The slanket

A typical reaction to the slanket:

‘Isn’t it just a blanket with sleeves?’

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

Yes. But it’s also massive and enveloping and fleecy, like no duvet you have known and no cuddle you have been given. The sleeves gape and they drape and they gather. Your hands are warm and contained, and yet so available. You are a mass of lumpy cow-print, but you can still drink your tea.

When you put on a slanket for the first time, you just know you’re about to get fat.

I still watch Eastenders

Sometimes I try to stop:

‘It makes you feel bad, Laura. Run a bath, Laura. Come on, there’s enough on your plate, Laura – you shouldn’t have to stomach Syed’s shame’. His great, complex mezze of shame.

But it stacks up! On the recordy box! And you can’t delete something that hasn’t been VIEWED – that goes against everything the recordy box stands for. Oh, I moan my way through these episodes. I let them whinny on in the background while I clean the oven, or I catch them on the fly – in between plucking my chin hairs and popping to Morrisons – you know, to make the 30 minutes somehow smaller.

As though I’m not really watching it. But I am.

Yusef’s soft, serial killer tones make my chest tighten.

Phil’s disappointment with his gay son makes my eyes roll into the back of my head.

Zainab’s barking makes me wish the overdose had worked.

Fatboy’s ill-informed slang makes me look around to check no one else is watching.

Ian’s romantic endeavours – I cannot bear even to think of them.

But Michael’s twitchy smiles. I would sit through nineteen of Zainab’s shouty curry-stirring sessions for just one of Michael’s twitchy smiles.

I still watch Eastenders. I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. I don’t know. I wish I’d never met it.

FAT PAT AND FRIENDS (part 2)

When Tiff tottered on to the square with her siblings, to the doo-doo-doos of the Jackson 5, fresh from a snooze under a bus shelter, she appeared to be some kind of super-Stender. She was named after one of our beloved historical figures, she was reassuringly red-headed, and – HELLO – she had plans to pour SOAP on Zainab’s primroses.

But listen. I think her cheeky Annieface is concealing something sinister. I am worried about Morgan. He never speaks. And whenever Bianca tells Ricky to take him for chips, we never actually SEE Ricky DOING it. The other day, everyone was watching Miraculous Max the Superhero handle Connor-shaped carnage over at Fat Pat’s (who’s still in New Zealand) and Morgan wasn’t THERE. And Ricky was doing a heart-to-heart with Liam (over chips), and Morgan wasn’t THERE either. The only time I actually remember Morgan doing A THING is when he did armpit farts at his Uncle Billie’s funeral – and THAT is what drove Carol away from Dot’s and in to the arms of the enemy. And THAT is what got us into this whole sorry mess.

So, what I’m saying is, you might *think* Morgan doesn’t do much, but he is actually a very subtle rascal.

typical

FAT PAT & FRIENDS (part 1)

I am blogging about Eastenders. It begins here.

My boyfriend, though he professes to be a fan, fails to grasp the intricacies of FAMLY on Albert Square. But WHY is Bianca talking to Ronnie about showing the world her baybay? (the baybay’s her cousin). WHY is hard newben so determined to fuck up Glenda (for getting jiggy with his brother, Weasel Beale). And why does Jay want to be a Mitchell again? (your guess is as good as any – perhaps because Mitchell count is a bit low since Peggy strolled off into the sunset/ market).

So, Thursday’s episode was a confusing one for the boy. Everyone wanted to see the baybay, who, of course, is Tommy Moon (Kat’s SON. Charlie’s GRANDSON. The Bionic Woman’s HALF-BROTHER. Tommy doesn’t want Ronnie’s MILK, cos she ain’t his muvva). The famly members, they poured in – Max (would-be uncle), fringey Lauren (would-be cousin), Dot (would-be step-gran), Phil (would-be second cousin), Ricky (would be a woeful uncle). We heard from Roxy that even AMY was desperate to see the mini Moon! That’s right! The forgotten child was just gagging to see her cousiny half-brother.

In fact, Fat Pat was just about the only person who wasn’t interested.

Cos she’s in New Zealand, duh.

The Future’s TERRIFYING

Dear Orange,

I hate you.

So does everyone.

I hope you trip on your mobile phone cord.

From
Laura

A miserly lunch

Like most artsy losers, I like things I can’t afford. Every day, I plunge, wash and replunge the cafetiere so I can drink more than one cup of real coffee, all the while pretending the free office Kenco doesn’t exist. Last weekend, when checking out some old Dutch coffee grinders (the kind one would never, ever use to grind coffee – for fear of floating rust), I really wanted the 85 euro one, not the 25.

I am also a miser. I would never pay 5p for a carrier bag, even on those days I forget my fabric shopper and even though my arm span is small, and I would rather walk very far than pay to be transported. There is joy in the priciest of all crackers – Dr Karg, and there is joy in the bargainous of all shoes – New Look; these joys have their own merits but neither is as acute as the very pure joy I have only ever known as the direct result of a shop-bought egg mayo sandwich.

I am, by and large, a late lunch eater. I usually make my own, but sometimes I forget it. Sometimes I actually make it and forget it. So when I approach, through lack of imagination and a general limpness about the mid-afternoon brain, the supermarket refrigerator – the FOOD ON THE GO/ QUICK BITE/ MEAL DEAL zone – it is usually bare. That dilapidated, frenzied sort of bare which probably isn’t as depressing in supermarket fridges outside of London, and is pretty much the LAST THING most Londoners need. Has anyone ever been dragged through a 3pm conference call on a Tesco cheese and chutney sandwich? I doubt it.

For me, that most dependable, most ravishing, most ingenious of bites beams out of the fridges, as if to scream ‘YES LAURA, THEY ARE ALL MAD BUT YOU!’ I bypass the dreck, most of which incorporates the festering tomato goo I know so well, and head for the promise of a happy afternoon. All lined up and triangular like the non-showy slither it is. Egg mayo is available! Oh boy is it available!

And it’s one pound.

Pitching into the ether

Currently I am writing emails which go a bit like:

‘I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, but I’d really like to write for you. I hereby offer up my services in return for magic beans, so you needn’t worry about squeezing your pitiful budgets. I’ll do the crap you don’t want to do. Don’t have room? Never mind, I’ll sit on the floor. What’s that? You think you might need a toenail trim? I REALLY hope to hear back from you.’

In my head I am writing:

Dear [insert name of editor who’s managed to get so big for their boots that they just do tweeting @celebrities all day long]

I have been slogging it out in the farcical world they call journalism for three years now, in a bid to form some semblance of a career. Over this period, I have e-mailed you on a fortnightly basis, and am yet to receive a reply. I have seen your face – your smiley, happy I’ve-got-a-job face. I have heard your words down the telephone: “oh, we’re always looking for ideas – that sounds great, just send them through when they come up”.

Tell me, is it that I am unable to string a sentence together? Is it that my ideas reek of shit? Or do you just detest my vibes? I would rather hear that, than the rude silence you dispense so often.

Come all ye dickheads, just hit Reply.

Worst wishes,

Laura Goodman
Freelance nobody

Some say bitterness is ruining my blog posts. I say YES; yes it is

This blog post is an extension of my recent tweet:

‘I’ve just reached the depths of despair and was wondering if anyone else is down here? We should meet for coffee at www.jobcentreplus.gov.uk’.

Currently I have so much time on my hands that I have complained to Pret a Manger about lacking avocado in yesterday’s lunch. The vouchers I am to receive are for another day; for today, I have been staring at my sandwich for two hours – it is filled with the chicken I dropped on the floor last night (crumbly chicken bits licked up by dog – floor left to clean itself). I have decided to have biscuits for lunch instead.

This morning I had a gooseberry Pret pot (I know, I do not learn). I took a big plastic spoon and shovelled it so the creamy yogurt rested disgustingly around my chops, only to discover I hate gooseberries.

A woman hung a plastic bag on my arm filled with Fitness First goodies – a baddie bag – containing a frisbee and a magazine choc-full of tiny, happy, gooseberry-filled little bodies.

LOSE WEIGHT WITHOUT HUNGER

TONE UP IN 20 MINUTES

MEL B’S FITNESS SECRETS

FRISBEE

Also, you know earlier when I said biscuits? I lied. I was eating Go Ahead Yogurt Breaks. The foodstuff of the Loose Woman. You might as well just unfollow me or something.

N.B. THERE MAY OR MAY NOT BE AN IMAGE TO GO WITH THIS BLOG POST AS MY FANTASTIC MOUSE DOES NOT RIGHT CLICK