I have a strange aversion to white goods and have never
been able to bring myself to buy a washing machine. Once a week, therefore, I take my clothes off to the washeteria and sit in a sort of trance, watching them blur round. The other day I fell into conversation with the lady who runs the laundrette with her husband. She is small, round, and in her late fifties, I would guess. Her hair is set just so, like Elizabeth Taylor’s, and she wears a pair of spectacles on a chain around her neck. Her husband is a placid man who stares out of the window, as if to a far-off horizon. He scarcely says a word; she rarely draws breath. I’ve never been able to place her accent, and it turns out that they are both Iranian. She told me about her life in Iran, before the revolution. Raising her hands in front of her, she said passionately, ‘When I think of my life before, I want to weep ... when I think of what I used to have. My father ... we had a house, a big house, and flats — many flats. My husband was a university professor... ’ she shrugged and smoothed her skirt over her knees, ‘... so we had to run away. My family went to America — I have 55 cousins in Los Angeles. They are all richer than me now. But what can you do?’ She shook her head at me, saying sadly, ‘You never know what is in the pocket of the man who passes you on the street.’ Indeed not, I thought, as I looked at her husband, who sat staring out of the window at the grey street.
Standing in the queue for a cashpoint last week, in a decidedly unchatty mood, my telephone rang. I stared at the name on the screen for a long moment before pressing the ‘reject’ button. To my horror, seconds later, the person in question materialised beside me. ‘Why did you reject my call?’ she said in a hurt voice. Quite embarrassing for both of us. Of course I should have counterqueried, ‘Why did you phone me if you were within shouting distance?’ But instead I stood opening and shutting my mouth, and turning tomato-coloured. Now when I want to reject a call, I have to look carefully round me first. But do I have to pick up the phone? Can’t I not? Is it rude just not to feel like talking?
Afancy dress party at the weekend threw me into the usual spasms. I met an American friend on Saturday morning to discuss outfits over a Bloody Mary. She lamented the English habit of trying to make fancy dress sexy. In America, she told me, fancy dress means funny, so a girl might go out dressed as a beer can or a bunch of grapes. Fancy dress in England seems to be little more than an excuse for girls to put on corsets and fishnet stockings. Pirate theme? Go in a corset as a kidnapped land-lubber. Circus? Strap on a corset and go as a showgirl. Cowboys and Indians? Saloon-bar hookers wear corsets, don’t they? In the event, my American friend went dressed as Brünnhilde — got a bone to pick with Siegfried, apparently. If there had been prizes for costumes, joint first would have gone to the two men in female fat suits, nude but for gigantic tassels on their nipples and sequinned thongs the size of hammocks.
January is a spoilt, sneaking month, wiping its mouth after all that Christmas pudding. But it contains strange little perks, if you know where to find them. For one thing, being in London in January gives one a good idea of what it might be like to live in a black and white film. Every morning the sky is the pale slab colour of the pavement. Trees, buildings and people wearing overcoats are all shaded in graphite. It’s restful for the eyes.
January is also a relaxed month for lowachievers. High-achievers tend to flourish in warmer weather (in May they become intolerably upbeat). Deriving energy from the sun — like plants — these powerhouses are slowed down by the unending grey of January, tending to be a bit depressed and not so energetic. This brings them more in line with the less dynamic amongst us. It perks us up. While high-achieving types feel hampered by the January gloom, lazy sods feel a certain justification in their inaction. Why should I get up at eight when it’s just as dark at ten? Why should I still be at my desk when it’s dark at four forty-five? The flawless reasoning of the self-employed.
Smoking is peculiarly pleasurable at this time of year since it’s almost guaranteed that someone in the room will be trying to give up. Poor suffering souls watch in agony as I puff away. They generally reach for a substitute — a fistful of crisps, for example — and pop that in instead. I’ve never tried to give up smoking, so I’m convinced it’s not difficult. When I was 25, I thought it might be sensible to stop at 30. That only gives me until Thursday, which seems a bit soon, so perhaps I shall give it up before I’m 31. Seems fair. I probably won’t be allowed to smoke in public by then anyway.
Now I have a beef to air before I sign off, and it is this: why must the north-east corner of Hyde Park be taken over as an event location every five minutes? A Star Trek convention, a ‘Christmas Fair’ (i.e., a funfair), a concert every few months — this is a park, for heaven’s sake, not Wembley Arena. All these events, whatever their motivation, are characterised by aggressive sponsorship, noisy generators, vans selling disgusting food, booze tents, a million plastic pint glasses on the ground, and the grass reduced to paste. The park is an empty space, yes, that’s the point — it’s not a venue. It doesn’t have to be filled up or made use of, like Earl’s Court or the London Arena. Just because that particular piece of the park is flat and bare doesn’t mean it needs tenting over and turning into a stadium. So, please not. Any more. Stupid shows.
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