Wednesday, 16 March 2011

Piece of writing in the style of Helen Fielding...

Being a woman is a very gruelling task. The other day, I had the arduous task of ‘getting ready’ for a date, a date which in a fit of good-will I decided to cook for. So there I was, trying to make both myself and my food as delicious as possible. Urggghh..  

Firstly, the ‘getting ready’ aspect. After I had seemingly, in Bridget Jones’s words, ‘farmed’ my body, I then go on to the ridiculous task of painting my face and sorting out my straw-like hair.
Proceeded almost instantly to get foundation all over my nicely ironed top.
 And now, suddenly, after my ideal outfit is no more (and I say ‘ideal’ because I have previously scrutinized every outfit in my wardrobe and decided that said top is the only thing that I will look good in for this situation; not too ‘try hard’, not too casual. So much to think about) shockingly, nothing else in my wardrobe looks ‘good’ on me. A skirt/top which I would usually throw on and feel acceptable in has turned into some sort of squeezing device, insistent on showing  bits of bulge which I didn’t even know I had. Nervously chew freshly painted nails and then have to spend precious time carefully dabbing nail varnish remover onto sides out mouth so do not look like vampire, oozing ‘sexy scarlet’ paint from mouth.
How I did it I do not know, but eventually this horrific ‘getting ready’ episode ended and I decided to start cooking.
I cannot cook. Part of me likes this fact and wants to retain it for as long as possible, namely so this situation will never arise again. Yes, food- I love. I can fully appreciate food when someone else has cooked it. Hell, I have survived this long without knowing how to make a Jain Du Laurieieiririr duck armpit souflee and am yet to keel over from malnutrition.  Yes, I can bake a good chocolate cake. But cook? Under pressure? Noooo. Decide on a whim to make some sort of ridiculously extravagant sausage casulet, with £0.99 packet of sausages and several stolen ingredients from housemates. This, of course, is the recipe for success.  
So, in comes Man. I shall name him Man because I seemingly have no imagination. See, in these situations, one wants Man to arrive to self looking composed and calm, possibly in the middle of doing ‘something’ (whatever it may be) so that you do not look like you have been twitching nervously and looking at your watch for several hours before Man’s arrival.  However, Man arrived after all of my housemates had disappeared and my self-inflicted fast for the day had just ended; I was munching on cheese and onion crisps hoping that I would have time to brush teeth and sort crumbs out before Man arrived. However, typically, Man decides to arrive at most inconvenient moment possible, looking frighteningly relaxed. Legs go a little floppy, probably from lack of food all day. See, he managed to dress himself and walk to my house, how is it that, in the face of Man, I cannot even do the simplest of functions?
I have no idea how these dinner events are meant to go so begin with plying him with alcohol and dashing in and out of the kitchen in an attempt to prepare food; sausages are flying everywhere. Everywhere.  


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