Making It Up As I Go Along (32 page)

Can I tell you about a time I behaved very badly?
Well, one Saturday afternoon I booked a spa appointment in a lovely hotel which had whispery
candlelit rooms, fragrant whirlpools and, best of all, ‘ample parking’.

On the drive there I was full of happy
expectations. (But as a wise person once said, ‘Expectations are merely disappointments
under construction.’) As I got closer, the streets started to teem with men and from their
regalia I gathered an international rugby match was on nearby.

The men-crowds became ever denser, and when I
reached the hotel it had about a million people standing outside. Then – disaster! –
a heavy metal chain blocked me from entering the hotel car park. I was completely – as my
friend Posh Kate would say –
boulevers
é (a French word meaning
‘knocked for six’, all-at-sea and entirely without coping mechanisms for this
unprecedented situation). A big, bouncer-type man appeared and gratefully I rolled down my
window.

‘Hotel is full,’ bouncer-man said.
‘Rugby fans. You park over there.’ He pointed to an underground multistorey across
the road, which was a bizarre tight shape and descended countless layers, drilling straight into
the earth. It was like driving down a spiral staircase, and if hell has a car park, that would
be it.

But in the lovely hotel there were empty parking
spots – lovely,
wide, above-ground ones, shimmering invitingly, like
the last parking spaces left in heaven. ‘Hotel is
not
full,’ I told
bouncer-man.

‘Parking for residents only.’

‘I’m a resident.’ Sort of.
‘I’ve an appointment in the spa.’ (Even now I cringe a little reporting those
words – the
haughtiness
.) ‘And I’m not parking over there.’

Strange shifts were going on in my emotions
– later, with the benefit of hindsight, I’d identify them as disappointment and fear
– but at the time I eyeballed bouncer-man (we’ll call him Hans) mutinously.
‘I’d better cancel my appointment.’

Certain that we were just playing a little game
of brinkmanship, I rang the spa and said I couldn’t come because Hans wouldn’t let
me in. I said the last bit very loudly so that Hans would hear. The spa receptionist said,
‘What about the car park across the road?’ And, in fairness, I
did
consider
it, but by then the whole business had become a battle of wills.

So – in an open-and-shut case of cutting my
nose off to spite my face – I cancelled my appointment. Even then I was hoping that Hans
would lift the chain and say, ‘Ah go on.’ But he just stood there, as solid and
silent as a Smeg fridge. So I stuck my head out of the car window and said in scathing tones,
‘Thanks for a lovely afternoon, Hans.’ Then I screeched away, scarlet with rage.

At home, I told Himself the story and embroidered
it a teensy bit by saying that Hans had shrugged, ‘Your spa appointment is not my
problem.’

Then I rang Posh Kate and we agreed that Hans was
a power-crazed bully and I said, ‘I was actually afraid of him.’

A while later my sister dropped in and I beefed
up the ‘Afraid of Hans’ theme even more, and by the sixth or seventh retelling
I’d embellished things so much that I had Hans kicking my car door and
shouting, ‘You snotty bitch!’ after me.

Every time people sympathized, I liked it. But my
self-righteous ire had begun to drain away and a little voice was whispering that Hans had only
been doing his job.

With each, ever more elaborate, retelling of the
story I was trying to conceal my shame. But it was like the time Mammy Keyes did up the bathroom
on the cheap by painting over the fish wallpaper. No matter how many coats of paint she put on,
the fish kept breaking through and reappearing.

By the following morning, I understood what had
happened: my happy expectations had been thwarted and I’d been disappointed. On top of
that, I was afraid of hell’s car park. But Hans wasn’t to know and I was awash with
shame. And the thing is, I can’t afford shame. Well, I should say I can’t afford any
extra
shame – for whatever reason, I’m already full-to-bursting and in an
attempt to quell it I try to balance the cosmic books by doing things I don’t want to do
for people I don’t like.

I’ve done terrible things in my life
– not
terrible
terrible, I’m not like Osama Bin Laden or similar –
but I once cheated on a man I loved. And I was disloyal to a boss who’d been very good to
me (and my punishment is that even though it was over twenty years ago, I still dream about it).
But as well as the big-ticket events, there are countless smaller items.

Like, once I spent an afternoon at a barbecue
addressing a friend of my brother’s by the wrong name (by the name of another man, who had
in fact stolen the first man’s girlfriend). And the thing was, I
knew
something
was off, so I tried to fix it by saying his (wrong) name more and more, because I’d read
somewhere that to engender intimacy it’s good to address a person by name.
I couldn’t tell you how many times I said, ‘Isn’t that
right, X?’ When all along his name was Y.

I only realized my error when I was leaving and
bumped into X, who had deliberately showed up late because he had his new girlfriend (i.e.
Y’s ex-girlfriend) in tow and he was hoping to avoid meeting Y. I should have gone
straight back in and apologized to Y, but I was too mortified, and the memory still makes me
cringe, like lemon juice on an oyster.

I’ve made countless similar mistakes
– okay, no one died, but they’re like paper cuts to my soul. I want to be a good
person, but despite my best intentions I do bad things – because I’m a human being
and therefore flawed to my core.

The only way I can help myself is to stop adding
to my already-colossal reservoir of shame, and that means apologizing. Which I find very
difficult. My ego doesn’t like admitting that I made a mistake. Also, I was brought up to
be ‘a good girl’ and I’ve never shaken the fear of ‘getting into
trouble’. By saying sorry, I’m admitting culpability, so for a long time my motto
used to be ‘When in doubt, lie.’

But I’ve learnt that humbling as
apologizing is, it’s better for me in the long run. So I drove back to the lovely hotel
and parked (plenty of spaces that day). Hans was guarding the front door and when he saw me
approaching he looked wary. But I maintained steady eye-contact and, even though I was quaking,
I delivered my rehearsed speech. ‘Hans, I’m very sorry about my behaviour yesterday.
It wasn’t your fault there were no parking spaces.’

He nodded stiffly. ‘Just trying to do my
job.’

‘Just trying to do your job,’ I
agreed eagerly. ‘And I’m sorry I made it difficult for you.’

We eyed each other, and for a split second I
thought we might
have a Hollywood moment and share a hug. But it passed.
‘Well, grand, thanks,’ I said. ‘Um, goodbye.’

‘Bye,’ he said.

Then I returned to my car and, feeling a little
bit lighter, off I drove, back into my life.

First published in the
Sunday Times Style
,
January 2015.

My life would be so much easier if I never had to
say goodbye. I’m not talking about the big goodbyes – like break-ups and moving jobs
and people pegging it – because, horrible as they are, there is no way round them, and
it’s best to just strive for acceptance. No, I’m talking about the small goodbyes,
particularly those that happen at the end of a night’s socializing.

Like, say I was at a dinner party (although does
anyone, these days – other than newly-weds keen to showcase their new plates and napkin
rings – have something as irredeemably grim as a dinner party?) …
any
way,
let’s just say that I was, and I was having a nice time and all that, you know how it is
– these things can happen. Then, without warning, I hit my saturation point and I’ve
had enough and I want to go home. No. I’ll be more specific – I want to BE at home.

But first I must say goodbye to everyone present,
and frankly I’d rather swim across a crocodile-infested river. It’s the lengthy
small talk that accompanies all valedictions that I find so daunting and exhausting: ‘We
must do this again soon’ and ‘Stay well’ and ‘Text me the name of that
place’ and ‘No, please, don’t give me any buns because I’ll only eat
them and then I’ll hate myself.’

It’s unfortunate that goodbyes happen at
the end of an encounter, when most of my chat and liveliness have been used up, because last
impressions count. Giving good goodbye is a real art,
and when I leave a
group of people, I’d like a rosy glow to remain in my place.

I can’t tell you the number of hours
I’ve wasted, sitting at a table, afraid to get up, my face aching from the lactic acid
generated by holding a fake smile, because I simply can’t summon the vast amounts of
emotional energy that a decent departure requires. I eye the door and yearn to be on the far
side of it, having wrestled with all the obstacles in my path and made good my escape.

What makes things worse is that I’m always
the first to leave anything, which is a source of great shame. (According to a personality quiz,
I’m an extreme introvert, which means I can only handle other people in small bursts of
time. Also, I have a very short attention span. And I don’t drink. I’d make a
top-notch recluse.)

So I can’t tell you how overjoyed I am on
those rare, rare occasions when someone ‘goes’ before me. Suddenly I feel as
debauched as Keith Richards – a stay-out-late, round-the-clock party animal. Better still,
if a person is leaving, they’ve also given me permission to leave and often I try to
‘bundle’ my parting in with theirs, so that in the flurry of farewells, I make my
exit almost unscathed.

But mostly I’m first to go, probably by
several hours, so round the table I go, kissing people goodbye, and because of my mortification
about my premature departure I overcompensate by complimenting everyone. However, due to
giddiness about my forthcoming escape, my bon mots always end up being a little strange:
‘You have a lovely nose’ or ‘Stay away from sudokus, you’re obviously a
left-brain thinker.’

But then I’m free to go and I skip out into
the street, happy as can be.

However, things aren’t
always that simple because sometimes a departure involves waiting for a taxi. And now I’m
going to use a metaphor: there’s a thing in hill-walking called the false summit, where
you’re staggering up the side of a mountain, gasping for breath, your legs trembling with
exhaustion, and you manage to keep on climbing because the end is in sight. In a few more
minutes, you’ll be on the top of the mountain and you’ll feel fantastic.
You’re nearly there, nearly there, your lungs are bursting, your legs are like jelly
… but you’re nearly there. Then, due to the curvature of the earth and the funny
angles of mountains you make a shocking discovery: hiding behind the summit you’re looking
at is the REAL summit.

So when my hostess ends the call to the taxi
company and says to me, ‘Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour,’ that’s my false
summit. To all intents and purposes, my night is over and I just want is to sit on the stairs
and sob quietly. Instead, I have to resume my place at the dinner table and dredge up anecdotes
from an empty well, while my every sinew strains to hear the beautiful sound of the taxi.

When the half-hour mark passes, panic rises and
grabs me by the throat and next thing I’m on my feet. My hostess tries ringing the taxi
company again but can’t get through, and I grab my bag and say, in a shrill, tight voice,
‘It’s fine, it’s fine. I’ll just …’ Stand out here in the
snow. ‘If I start walking, I’ll probably hail one on the street. Blizzard? Hardly a
blizzard, just a few snowflakes.’

So what I’m asking is, is there any way
round having to say goodbye? Manners morph over time, don’t they? Look at how the rigid
protocol of Victorian times has been largely dismantled. Surely we can move into a new way of
taking our leave?

What I propose is a coin system –
colour-coded to mean different things. So a person could tiptoe from the room, making vague
‘I’m going to the loo’ gestures, but in fact leave the
building. The only sign that they had actually gone would be the little pink coin they’d
left in their place, of which the general gist would be: ‘Thank you, I had a lovely time
but I’m all used up now and have to go home.’

And it could work the other way also. When you
want to get rid of rowdy guests who show no indication of leaving, you could slap a large black
coin before them which implies: ‘Thank you for coming, you’ve been a delight, I
particularly enjoyed your story about the chipolatas but you’ve overstayed your welcome by
five hours and I’ve called you a cab.’

What do you think? Is anyone with me on this?
Anyone …?

Previously unpublished.

Hotels. Oh God, I love hotels. You can throw your
pillows on the floor and someone else will pick them up. Fresh towels are yours every day (if
you can overcome the guilt of the card that pretends to care about the environment but is really
just a cost-saving measure). Sometimes you even get free foam slippers.

But there’s a serpent in every paradise.
Because there I am in the taxi, all happy, getting closer and closer to the hotel and wondering
if I’ll get a free weather forecast left on my pillow in the evening, when I suddenly
think, ‘Christ! Tips!’

And then it’s too late, because the taxi
has drawn up outside the hotel and they’re
all over me.
Swarming like hungry
ants, attached like leeches. A bloke has opened the car door with one hand and his other hand is
opening and closing like that plant that eats things – but frankly he can get lost,
I’m not tipping someone for opening my car door, even
my
guilt doesn’t
extend that far. Some other bloke is hoisting my suitcase out of the boot – and he has to
be tipped at the same time as the taxi driver has to be paid, and in the confusion I sometimes
mistakenly give the taxi driver’s tenner to the suitcase boy, who can’t believe his
luck and then goes all suspicious, like he’s afraid I want to sleep with him. Then
there’s the bloke who brings my suitcase up in the lift to my room – a
different
bloke from the one who took the case out of the car, so he has to be tipped too. Sometimes
there’s even another layer: a bloke, entirely separate and distinct from the suitcase
bloke, will
escort me to my room to show me how the taps work and will
linger and linger and linger, pointing out more and more features of the room – the
windowsill, the carpet (‘look at the beauty of the weave, please, come down here and have
a look’) – until I’ve found a crumpled thousand-zloty note in the bottom of my
bag.

It’s awful! It’s not that I begrudge
them the money – mind you, it all adds up – it’s the anxiety. How do other
people do it? How do they know how much to give each person? Where do they get the right
denomination cash? How do they manage to always have enough change to tip everyone? And where do
they keep it? In their hands? In their pockets? In a special sack? Ideally I’d like a
jacket covered entirely with plastic, see-through pockets, like those shower curtains which have
compartments for your sponge, shampoo, razor, etc.

Rich posh people don’t tip. It
doesn’t even occur to them. In their natural arrogance, they assume everyone is there to
do their bidding. But it’s different for people like me. I have no natural arrogance,
nothing but a strong, strong fear that if I don’t tip, everyone in sight will spit in my
food, misdirect my phone calls and blacken my name (‘Stingy bitch’).

But why should we tip people at all? If I write a
column you particularly like, you don’t tip me. (Or if you do, I haven’t been
receiving them.) If your doctor successfully diagnoses strep throat, you don’t slip him a
couple of quid during your farewell.

And it’s not like you tip people for doing
a good job (at least I don’t). I tip them because I have to. I tip them even when
they’ve done a very bad job. I have tipped hairdressers while tears have been streaming
down my face from the disaster they’ve wrought on my head.

It’s the lowest paid who get and need tips:
tipping is an arbitrary way of supplementing their minimum-wage income. In fact,
in many cases, tips don’t supplement
but actually make up
the
minimum wage. In other words, customers are assumed to have tipped a certain amount (even if
they haven’t), so management simply pay the ‘balance’ – just enough to
bring the meagre pay packets up to the legal limit. Is this not terrible?

Recently I stayed in a hotel in Los Angeles
where, with all room-service deliveries, there was 15 per cent service charge, a ten-dollar
‘tray charge’ and – a new one, this – ‘for your convenience’
a five-dollar ‘gratuity charge’. I was delighted that I didn’t have to start
rooting around in my bag for a tip, but when I questioned the waiter (a knackered-looking
middle-aged Hispanic man) about whether he actually received the five dollars, he said
‘yes’ so unconvincingly and fearfully that I reached for my purse and the fumbling
began.

The swizzers! It’s all so wrong. This is a
mad notion, I know, but could we not just do away with tips entirely and simply pay people
properly? Pinko Commie nonsense, some might say, but there are times when I’ve thought
that I’d find it less wearying to organize a Marxist revolution and bring down the entire
capitalist system than find three quid for the young man who’s brought me my breakfast.
‘Sorry, son, no tip. But as soon as I’ve had my coffee I’m going to overthrow
the capitalist system in order to secure decent pay for you. In fact, I could do with a couple
of comrades, will you join me?’

First published in
Marie Claire
, January
2005.