Chapter Twenty-One #2
Could it all be coming together, I wonder as the train announcer apologises yet again. I exchange eyerolls in solidarity with a young couple opposite me, but ignore the middle-aged woman with shopping bags who looks really miserable. She reminds me too much of my old self.
Next on the list is the whole making new friends thing, which may take a little longer than getting Instagram followers.
I don’t really see myself just going out and randomly introducing myself to Gen Zs, but maybe the people I met in the lift could be a starting point.
And the blond guy was very dishy. Which, once again, is the sort of thing Mother Pells would say about Monty Don.
Not dishy… hot? JEEZ, I sound so dated. Next time I run into them I’ll be more prepared.
I might email Channing and ask him for some pointers on the Gen Z vernacular, which probably doesn’t involve using the word vernacular, I’ll wager. Or ‘wager’ for that matter…
As for points three and four, they are all pretty much dependent on point two, so not really much to say about those for the moment, other than I cannot bloody wait, and although I have slight concerns that sex has changed as it’s been so long (might ask Channing that too), I’m glad I didn’t send back the Fuchsia Frenzy bodysuit, which was going to be wasted on Gabe as he’s clearly into older women, like that footballer, what was his name?
Each to their own. And although I did like him (Gabe, not the footballer) and we had a few things in common, I’m not interested in someone who isn’t going to support me when I make a big decision like this. He seems so much older than me now too.
The train makes another grinding noise, then jolts.
The announcer apologises again, so I turn back to my list. Point five – a job.
Now, I know I’m going to be making money from the WULT? Woman publicity, but I don’t want to be stuck at home filming content all the time.
Who’s going to see my ultra low-rise jeans and bao bun tits if I do that?
And on a slightly less shallow note, this is a chance for a career – one that doesn’t burn out like a defective firework.
It’s a do-over. But what could I actually do?
I can’t go back into magazines; they’re laying off loads of people these days anyway thanks to AI and nobody buying print anymore.
And besides, I know too many people in that industry and there might be some resentment.
And for people who don’t know me, my CV might look a bit weird.
No, I need a new career, and I’ve been thinking more and more about advertising – being a copywriter.
Adverts often have punny headlines and I think I’d be really good at that.
Pretty sure advertising agencies are cool places to work too, I know that from Mad Men.
Sexy places, with lots of hot men and people drinking hard liquor during the day, which I think with my new young metabolism I could definitely do.
I managed wine at lunchtime with Merlyn not that long ago after all.
I’m going to see if I can find any job vacancies.
This is VERY exciting. I could even work my way up and become a creative director or something. Everyone would be really impressed.
Point six. So, Mother Pells, typically, didn’t even seem that bothered that I failed to turn up for her eightieth.
She sent me that perfunctory message a week after about how she hoped I was feeling better, and called the other day (after six-thirty p.m. obvs) to share some long-winded saga about Dinah’s log burner, but that’s been about it.
I did tell her I’m in London – ‘I’ve got a big work project on so I’m staying at Nandy’s’ – but she changed the subject and started telling me how she forgot her dentist appointment the other day (The Inevitable).
Which leads me to Simon. I saw on Facebook that, since his quokkas were seized by Interpol, he’s now growing a Lion’s Mane mushroom in a cardboard box that is so high-maintenance with regard to its humidity requirements that he has to come home from work at lunchtime to mist it.
It’s this kind of thing that makes me feel more optimistic about showing my family the ‘new me’ – it’s no weirder than anything Simon does.
I just need to get it over with – that way, he can stop assuming I’m having a mid-life crisis (and no doubt bad-mouthing me to Mother Pells) and maybe just admire me for making positive changes and being picked for such a cutting-edge experiment.
I didn’t put Josie or Nandy on the list because there’s not really much to say.
Josie and I are exchanging the occasional message.
I’ve told her I’ve had to go to London to work – she sounded almost relieved.
She said she’d keep an eye on my house and also mentioned she might pop by to see Mother Pells with Hélo?se.
I told her if she does, not to mention the treatment – for now anyway.
And as for Nandy, well, she’s been pretty quiet too, but she’s coming round to see me at Devon’s soon.
I’m sure she’ll have had time to get used to it all by then.
I hope so anyway. I miss her. I miss Josie too for that matter.
Finally, the train begins to move. I put my phone away, and stand up to get off, enjoying the fact that most of the men in the carriage are looking at me.