Is It Just Me?
Hello.
My publishers have asked me to write a biography of the author.
So:
Miranda Hart could have been a top model or Olympic athlete but at an early age decided to turn her back on these natural gifts and forge a career in comedy.
She is one of the most beautiful actresses to ever grace the screen. George Clooney has cast her as his next leading lady. She is tipped to not only capture an Oscar but also his heart.
She regularly dines with Obama, lunches with Wills and Kate, parties with Madonna, and plays golf with Kylie. Basically, she’s an international player. This book is her first, but probably the best book ever written.
Miranda Hart
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © KingMaker Productions Ltd
Illustrations © Annika Huett/Agent Molly & Co
The right of Miranda Hart to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The poem,
‘Angels’
by Langston Hughes © Langston Hughes, was taken from the book,
Collected Poems of Langston Hughes
, published by Alfred A Knopf, and is used by permission of David Higham Associates, Ltd. London.
Every reasonable effort has been made to acknowledge the ownership of the copyrighted material included in this book. Any errors that may have occurred are inadvertent, and will be corrected in subsequent editions provided notification is sent to the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 73417 1
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
To my dear reader chum
Contents
This book would not have come into existence without the help of some very lovely and kind people. Many thanks firstly to my agent Gordon Wise at Curtis Brown and Hannah Black at Hodder, for their wisdom and patience in guiding me through the process and for the encouragement to accept the task to write a book. And most importantly, for the laughs along the way.
Also thanks to Rowena Webb and all at Hodder for their support and generally being a wonderful bunch. Would any other publishing house gallop a mile for Sport Relief in my honour I wonder?
My Mum and Dad deserve a big thank you for allowing me to treat their house like a hotel and putting up with me regressing to a teenage like state when I retreated homeward to get the book written.
And finally, for their advice, comment and input Rose Heiney, Paul Powell, and my sister Alice, who remains patiently at the end of the phone to be asked the constant question ‘Is this funny?’ for anything I do.
Right, that’s enough about you all, back to me and my book . . .
Life, eh . . .?
M
y Dear Reader Chum, a very hearty hello to you. What an honour and privilege it is to have you perusing my written word. It is nothing short of tremendous to have you to chat to and, I hope, now that we’re on sentence three, you are sitting comfortably. Or maybe you’re lying. Lying, perhaps, on a beach, or snuggled in your bed; perhaps you’ve constructed a small fort out of cushions, in which case I applaud you. Or maybe you’ve thrown caution to the wind, and you’re lying on the bookshop floor having a little breather (if that’s the case, I’m not being rude, but you’re a bit weird). Maybe you’re standing on a commuter train, using this book as a filter between you and a repellent armpit. If so, I’m terribly sorry. That’s no way to start the day, is it? Face in a pit. Commuter trains are the only place you’d not question standing what in any other social scenario would be freakishly and embarrassingly close to a friend, let alone a stranger. But, I welcome all readers standing. Maybe there are others kneeling? Perhaps you’re in church; maybe you’re at a wedding, with this book tucked surreptitiously into the Order of Service.
Whatever position you find yourself in, I hope you are ensconced and comfortable, for we are – can you believe it? – already on our second paragraph, and well in to this little literary journey together. Should you wish to continue, I suggest that you take this opportunity to arm yourself with a cup of tea and a biscuit, or a bucket of cappuccino and a bollard-sized muffin, or a nourishing soup or, if you’re so inclined, just break all the rules and grab yourself a full-on roast. For we’ve got a book, yes, a whole
book,
to romp through together, and I wouldn’t want you going hungry as we begin a-romping (now stop it, cheeky: you’re making up your own jokes).
What I’d most like to say up front and with all the love that I can muster is that you are very welcome indeed. Whoever you are, however you’ve chosen to arrange yourself, and whatever snack you’ve selected, I clasp you firmly to my writerly bosom. Let there be no confusion about that. You are a much-loved guest in my storybook castle. I applaud you for choosing – and I say this with absolutely no impartiality or objectivity of any kind – such a marvellous book. Of all the books on the shelf, just look what you’ve gone and bought. Give yourself a round of applause, even if you’re in public. I dare you. Actually I tell you what, as this would make me very happy: if you’re in public and see someone else reading this book, why don’t you applaud each other? What a lovely moment that would be. I advocate that as much as I advocate adults galloping, or people randomly wandering into an optician to try on the most unflattering and amusing glasses for no good reason. It’s what I call ‘making your own fun’. Because you have to, really, don’t you? As, let’s face it; life does have a tendency to throw up difficulties, depressions, moments of boredom, loneliness or grind. I don’t know. Life, eh?
‘Life, eh?’ It’s a phrase I’ve heard myself and others say over the years, many times. It’s often only just audible, thrown away over a sigh, or comes at the end of a laugh. A phrase, or tic, or jerk, or (and I beg your pardon) ejaculation reserved for significant moments. Times when you just can’t put into words the emotions and happenings of this weird and wonderful journey of existence. I recently said it on holiday with my friend, Nicky, looking out at a sunset over the sea, when she and I realised we’d known each other ten years to the week. We looked back at all we had wanted then, and all we had achieved. It was a lovely moment, and I heard myself punctuating the conversation with, ‘Life, eh?’ When my little sister had a daughter, we sat with my newborn niece in our parent’s garden, where she and I had often sat as young girls thirty years before. We said together, wistfully, ‘Life, eh?’ It says everything without having to say anything: that we all experience moments of joyful or painful reflection, sometimes alone, sometimes sharing laughs and tears with others; that we all know and appreciate that however wonderful and precious life is, it can equally be a terribly confusing and mysterious beast. ‘Life, eh?’
Those kinds of moments – the big ones, the meaty ones, the births, the deaths, the reminiscences – I can handle. Those kinds of moments I enjoy or endure, much as we all do. There’s usually a sort of road map for them. Traditions. Procedure. But . . . where I feel alone and unprepared is with the less serious but undeniably discombobulating and embarrassing hiccups, nuances and foibles of just . . . being a person.
Let me furnish you with a recent example: has anyone else, whilst negotiating a slippery prawn in a smart restaurant, catapulted said prawn over their shoulder so it hit their next-door diner in the eye? Now it is, of course, at times like this that one should remain very serious. Stand. Go over. Perhaps say to the poor lady, ‘Are you alright? I’m terribly sorry. Could I get you another coffee?’ (the prawn landed in her cappuccino and sank delicately through the foam), and generally make all the right social noises. But in that sort of situation, I get stuck in a helpless state of giggles and can’t communicate at all. I couldn’t help it: it was the
noise
of the prawn when it whacked her in the eye. A sort of dull splat. Of
course
I exploded into giggles and called her a bit of a name: Mrs Prawn Eye, to be precise. And to her face. Which didn’t help. Nor did my trying to make her see the funny side by saying, ‘I wouldn’t drink that coffee, it looks a bit fishy, ha ha.’
Her stern look would normally have warned me off, but on seeing a prawn whisker on her lash, again there was nothing to do but laugh.
So, I changed tack and regrettably, as sometimes happens, embarrassment tipped me into rage directed at the unfortunate waiter: ‘Excuse me, good sir. Thank you very much, to you. Now can I just say, on behalf of both myself and poor Mrs Prawn Eye – nay, Whisker Lash, here – that if I order prawns I want them ready to put straight into my mouth, yes? Why should I have to remove the inedible bits and do all the prawn-administration, the “prawn-min”, if you will? What’s that you say? “It’s all part and parcel of eating prawns?” Well, I tell you this, good sir, thank you to you: I quite firmly believe that any activity that is messy enough for a restaurant to provide me with a finger bowl should be carried out by the kitchen staff. Sorry, could you come back, please? What? No, I won’t leave. I’ve paid for these prawns and I’m damned well going to finish them. No, YOU calm down.’
I’m sure you can imagine how the rest of the evening panned out (if you can’t, it involved a security guard, ten minutes hiding behind a wheelie-bin, and an illegally sourced chicken korma). In the grand scheme of things, I can see this experience is not so huge, but in the moment it feels like the toughest thing one will ever experience. I suppose what I’m trying to say is does anyone else have trouble negotiating these sorts of life hiccups: smart restaurants and all the accompanying etiquette or . . . is it just me?
Worse still, is it just me or has anyone else been on a date, thought it was going quite well, gone to the loo to have a breather, looked in the mirror and said, ‘Not too shabby, missus,’ then walked confidently back to the dining area not realising that loo roll was unwinding behind you from where it’s stuck in the back of your tights and swirling over other diners’ heads, adorning the restaurant like a streamer? Then wondered, how on earth does one deal with this?
Where’s the flipping guidebook? There are thousands of years of writing devoted to dealing with birth, death, ageing, love and the meaning of it all; but absolutely nothing to tell me how to handle the indignity of briefly turning oneself into a human party popper, to the immediate detriment of one’s romantic prospects.
