Yes, that’s right – March 19th is publication day for The Best, Most Awful Job (YOU CAN BUY IT HERE: Hive: http://bit.ly/bmajHive [for independent bookshops in the UK], Amazon: https://amzn.to/39MC0sO, Waterstones: http://bit.ly/2IMwM4l). There was supposed to be a launch party tonight, for which I was going to wear the long black spotted Ganni dress or the red Batsheva which is very tight on the upper arms. I considered doing something with my hair, like getting it blow dried, but that always looks a bit news-reader-y. I would certainly have painted my nails in a colour that didn’t pop against my scabby eczema fingers (still a problem and not getting any better with the constant hand-washing). But, alas, like the world itself, the launch was cancelled.
Instead, we are having a virtual launch between 7:30 and 8:30pm GMT on Twitter and Instagram on Thursday eve where we will toast the book. This is not the same, but needs must. My contribution is a small video clip where I read out a paragraph from my essay, (including TWO of the ‘v’ words, so avoid if you find female anatomy chat alarming)…see below.
I am sad to say that the video reveals I am full of spots – one on the chin, one under the eye and one at the end of my nose like a mythic evil stepmother – and more wrinkled than I would like, but I am also free of any viruses and therefore ALIVE! In the misappropriated words of Sweet Brown, ain’t nobody got time for worrying ’bout their spots or fluffy hair or wrinkled eyes right now, so there you are.
And so here we are. I’m not working right now – all of my steady writing gigs have slowly ebbed away over the last year, leaving me with a few badly paid ones (and some potential-but-as-yet-nothing-but-talk jobs which might well come to a big fat nought). But just as well I have nothing to do besides look after the baby and make endless meals because the schools will surely close soon. Having all six boys cluttering up my living room for weeks on end will be maddening and messy and shouty, but better than sending them (or me) off to the trenches – am I right? Perspective is all. And in between their “remote learning” (ha! sigh) I could probably get the boys to babysit while I go and brainstorm some brilliant way to make money for us all while we eat the last of the tinned tuna and boil up the sprouting potatoes.
The local Waitrose is of course completely bare in the toilet roll/disinfectant/hand sanitiser shelves, but the panicking public have also moved onto quite curious hoardings. There was no sea salt today, or baking paper, and the packets of Canadian Strong Bread Flour have vanished. Are we all now baking our own sourdough in the event of a civilisation collapse, I wonder? Luckily, the smaller Middle Eastern shops next door are not only full of Ottolenghi recipe staples, but also have aisles and aisles of rices and preserves and spices and tinned tomatoes and hunks of halal lamb.
The school whatsapp groups are full of feuding parents arguing whether or not the kids should still be in school, and there have been politely British virtual fights over the propagation of (mis)information of governmental policy. Meanwhile, Mark struggles over the word ‘corona’ and keeps talking about the ‘corner virus’ which both infuriates me and makes me laugh. He sometimes just mashes all the new words up and I hear him talking very enthusiastically to other people about ‘corner-19’ and I slink away.
Time For Pictures
Here are my big boys plugged into devices but looking quite cosy while they are at it. Imagine trying to get them to do some sort of educational work every day if the schools close…
Here is the baby to cheer us all up while he plays the Bath Snorkel:
And here is the lovely Charlotte on her birthday in Camden at the Bingo. This was a few weekends ago, but it feels like a lifetime away, when we all socialised freely, took public transport, shared prosecco and sat near each other:
I’m there gurning in the background in my questionable dress which I am sure adds girth in photos but hopefully not quite as much IRL. We didn’t win anything but the bingo was more fun than its retirement recreation reputation would suggest. And just look at that adorable Charlotte:
But The Swim
The big news here, the thing I am taking a long time getting around to, is the tale of the Serpentine Swim. I met up with a new/old virtual friend who invited me to go for a swim in the Serpentine one morning last week. It was quite scary because I have only ever dipped my toe in over the summer months when it is still freezing but also quite green and slimy. In winter, it is freezing but without the algae. This is what it looked like on one of the photos I sometimes take when I am showing off about my morning run:
Full of birds, feathers, some dodgy microscopic things and probably terrifying rusting shopping carts somewhere – sure. But I was undeterred because life is short and you should say YES to things that challenge you and swimming in the cold fresh water is very healthy and I have always admired the early morning be-capped pink wet bodies emerging out of the Serpentine when I go past slowly on my morning jog.
So I met up with Louise and her friend at 9am in the weak early spring sunlight, and they led me to the Serpentine Swimming Club’s tiny communal changing room filled with all sorts of people getting in or out of swimsuits and chatting to each other cheerily. It felt like camping or something – everyone squeezed in, towels wrapped around, discrete quick whipping on and off of things, steam and wet towels and goggles and, most fabulously, a table laden with cake crumbs, overhanging shared mugs and tea-making facilities. Everyone had a ruddy glow and a kind word – it was wonderful.
Anyway, the actual swimming was less of a ‘swim’ and more of an endurance test, a little like giving birth or getting a tooth drilled but wetter and a tiny bit less painful. I was advised to keep going once we got in, and not to forget to breathe. It was cold – shockingly cold – and clean and fresh. It felt like a satisfying slap. We front crawled to the end and most of the way back, and I was encouraged to get out because the cold gets to your organs pretty quickly. I rinsed off in the open air cold shower (which felt positively tropical in comparison) and squeezed back into the steamy communal changing room. Speedo onepiece stripped off, pinkish boobs strapped firmly back into my bra, jumper on, dungarees strapped, socks and trainers shoved back onto my numb feet, I gratefully sipped my searingly hot tea and accepted some banana loaf brought in by one of the Serpentine Swimming Club members.
Reader, the whole thing blew my mind. It felt like being let into the most secret, special thing. Shoved into that communal dressing room and then dipping into the expanse of the fresh, cold Serpentine, right in the middle of London in the middle of the week, there is this whole community of people – kind, welcoming, ordinary, extraordinary people. It costs £20 to join – you can swim any time from 5am to 9:30am all year round. I’m gonna do it. I want more of that tea and more of that cake and more of that freezing swanny dubious water.
Finally, the baby today. He discovered the garden, mud and the sun. It’s been quite the week already.
PS Buy the book!