“I think it’s a brilliant idea,” says the microwave, who has an inbuilt tendency to view the world as binary (good/bad) with the occasional urge to slow down and think about it (defrost).
“I believe I’ve seen this movie,” says the telly. “Fucked if I can remember how it ends.”
The toothbrush says, “Isn’t there a danger that they could, you know…” It conveys the rest of the sentence in a series of buzzing noises.
“Live happily ever after?” says the telly.
“Not a hope in hell,” I say with more conviction than I actually possess. Who actually knows what would happen if these two were to meet again? Could they rescue one another from their rackety lives and together build a strong future? Or would they each find themselves unable to escape their habitual patterns; she to be drawn to a charismatically unreliable male; he to flee permanence, stability, more words along those lines.
Except—plot twist—her last relationship was with Shittle. And on the flip-flopping principle, the next contestant should be a dull, safe one.
Except—let’s twist again—we are trying to escape that cycle.
Heavy sigh. Perhaps I am turning into Oprah Winfrey!
I “order” the troops to do nothing with the new highly sensitive intelligence except keep maximally schtum.
“Aye, aye, captain,” says the TV set satirically.
Saluki-woman wanted me to work with The Foetus on developing questions for the Chad Butterick interview.
Actually, I must stop calling him that. Dylan is probably twenty-five and his knowledge of television—plus music, cinema, podcasts; matter of fact, make that all popular culture—is oceanic. It’s just that his features are not especially well-formed. His face is somewhat blobular, if that’s a word, and the almost white-blond hair, lucky bastard, means he doesn’t seem to have any eyebrows. I can easily imagine him floating in a sac of amniotic fluid, which to be honest has never been a great look.
The Foetus—sorry—Dylan pulled a swivelly chair up alongside mine, kicked his feet up onto the desk and drew some mysterious boxes on a page attached to a clipboard, like he had a plan.
“Hit me up,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“What do we know about the Chadster?”
I allowed a pause.
“You realize you’re talking out loud? You said, the Chadster.”
“I’m thinking he’s actually kind of cool. In his totally inflected ironic cheesiness?”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“The original cheese has matured into a kinda self-aware toughened whole. Like there’s a hard, protective rind around the package.”
“Gouda?”
“More like a parmesan. Possibly a pecorino.”
“Manchego?”
“Yeah, could be.”
Was this irony? Or post-irony? Or had we totally jumped the camembert?
“You think we should get him going on the cheese aspects?”
“Oh, deffo. Big time.”
“If you were a cheese, what sort of cheese would you be? sort of thing.”
“I think it’s a strong line.”
“Put it down.”
The Foetus, I’m fairly sure, scribbled the word cheese into one of the boxes.
“You think there could be sponsorship angles?” he said, I believe in all seriousness.
“This program has been brought to you by Red Leicester. The Red Cheese! Actually, it’s more orange, if it’s anything.”
“A cheese producer might be interested, if there were to be some synergies with program content.”
I saw him scribble sponsorship in another box.
“Can I ask you something, Daisy?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
He sighed heavily, and began bashing his knee with the clipboard. I had to tell him to stop it.
“There’s this girl. Woman.”
Shit. Here it was.
“Tell me.”
“She’s really nice and everything.”
I couldn’t resist it. “A Stilton? Or less crumbly?”
(I was aching to say Stinking Bishop!)
He ignored the diversion.
“We’ve been out a few times and everything. But I can’t seem to.” He lowered his voice. “This is actually kind of embarrassing.”
“Listen. No worries.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. Please don’t make me laugh.
“I can’t seem to move it up to the next level.”
“Ah. That old chestnut. Actually, I don’t know why I said chestnut. It’s all this talk of cheese, it’s making me hungry.”
“We’ve had four dates, right. Cinema. Walk on the Heath. South Bank. Loud restaurant. All the regular datey stuff. But I’m not getting any signals from her. Nothing to suggest she’d welcome. You know. A move.”
Very difficult not to splutter with hilarity at the idea of The Foetus putting the moves on anyone.
“And I don’t want to pounce. Obviously, I don’t want to do that. You don’t mind me talking about this?”
“Not at all.”
It’s what Mummy’s here for.
“When you say there are no signals, right? Are you sure? Because four dates is… is quite a few dates.”
“Well, that’s what I was thinking.”
“If she wasn’t interested at some level in moving to the—the, er next level, she would probably have stayed at home.”
“Exactly.”
“Have you tried looking into her eyes and saying, you know I really like you, whatever her name is. What is her name?”
“Bexley.”
“Bexley?! That’s a place.”
“Yeah, in Kent.”
“Have you tried saying, I really like you, Bexley?”
“I couldn’t.”
“I see your point, to be honest. Who calls their kid Bexley?”
“Maybe she just likes, you know, being out.”
“What does she even do, Bexley?”
“At the moment she’s a chugger. You know, a charity mugger. She stops people on the street and asks if they can spare five minutes for Africa.”
“That’s how you met, isn’t it?” The Foetus nods ruefully. “So she ought to be good at the interpersonal stuff. Hmm.”
I chewed on a biro to see if that led anywhere.
“Would it help to see a picture?”
The photo on his mobile was of an attractive young woman with haystack hair and several piercings.
“Have you tried getting shitfaced?”
“I don’t really drink any more. Not after what happened at your leaving do.”
“There’s your problem right there!”
I felt like I’d cracked the case.
“She doesn’t really drink either. Green tea’s more her thing.”
“You and Bexley need to get yourselves nicely pickled, a couple of dirty martinis should do the job, in fact I know just the place. You really can’t be dating a young woman without alcohol entering the equation. It stands to reason.”
The Foetus looked like I could
