School ties

On Wednesday, eight of us were at Mills' house for book club (reading the highly recommended - I probably say that every time, but it really is - Dreams from my Father, by the POTUS) and, even by our standards, were struggling to stay on topic. About five minutes into the discussion, Charlotte had already veered off into chatting about Kerry Katona and Jordan, and try as I might to wrench her back onto the straight and narrow subject of racism and black identity, it wasn't long before we were reminiscing about our final years at school and trying to remember whose room was next to whose. Only half joking, I jumped in with both feet, saying, "Let's do a floor plan!" and was secretly thrilled when Mills leapt up as if electrocuted and rushed around supplying pens and scrap paper. Two phonecalls later (including one to a furious Kate, who couldn't have been more livid to be missing the nostalgia-fest), we had it sorted - all fifty-odd of us and which tiny rooms we'd occupied in a boarding school house in south-west England fourteen years ago. The joy we derive from reminiscing may be understandable, but it never fails to surprise me: the same stories still bring tears of helpless mirth to my eyes. No matter how many times I remember Lisa's desperate voice coming through the wall between our rooms, less than thirty minutes before our A Level religious studies exam on John's gospel, asking, "Jaaaane, what's the logos?", a question whose answer had formed the entire basis of two years' study, I still feel the giggles welling up. Shared experience: you can be a loner all you want, you can be truly independent, you can avoid any hint of neediness like the plague, you can be self-sufficient 'til the cows come home, and you won't get hurt so much, and you won't spend as much money, and you won't be so vulnerable - but I guarantee you won't piss yourself laughing so much either.

Andrew the Glastocrush has an important meeting on Monday and as a surprise, I thought I'd get him a new shirt and tie. I can write about this here without ruining the surprise since, as far as I know, he has not yet discovered LLFF. Anyway, so, earlier this afternoon I popped away from my desk and went to the local branch of a swanky shirt-and-tie sellers, and selected two possible shirts, and two possible ties. Then I ditched one of the shirts, and armed with one shirt and two ties, I walked over to a shop assistant who was helping a male customer over by the braces. "Excuse me," I asked in my most polished Helpless Female voice, "but I'd like a male opinion. My boyfriend [I think he is my boyfriend, we discussed it briefly last night, TBC etc. etc., but for reasons of clarity and simplicity I didn't feel the need to go into the complexities of are-we-aren't-we in TM Lewin] has a job interview on Monday. Which of these do you think is best?" I proffered the white shirt and the plain, sky blue tie with subtle herring-bone weave, and the plain purple silk tie in front of them. Like all right-minded people, I think I have impeccable taste, and was expecting both men to deliberate for some time, so befuddled would they be by the brilliance of my choices. So I was little short of deeply offended when they both scrunched up their eyes and sneered slightly at my selection.
"Definitely not the purple," said the assistant. The customer nodded vigorously.
"So the blue?" I asked.
"Weeeelll, it's better than the purple," he said, visibly uncomfortable.
"Where's the interview?" asked the customer. I explained. He looked more pained.
"What about something with a stripe?" he suggested.
"But isn't stripes so conservative and boring? So old school?"
"But you don't want to take any risks," said the customer.
"You're telling me that a plain blue tie is risky?" Suddenly I understood how out of their depth men feel when buying clothes for women. All my certainties evaporated. I trotted back to the tie display and selected four unbelievably boring striped ties in varying shades of inoffensive. I carried them, with the shirt, back to the assistant, who was now helping a different man.
"Please tell me that one of these is OK," I said. Immediately, he discarded two. It is inconceivable that they could have made any sort of impression. I can't even remember what colours they were, and this only happened a few minutes ago. Nonetheless, I was now left with a navy-with-white stripe and a maroon-with-white stripe. If someone had worn either of those things to meet me, I'd have wept silently in anticipation of the vacuous, characterless conversation that would inevitably follow. Clearly, however, the discussion wasn't over.
"What colour is his suit?" asked customer two, eager to get involved.
"Navy," I said.
"Well, go with the maroon then," he said, as if any other choice would make me of questionable intellect. "If you get the wrong shade of navy, it could look terrible. Maroon is less risky."
For a lot of men operating in the financial capital of Europe, if not the world, they are very risk-averse. I blame the credit crunch. Thankfully it has not yet had any impact on my own sartorial selections. Updates as they come in.

Friday ramblings

To continue in the cultural update vein, on Wednesday I went to see August: Osage County at the National, which officially ended my near-eternal run of disappointing theatre experiences. I'm not saying it was perfect, by any means, and I did snooze through most of the first forty minutes, but the action kicked in after the interval and I was hooked. Or maybe that was the white wine. Very funny characters, a lot of strong women and family angst, modern issues and timeless crises - I fully expect that this is a play that will be performed in decades to come. The one fractional low point of my evening's experience was the fact that it made me feel a little sad about being an only child. Not because the siblings in the play were particularly beneficial to each others' lives, but still, there's always seemed something vaguely enviable and comforting about being able to scream at someone who's roughly your age and a close blood relative.

While I was at the theatre, for some reason, my mother and godmother alighted upon the subject of Tamagotchis. I had nothing useful to contribute to the topic, but in the spirit of continuing the conversation, I mentioned that I had a Furby. When I worked at the pop magazine, back in the day, my editor and I had both bought one, on the grounds that, when you put two Furbies face to face, a sensor between their eyes picks up on the fact that there is another of their kind nearby, and they start to have conversations. We thought that, on this basis, it would be unfair only to purchase one. Apart from talking to each other, Furbies do a small variety of other things. They purr loudly when you scratch their head or belly. They rock backwards and forwards when they get sleepy, sing themselves a lullaby, snore loudly and then fall asleep. They say a startled 'WOAH!' if you pick them up too quickly. Occasionally, they'll blow you a kiss or start burbling nonsense, a propos of nothing. It used to be quite amusing when I'd be doing a phone interview with, say, a Spice Girl, and in the background, my Furby would wake up and start chatting away, often saying gems such as, 'Me bored now. Pet me, please.' or, occasionally, doing a large and fruity belch. Ah me, those were the days.

Yesterday my boss came into my office while my friend Laura was sitting on my 'guest chair'.
"Looks like you two have been coordinating outfits," he said in his regular Arnie voice. "Yesterday Laura was wearing the red flower on her jacket. Today you have a red bow. Very discombobulating." Discombobulating is his new favourite word. Job satisfaction doesn't get much better than this. That said, I ain't 'alf looking forward to the weekend.