The Number One Health Risk is Obesity

I leant forward to add the finishing touches to my makeup, and my attention was caught; hook, line and sinker. Throwing the eyeliner at the wall, I squinted at my reflection.

Oh my good lord, I'm getting fat.
I don't weigh myself obsessively, working on the theory that as long as I can fit into my clothes without getting those lovely fat rolls over the tops of my jeans then things are ok, but... Things are no longer ok.
My beautiful new green dress, while it fits, is not cut out for concealing anything- and this isn't something I can blame on the lighting, either.
I seem to have a fat roll, which only becomes evident- in this dress, at least; I haven't dared try any others on- from the side view.
I spent about half an hour staring at myself from different angles, and it's definitely there.
What can I do? I've barred blueberry muffins, for a start- the fact that none of the muffins in the flat were mine is just a minor detail that I'm sure my flatmate collection will understand, for what could be more important than me having a flat belly and looking fabulous in the new dress?
No, I don't think they'll appreciate it either.
Other options include working out- nonono; really no, there's nothing I hate more but I might start using the stairs rather than the lift. Or I buy a corset- nonono; breathing is something really rather important to me. Or I could just stop eating- but Sophie Flatmate's making pancakes...
Argh.

The terrifying slide into obesity begins.

Of Clarity and Competitivity

I feel it necessary to state here, before I start, that I'm perfectly aware this is childish, and neither big nor clever.
*stamps foot*


"But I had my purse stolen last time we came here!" I said mournfully, trying my hardest to look hard done by. "You should all be holding my hand and comforting me! What kind of heartless people are you, to put me through such a thing after such a traumatic experience?"
As it turned out, people I owe drinks to.
But I did try my absolute hardest to get out of buying in the first round.

Hopping up onto a stool at the bar, I ordered various drinks and exchanged words of commiseration with the bartender. I leant across to pay and slipped sideways off the stool- metal stools and cotton dresses just don't mix well; but the lack of friction there was more than made up for by the ongoing tension between me and the guy I crashed into.
He caught me, and I stood clasped in the circle of his arms for a good, oh, thirty seconds before I realised it was J. He recognised me at roughly the same time and we sprang apart, varying shades of smiles on our faces and began working at strained conversation.
But we've always argued, even back when we were doing the whole sleeping together thing, but then our disagreements had the confines of a relationship. Lacking that structure, we tend to bring out the worst in one another; me in him because I'm flighty and self-involved, him in me because he's slightly too smug and self-satisfied and it gets on my nerves.

And, of course he was rude and dumped me, which doesn't help matters in the slightest.

Whilst exchanging pleasantries and trying to avoid getting myself typecast as a Sullen Ex, I caught the eye of a girl over at the other end of the bar. J caught me looking, and smiled condescendingly down at me- even in three inch heels he pretty much towers over me.
"She's been looking at me for a while now," he said, smirking. "I think I'm in there."
"No. No no, she's clearly looking at me."

I gave him a look and stomped off, forgetting the drinks. And stomped back over after a second to retrieve them.
"Imogen," he said. I turned back towards him and he waved a £5 pound note in my general direction; I span round on my heel and made to leave, when he said,
"Don't be so silly! It's just.. I bet you I'll have her by the end of the night."

Oh, he gets on my nerves.

"You want to bet on this!?"
"What, is this because you know I'm right?"
"Hang on just one second," I said. "You're betting your one time shag partner that you'll pull this girl?"
"No, even I'm not quite that crude."
Then...?

"I'm betting that I'll shag her before you do."

Of Hundreds and Hernia's

I would appear to have a grossly inflated sense of my personal fitness level.
"Much like your sense of your own worth, really," he said, laughing rudely in the face of my intolerance to pain.

Last night, I was conned- conned, I tell you!- into agreeing to something of a foolish bet; I should have known better, but I don't. I still don't, actually.
*whimpers*
I bet a certain someone, who I'm currently working hard at sulking at and who therefore doesn't deserve to be named in these hallowed pages, that I am quite clearly perfectly capable of doing a hundred sit-ups; the tactful implication that I was in no way capable of doing a hundred of the things meant I did of course have to show him better.

Ouch.

What a time for my somewhat misplaced feministy streak to kick in.

Not so very bad at the time, although the last thirty were absolutely, completely and utterly hideous. The real pain kicked in this morning, when I tried to sit up in bed and failed miserably; waking my companion with a long drawn out "fuuuuck" sound. Although that said, there are few better ways to greet the day.

I think I have a hernia.

Of Thieves and Fortunes

"Look on the bright side and just be grateful they left you your purse!"

How very generous.

Admittedly I didn't regard this theft as such such a big tragedy at the time as, let's face it, I haven't bought myself an alcoholic beverage since the J era- I do, however, keep myself well supplied with coffee, which is pretty much a full time high expense job.
I'm also willing to admit that this was maybe a teensy bit my fault for leaving my bag unchaperoned on the table when I was dancing- like a truly awful date, who it left with is not necessarily who it arrived with.

I lost;
One bear factory card.
One set of house keys.
One debit card.
One blood donor card (is it just me, or is this really creepy?).
One polka dot condom (apart from the decoration, I'm practically a teenage boy at heart).
A photo of me and about ten of my friends last time we went on a seaside jaunt; the seaside bit becomes clear, as the photo is just a birdseye view of our sandy feet as we stood in a circle.
My hairdressers' business card.
One card, telling me when and where I was to go to have my palm read.

It's hard to tell which of these things I'm most upset about; I suspect it's the palmistry card, as I have no idea when I was supposed to go. But really, if she's a psychic worth her salt she'll know the circumstances and get in touch and make everything better.
Because the thought of standing up somebody who dabbles in the occult makes me nervous.

I also lost £50 cash, which I'm most definitely upset about; now it's gone, I have big plans for that money. I mean, I could have bought a pair of shoes, or even a new outfit, or my body weight in blueberry muffins, or so so many Lush bathbombs, or had my hair cut somewhere posh, or gone on a train journey to somewhere undesirabe like Bristol, or I could have had a tattoo done, or bought some fabulous underwear.
Or I could have paid my rent for this week, or paid my share of the extortionate price we're being charged to have the boiler fixed, or paid to have that window fixed, or paid for gym membership.

You get the picture, I'm sure.

Trials and Tribulations

Joy of joys; I had my bikini line waxed today.

First things first- I hate the whole hair removal thing, but it certainly beats being hirsute and self-conscious. And I get more than suitably self conscious when wearing skimpy clothes/ in bikini-esque situations due to the key genetic betrayal which lead to my knees.
I am very definitely not a fan.

I walked down the stairs, head down and giving myself a continuous mental pep talk to avoid bolting and running for the hills. The nice lady stuffed a tissue back up her sleeve and came up to me; "Hello! How may I help you?"
English clearly wasn't her first language; grammatically correct it might be, but no native speaker uses the word 'may' in place of 'can'. Giving her my rabbit caught in the headlights look, I muttered something about bikini waxage and appointment, and 11am, and also Clarke. She gestured towards the back room and I went with a face probably not dissimilar to that of a small child at bedtime.

Cut to ten minutes later. "Lean back," she said, "relax it won't hurt. I have a cold, hasn't the weather been awful lately?"
It won't hurt?
Yeah, right, of course it bloody hurts. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and leaned back, following instructions like a good girl.

She bent over me, still chattering away inanely- reminding me awfully of the time when, aged six, the dentist rudely pulled out one of my overlapping teeth whilst distracting me with a photograph and talk about his daughter.
Just goes to show two things- one, that the whole skirt lifting thing is clearly a nature over nurture thing, and two, trust noone.
She ripped the wax away and a split second later I felt something cool drip onto my stomach.
I clenched my eyes even more tightly shut.
It was just wax, just wax, just wax, OK.
Just wax.

Fuck.

I opened my eyes and peeked out at her as she rubbed her nose ruefully on her sleeve.

The State of Affairs

You know all those articles, about how the internet is to blame for a decline in the familial structure and communication? Well, after many years of outright mockery and disdain towards such folk I've been forced to eat my metaphorical hat and accept that these people may have had something of a point.

Lounging around the front room earlier today, each of us pretending to work- I was watching my weekly fix of anime, lying on the floor with my legs propped on the couch (I'm wearing in a new pair of shoes, and oh my good lord they hurt).
And I'm pretty certain Alec flatmate was downloading naughty movies, when the house phone rang.

This is a big deal by the way, and not because we're all total social outcasts with hairy backs, three nipples apiece and missing front teeth cos that's not wholly true- the reason it's a big deal is simply because the house phone is a recent installment; that being so, we've yet to work out an answering protocol.

One ring; we all froze in place- think; rabbits and headlights- as we looked round to see who'd answer it. Silence ascended upon the like a wool blanket.
No movement.

Two rings; I spilt coffee on myself whilst trying to look nonchalant and uncaring. Cue mental swearing.
No noise, no movement.

Three rings; I turned the volume on my headphones up and went back to the anime. More mental swearing, as I realised I could still hear it.
No movement.

Four rings; the msn icon on my laptop jumped- Alec.
>babe, will you just answer that?
I signed out and the tension in the room became palpable; you could have cut it with a knife if you felt so inclined, and were willing to go across the hall and borrow one, of course. We're students, of course we don't own any real culinary equipment.
No movement.

Five rings.
The email icon jumped- Sophie.
>look sweetie, it's probably for you anyway!
I gave her a squinty eyed little sideways look, and closed the message.

Six rings; I developed a nervous twitch in my eye.
No movement- beyond me clapping my hand over it to stop the twitch.

Seven rings; I received a communal email from charmless Gnome flatmate from inside her and Sophie's secret love nest.
>will one of you just answer the fucking phone!
She has such a way with words.

Eight rings; I emailed Sophie flatmate;
>It might be someone about the kitten! What if it's been run over?
She responded with a dirty look of her own, and I noticed him curled up in her lap. The silence continued.

The phone stopped ringing, and I got up to make a fresh round of coffee.
A moment later, my mobile rang.
And rang, and rang.

Back to the Start

I met J after my first brush with a spiked drink.

Who was it who said the right combination of drink and drugs can make anyone feel the prettiest, wittiest girl out there? I discovered that magic combination that night, as I moved from guy to girl, drink to drink, line to line and dancing, dancing, dancing. Most of them gave me a glance, got me a drink, shared their toys with me, their pharmaceutical secrets, then passed on to someone coherent; someone likely to remember them come morning or the next hour, but he didn't. In turn, the Stranger latched on to me, ignoring the swift and laughing dismissal I'd given him earlier in the evening.
"Oh, honey, I really don't think so."

Bored, bored, bored.

It took me a while to notice the Stranger following me around the party that evening, trailing his fingers across my waist, keeping my glass full. Catching it whenever I stumbled or my hands shook, which was often. He danced behind me, his hands around my waist- first as a way to get close, but becoming more and more a means of support.

"Here, sweetie, you've been drinking the wrong stuff all night, this'll make you feel better."


An hour or two later I resurfaced, sitting on the cool steps outside the apartment. There was the heavy pressure of a hand on my shoulder; with my head down, I could just glimpse from the corner of my eye a black shoe, a pair of dark jeans.
My vision blurred and as I raised a hand to rub pointlessly at my eyes I swayed in place. The hand on my shoulder tightened;

"Don't do drugs with anyone except your friends; noone else gives a fuck."
I smiled a little, shifting slightly away from this overbearing stranger to lean on the railings.
"Now where have I heard that before?"
He didn't say anything, for a minute, a few seconds, an hour, and I tried to summon the energy to move, make my way home.
"But you're not my friend, what do you care?"
He moved then, and more of him came into view as he stood on the landing below my feet. Tall, blonde, traces of red lipstick across his collar and a hicky on his neck. He knelt by me on the steps, and..
"Oh. You have brown eyes."
"So what? You do too."
"Guess we must be soulmates then."
"But of course! We even have matching lipstick traces," he said, smiling a little.

Suddenly, even this was too much effort. I got up to leave, feeling frightfully like Blanche fucking DuBois, and he made no move to get out of my way. I stepped round him, ignoring him even as the hem of my skirt brushed his cheek. He sat alone on the step and watched me, as I tried to pretend I didn't want to just curl up in a corner somewhere with my eyes shut; like a child, pretending the world vanishes if you don't see it.

I sat in the park, across the street from the apartment I'd just left. Sitting on the swings, gently scuffing my bare feet on the tarmac as I watched the lights in the top window flashing; pink, red, green, gold, blue, orange, on and off, as the party went on.
I heard him walking towards me, and instinctively turned my face down and away from him, knowing my expression would be too nakedly helpless, revealing.
I tried for flippancy, but it came out closer to cynical and weary; expectant.
"So are you going to tell me what happened up there?"
"Do you really want to know?"

I guess not. He walked me home that night, and spent what was left of it curled up in a cold ball on the couch- nothing if not diligent.
The next morning, I learned his name, and in the following months I learned more and more about him until, poof! like magic, he exited as swiftly as he'd entered.

Eightish Quirks

The first time I've ever been tagged, everybody! But I'm not filling this in myself, as I think I'm perfect and quirkless- of course I do; the ridges in my nails and the way cotton wool makes me cringe aside. Moreover however, I spend enough time talking about myself, when this blog could be a caustic political page full of wit and deep insights.
Ahem. Of course it could.
So, I'm handing it over to my flatmate collection to fill in- enjoy!
And play nicely, boys and girls.

1) She's never gone weekly food shopping- she just buys what she wants when she wants it, as she'd hate not to be able to buy herself some item of frippery because she'd wasted the money on food. Or she uses whatever's in the flat and leaves little sticky green IOU notes lying around in silly places. Most recent example? This morning we found a note promising to replace the honey stuck to the bottom of a milk carton.

2) She's been known to leave dates half way through a meal or cinema visit and it's rumoured she's done this in the most teen-movie style possible, by crawling out of the bathroom window. She's also been known to walk out of rooms without apology if she's bored of the conversation, something she likes to blame on being socialised late in life. However, she's adept at charming her way back into people's good books if she wants something, the callous minx.

3) She cries at the drop of a hat, but generally not when you'd expect her to. Most recent example? She cries without fail at the final season of QaF US, but not when Babylon gets blown up- she cries when Brian buys a country mansion to make the love of his life happy.
No, it doesn't make any sense to us either. Who wouldn't want a swimming pool, tennis courts and a pony?

4) She simply cannot cook, claiming that once she learns how she'll have to do it. Speaking as the lone flatmate who actually likes cooking.. she's right, she'd be endlessly exploited instead of me.

5) She's allergic to cows milk, but adores it too much to cut it out of her diet entirely. Tsssk, no self control! Plus if she did she'd be an inner flat pariah, as we spend too many cold morning afters curled up together before the fire eating cookies and milk; soya milk just ain't the same. Soya icecream though, is a different beautifully tasting story, and there's less fat in a whole tub of it than there is in one croissant!

6) She knows things! Off the wall things that aren't useful in the slightest but she likes to defend herself by claiming they might come up in a pub quiz. Yeah right, darling- she's more of a glitter and dancing girl than a sedate pub and grime lass. Most recent example? A parliament of owls. We didn't know that, did you? The extent of our knowledge only just reaches a pride of lions- tsssk, the things a boarding school education will do to you, eh? Not that the girl's seen an owl since she fled Cheshire; describing her as a big girls blouse of a city dweller is putting it mildly.

7) She's a great big romantic with a penchant for fantastic hats, warm weather and skimpy clothes, but let anyone try to woo her and she'll run a mile, leaving a trail of broken hearts as she tries to get over it; does the name J mean anything to anyone?

8) The final Quirk! Let's make it a good one, shall we boys and girls? She no longer has a credit card after spending something in the region of £1000 in the YSL shop near Green Park, simply because she felt she couldn't ask one of the lovely working ladies out to play unless she spent something. She "didn't realise the fucking shoes would cost so much!" but really the darling should have known better; shops with no prices in their window displays just aren't student territory. She charmed someone into returning them for her of course, but t'isn't the point.

9) Change of plan, we're adding an extra but we've never been any good at maths, thank you god (or of telling the difference between right and left, but that's a whole other story). She hates to wear anything on her feet indoors, hence her wandering around barefoot in midwinter (and now early 'spring') when the rest of us are running around in several million layers. As a result she's become adept at the I'm-So-Cold dance; not that this stops her from complaining about being cold though- deeply impractical is what she is, although it'll be hilarious and so very 1700s if she gets herself chilblains at any time soon. Retro with a twist, eh?


Gosh. Responses, explanations and straight up excuses to some of those pesky allegations at a later date, plus I think this may be A Melodrama of Manners' first post ever that doesn't have the word fabulous or divine in it- get in!

Personal Gain, and the Resurrection of my Conscience

It's that time of year again- university interviews for wannabe undergraduates, and my uni is buying me a yellow trenchcoat in return for guiding the nervous interviewees around campus. The fact that I'm never on campus except when it's absolutely unavoidable has no impact whatsoever on my ability to lie;
"Oh yes, our uni campus really honestly and truly is great! You don't even need to leave it, everything's available at any hour!"
Certainly available, but not necessarily in available in working order.

I haven't sold my soul, just billing for time, expenses and a new trenchcoat. Plus, these lies are a tradition, almost as old as the one that means Trinity College get to keep a mallard in the rafters, or the one that allows us to openly mock the students of Kings. I was told them when I turned up for my interview and so was everyone else I know, and we're none the worse for it. And we're an OK uni, even if we are haunted by the statue of Jeremy Bentham.
*shudders*
Ugly gentleman, quite a forehead.

My uni is largely filled with Oxbridge rejects, and I can't go too far down the negative road on this since I'm one myself. All the best people were rejected by Oxbridge after interviews; those who were rejected outright don't count and are generally Bitter Types who like to trot out the line;
"I could have gone to Oxford, you know"
to new acquaintances; they're the ones who tell you about it at first meeting and make sure you don't forget- obnoxious is generally one of the first words one would use to describe them:

So am I naughty for giving her blatantly wrong instructions when she asked me to explain in a step-by-step guide for idiots how to use the tube?

As my ability to lie increases in direct proportion to whats in the situation for me, my conscience is a largely dormant creature, but when it does rear its ugly head I have no means of counteracting it. Alec flatmate sent me a link, which turned out to be a game where one misses the last tube and, predictably enough, gets murdered.
Sheesh.

Muse

No, not the band- even my admittedly rubbish music taste doesn't sink to such depths.
I meant me! And I've sort of been doing Snooopy dances about it all day- which is fabulous, cos it means I can put off that gym visit for yet another day and not put on weight.

Flicking manically through the papers lying round the living room is one of those weekly things I just have to do; I'm far too disorganised for my own good and am always always always losing my essays, and I do tend to take it out on everything else in sight. Reaching round behind the stereo my elbow hit the pile of folders to my right and everything went flying, engulfing me temporarily in a paper snowstorm of my own making. Swearing fluently, I stooped to pick it all up again- an aerobic feat all in itself when wearing heels (I'm just ever so very good at making excuses why I don't need to go to the gym), I came across a piece of paper with quick sketches drawn in pen. Frowning slightly as I tried to separate the images, I recognised the same expression on the page before me- just a slightly more elegant version; pen strokes do tend to have that effect, but also, it's not too hard to make a drawning of a frown cuter than the real deal.
I suspect the real deal is going to give me premature wrinkles.

Arming myself with coffee I retired to the couch to check this out.
There were a few pictures of me, frowning over a bitch of an essay but I thought, the angles not quite right here. And then it clicked; he'd drawn me from my reflection in the window.
Aww.

I've done a little research, and my concern that muses and artistes had to do the whole sex thing has been quelled. So I can now get back to enjoying this in peace, without that horrid nagging doubt hanging over my head.

But he reads this. So, it's not that he's not hot..

Little Red

Foolishly I was hoping to avoid telling this story! But by popular demand, here's my account of The Time I Was Arrested For A Misconception.
Sounds so much better that The Time I Was Arrested For Prostitution, dontcha think?

Last year I wasted six weeks of my life doing a work experience thing in France- I refuse to believe that I’ve ever had a real job in my life apart from this one, and doubts as to my intention of ever actually getting one have been raised more than once, despite J having had something of a tendancy for bringing me back shiny application forms “just in case”.

My brief stint as as Christmas elf doesn't count, because I was half dead with cold for most of the time.

One night after a particularly rough day at work, where the paper shredder broke after I tried to feed it bits of cardboard coffee cup, we decided to go out- “we” being me, the few other English-speaking souls who’d been similarly conned into signing up for unpaid work experience at this company, and some of the stranger French worker bees.

Partying with people who are considered weird even among the French can only lead to trouble.

One impromptu fancy dress party and lots of obscure French drinking games later, I tried to get home but was refused access to my train by an overzealous night guard, which did- obviously enough- mean that I decided upon sleeping in the doorway of the Hotel de Ville- the town hall.
I was woken up several hours later by a pair of grubby looking men surreptitiously trying to look up my skirt, who then proceeded to question me as to my vocation and reason for sleeping out in the open. The smell soon convinced me that they were harmless French hobos- I do, of course, live in London now and have learned my lesson; bad smells seldom mean the people asking you for money are the real hobo deal- and fumbled for my purse, dropping my hotel key at their feet.

"Qu'est qu'on fait?"

Turns out they were actually grubby policemen who thought I was a prostitute.
As this used to happen with dismaying frequency- I've been refused access to hotels I was staying in because of such misconceptions- this may or may not have been due to the outfit I'd been given for the whole fancy dress shennanigans.
Little Red Riding Hood Goes to Fetish Party, would be putting it kindly.
*rolls eyes*

It took me a fair while to realise what was going on however, and when I finally did- several crude hand gestures later- being un peu drunk still, I informed them that I didn’t kiss on the mouth, a statement accompanied with a finger across the nearest guys lips, and wide eyes.

*shrugs*

These things would appear to be universally understood.

Which resulted in me being carted off for questioning, en Français, at the police station- amazingly, I was never taught the name for that in A Level French* (chez le police, peut-etre?) until they finally realised they could just call my company to vouch for my erstwhile integrity- presumably because the Giggling Brit was having trouble sobering up enough to speak French intelligibly.

My name restored to its former slightly tarnished glory, I left with my nose in the air.
At which point I dropped my handbag, and flavoured condoms scattered across the shiny laminate floor.
Having sobered up somewhat, I declined getting down on my hands and knees and picking them all up- I think the skirt would have ensured I was done for indecent exposure if I had, anyway.

The week later, I left the country.



But I've since learned that prostitution's actually legal in France, which begs the question- what the fuck were they doing picking up grubby little street women like me and hustling them off to rooms with the most hideous and unflattering flourescent lighting you ever did see?

*Other French words that might have come in useful at this point include the posh word for prostitute, and any word for pimp. Also words for “drunken idiot” might have been useful, but as it was I had to settle for “stupid tourist” which, surprisingly, I was taught.

Bitter Beyond Belief

Fortifying myself with an unlit cigarette, I took a deep breath and called my mother.
I counted the rings, until- "Hello?"
"Hey Fiona," I said, "hows things?"
"Uh, who's this?"
"Imogen, who else would it be?"
"Imogen? Who?"
Scrabbling desperately for a lighter, I smiled and spoke back. "Yeah, I've missed you too Fi darling. How are you?"
"I'm sorry, but who are you?"
"Fuck off then. Is mum around?"
"My mother? Yes. Who's speaking, please?"

Bored, I took another drag from my cigarette and hung up.

I'm the black sheep of my family- mostly, I suspect, because I never made the slightest effort to hide what I was getting up to; not that there was any need, as they didn't find out til well after when I was well beyond caring.
Lose your virginity at 15? Check.
Start smoking at 17? Check.
Abuse drugs? Check.
Drink like a fish? Check.
Like sleeping with girlkind? Check.

It's hardly diffficult to work out, but my mother insists she wants grandchildren- and as I'm the oldest girl (but not the oldest of her children, note) she expects them to come from me.
I think not.

While I made no effort to hide what I was doing in my free time, my little sister, the charming Fiona, has deceit down to a fine art.
£20 goes missing from your purse? Check.
Lose a lipgloss? Check.
Can't find your new Versace handbag? Check.
Eventually find snazzy handbag with tears and ink stains? Check.

Admittedly I am the more wayward of my mothers collection of offspring, but also by far the most interesting.
Oxford reject? Check.
Been arrested for prostitution?* Check.
Speak French? Check.
Proud owner of a polka dot condom?** Check.

However, I thoroughly dislike being treated like a leper by my family.
Fiona's fourteen, and showing no signs of growing out of what my mother describes as "her homophobic phase." But when she has such good fucking company, why would she? And there's no hope for her- my mother's in her late forties, and she hasn't "outgrown" it- which hardly bodes well for her Other Daughter.

I just get so fucking bored of this; it's too much effort even to speak to my parents, and I don't want things to be like that. Not that I feel I need their approval, but it might be something it's nice to have- I'd quite like them to include me in the summary they exchange with distant friends about their respective children.
"Oh my eldest son is living in Japan with his wife, he's just got a new job, my other son's is in his final year at Cambridge and he's doing this and that, my daughters started her GCSEs this year and has just taken up modern dance classes and Theo's just turned eight and has a part in the school play."
Especially when I'm there when they do it.
"Oh you remember my daughter Fiona, right? She was only eleven when you saw her last, hasn't she grown!"

But things have reached the stage where I really do find it too much effort- my fortnightly phonecall has turned into a periodic email, which I may or may not get a reply to.
The other morning, I tried phoning again before my parents headed off to work.
"Daddy!" I said, "how's it going?"
"Imogen, look, I'll call you back during my lunch break ok? I have to grab breakfast before I head on out."
"No! Please don't put me off again, I got up early for this and I've had a grand total of two hours sleep because I wanted to talk to you. So hows things?"
He interrupted then, using his Dealing With the Stupid Voice. "Look Imogen, things are difficult right now, since Fiona told us about your, uh... unorthodox tendancies. So just leave it alone, ok and I'll call you later on."

Of course he fucking didn't.
But I didn't expect him to, which may or may not be worse than sitting round the flat all day waiting on the off chance your parents are going to call.


*I feel it necessary to assure you all that not only am I not a prostitute, but I've never been one. Mistakes all round!
**Incidentally, these are like gold dust, and theres no way in hell I'm using it- the imagery is slightly unfortunate.