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ot a great start to the morning. I squirted foaming cleanser on to my toothbrush and gave myself a shoulder injury while trying to put on a bra. I’ve been having rotator cuff issues since I knitted for eight hours straight to finish my god-daughter’s Christmas cardigan the day before BoJo announced that Christmas was cancelled.
There were silver linings however. My teeth are three shades lighter and I had a good excuse to ignore today’s email from Yoga With Adriene. I signed up for her New Year’s Breath course. So far, the only breathing exercises I’ve done involve sighing when the daily email comes in to remind me I’m another day older and not even slightly more flexible.
I did not manage to get into my bra before there was a loud banging on the living room window. I flung on a sweatshirt and went to investigate. Brenda from across the road was peering through a gap in my curtains.
“Why didn’t you knock on the door?” I asked.
“The virus,” she said. “Everybody touches the door and I haven’t seen you out with the wipes.”
Brenda moved to the doorstep. “I won’t come in.”
I didn’t point out that I hadn’t invited her. Or that it was illegal. Lockdown rules were Brenda’s field.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“You didn’t open your curtains this weekend. Are you unwell? Symptoms?”
“No, I was feeling lazy,” I said. And somewhat observed. Then Glenn the postman appeared. I folded my arms tightly over my chest.
“Looks serious,” he said, handing me a heavy padded envelope marked “urgent”, which I managed to take from him without uncrossing my arms.
“It is,” I said, recognising my god-daughter Coraline’s handwriting.
Glenn was hovering. Ordinarily, I’d have been pleased but Brenda was hovering too and… no bra. I clutched the envelope close and made my excuses.
Coraline is 15 years old. At 13, she announced she would no longer be called Coraline (her parents named her after the Neil Gaiman character) but Caroline, as befitted an aspiring Tory MP. It took us all a little while to get used to it.
The padded envelope contained Caroline’s plans to shake up the GCSE system. While every other teenager I know is happy they’ve cancelled the exams, Caroline is in favour of a two-tier arrangement, with those who want to (her) sitting exams that will give them a special starred certificate worth three of the certificates given to those who think it’s unreasonable to have their futures decided by a mutant algorithm or exams that would overwhelmingly favour students from well-resourced private schools in a year when many other schools have struggled to provide basic access to teaching. Caroline is at a well-resourced private school. I do not know where she gets her political tendencies from but she was born nine months after a by-election so perhaps there was a handsome canvasser…
Caroline did not want my comments on her manifesto, she just wanted to know the envelope had arrived so she could gauge whether or not the envelope she sent to Gavin Williamson at the same time had been delivered to Westminster. She wants to be sure her voice is heard.
I didn’t have time to respond with anything more than a thumbs-up on WhatsApp anyway because I was hosting a party. Well, what passes for a party in lockdown. When I first came to London, I lived for parties. I lived on parties. After I’d bought a travelcard and paid rent, launch event canapes were an important source of nutrition.
This time last year, I couldn’t wait to quit the party scene. I couldn’t wait to quit my job. I’d written my resignation letter. Then the pandemic hit and being between jobs didn’t seem like such a good idea. So I stayed with Bella Vista PR and today I hosted a Zoom lunch party for my new client, non-alcoholic root-based beverage #Yne (pronounced “wine”. Silent hashtag).
The guests were 12 carefully chosen Instagrammers who had that morning been sent via courier a hamper of “vegan treats” and six mini-bottles of #Yne in all its flavours. Parsnip, anyone?
One by one the Instagrammers logged in and began bitching. Eight had received their hampers. Four hadn’t. Three had only had 15 minutes to listen to my client’s presentation because they were expected at the online launch of a new clothing brand for Dachshunds called “LDMH” (Little Dog, Massive Heart. I hope they’re ready for LVMH’s lawyers).
Saskia, creator of #Yne, began telling us how a vegetable garden seen on an African orphanage’s Instagram account inspired her to start her brand. Meanwhile, the influencers with the hampers munched on vegan treats and tasted the various “vintages”. I should have suggested everyone turn their cameras off. Let’s just say #Yne is not the new Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
I had a hamper of my own but decided not to eat on duty. I nodded along to Saskia’s speech while trying to gauge which influencers would be kind. Then as Saskia was talking everyone through the Carrot Cab (pronounced “nothing like cabernet sauvignon”), something off-screen caught my eye. I sat stock still as Minky, my boss Bella’s hamster, crept out from beneath the fridge and busied herself with something caught in the gap between two kitchen tiles.
While the influencers gave their opinion on #Yne, I fixed my gaze on Minky, who seemed in no particular hurry to get back under the fridge. This was my chance. Slowly, I unwrapped the scarf I’d thrown over my sweatshirt for the Zoom call. If I could just toss the scarf over the hamster, pinning her in place…
My aim was true. I got the scarf right over Minky. But I also knocked my laptop and six sample bottles of #Yne off the kitchen table. And by the time I’d saved my laptop from the Perky Parsnip, Minky was gone. And I’d probably lost the #Yne contract.
Bella thinks she may be able to get a flight back from St Barts this week, covid test permitting. I have to catch that hamster.
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