Having almost launched my Kindle across the room whilst reading ‘Mad About the Boy’- a visceral reaction to having waited 14 years for something that turned out to be as enjoyable as a noxious fart in an airlocked room, I thought we’d outgrown each other.
Your loveable relatability had started to wear thin and I very much wanted to get you by the shoulders and give you a bloody good shake whilst telling you to stop being such a monumental bellend and letting fuckwits and calamity rule your life. I really thought it was time for you to pull on your big girl panties and sort your shit out.
Then I realised that makes me a massive chuffing hypocrite because fuckwits are my oxygen and calamity follows me like a lost puppy. If there’s a man out there with a sniff of Daniel Cleaver about him then I’m all about that fuckery, even when friends wince at a mere mention. I’m a sucker for a good old flirt, some late night phone calls (I don’t mean phone sex Dad!), and the crushing sense of rejection when it goes Pete Tong and I get to update my diary:
“Dear Diary, everyone was right and I was wrong. X was a shuddering knobhead who should be exiled to BAD MAN LAND where he and his magical smile and witty yet shitty chat can lure fair maidens no more”.
Granted I’ve never made blue soup but I did once cook a pizza for a man with the polystyrene base still on it so like you, I’m hardly Nigella.
I even have my own Magda and Jeremy, the most showhome living über hosts you ever did see who are some of the nicest, kindest, non smug marrieds around. Your Magda and Jeremy with their pasta in jars are mere pretenders to the throne. My Magda and Jeremy have slippers for guests, themed bedrooms, and a hostess trolley (that I like to call a hot pocket because I’m a CHILD).
I think I misjudged you however. I think my ire at you still lurching from one calamity to the next was misplaced annoyance as at the time it felt like I was a walking disaster zone. Turns out skirt was not sick, management was.
I picked up my dog eared copy of your original diary and immersed myself in your world, by the end of the first chapter I was a teenager again dreaming of the cosmopolitan lifestyle living in the big city and batting off men (alright, fuckwits) with a big stick before drinking with friends.
I guess that through all the ups and downs, the Cleaver’s and the Darcy’s (but NOT the Roxter’s) what it boils down to…
I like you very much. Just as you are.
Love Alice – the un-wanton sex novice without a very bad man between my thighs.