Making the Cat Laugh (16 page)

I have great hopes for this woman in
Hello!
I feel she has room for development, and an obvious life of her own. Her little figure could start popping up elsewhere in the magazine, responding to the articles with exaggerated yawns while reading in the bath, or peering terribly closely with a magnifying glass at the telephoto pictures of the King of Spain.

And sometimes, of course, she could fling the magazine aside, turn off the TV, kick off the sensible shoes, and perform the polka with the cat in her arms, the way ordinary single people do. Go for it, my little friend. Live a bit.

A telephone rings. It is tea-time on a day in late June. England. The columnist (a harmless drudge) hastily presses the ‘Mute’ button on her television remote control. The giveaway background noise of ‘Pock, pock, applause, Thirty love’ abruptly ceases. She grabs the receiver.

COLUMNIST
(
defensively, and without punctuation
): Hello who’s that of course I’m working good grief up to my armpits in fact Huh do you think I’ve got nothing to do but watch tennis? (
Her voice rises to a squeal.
)

There is a pause, while the caller lets the hysteria subside.

FEMALE FRIEND
: Psst, it’s me.

COLUMNIST
: Linda? Oh, thank phew for that. I was just watching Wimbledon.

FRIEND
: I know, so was I. Did you see him? Andre the Adorable, did you see him?

The columnist guiltily surveys the Andre Agassi press cuttings littering the floor of the study, and nods dumbly. She has just finished entering the names of today’s winners in the special men’s knock-out tournament chart. A keen-eyed observer would note that the equivalent chart for the women’s tournament is left curiously blank. Taking a deep breath, she makes a decision.

COLUMNIST
(
carelessly
): You mean the Agassi match? Oh, I believe I did just manage to catch every single minute of that one, yes. Mmm. I was particularly impressed, actually, by the champion’s new short-action serve – 118 miles per hour he’s getting – the power of the ground strokes, top-spin, all that. ‘Ooh, I say,’ as Dan Maskell used to exclaim, ha ha. Oh yes, French Open, lob, tie-break, Gabriela Sabatini.

FRIEND:
Lynne. You’re talking funny. Can’t we discuss chest hair, like we usually do? Is there somebody there?

COLUMNIST:
Good heavens, no. It’s just that all these technical sports-reporter aspects, none of them passes me by. More like a fly-swat than a serve, I’d say, that new Agassi action, but still 118 miles per hour. Amazing. Sport can be really interesting, can’t it? Can’t think why I’m usually so dismissive of it. Also, there’s these new, um, graphological racquets … and, um, did I mention 118 mph, and the linesmen, gosh, Sue Barker, new balls, fascinating. And on
Today at Wimbledon,
Humphrey Carpenter can’t even say ‘Ivanisevic’ properly! So what makes me cross –

FRIEND:
You mean
Harry
Carpenter.

COLUMNIST:
What?

FRIEND:
Not Humphrey Carpenter.

COLUMNIST:
Well yes. Yes, obviously. So anyway, what makes me cross is this. Here we are, you and I, having this highly informed and sophisticated conversation about the ins and outs of grand slam tennis, and the papers insist that when women become obsessed with Wimbledon, it’s only because of the so-called hunk factor, because of the
gorgeous pouting well-built athletic blokes such as Michael Stich and Goran Ivanisevic and – sorry, can’t go on, throat a bit dry. Anyway, the idea is that we’re watching the legs and the midriffs, not the tennis, I mean, that’s absurd, obviously?

FRIEND
: Eh?

COLUMNIST
: Absolutely absurd.

Pause.

FRIEND
: But they’ve stopped showing Andre’s midriff, in any case. I phoned up yesterday to complain.

COLUMNIST
: You did? Good for you. I mean, I hope you also mentioned their excellent coverage of his stunning returns of serve, and inventive cross-court passes?

FRIEND
: No, I didn’t. I said, I am a licence payer and if I want to see the dreamboat’s tummy, the dreamboat’s tummy I shall see.

COLUMNIST
(
struggling, but steadily losing her grip
): Gosh. Whereas me, well, scoreboard, let-cord judge, first service, Cyclops –

FRIEND
: Give it up, Lynne.

COLUMNIST
: Shall I? Drop-shot, foot-fault, er … Are you sure?

FRIEND
: Definitely.

Pause.

FRIEND
: I see Lendl got knocked out, then.

COLUMNIST
(
resigned but happy
): Never fancied him, myself.

FRIEND
: Nor me. Great player, I suppose?

COLUMNIST
: No, no. Something to do with those stringy legs and the unattractive way his socks stayed up.

FRIEND
: I know exactly what you mean.

I was interested to read in last Monday’s paper that a possible side-effect of low-fat diets is an increase in aggressive behaviour, especially since I have now reached the stage in my own low-fat diet where I would happily mug somebody for a small sliver of cheese. Aggressive, eh? Take off your glasses and say that. It is the sort of story that makes you uncertain; it muddles things up that were previously clear. Was I being aggressive when I forced copies of Rosemary Conley’s
Hip and Thigh Diet
on unwilling friends, instructing them to read it (or else)? I looked back with a sad little smile to the innocent days when I could say that the only drawback to low-fat diets is that they make you quite thin, thus making it difficult to store pencils in the folds of your torso.

But now, it seemed, there was one of those pesky little hormones to be considered – a hormone moreover that refused to be secreted to the brain unless there was sufficient cholesterol around, the upshot of which might be a propensity for violence. ‘Bastard,’ I said, involuntarily. I scoured the rest of the paper for supporting evidence (linking murders with Ambrosia Low-Fat Rice Pudding) but was disappointed. There was no statistical survey showing that the people who knock off policemen’s helmets invariably prefer St Ivel Gold to butter in a blindfold test. I suppose we shall just have to sit back and wait for the inevitable confirmation of the story from the American law courts. It cannot be long, surely, before the first serial killer is acquitted by an American jury on the grounds of diminished responsibility (by reason of cottage cheese).

In my own case it is hard to establish any straightforward cause and effect, since I started the low-fat diet simultaneously with embracing the single life. Any character change, therefore, might certainly be the result of pizza deprivation; but on the other hand, perhaps I have just been unhinged by the burden of sole custody of the cats. The causal borderline is murky. I have noticed, though, that I get extraordinarily jumpy
and irrational in the vicinity of high-fat food. For example, the idea of eating crisps now alarms me so much that in Sainsbury’s I remove them surreptitiously from other people’s shopping trolleys, and scuttle off to hide them in the bin-bag section. The fight against fatty food has become a personal mission. Yesterday my next-door neighbour mentioned that she is partial to a spot of Camembert and I reacted with such horror that she might have said she enjoyed jumping in front of tube trains to test their braking distance.

The only way to set one’s mind at rest, I decided, is to do a bit of independent research. Follow a clamping unit around central London, for example, and offer cubes of lard to people whose cars have just been immobilized. ‘Do not attempt to move it!’ I might chuckle, springing out from behind the clamped car and proffering a platter of Cookeen-on-sticks. ‘I wonder if you would be interested in taking part in a little survey I am doing?’ I can imagine some interesting results. Or I could attend the check-out in Sainsbury’s (surrounded by people saying, ‘Funny, what happened to the crisps?’) armed with a tub of low-fat yoghurt and a packet of pork scratchings, so that I can nibble little bits from each, monitoring my reactions. I could stand there with my hand on my head saying, ‘Which way? Which way?’

The check-out is the right place for the experiment because while other people seem undisturbed by the sight of their shopping hurtling serially towards them down the conveyor belt and slamming into a multiple pile-up at the end, I loathe the avoidable frenzy and entertain visions of clonking the check-out lady on the head with a tin of Felix to slow her down. The only trouble is that, what with all the frantic packing and sweating and muttering, I shall probably forget to eat the pork scratchings. I get too worked up, really; and I don’t suppose diet is the answer. Either supermarkets must adopt the American system of packing the bags for the customer, or
the government must relax the gun laws. The question: ‘Could you work more slowly please?’ would pack a lot more punch if backed up by a loaded .45.

Last week’s article was not only concerned with violence; it also suggested that low levels of cholesterol could be linked to unsuccessful suicide attempts. Great. Wonderful. First class. I am reminded of the time an editor said to me: ‘Perhaps you could just be like Dorothy Parker,’ and I misunderstood. What, keep slashing my wrists and drinking shoe polish? Keep waking up in hospital to hear wisecracking friends say: ‘You’ve got to stop doing this, or you’ll make yourself ill’? If this low-fat existence offers the fate of Dorothy Parker, perhaps it is time to reconsider. After all, even the exciting prospect of death by spontaneous combustion (which I’ve always fancied somehow) is less inviting from the low-fat point of view, since one’s body would burn for a considerably shorter time than would make the option properly worthwhile.

In my flat, I have a small flight of steps, and it worries me. Because one day, in a blur of windmilling arms and high-kicking legs, I am convinced it will shape my end. In itself, this staircase looks innocent of hazard: there are no loose stair rods, and if ever I discover ball bearings, bars of soap, or sheets of slippery tin-foil on the top step, I clear them carefully before starting my descent. No, the trouble is, these stairs lead to the kitchen – and anyone who lives with cats will instantly grasp the nature of my fears. For whenever a cat hears someone heading, with a loaded tray, in that direction, he looks up, thinks quickly (but not deeply) –
tins! cat-bowl! tea-time!
– and makes a blind dash, in the manner of a furry bowling ball hurled with gusto down an alley. There is a heavy
expectant pause as he thunders targetwards, and then crash – the pleasant hollow sound of stricken skittles is reluctantly simulated by the windmilling lady with the tray.

My only consolation, as I await this disaster, is to muse (albeit tautologically) that ‘most domestic accidents occur in the home’. And how right I am. A recent DTI report about domestic mishaps evidently included the extraordinary statistic that twenty-nine people last year were injured by dressing-gowns, while six named place-mats as their personal Waterloo. Yes, place-mats. Adjust these numbers upwards to account for people too proud to admit to misadventure by warm fluffy towelling or slim cork rectangles and we can see the extent of the danger in our homes. But how was it that 101 people fell victim to their own trousers? How was it that a lone peculiar person was afflicted by a tea-cosy? Crime novelists must be in ecstasy at the news. Suddenly it is permissible for a suspicious detective to peer quizzically at a lifeless body, suck his teeth, and say, ‘Of course, this
may
be just a straightforward tea-cosy casualty, but I rarely trust the most obvious explanation.’

Ah yes, trousers, dressing-gowns, bread-bins, place-mats, tea-cosies, slippers – all those innocent Christmas gifts now carry the unfortunate connotation of the loaded gun. Personally, I find myself wondering (with a feverish urgency) what sort of place-mat. I mean, the rough raffia sort could give you a nasty scratch, I suppose; and the smooth laminated hunting-scene sort might possibly raise your blood pressure if you were an animal-rights activist. Neither, on the face of it, could land you in hospital.