What a glorious afternoon I had today, sitting in the garden, on a beautiful Sunny day, birds twittering away, me reading a brilliant book – in between admiring the views of rolling hills and fields, Bubette playing wild and free and the puppy sitting happily at my feet, quietly munching away on one of his own turds…
OK, so let’s not mention ‘that puppy’ anymore.
Because it’s been such a good day. It’s been a laugh in fact.
Starting with the school run. I’m actually early (?!). So, we’re sitting in the car outside the school, Cher’s ‘Believe’ comes on the radio. What a tune. I turn it right up and open the car windows, so everyone can hear.
I’m good like that.
And then it happens. One of ‘those mothers’ misjudges the turning in her Chelsea tractor (this happens a lot because ‘blind corners are sooooo tricky when one is on the mobile’) and totally takes out a bush.
I’m pissing myself.
She pretends it didn’t happen and drives on with a deadpan face. As she goes past I try – in between sniggers – to work out which is bigger, her hair or her shades.
She totally knows that I saw her but I don’t count because:
1. I don’t drive the right sort of car
2. I’m not wearing a maxi skirt
3. My music taste no doubt offends her – that sort of woman reeks of Dido
Therefore I’m invisible to her.
After Cher has finished my mind wanders to something rather fabulous that happened last week;
There is a competition on Twitter, Gill Hornby’s publisher is asking people to tweet examples of ‘stingers’. A ‘stinger’ is something a woman says to another that is supposedly innocent and making polite conversation, but is actually a great big massive put down.
Wow, I’ve received lots of stingers. I decide to tweet this one;
‘Is she your youngest?’
Me ‘No, she is my first child’
‘Oh I assumed YOU would have a much older child’
So offensive, that I win.
So, thank you and at the same time fuck you to the twatty mother who paid me that stinger, I’ve got a lovely signed copy of Gill’s book ‘The Hive’…courtesy of you…
One of my many fav things in the book is when one of the characters gets herself a MUJ.
Made. Up. Job.
‘Oh she’s got herself a made up job’
And guess what the MUJ is in?
Because PR is so the thing that I can imagine someone like this character fluffing about doing for free…
And because actually getting paid properly in PR these days is so hard, because there is always some fucker who is desperate to do it for free / clothes / cheaply / because they can say they are doing it. Like the woman in this book.
Anyway, the book is the best / funniest thing I’ve read in a long time and apparently it’ll be a film too. I can’t wait, in fact I’m thinking of volunteering as an extra.
I’ve experience in this field, because during Sixth Form I took myself to the local job centre to get a Summer job (youth of today take note).
There were 2 ads for Summer work;
The Mr Kipling Factory
Film Extras required
The hideous thought of a long, hot Summer gobbing into Cherry Bakewells spurred me on to lie and say that I’d studied acting / could ride a horse / just loved archery and soon I landed a part in a film being shot in the New Forest.
So did my best mate.
On the first day we were dressed in horrid, torn rags, caked in mud, had our teeth blacked out and huge bloody gashes painted down our faces.
Apparently our village had been destroyed and we were to be filmed stumbling along moaning and dragging our few surviving possessions.
I even had a live chicken tied to my wrist ‘for effect’
On the first day at some point we found out that this was not a local film. This was a MAJOR Hollywood blockbuster, starring MAJOR Hollywood stars.
This was Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.
Needless to say, on the second morning, whilst on the trailer from wardrobe to the set, our compact mirrors and baby wipes came out, and sneakily we wiped away the mud, the gashes, the black teeth and replaced all with a bit of bronzer. We belted our rags right in around our waists and I ‘lost’ the chicken.
Needless to say we were bollocked senseless by the make-up artist.
Over and over again.
2 other things I remember very clearly about filming
1.I get promoted, asked to stay a few days extra, to film a very key scene. The bit where one of them shoots an arrow through the other’s hand.
I’m really pleased about this, so to celebrate I henna my waist length blonde hair a bright screaming red / pink. Think Linda Evangelista, think early nineties. Think fashion.
Think the director shouting this as we filmed the scene and he noticed my hair
‘Whaaaaaat the actual fuck?’
Something about continuity apparently…and women not really dying their hair pink in medieval times.
2. One of the leading Hollywood actors* asking my friend and I if we’d like to accompany him to London for the weekend to ‘party hard’
Me saying that would be lovely, but I couldn’t as I ‘did Saturday’s in Miss Selfridge’
Him looking hopefully at my friend and her saying she couldn’t as she ‘did part time in Next on Saturday’
Hearing the words ‘Whaaaat the actual fuck’ again from the actor’s gobsmacked manager.
*This wasn’t the lead actor who later became famous for enjoying a happy finish btw…