2 comments/ 8759 views/ 0 favorites By the Book Ch. 01 By: alsgal April 30, 2004: Age 34 years and 364 days. As good a time as any to start my autobiography. It's Britain, so it's raining. I'm British so it's important that I mention the weather: my communication skills would be zilch if I didn't. Today the weather came up no less than four times. Firstly, Neighbour: Terrible weather! Me: And they call this the start of summer! Neighbour: Gives the flowers a chance I suppose. Later: Newsagents: Not letting up, is it? Me: Good for the flowers, though. Newsagent: Pity I'm not running a garden centre. No pleasing some folk. Luckily, though, for a while I got a bit of a rest from the weather. That was because I was busy watching a particularly nasty gatecrasher do an amazing amount of damage in a very short space of time. No I wasn't at mad Aunt Maud's latest 21st birthday celebration – I'd decided to give that party a miss on account of it being held at the naturist park and my bikini line being more gorillian than Brazilian (that and not having a thing to wear) – No, I was at home facing the demon whose name is spake in whispers only: THE COMPUTER VIRUS. As I sat helpless, it chewed its way through the 456 documents in my personal file, nibbling at a word here, digesting a paragraph there, spitting out the bits it didn't like. It particularly liked some of my earlier work: the sports review of 2000 for the local paper, the funny anecdotes that sprang forth from the mouths of my babies that I was hoping to cash in on in Take a Break, the letter I'd written to my best friend when she'd had her fourth nervous breakdown - the one that began 'Carol, get over yourself...' By the time we reached 2002 I thought I had it on the run. I've got Norton Anti-virus and Swatit and I wasn't afraid to use either. Like a Samurai Warrior I was going in there to Kick ass, and I kicked and kicked and kicked until it kicked back. The soundless noise a computer makes as it crashes is enough to break a writer's heart. Hours and hours of work gone, lost into the motherboard from hell. Hundreds of short stories, dozens of newspaper reports and three very, very important pieces of work. There was my trial script for Hollyoaks, the episode where Chloe and Matt were getting married and everything was going fine until DCI Dale drop-your-drawers comes in and arrests the groom. When I get the call from Phil Redmond, what am I going to say? There was a radio play – Pair Ranting. I won't give the story away but it's a play on words. Then there was the play that never was. I thought I'd written a masterpiece that was destined for the West End, but Peter, my director, told me it wouldn't even reach Southend. I thought I'd written a love story filled with pathos and dramatic tension: he said it was dross. And finally there was Winners. Me: Hi, Peter, it's me Joanne. Peter: Hi Jo, Lovely weather. (3) Phew, he was in a good mood. Me: If you're a duck. Peter: To what do I owe the pleasure? Me: Peter, you know my play, Winners? Peter: Yes. Me: The one that made its debut on the Unity Theatre last September? Peter: Yes. Me: The one I spent months agonising over? Peter: For the third time, yes. Me: Do you have a copy? Peter: Yes, Why? Don't you? Okay, we have to hold it there a minute while he laughs at his own joke. What can I say? He's a card. Me: As it happens, no. Peter: No what? So now, unlike my masterful piece of writing – put on stage in Liverpool, no less - the conversation starts getting tedious. No I didn't make a back up copy. Yes, I know the importance of that now. Yes I will make a back up copy in future (fingers crossed). No, I didn't make a hard copy. No, I don't know what I'd do without you. Yes, you've saved my bacon – again. But all was not lost. Opening up my e-mails there it was. Not quite the answer to everything, and certainly not my play, but – wait for it – an e-mail from the man I'd had a crush on for eighteen months. And swear to God, in one evening, thanks to the brilliance that is modern technology I'd gone from being a passing acquaintance to the one he was going to bed to dream about tonight. And best of all, he asked whether I'd like to join him one evening for a bite to eat. (That's our fourth and final mention and okay, so the spelling and the meanings are different but it's still whether and it's the kind of whether I like). More importantly, he wants to take me out. And best of all, he's going on holiday for a week! That gives me seven days to lose at least half a stone, scrub every last coffee stain off my teeth, buff and cream my body seven times, grow my nails to a suitably seductive scratching length, empty my entire wardrobe to see if there's anything for me to wear, give up and go shopping – well, I'll need underwear, at the very least! - think up interesting topics of conversation and read that tome on how to flirt with anyone and get everything you want! Oh, and visit the doctor: I've got worms. * Hi to all who read this. This is the opening chapter of a novel I'm working on. I'd love any advice people may have about the best way of getting it published but mainly I'd appreciate the encouragement to continue writing it. By the Book Ch. 02 May 1st 2004 Thanks to some foul-tasting medicine, the early birthday present from the kids has been cleared up so I’ve stopped the baboon-like itching of my posterior and I’m looking forward to a rip-roaring birthday. Did I mention it’s my 36th? It is also Pauline’s birthday, Amelia’s and the guy’s next door. A group of girls are going out to help Pauline celebrate, Amelia’s husband is throwing a dinner party for their friends and the guy next door is twenty years older than me and drinks in the British Legion but you can bet your life him and his family will still be on the karaoke at four in the morning. I wasn’t on Amelia’s guest list and I couldn’t find a babysitter for Pauline’s bash so I was left with two choices – sit at home like some sad sack, drinking myself drunk enough to make ill-advised phone calls or have a birthday with a difference. Which is why I’ve spent the morning making sausage rolls and jellies while the kids have been trying out the bouncy castle we hired for the day. They’ll have been sick at least twice by the time the guests arrive. I know it’s becoming increasingly aware that there is a touch of the Aunt Maud’s in me but I promise you, it wasn’t always like this. I used to go out with a big group of adults for birthdays and we’d all have a laugh and a snog and a fight and vow to do it again next year. For the big three-O, however, I was six months pregnant and laid low with sinusitis so the event passed rather more sedately than I’d ever imagined. And since then, the group has never gathered in quite the same way. Some of them will still be here today, but many are new and will be coming along with an assortment of kids, partners and baggage, which for the most part they carry by themselves but after a few glasses of wine it all gets a bit messy. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Talking of wine, I get more than my fair share as presents. Everyone says, ‘enjoy yourself. Have a glass of wine tonight when the kids are settled.” What’s sadder, actually using a wine stopper, or drinking a whole bottle of wine without uttering a single word? This year, though, I took all the wine given with a smile because in seven days time he will be back from his holidays and back in my inbox. There were two more unusual presents. I had hoped for a new alarm clock – I’m fed up of being woken up to ‘Hi, I’m Barbie, wake up and let’s have some fun today!” – any video involving Colin Farrell and a youth hostel renewal voucher. We got our fist taste of youth hostelling when Easyjet started cut-price flights to Paris. In Britain the hostels are either new or fantastically renovated Grade Listed buildings set in some of the most beautiful countryside. The ones in Paris are less so. Away from the tourist hotspots the hostels are based in less than salubrious surroundings but they are cheap, warm and close to the Metro. And they’re the reason my kids and me managed to stay in Paris for eight days – three of those at Euro Disney – during the summer for less than £500. I know it’s not very British to talk about money but I just love a bargain. And to be honest money talk is always on the agenda, it’s just voiced differently. Some people constantly going on about the third house they’ve just invested in, the extension they’re planning, and the cost of children’s education, money, money, and money. But for all of their wealth, most of them don’t know how to make any real money; they just know the best lender at any one time. Even so, they might as well have been talking a foreign language. I find it hard to raise a fiver sometimes, let alone something with five figures. At dinner parties, therefore I’m like the female equivalent of the Yakult man, only without the smooth line in patter. Although, dinner parties don’t seem to be as popular as they used to be. Whenever I hear of my friends getting together it’s always a last minute thing. I don’t know why they don’t invite me, though? They must know I’ve got a shed load of wine sitting waiting to be uncorked. Anyway, two of my presents looked promising. Gail brought me what looked like Colin Farrell, gift-wrapped. It wasn’t. It was a self-help book on flirting. Me: Err, thanks. Gail: You’ve been single long enough. Me: It’s not for the want of trying. Gail: I’ve seen you trying. Trust me, you need this book. Gail’s older than me. She’s already had the big four-0, owns her own flat, has never lived with anyone and has a cat. But last month she met Aiden. Until Aiden came along single was sexy and anyone who needed a man, needed a life. Now it’s just me. But while she epitomised the Bridget Jones’s, I was always sadly lacking. And it wasn’t just a book. Gail: You have thirty-six days to rebuild your life. I’m challenging you to lead a better life from now on. I smiled. I have a hotmail hot male she knows nothing about. Challenge, what challenge? My last present was definitely a sign. Thirty pounds worth of Ann Summers gift vouchers, from the team at work. Naughty knickers here I come! Still May1 2004 By two o’clock the party was in full swing, no one had been sick yet and weather had stayed dry. The sun was even trying to come out. From the kitchen I could hear voices beginning to rise. Gloria: I just think there are more around, nowadays. If she had been talking about weeds I’d probably be in agreement with her, having spent the best part of two days ridding the patio of the damn things, but judging by the tone of her voice I think this is a discussion she and Pete have had before. Pete: I just think you’re obsessed, woman. My mum May: There’s nothing wrong with a little obsession. The thing about my mum is that she always wants to see the good in everyone – everyone, that is, except Clem. And Gloria’s one of her favourite’s, ever since she invited my daisy to be flower girl at her wedding to Pete, five years ago. Pete: With elastic bands? Oh no! I close my eyes. Gloria: There’s more and more of them about these days. When I was little there were hardly any, now you find them everywhere. It was true; Gloria had become obsessed with elastic bands. Every time she took her daughter Polly out for a walk, she’d return with a pocketful of bands until she had enough to make a ball with them. Polly is not quite one year’s old and she’s already on her third ball, starting a new one every time the bands snapped as she tried to stretch them too far. It makes her day when she finds one long enough to go fit the old balls. I have texts to prove it. Pete: We have a sorting office at the end of the road, May. Dozens of posties walk past our house everyday. The elastic bands are used to keep the letters together. They drop them, end of mystery. May: It’s good to have a hobby. Though, it’s a pity you’re not finding fivers, Gloria. They’d be really useful. Our Jo could do with something to occupy her. Or someone, more like it. Mum, God love her, thinks all the things I do – work, work out, be a mum, love being a mum, go to college, and finally follow my passion for writing – are simply diversionary tactics to stop me dwelling too hard on the fact that I am man-less. In fact, she probably put Gail up to daring me; so desperate is she to see me find a nice man and finally doing something with my life. Luckily, the elastic band debate stopped as abruptly as it began. Clem was here. Wafting in on a sea of darlings, air-kisses and lashings of Chanel, Clem made her usual grand yet all-encompassing entrances, dressing impeccably in vintage 50’s clamdiggers and an off the shoulder top. Clem: Now, the party can start. By the Book Ch. 03 May 13th 2004 So, how successful is the book of flirting? Well, it's day twelve and already I'm paying a visit to the Last Resort. I wanted step-by-step instructions on how to flirt but instead I've been asked to imagine I'm an animal and to flirt with no one else bar myself. When you've been single for as long as I have, that novelty has well worn off. So tonight I threw away the rulebook and headed to the gym. It was time to get me some sex with the ex. Ordinarily, when it comes to desirability, Nick wouldn't have made it into the top five on my list of exes but he does have one advantage over all the others; I know where to find him. And just like a decade ago, I managed to wander out of the gym at the same time as Mr Spontaneity came off the squash court. Me: Hello stranger, fancy meeting you here. I can't remember his answer, as I was busy trying to recall the order of service for the flirting techniques. As we chatted I smiled, dipped my head, looked down, looked through my eyelashes, smiled some more and amazingly it worked. Before long we were in the bar mirroring our moves, laughing and chatting, oblivious to everyone. And I was definitely on for getting laid, which I'd like to think was thanks to my being a flirting queen. Either that or he'd read the slogan on my t-shirt. I bought it when I skydived for charity. 'Fancy a Jump?' it read, and he took it literally. Back at my place, I went through the usual charade of making coffee, up to the point where I asked whether he took sugar – oh no, what other things about him have I erased from my memory! – when he cut to the chase. Him: Let's go to bed. Me: Who said anything about us sleeping together? There's only coffee on offer, tonight. He didn't answer. He grabbed my hand, pulled me towards him and kissed me. For a long time. Him: Let's go to bed So I followed him up the stairs and into my bedroom, all the time wishing I'd put a couple of large brandies in those Diet Cokes he plied me with in the bar at the sports centre. I was in desperate need of some Dutch courage. Me: I just need to use the loo. With just a flimsy plasterboard wall between the toilet and my bedroom I put masses of toilet tissue down the pan before sitting down to do a wee and simultaneously say a prayer. After a quick wash of my hands, a last check in the mirror I took a deep breath and entered the bedroom, hoping he'd either fallen asleep or done a runner. No. He'd busied himself lighting the three novelty candles displayed on the dresser, taken off everything except his boxers and was now lying prone on the bed, hands behind his head, waiting for me to come in and remove my clothes – Why, oh why, hadn't I thought to take them off in the bathroom and come back in just a robe? We'd always been very competitive, him and me. Once I'd challenged him to take part in a 10K race with me, because I knew he would sprint ahead but wouldn't have the stamina to keep it up. Sure enough, I was waiting for him at the finish line, having already changed into my tracksuit, rattling my car keys in mock frustration at having been kept waiting. Even when it wasn't centred on sport we'd compete. Who dressed the best, which one of us could drink the most, even who had the longest orgasm. Bless him! We stopped going to the quiz after the night when I goaded him uso much he picked me up in front of all our friends, marched outside with me and threw me in the River Dee to "cool off". And he certainly wasn't going to get the better of me this time. The last time a man watched me undress may have been too many years to mention but old habits die hard. Externally I was clad in shapeless velour, underneath pure silk. Classic cream and deep claret hip hugging French knickers were teamed with a balconette bra, both designed for maximum effect. Him: So, it didn't all go south, then. The standing joke that as soon as women reached twenty-five everything drooped wasn't funny back then either. Sex with the ex is probably hugely successful because it is so easy to just slip back in there. The first night nerves completely disappear and there's none of those worries about how do they kiss, where to touch them, how far is too far, how low do you go. However, things threatened to come to a crashing close after just my second cumming. Me: Who taught you that? It's hard to get annoyed when every fibre of your being is screaming to be released yet at the same time begging for more but as I've said I'm very competitive. If anyone's going to teach a man the best way to please me it wasn't going to be some faceless bimbo he's been slapping around with. Him: You liked it. Not a question. Me: Had better. Him: Liar! Me: More a faker than a liar. Him: There was no faking going on then. I know you. Me: You barely know my name. He started nibbling my earlobe, pinning my arms above my head while pressing his body against mine. Him: I know you like that. He moved his lips further down my neck. Him: And that. To my breast. Him: And that. My legs parted, hips rose and with a sigh he was inside me, sliding up and down, slow and regular. And then he said it. Him: Are you actually contracting your muscles? May 14th 2004 The Ann Summers shop had its usual mix of lunchtime shoppers in. Plus me, armed with thirty pounds worth of gift vouchers and humiliation by the sack load. Me: Do you sell pelvic floors? Teenager behind counter: I don't think so... Customer behind me pointing to the display behind the counter: I'd get the Rampant Rabbit if I were you. This is where I pretend it's not for me. No, not me at all. I'm not built like a bucket. I'm sexy, all woman. In fact it's normal to wee when you laugh or sneeze. Why else do they sell Tena Lady? Me: Do you think? Customer: Put it this way, without a pelvic floor it will be the only thing that gives you a second date.