petite anglaise

• Awoke to the sound of a microwave revving up only centimetres away from my head. Apparently my neighbour’s noisiest appliance is located just to the left of my pillow. Oh joy.
• Put up wall lights in Tadpole’s bedroom before breakfast, so excited was I at the prospect of being free to use the drill, now that she was with Mr Frog and unable to wail “please mummy, stop that TERRIBLE noise!”
• Was slightly disconcerted to note, when switching electricity back on, that bedroom lightswitch alternated between the two lights instead of switching them both on and off at the same time. Unscrewed lightbulbs. Started to worry that the electrics in the new flat are not all that.
• Took delivery of an entire Ikea kitchen (courtesy of grandma anglaise). No idea when it will be fitted, so will be spending the foreseeable future surrounded by cardboard boxes.
• Spent half an hour queuing in the post office to collect my MODEM and then raced home to connect myself to the INTERNET for a long awaited fix, and to fill in my somewhat overdue ASSEDIC monthly report.
• Met Belle Maman for the first time since Mr Frog and I broke up. Watched as Tadpole proudly showed off her new room; hovered nervously in the background and filled any silences with inane DIY talk.
• Cried as Tadpole’s footsteps receded in the stairwell. I will not see her for THREE whole weeks and my tiny apartment no longer feels like home without her.
• Received an email from a lady enquiring whether I would like to be a guest on Richard and Judy. Said lady announced, at 7.30pm, that it is happening tomorrow! Hastily booked Eurostar tickets and started to fret about what to wear.
• Realised ALL my clothes were in the dirty washing basket, inside the wardrobe, against the door of which were stacked 43 Ikea boxes.
• Poured a medicinal gin and tonic.

I am left feeling that although some things have changed, radically, I never will.

I have been racking my brains, trying to figure out just who is sending me spoof emails pretending to be a two bit agent called Raymond Delauney… I accused JonnyB, then Trevor, but no-one is owning up…

The latest instalment arrived this morning:

11 August 2006 11:42
Re: Possible deal
To: Petite Anglaise

Hey Kid,

Apologies – I’ve been very busy on the other projects and accordingly had to but your bunsen on the back burner for now.

On a side issue I have sent a couple of scripts over to a few producer friends – I’ve not had any initial feedback yet which is a good sign as we’ve not been rejected out of hand. I suspect they may contact me with an offer on the gay sailor film (Bowled Over in Basra).

I’ve mentioned you’d likely to be on board once I’ve finalised a few figures.

How old are you? Might be able to help you out with an advertising deal.

I got a couple of marketing contacts who are keen to push pentapeptides. It’s some bullshit cream that makes the skin look younger. Undoubtedly a bag of crap but the guys at oil of Ulay did okay out of something similar… What do you reckon a ulay is, anyway?

They’ve slapped a scientific name on it with a fancy price and expect it to shift off the shelves – bought by gullible broads (that’s all of them, then). Someone told me I was gullible once – and I believed him!

I might be able to cut a sponsorship deal. How many hits does your site get?

In that blog of yours you say something along the lines of:

“Woke up today, feeling groggy after an interminable night of tossing and turning, my satin nighty chafing my thighs etc

I tried some pentapeptides last night (from Boots at £12.99) and I was amazed at how much younger my skin looks…”

Have a think on it.

Raymond

I am perplexed.

I am eating a lambs lettuce and Cambozola salad in a discreet restaurant somewhere in Kensington, marvelling at how much a life can change in a very short time.

After navigating through the streets with my cumbersome weekend bag – a bag which began the trip weighed down only by an outdated edition of the Writer’s Handbook and a change of undergarments, and which is now crammed full of hardbacks – I have completely lost my bearings.

I pinch myself, firmly yet discreetly, under the table, wondering if it is time to wake up yet.

My head is spinning slightly, from the wine, the heat, the dashing around and all the superlatives which have been bandied about in the last forty eight hours. I think I am supposed to be feeling excited and confident, fingertips itching for a keyboard.

Instead I am a bottomless pit of cold, hard fear and self-doubt. A sly voice whispers in my ear: “what if they are all wrong? Maybe you can’t do any of this…”

I jab at the last piece of Cambozola, remarking inwardly to myself that Roquefort would undoubtedly have been a much better choice of cheese in this context, its firm yet crumbly texture infinitely more pleasing on the fork than these rubbery, yielding cubes.

My lunch companion carries on talking.

I wonder if he has noticed the angry red crescent moons on my exposed wrist.