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.'It continued all evening.There's nothing worse than people telling you youlook tired.They might as well have done with it and say you look like fivekinds of shit.I felt so pleased with myself for not drinking but as theevening wore on, and everyone got drunker, I began to feel so calm and smugthat I was even irritating myself.I kept finding myself in conversations whenI actually couldn't be bothered to say a single word, and just looked on andnodded in a wise, detached manner.'Have you got any camomile tea?' I said to Jude at one point as she lurchedpast, hiccupping happily, at which point she collapsed into giggles, put herarm round me and fell over.I decided I'd better go home.Once there, I got into bed, put my head on the pillow but nothing happened.Ikept putting my head in one place, then another place, but still it wouldn't goto sleep.Normally I would be snoring by now and having some sort oftraumatized paranoid dream.I put the light on.It was only 11:30.Maybe Ishould do something, like, well, er.mending? Inner poise The phone rang.It was Tom.'Are you all right?''Yes.I feel great.Why?''You just seemed, well, flat tonight.Everyone said you weren't your usualself.''No, I was fine.Did you see how thin I am?' Silence.'Tom?''I think you looked better before, hon.'Now I feel empty and bewildered - as if a rug has been pulled from under myfeet.Eighteen years - wasted.Eighteen years of calorie- and fat-unit-basedarithmetic.Eighteen years of buying long shirts and sweaters and leaving theroom backwards in intimate situations to hide my bottom.Millions ofcheesecakes and tiramisus, tens of millions of Emmenthal slices left uneaten.Eighteen years of struggle, sacrifice and endeavor - for what? Eighteen yearsand the result is 'tired and flat.' I feel like a scientist who discovers thathis life's work has been a total mistake.Thursday 27 AprilAlcohol units 0, cigarettes 0, Instants 12 (v.v.bad, but have not weighed selfor thought about dieting all day; v.g.).Must stop doing the Instants, but the trouble is I do quite often win.TheInstants are much better than the Lottery itself, because the numbers no longercome up during Blind Date (it is not on at the moment) and all too often do nothave a single one of yours among them, leaving you feeling both impotent andcheated with nothing to be done except crumple your ticket up and throw itdefiantly on the floor.Not so with the Instants, which are very much a participation thing, with sixcash figures to be scratched off - often quite a hard and skilled job - andnever giving you the feeling that you didn't have a chance.Three amounts thesame secures a win, and in my experience you always get very close, often withas many as two matching pairs for amounts as great as £50,000.Anyway, you can't deny yourself all pleasures in life.I'm only on about fouror five a day and, besides, I'm going to stop soon.Friday 28 AprilAlcohol units 14, cigarettes 64, calories 8400 (v.g., though bad to havecounted.Slimming obsession v.bad), Instants 0.At 8:45 last night I was running a relaxing aromatherapy bath and sippingcamomile tea when a car burglar alarm started up.I have been waging a campaignon our street against car burglar alarms which are intolerable andcounterproductive since you are more likely to get your car broken into by anangry neighbor trying to silence the burglar alarm than by a burglarThis time, however, instead of raging and calling the police, I merely breathedin through flared nostrils and murmured, 'inner poise.' The doorbell rang.Ipicked up the intercom.A v.posh sheep-voice bleated, 'He's having a fuckingaffair.' Then there was hysterical sobbing.I rushed downstairs, where Magdawas outside the flat in floods of tears fiddling under the steering wheel ofJeremy's Saab convertible, which was emitting a 'dowee-dowee-doowee' ofindescribable loudness, all lights flashing, while the baby screamed as ifbeing murdered by a domestic cat in the car seat.'Turn it off!' somebody yelled from an upstairs window.'I bloody well can't!' shrieked Magda, tugging at the car hood.'Jerrers!' she yelled into the portable phone.'Jerrers, you fucking adulterousbastard! How do you open the hood on the Saab!'Magda is very posh.Our street is not very posh.It is of the kind which stillhas posters in the windows saying 'Free Nelson Mandela.''I'm not bloody coming back, you bastard!' Magda was yelling.'Just tell me howto open the fucking bonnet.'Magda and I were both in the car now, pulling every lever we could find, Magdaswigging intermittently at a bottle of Laurent-Perrier [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]

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