OH MY ACTUAL GOD. This is so sad.
I met a gynecologist in the pub the other night (as you do) and she described to me how she had recently performed a labioplasty on a woman who was perfectly within the range of normal. ‘Why are we doing this?’ the surgeon in charge apparently remarked, but the teenage patient was paying for it so they all sort of shrugged and carried on. AWFUL.
What precipitated this:
Ferdolyn: …have a lovely-ish evening.
I will photograph the potatoes.
Friend in Geneva: Good!
I was going to ask, actually.
I usually use occassions such as this to have some fun.
Actually, we call them azure leg huggers.
Oh, the japes! When I was last in America, as part of a group of British journalists, several people I had meetings with expressed particular amazement when I spoke.
‘Why,’ they said. ‘You don’t have an accent at all!’
‘I’m American,’ I replied.
‘Ohhhhh….’ they said, as if they’d only just realised that British people don’t speak American all funny on purpose.
My friend C reacts to news of my new Real Job.
The playlist last night was hilarious, but this was definitely the winner.
Easter was spent divided towards two parties: first, dinner with an old friend which was lovely, but which involved me digging in to a conversation with another guest who was a ‘private security consultant’ in Africa (freelance mercenary) which threatened to derail the pleasant evening entirely.
The other guests wandered from the room as another guest who is a relief worker and I attempted to have a conversation about it without shouting at him. Though he was my first private security consultant, I find more often than not when I’m in a situation where I encounter someone whose political views are diametrically opposed to my own that I too often hold back from expressing myself properly while they cheerfully chat about their right-wing views, perhaps with the confidence that no one will be rude enough to counter them, and the confidence that their conservative logic will always trump illiberal ones. I managed, in this case, to offer a counterpoint, to have a debate, but I still felt disappointed in myself for not trying hard enough.
So then I went to the Dalston Jazz Bar with some other friends and we danced crazily to an amazing blend of Sinatras (Nancy and Frank) and swing standards and reggae and tracks by the DJ’s dad. And then I still felt like a bit of a political failure, but an sort of happy one.
Yesterday someone wrote something really mean about me on the Internet - so super mean, that it made me feel as I used to when I was in 7th grade and got taunted on the school bus. I nearly cried, but then I went downstairs to see always-dependable neighbour J.
He pointed out that the threat against me - involving fashioning some kind of weapon out of a coathanger and a tampon - only came up on, like, the fifth page of a google search for my name, whereas the fourth entry when you google him is a terrifying racist essay about a case that he worked on (he’s a lawyer) and includes a photo of him. And yet he is totally cheerful about it! So now I am cheerful about the tampon-hanger threat, and I am cheerful because it is good to have a friend who is a real mensch.
Would you take your husband’s last name?
I think not, because I am really fond of my last name, which is sparkly and unusual, and also because after thirty years of life (I’m estimating, at the rate I’m going) I think it would be very odd to change. However, on the rare occasions where I allow myself to feel hopelessly romantic I imagine that it would be nice to have the same name as my husband - and definitely as my kids - which is why I will probably end up making him take mine. Unless his is cooler. Maybe we can have a name-off.
I go downstairs to borrow J's iron
- Me: J, can I borrow your iron? I have a job interview tomorrow.
- J: Sure, work away.
- Me: Gosh, I wonder who designs ironing board covers? This is hideous.
- J: Probably failed writers.