Wednesday, January 30, 2013


I used to write this blog a lot. Every day for practically a year I wrote an entry. Then I stopped, and despite my best efforts to write more regularly I have struggled. The reason for this is, I fell in love.

I found a boy, smooshed my lips against his for a few months, had a horribly awkward conversation about whether or not we thought we ought to be smooshing our lips against anyone else, decided we wouldn't, fell in love, moved in together and the rest is the future.

I haven't particularly wanted to write about it before because I found it difficult to write comedy when my ongoing aura was that of the smuggest Smuggerson that ever lived smugly in Smugville. My comedy persona was built out of being desperately miserable, desperately single and a bit desperately desperate. It couldn't have been worse time for it to happen to be honest, I feel like some kind of Alice in Wonderland. If Alice has chased the promise of regular sex down the rabbit hole and ended up in a one bedroom flat in Brighton. In fact, if I'd only been chasing a rabbit I'd probably at least have had the good sense to throw it away shame facedly when the batteries ran out after a few days. As it is I've bought paintings for the rabbit hole and learned that Tottenham Hotspur play in White Hart Lane. What the fuck, dear reader? What. The. Fuck.

We've lived together for 5 months now and I feel like if I don't start finding the funny side in it then:
a) My career as a comedy writer is going to grind to a crushing halt.
b) I'm going to cram a spoon in his head and:
    i) laugh when they sentence me
    ii) refuse to answer the questions as to how I got it so far in only using my bare hands.

What baffles is me is that, for generations, we have been schooling our youngsters in everything they could possibly want for the future: science, maths, sex ed, religious studies. As a 14 year old I even learned how to wash my own arm pits and happy cave. As though they'd just been festering for the 8 years I'd been in charge of my own showers until Dr Roberts popped up and said, "Hey, ever thought of a sponge? You be careful now."

How has no one ever stopped and thought, "We expect the vast majority of these kids to live in a partnership of some kind one day. Let's teach them how to deal with that?" Was there a group meeting shortly after Adam and Eve reached their paper anniversary where everyone went, "Well, this has turned out fucking horrible, let's let people figure it out for themselves. If we tell them now they'll all start doing it lion style so that at least there are two people in the household who understand recycling procedures."

5 months ago I climbed to the top of a helter skelter thinking it would be an excellent ride, not realising that every inch of the ride was taking me closer to becoming my mum. My mum is standing at the bottom of the slide with a passion for Fat Face and coat for me that looks remarkably like hers. I'm being welcomed to the fold.

The spirited freedom fighter in my head that was going to break all the moulds has realised that men and women haven't just been "a bit twatty" for the last 2,000 years. It is fucking difficult. Because, the truth is, Happily Ever After is only 50% accurate as a statement. You won't always be happy, but it is going to be all the time. Prince Charming gazing at you when you're in a ball gown and a helpful budgie has decorated your hair with nature is great. Prince Charming gazing at you while you're trying to work out a punch line for a joke is distracting and downright unnecessary. It becomes nigh on infuriating when you find out he's gazing at you because he's hungry and doesn't know if he's allowed the chicken in the fridge.


Because, I have become keeper of the chicken. I'm like some crazy dictator who wants to be left alone to laugh at the word bum, whilst also ensuring that my people keep the fuck away from my chicken because I need it for the dinner I'm somehow making us all. Don't touch my chicken. All in all, it's pretty confusing.

I suppose, the point of this post (lost as it is in the cloudy fog of my own inability to be the perfect house wife cum career girl) is to forewarn you that this little nook in the internet might be a bit more domestic now than we're used to. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am the happiest I have ever been - I feel like Cinderella, a Cinderella who has to make up excuses to go and fart in the hall. That Cinderella. The one no one wrote about. So, you know, she's doing it herself. While Prince Charming gazes at her. Fucking chicken.

1 comment:

  1. I've missed these blogposts. While it doesn't quite match the Edinburgh story about the OXO in the vegetarian banquet, I can totally relate to The Great Chicken Dilemma.

    Oh, and sod the future. I'm 48 and I never became my mum, on account of being neither ginger nor female nor dead (although I'm sure to become one of them eventually). And you've made a better choice of person-to-argue-about-chicken-with than I did.