that’s lovely,’ said Carolyn. ‘Well, the best of luck for tonight, Rhiannon. We’ll be cheering you on, have no fear.’ It was clear that they’d cut my interview very short. They’d have to stick on a few more sofa adverts in the break.
‘Yes, thanks, Rhiannon,’ said Tony, and did his old man wink, and I risked one final glance down at the peen seam. The anaconda had a baby while I wasn’t looking.
‘Thanks for having me.’ I smiled confidently.
Carolyn and Tony turned to the camera. ‘We’ll see you after the break, when we’ll be talking about the rise in the number of nursery-school children downloading Internet porn, Michelinstar chef Scottie Callender will be in the kitchen with his three-cheese quiche and we might find time to have a chat to these young fellas…’
Four pre-pubic teen boys bounced onto the sofa from behind, scaring the crap out of me and knocking over the bowl of croissants on the coffee table.
Carolyn giggled like a drain as the lead singer and official fittest one, Joey, apologised and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Yes, Boytox, the YouTube-born boy band taking the world by storm at the moment, are here to chat about their sell-out world tour. We’ll see you in three,’ she said to camera, fanning herself theatrically. The saxophone music signalled we were clear and it felt like the whole studio breathed a sweet sigh of relief.
The youngest Boytox member, who wore glasses, stank of Emporio Armani and would certainly be the first one to announce he was gay, sat next to me. He put his heavily tattooed arm around me. ‘I loved the interview. So cool that you, like, didn’t die and stuff.’
I could have killed them all, one by one, right there on the fuchsia banquette.
So I didn’t win. Malala beat me into a cocked hat. Oh, and there was a second and third place and I didn’t get either of them. One of the cancer women came second. The foster mum got bronze. Taliban trumps cancer. Cancer trumps hammer-wielding maniac. So, as it turns out, I’m not the big kahuna when it comes to heroism. And though my photo will appear in Take a Break magazine alongside all the other nominees, it turns out being the only kid at the crèche not to die from a hammer blow to the skull isn’t that big a big deal.
The ceremony was at this massive opulent hotel in Soho. I’m terrible at schmoozing at the best of times so for the most part I stayed in a corner staring at my phone, filling my mouth with green olives so I wouldn’t have to make conversation.
When I got into work this morning, it was a different story. I lied my little ass off. How I’d got a selfie with Gary Barlow and some tart from Loose Women (it was on her phone, which was why I couldn’t show them). How I’d heard one of the footballers finger-banging one of the TOWIE lot in the lavs. How two celeb hairdressers snorted coke at the bar. How the presenters of the wildlife programme had a tiff over peanuts. How this actor tripped over some woman’s Gucci dress, how that actress stumbled into a taxi and everyone saw her stench trench.
Oh, yah, I was all OVER the gossip, dah-ling.
The unvarnished truth was that I made a sharp exit the moment they read out the results to catch the rape o’clock train home. No man made a move though, much to my chagrin. Always the same when you’re all knifed up and ready to go.
By 9:14 a.m., they’d all moved on anyway. And the empty space on the shelf above my desk, which I’d dusted clear to make room for my award, was filled with complaints about litter, press releases and some local farmer’s self-published memoirs for me to do a feature on. I really needed that fucking award. The only praise I ever get is when Hotmail tells me I’ve got a very clean inbox.
It sucks major BALLS.
AJ was asking me about it on and off all day, bless him. I’m starting to like him again. He holds the door open for me, makes me peanut butter and banana on toast and hates Linus almost as much as I do. Linus gives him nicknames as well – Apache Junction, Angelina Jolie, Aussie Jim. Unfortunately, though, he has Claudia’s boring gene and I had to hear all about his life back in ‘Straya’ with his teacher mum and mechanic stepdad. How his dad left him when he was five and how long it took him to learn to surf, how he doesn’t like Vegemite despite the stereotype, how his high school had a terrorist attack once and how wondrous the sunsets are where he lives. He also calls charity shops ‘op shops’. His breath smells good too – no aftertang. Minty. I watch his neck pulse sometimes when he’s talking to me.
As of 8.31 p.m. this evening, #UpAttheCock is still trending on Twitter. So is #WomanOfTheCentury. I’m not mentioned in any of those tweets though. It’s mostly about Ant and Dec’s radical new facial hair. Typical.
1. The entire human race. Even the ones not born yet who are just poised in the birth canal, ready to come out and piss me off
I woke up in a chronic mood, which wasn’t unusual given the dreams I have, but what was unusual was that every single ittybitty thing was annoying me. Even Tink, and she was usually the one thing that didn’t. I tripped over her twice getting dressed so I shouted at her. Then I felt bad and she crawled up my lower leg, begging for a pick-up so she could lick my face.
There was an uncertain feeling in my chest at work all day long, clenching like sharp teeth. I wanted to kill again.
Carol the sub was in the staffroom when I went to make the coffees.
‘That AJ’s got himself a bit of a crush on you,’ she told me, with a conspiratorial stir of her camomile.
‘On me?’ I said. ‘Why?’
She laughed. ‘You’ll have to ask him, won’t you?’
I shrugged. ‘How do you know?’
‘He was asking me if you had a better half.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I said he should ask you himself. Do you like him?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘He could come in useful somewhere.’
She shrieked at that, only it took me a while to realise she thought I meant that as a pun. I truly didn’t. ‘Watch out for Claudia though. She’ll be on the warpath if you’re found defiling her nephew. She keeps a pretty close eye on him.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m surprised she doesn’t make him work in a little cat basket under her desk.’
Cue another deafening shriek.
Talking of the Gulp Monster, Claudia wants me to do my own write up on the Up At the Crack interview – The Editorial Assistant’s Eye View – as opposed to the Editor’s Comment next week.
‘There’s a little moment in the sun for you, sweetpea,’ she said with a smile so patronising it could strip paint.
Whoopee Shit. It’ll be squeezed between a half-page advert for sixty years of Darlington Caravans and a story about a dead World War Two carrier pigeon someone found up their chimney. She can suck my mammaries till Michaelmas if she thinks I’m going to be grateful for that, gigantic bag of crabs that she is.
Joyless Joy slurped her tea all morning. The comment about my personal appearance today was ‘What’s the matter with your legs in those leggings? You couldn’t stop a pig in a passage.’ I still very hate her too.
There’s been a robbery at the One Stop, so the reporters were all over that this afternoon. Other than that, nothing else is making headlines. Same old, same old. There’s the upcoming fifty-year