Monday
I’ll say this for the Germans: when they’re right, they’re so right. Word reaches us that dachshunds are to be banned in Germany.
Good. At last a place where I can feel safe. For oh, how I loathe the sausage dog. To the point of phobia, almost. I think it’s because they are so wrong in every way. Too long, obviously. Legs too short, clearly. Then the little hard pointy heads. But it’s those awful, sinewy bodies that really have me leaping up on tables – or very, very low stools – to get away from them. Like snakes covered in fur. It’s not right, I tell you. Dogs should be cuddly. Dogs should be comfortably proportioned, not an affront to physics.
Alas, no dream of a dachshund-free safe zone survives contact with reality long. It turns out they are not to be banned but the wording of laws to stop them and other breeds being bred for extreme characteristics (which leave them vulnerable and often in pain) is to be tightened to try to put an end to the practice of “torture breeding”. Which is still good news, I suppose. But not as good as it could have been.
Tuesday
The actress (as I do think she would insist on being called, rather than actor) Dame Joan Collins will be 91 in May. The question of how she looks and has always looked so utterly amazing, how she has maintained her glamorous aura and her presence through the ever-changing world around her was answered this week when she announced to the world her hangover cure. “Tons and tons of water and stay in bed as long as possible,” she said, adding that she only drinks socially and always has a glass of water in between each alcoholic one.
It seems simple, doesn’t it? But what it actually tells us is this: to become a legend, to curate impeccably for 70 years and counting the career and image you began building at an age when most people are still climbing out of their metaphorical babygros, you must have iron discipline and the sense to do what is best for you at all times. This is how greatness is made.
I have cleaved to her teachings since I was 14 and read about her practice in Dynasty of only putting gloss along the bottom lip lest you start looking like you’ve just eaten a jam doughnut, and I shall continue to the end. Mine, not hers. She is clearly going to outlive us all.
Wednesday
I’m sorry to bring this up straight after our talk of the divine dame, but needs must. The figures are in and it appears that there were 3.6m hours of sewage spills into our waterways last year. “Spills” of course is what the water companies call them. It’s an increase of 105% on last year’s raw-effluent-meeting-clean-water-fish-live-in-and-people-swim-in instances. Your toilet is basically connected to the nearest river.
The historian and journalist Guy Walters kindly did some maths and concluded that this is the equivalent of a single pipe spewing the stuff out continuously since the year 1614. I pass this on, in case you were thinking of venturing into the sea over the bank holiday weekend or something silly and disease-provoking like that.
Thursday
Terrible news. Really terrible. Muji has appointed administrators. I need you all to get down to your local branch and start spending money. Why, you ask? Because I am desperate. Muji is the supplier of the perfect notebook, that’s why. And the perfect notebook is the peg on which my entire life and happiness hangs. Anyone who loves stationery will understand.
Oh, the ineffable joy of a new, blank notebook. And when you find your stationery soulmate, you know. Mine is the B5, unlined (for untrammelled thoughts!), double spiral bound (lies flat, doubles over with ease at times of limited desk space!), manila (so neutral, so liberating!), £4.50 (so cheap!) offering from Muji.
If my and other addicts’ needs can’t persuade you, let Muji’s beautiful design philosophy sway you: “Muji’s goal is to sweep away that slight dissatisfaction, and raise the level of the response ‘this will do’ to one filled with clarity and confidence. Muji’s products, born from an extremely rational manufacturing process, are succinct, but they are not in the minimalist style. That is, they are like empty vessels.”
Look at that. Press it to your breast as the perfect antidote to the overwhelmingness of modern life.
Friday
My mother is off to Devon to stay with my sister for Easter. She has been packed since January. The final preparations have been made. Eight-hundred uncreasable light blue tops in wheelie suitcase, 300 navy blue skirts likewise. Crosswords and rest of house in handbag.
“And I’ve put coasters under the coffee table legs,” she announces with satisfaction during the final family phone call.
“You’ve what, you mentalist?” I say kindly.
“Well, your father’s not here to move it every day, is he?” she says. “He’s dead.”
All becomes clear. Not about Dad – we knew he was dead. We went to the funeral and everything. But the coasters became explicable. The coffee table must be moved slightly every day, you see, lest indentations form in the carpet. Left for a bank holiday weekend unattended – well, I need hardly dwell on the carnage that would ensue. But maternal ingenuity has once again mitigated it. I wish all of you as happy and relaxed an Easter as we are now going to be able to have.
