the side of an escalator. 

Making transportational connections in London requires balletic poise, the ability to immediately utilise an unexpected gap and manners. If you’re operating within a tight and crowded space, toes will be trodden on, you may cut someone up, there may be light bodily contact. The rule? Be English about it. If you bump into someone, say sorry. If someone bumps into you, say sorry to them as well. Then you can have a nice self-deprecating chuckle about how English you’re both being Let old people go first, help people with buggies up the stairs and if a space opens up, for the love of God, move into it! 

At my local station, trains come in from deepest darkest Kent and are very crowded by the time they arrive in my little suburb. You have to contort yourself beyond your wildest imaginings to find even a standing space and sometimes, you may not even get on at all. I generally tend to stand in the usual place (my commute is a work of strategic genius: there is little point in trying out ‘new’ bits of platform’). One morning, the usual two diagonal queues of people formed by one set of doors as a train pulled in. Three people got off. The smartly dressed woman at the head of the left-hand queue, took a slight step back and then graciously waved on the right hand queue so they could board with almost unheard of levels of elbow-room. Both queues look perplexed: there was sufficient room for both queues to filter onto the train simultaneously. Soon the carriage was at almost-full capacity and several lucky latecomers who’d sprinted up the platform had managed to gain entry (via the right-hand queue). There was agitation within the left hand queue who grew agitated, and started bumping and jostling, whereupon the smartly dressed woman turned around and cooly announced: “It’s not a race”. The man immediately behind her promptly snarled: “And it’s not a fucking tea party either!” How right he was, how right. If I ever see her again, I will promptly perform a citizen’s arrest.

So rule number one is to always remember that it’s not a fucking tea party: to obtain the least stressful journey for both you and your passengers, prioritise your own needs and move quick and efficiently. Rule number two is to learn to achieve Zen-like calm under any circumstances or you will swiftly go mad. Test yourself. Can you read a Russian classic in the fetid darkness of a stranger's armpit while someone wedges a sharp-cornered suitcase between your thighs and listen to the grating monotone of a small child persistently intoning “I want a poo. I want a poo. I want a poo”? No to all of the above? Well keep trying until you can. It’s sink or swim unfortunately. If you think you are going to lose the plot you probably are. Stay focused on that trickle of sweat between your shoulder blades and think of the sea.

Transportational Zen-master I may be, yet even I have my limits. And these limits are usually reached on the connecting bridge between Waterloo and Waterloo East. This should take four minutes to traverse on a good day, but can just as easily take eight if all the people in front of me wish to proceed at a snail's pace because they are marvelling at the asphalt, playing with each others hair or are mesmerised by an article about ferrets in London Lite. The bridge follows an inverted motorway principle. True slow walkers (the elderly and people on crutches) stick to the outside edges of the tunnel, where there are rails to hang on to, should they be required. Slow walkers who for some reason have convinced themselves that they are not actually going all that slow stick to the centre, and there is a narrow sliver of space between the two directions where the nimble-footed dart along so as not to miss their trains. 

As I pulled elegantly into the fast lane, there was a slight bump against my back. How unusual. I proceded, and a short bald man danced in front of me and spat: “Thanks very much for spilling my coffee!” Poor little man I thought, he is probably unwell. The voices must have spilled his cappuccino for him. “Sorry” I said sincerely enough to make him look momentarily taken aback. But he wasn’t about to let it lie: “Yes – so you should be. You should look where you’re going.” I then twigged that the bump against my back had been small, bald man charging into me with his coffee. “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head!” I protested, despising the cliché even as it passed my lips. Bald man was already backing off, shaking his head exaggeratedly in a “women” kind of way. Yes, ok, ok, I had an oestrogen surge and then got overbalanced by my breasts and my handbag. But then, then I spotted his coffee. Lidless. “What kind of imbecile tries to run through central London with no lid on his coffee?” I shrieked. “You deserve to spill it! I hope there’s none left when you get to where you’re going to! And I hope you’re going somewhere shit!” He stuck two fingers up at me and I shouted “Novice!” much to the bafflement of our fellow bridge-walkers

Quite seriously, in 12 years of living here, the only time I have ever been served lidless coffee is when sitting down in a café. He must have specifically asked for lidless coffee because he fancied himself extra-especially nifty at getting around. Maybe in the mornings he carries his packed lunch in, balanced on his head. If so, I hope a pigeon flies off with his corned beef sandwiches.

On arriving home I stood over my crate of non-alcoholic beer and screamed: “Why is none of this non-alcoholic beer alcoholic?” The hamster stopped chewing her bars for a moment to give me a liquid-eyed look of pity, and I stumped off to the kitchen in a rage.

Units dodged today: Six. This kind of incident could ordinarily have resulted in an emergency text to Two-Woman - “Do you want to meet me in the Marquis?” followed by an enormous ranting session over three pints of Stella.

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: Stella NA. I love the name of this beer. I keep calling it Stella Non-Applicable. It’s good, but it suffers from being the non-alcoholic version of a beer I really love. That little whiff you get when you open the bottle is exactly the same as with the real thing. The end result is sweeter and perfectly pleasant… but disappointing because of what it is not. And sadly I can’t give you a link to this beer, as the Stella Artois website seems to be an exercise in forcing you to watch every commercial they’ve ever made rather than telling you about the bloody beer itself and I’m about to hurl my laptop out of the window in a fury. Have another link to The Alcohol Free Shop instead. They sell Stella NA. If you serve this to a friend, pick the label off first so they will not feel let down.

Day 19: Park and Pub

Sunday 18 October

Today, Floozie and I stood for ten kilometres. We are outstanding when it comes to long-distance standing. We have previously stood for 13 miles at the Great North Run and a staggering 26 miles at the London Marathon (although that did involve pub rests). We are Olympic-standard standers. Today we were standing in Victoria Park on a staggeringly crisp and colourful autumn day. Dave and Gherkin were running a 10km race for Cancer Research, and we positioned ourselves by the railings for the final leg, while plump ginger-ankled squirrels menaced us for our satsumas.

Gherkin I have not known for long, but he has the kind of wiry physique that suggests 10km runs would not be the ruin of him. Dave by no means looks as if he couldn’t handle 10km, but when every “Are you prepared?” is met with a pained expression and a “No, not really” one does begin to fret. Then there was Dave’s training regime, which largely consisted of him trying and failing to not drink alcohol. His first booze-free week ended with him so drunk on Erdinger that he was sick for the first time in two years. His second attempt at a booze-free week the week after was even shorter lived: I met him on the Monday night and he was already clutching a bottle of beer. Hmm. 

So there we stood. The top three runners came pounding past. Then some other high-calibre runners. Based entirely on Dave’s own lack of self-confidence, we were seriously expecting him to finish last. Or to have made a lengthy diversion via a pub. Or perhaps to have been disqualified for outlandish behaviour such as shitting under a shrub en route. We were concerned. As we mulled over these possibilities, Gherkin came dancing past, bouncing grinning and waving. Floozie, who wasn’t sure if she had ever met Gherkin did a bit of a double-take and said: “Was that Gherkin, or just some maniac?” Runners continued to flow past and then – oh heavens above! Look! It’s Dave! We were so surprised that Floozie started taking photos back to front. Dave was not purple. He was not walking. He was not crawling. He was not clutching a bog roll or a pint of Erdinger... he was, in fact, only about ten minutes behind Gherkin and surely within the first quarter of finishers? While we whooped and cheered and inadvertently took pictures of our own nostrils, Dave managed a distant smile, raised a hand in a regal salute and dashed serenely past.

We traipsed round to the end of the route and found Gherkin and Dave all smiles and enthusiasm, Dave having finally unleashed his inner sunbeam. How very satisfying to do something very hard for a very good reason. As a cool-down, we headed off on a bracing 20 minute amble through South Hackney to a pub recommended by Chap-A called The Kenton. Oh pub of wonder – this is what all locals should be like. They served Becks Blue, they were very nice to Dave and Gherkin about their stirling efforts with regard to the 10km run, they served pie and mash (I had a ‘Heidi Pie’ containing goats cheese and sweet potato, not plaits and cowbells) and excellent cocktails. Not that I tried, but I sniffed. Floozie had a marzipan martini containing amaretto and vanilla vodka and a cherry that I initially thought was a blood clot. I felt very jealous of everyone’s beer, taking a moment to contemplate the beauty of the slant of the afternoon sun through the golden swirling bubbles of Gherkin’s pint of Stella.

I think I managed quite well with the no-drinking today. Once upon a time, if you’d told me I would have to sit for a whole afternoon watching two sweaty men drink six pints of lager apiece, not drink myself, and still have a good time, I think I would probably have had to have told you to fuck off. But it was delightful. The chaps were very proud of themselves and me and Floozie were very proud of the chaps. We also managed to keep track of the grand prix via Dave’s phone, although positions seemed to be filtering through in a strange fashion: “Webber’s in the lead, then Vettel, then Button, then Hamilton, then Button, then Button – oh hang on...” 

We stayed until eight. Floozie was not especially drinking, but it was interesting to watch how men can drink quite a lot and not seem all that horrifically drunk. We left. It was getting dark. People wearing ironic hats had started to come into the pub and enrage me by their mere existence. We were in the middle of nowhere. And Dave was suddenly going off on a date in Islington. Oh how very different it is for men. None of this ‘spend a week deciding what you’re going to wear, consult 18 friends, spend seven hours getting ready and go out convinced you still look vile’ business for them. Oh no. Instead, run 10km, sweat buckets, allow sweat to dry on, drink six pints of Staropramen and then go on date. And there have been repeat dates since. Clearly Dave is in possession of a very powerful set of pheromones. Perhaps I should try this: watch this space for the ‘30 days of not washing’ blog...

Units dodged today: Ten. I don’t think I could have matched the chaps and sunk six pints of premium lager. But under normal circumstances I bet I could have done four and forced down a Marzipan Martini to keep Floozie company.

Non-alcoholic beer of the day: Yes, in the name of duty I managed to force one down when I got in. It went by the name of Cheers. Yet another non-alcoholic beer of the Portuguese, but no link for this one unfortunately. Nice stuff, but by God it is tangy. I had to double-check it wasn’t lemon-infused beer, but I am only ever fluent in Portuguese under the most extreme circumstances. However I could not spot any references to limão. I found it kept making me do little inadvertent coughs whenever I took a mouthful – sharp stuff and too many could lead to indigestion. Not the most beery of non-beer beers, but not unpalatable either. This would definitely do the job at a picnic… oh picnic weather. Why have you forsaken us?

The Unit Dodger