Well, that Gwyneth has got herself in trouble again for yet more ill advised comments. This time it was something about how she wished she could just have a 9-5 office job, instead of earning millions a year working all hours making shit films. Much has already been written about how ludicrous it is for her to presume all office jobs are simply 9-5, leaving hours of free time – especially for working mothers, many of whom I know get up extra early to spend time with their kids, before travelling to work, getting home for bath time (if they are lucky), and then continuing to work once their children are in bed. Clearly leaving next to no spare time, not even for a 2 hour Tracy Anderson workout.
BUT, reader, can you imagine actually working in an office with Gwyneth? Can you? What if she sat at the desk next to you? In her skin tight white jeans, with her perfect straight blonde hair? What if you came in hungover (obvs I’m thinking hypothetically here because I’d never do this). Imagine the scenario; you had far too much BINJUICE the night before, you look like you’ve just been dug up, you have dressed from your floordrobe, and the only way to cure the unbelievable bastard behind your eyes is a bag of Pickled Onion Monster Munch and a couple of Nurofen washed down with a full sugar Coke. Can you imagine how much she would do her nut at you? And, I bet her desk would be really tidy, and minimal with matching stationary. In no way would she keep up to 20 pairs of shoes and a scruffy dog under it. In no way would she sit applying blusher whilst pretending to listen to her boss’s instructions, or put the phone on loud speaker so the whole office can snigger at someone throwing a wobbler at her. Clearly I have done none of these things, like I said, I’m just thinking hypothetically here, but I don’t think you’d get away with much if Gwyneth worked in your office. I mean you’d never be able to pretend you are going to meet a client for two hours and instead have a facial, anyway I’ll stop myself there, I think we all get the gist…
And there is no way I would be having a full fat coke any way, because, roll out the clichés, I have given up sugar. Yup, I know, great big yawn. Well I sort of have, well I’ve stopped mainlining Jaffa Cakes and Bubette’s Haribo and thinking that 5 Party Rings is an ok afternoon snack. I didn’t think it made much difference to be honest, I didn’t feel any different, my skin and hair were the same, BUT:
I’m walking down the road with my two unruly dogs.
A builder’s van is half blocking the pavement.
And this happens:
Builder ‘No need to move the van Dave, she’s skinny, she can squeeze through’
She’s skinny, she can squeeze through
I mean, back in the day, I attracted many compliments and whistles from builders, the top one being when I was walking to work one day and a builder cracked open some BINJUICE (yes, really) and uttered this immortal line at me
‘There’s nothing I like more than a nice can of lager and the sight of a beautiful woman first thing in the morning’
Reader, that, admittedly, was poetry, but these days I take my compliments where I can.
Anyway, my cheerful mood doesn’t last long because then I drive to pick my daughter up from school. Yes, ahem, THAT school run. It hasn’t got any better. And, now it additionally involves the kid’s party circuit. Which is another blog post, actually it’s probably an ITV3 reality series, or a Chris Morris parody show, but I digress, the school run. Picture this, I have got my baby son (now 20 pounds) in his car seat on one arm, Bubette holding my hand, her school bags up my other arm and some genius glitter drenched stuff she’s made balanced under my chin. I come to the school gate, it’s closed, it opens inwards, away from me, and there standing on the other side is the local ‘celebrity’ Dad and his stroppy wife. They stand there and glare at me. I smile at them. They glare back. No one opens the gate. My arms feel like they are about to fall off from the weight of everything, so with great difficulty I lift one leg and kind of prop the gate open with my hip and squeeze me, Bubette and the baby in the car seat through. They stand there and move back against the fence still glaring at me. Like I’m the biggest piece of shit. Ever invented. I don’t get how rude they are being, so say ‘Hi’ and ‘thank you’. And struggle through. They say nothing, just glare. I get in the car and then it hits me, how horrible they have just been. The tossers. What do they think? That I might want to be someone like them’s friend, to hang out at their house talking about boarding schools, gilets and other such twatty subjects. I did really try to see them in a Buddhist way, you know, you don’t know what is going on in their lives, perhaps they are just having a difficult day, don’t take it personally, kill them with your kindness etc. Or, perhaps ‘no-one’s home’ if you get my drift… zipped up the back… by Boden… But most of all I’m ever so slightly miffed that this celebrity who makes a career out of being a massive fitness fanatic can’t, in real actual life manage to open a gate.
But that’s showbiz I suppose…
P.S. The term BINJUICE is always, as ever reproduced courtesy of ‘celebrated illustrator’ Will Broome.