W ednesday last week, back when travelling on the Tube was
no big deal, I was on the Central line on my way to White City to appear on a BBC2 lunchtime business programme whose usual select viewing audience was going to be greatly swelled that day by my mum and dad. The loudspeaker at the end of the carriage crackled to life: ‘We would like to inform all customers that London has been successful in its bid to host the 2012 Olympics.’ I looked at the line of people in seats opposite. They responded exactly as they would have done to ‘Stand clear of the doors. Mind the closing doors, please’ — no one moved a muscle. Feeling that some sort of modest acknowledgment was in order, I caught the eye of the woman opposite and raised my eyebrows. She stared back stonily. Does this mean real Londoners couldn’t care less about who hosts this tedious sporting event in seven years’ time? Possibly; though more likely it shows how deep is our distaste for talking to strangers on the Tube. Which is one of the things that makes the city such a great place to live. The Olympics is not big enough to break it.
Abomb, by comparison, is big enough. The following day Tube passengers were forced together in wounded and dying embraces. As a result, all Londoners have been recast: we are no longer cold, private people who never talk to strangers. Instead we are brave and marvellous and spirited and the finest people on earth. Which is fantasyland. In truth some Londoners were heroes in the heat of that hideous moment. I suspect the rest of us have emerged from the shock with our personalities intact — the good bits and the bad bits are all present and correct, just as before.
The mid-life crisis takes many different forms. One of the more benign — in terms of damage to pocket and marriage is to embark on an exhausting physical challenge. In November I am setting out to cycle 400kms along the Nile. With me will be 100 over-achieving middle-aged women cycling away from something or other, and one man — Lord Winston, whose charity it is all in aid of. To prepare for this unnecessary ordeal I am cycling almost everywhere in London. I’ve found that the odd thing about getting from A to B is that you hate anyone who gets there another way. In the car I hate cyclists, and as a pedestrian I hate motorists and cyclists. But as a cyclist I hate everyone — especially pedestrians. As I was cycling back to the Financial Times one lunch-time this week, a pedestrian, who was plugged into his iPod, stepped off the pavement right in front of me. I braked, wobbled and fell. I did what I used to do if I fell off my bike when I was seven, which was cry. This didn’t feel very dignified. He picked me up and asked if I was OK. ‘Y—es, I’m fine,’ I sobbed. Later I noticed I had lost all the buttons on the cuff of my jacket, which was a bit annoying, and also very puzzling. How did that happen?
On Sunday I was back at White City plugging my book on a Radio Four programme which asked a series of grand people: whither London? Kate Adie was there, and before she went on air she phoned her mum Up North to tell her to listen. It’s one thing me phoning my mum, another for the famous broadcaster to be still doing it after three decades. Touching, I thought. My role was to find other news stories to talk about. This was slim pickings — or rather obese pickings. The only story that caught my fancy was Britain’s Biggest Bellies, which came with its own harrowing picture: a pallid, hairy male belly that was surely nine months pregnant at least, and the most shocking news that the Bristol beer belly is 38 inches, whereas the Newcastle beer belly is only 30. I think we need to know more.
‘What are you wearing to your book launch party?’ asked a friend. I said probably the black dress I’d been wearing to all parties for several years. ‘No you aren’t,’ she said, and whipped out her mobile and called Natalie, her personal shopper at Selfridges. I turned up on the dot, sweaty off my bike and stressed at having left work early. Women with heavy blond highlights were lounging around on sofas trying on very expensive jackets and floaty skirts and drinking cups of tea. Natalie was very sweet and said I would look nice in a warm colour for my special evening. She disappeared for nearly half an hour to comb the store for the perfect thing — leaving me to relax, which I couldn’t do as I kept looking at my watch and wondering why it took so long. Eventually she reappeared with arms full of salmon jackets and skirts with big florals. I wanted to explain that I couldn’t wear any of those clothes because I am middle class and, more to the point, I am an untidy North London journalist. I might write on salmon paper at the Financial Times, but I am not prepared to wear the colour under any conditions at all, particularly not when it’s got a satin trim. Natalie disappeared for another long time, coming back with better clothes, but I still looked awful in everything. I decided I’m not a personal shopper type. Eventually she returned with another dress — which I had decided I’d buy anyway — to bring the wretched experience to an end. It was by Alice Temperly, a designer so fashionable that I had never heard of her, covered in beads and sequins, backless, with plunge neck and entirely unsuitable for a 6.30 p.m. book party. She said I looked lovely and I bought it, feeling suddenly delighted. Back home I showed it to my husband, David Goodhart, editor of the intellectual Prospect magazine, who could tell you everything about the difference between pluralism and liberalism but isn’t entirely sure of the difference between a dress and a skirt. He laughed. I showed it to my daughter Maud. She said it was nice from the waist down.
Next day at the party I was a queen. A book launch party is the loveliest thing in the world, and is worth going through all the tedious, lonely, depressing business of writing a satirical novel for the fleeting glory of the party. For a whole evening people come up to you and say ‘I’ve heard your book’s hysterical! Can’t wait to read it!’ and ‘Gorgeous dress!’ ‘Brilliant speech!’ ‘Aren’t you clever!’ The last time I was centre of attention in such a gratifying way was when I got married. But the book party was better still, as I had the limelight to myself, and didn’t have to share it with David. I floated home on a sea of glory and triumph to find a note waiting on the kitchen table from our cleaner. How sweet of her to be congratulating me too, I thought, trying to focus on the words. Buy bleach and Hoover bags, it said.
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