Monday
I’m happy that the Red Roses won, of course, but sad that the women’s Rugby World Cup is over. Not because I have finally found my (spectator) sport – my patriotic and competitive instincts remain unstirred regardless of which sex is playing and with what shaped balls – but because, as an older sister, I am always here for first-borns asserting their God-given right to mess with the rest (the intruders, the interlopers, the destroyers of peace and maternal patience, call them what you will).
And here Chris Dow, the brother of wing wonder and arch-finisher (I have stolen these terms from sports reports and hope they are correct) Abby Dow, has been delivering in spades. From the semi-finals onwards, he turned up in costumes supporting his baby sister’s opposing team: against France he was, naturellement, dressed as Napoleon and in the final against Canada he was in full Mountie regalia.
As I have always told my own younger sister as I’ve set out to ruin her birthday parties, first visits home with boyfriends (they’re my favourites) and assorted other occasions of importance to her, this is how we show love and support. It’s oblique, sure. But heartfelt. So stop crying. God, MUM, will you TELL her?
Tuesday
A new capsule hotel, the Zedwell, has opened in London’s Piccadilly. It offers a bed for the night – and a shared bathroom down the hall – in the centre of town for just £30 a pop for people in the capital and on a budget.
This is the dream. I always thought I’d have to build it myself but now the introverts’ hotel is here. Because what do we – who will crawl over broken glass to get home to our own beds after any extended period of socialising – need far more often than a place to crash overnight? We need a dark, silent pod for a few hours in which to be alone, recover our poise, cry, maybe nap, probably read a book, sometimes just stare at a wall.
But costs have, until now, been prohibitive and we have always had to struggle through an entire day in the throbbing metropolis without any escape. Now, for roughly the price of a Pret croissant, you can have a 2m x1m x1m room of your own instead. Split the cost with other misanthropes and take it in two-hour shifts and it costs pennies to each save your sanity. This is a great day, my non-claustrophobic friends. A great day indeed.
Wednesday
Pinch, punch, first day of the month, no returns! The kind of people who say this – especially with the accompanying actions – are a large part of the reason I wish to seal myself in hotel pod at any given moment, of course, but the fact remains, October is here. Or, as it is now more widely know, Stoptober. Or Sober October. It has become the month where everyone tries to prove we’re not a nation of functioning alcoholics and can lay off the booze any time without difficulty.
Don’t. Do it in November. Keep drinking this month while there are plenty of designated drivers around, and enjoy yourself. In November, you can lay off the sauce and repay the favours, reaping by your very rarity a fuller harvest of gratitude and obligation that will pay off in its own turn in December. Thus you will be able to stay cocooned in a snug, mulled-wine haze throughout peak festive season. Almost as good as a pod, trust me.
Thursday
There is so little in the news not to care about these days that I cherish stories that fall into this disappearing category like the rare jewels they are. So then, to the tale of Windsor Great Park’s new exclusion zone.
The Prince and Princess of Wales, you may have heard, have eschewed the palace lifestyle on offer to the heir to the throne and are moving – or have moved (because who cares! You see?) – into their eight-bedroom “forever home” in the great park instead. In order to protect their privacy, however, a fenced border has been set up around the house. Cross that and you’ll be off to the tower.
No, not really. But you’d think so, from the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth that’s going on. Dog walkers object to having less space to walk their dogs. Car parkers are objecting to having less space to park their cars. Those who fall into both groups are probably on tranquillisers.
For the rest of us: a beautiful nothing of a story in the papers. Something to read and feel not the slightest scintilla of emotional disturbance in your veins. A safe place to rest your eyes. A gift. Enjoy.
Friday
A friend has introduced me to the concept of defining your age by much more useful metrics than simply years. For example, we determined that we are both old enough to think forever that lattes are pretentious and vegetarianism faintly absurd, because we came of age before these things were commonplace. If you remember a practice taking hold in your lifetime, you will never take it truly seriously.
I’m also old enough to boggle at the sight of my child pouring himself a drink of orange juice from the fridge as if it were nothing, to feel slightly anxious at being out and about without an emergency 10p for the phone, and to think of applying anything more sophisticated than deodorant and Nivea to my person as the last word in sybarism.
It’s a much more effective way of finding your people than going by birth date alone, allowing for a little bit more connection (young conservative types can bond with aged normals, for example) and a little less wasted time on small talk. And who, especially at our age, doesn’t want that?
