Mermaid on the rampage

Mermaid and Major General Lobby the Lobster


The other night I was woken up by the sound of what I thought was a pair of drunks singing. It was about 5:30 but I was so soporific I could not actually wake myself up properly, but I remember feeling very afraid and vulnerable so I prayed about it. Usually I would have just called the Royal Guards of Oceana - the great lobster army, led by major-general Lobby the lobster (pictured, above) - to go and investigate, but I realised that Lobby lives in Canada.

The next morning I read that two men had been shot, one fatally, at the top of my road. My road is almost as famous as I am. Streatham is becoming dangerous and the Mermaid is at the end of her very patient tether.

When I first moved in, on the first week of my residence down that road, two robbers dressed as cleaners cleaned out the barclays bank at the top of the road. Given that it was my mum's bank, this was disturbing. Two months later, the road was cordoned off one evening following a "gun incident". Several months later there was a fatal stabbing after a domestic row, and now this double shooting.

Some people may say this is an unnatural coincidence, as they have heard of the mermaid's propensity for stapling things and stalking celebrities Mermaid is Healed! but I assure you, these events are all unrelated to me, and besides no-one knows about the disappearance of several postmen whom I have captured and forced to make endless supplies of staples to satiate my insane craving for them. Oh no, that is our little secret. Mua ha. Mua ha ha.

But now the mermaid is at the end of her tether. She has already started kick-boxing training at her local gym and is paying far too much attention to X-men films. I am worried about myself, that I might turn into an urban vigilante, haunting the streets of St. Reatham to hunt down and nullify threats to the safety and honour of our streets. Except I would be bad at this for several reasons:

1) I am fast with a staple gun, the fastest paper-clipper in the West. But a bullet is still faster
2) I couldn't kick-box my way out of a wet paper bag
3) If I were able to staple a felon to the ground, I'd be distracted too easily by anything cute and fluffy... "Hand over those stolen goods, you charlatan!"
"Look over there"
"Where?"
"There - I think it's a kitten"
"Awww... here, puss puss puss..... darn! He wouldn't have gotten away with it if it were not for you pesky cats...."

So there you have it. A frustrated wannabe vigilante. In addition to all my other problems of the heart. But be warned I WILL be watching my road. And if I hear any strange noises again, I will be ready and armed with my biggest, bad-ass stapler. Failing that, I shall simply throw Monty at them. He can be a bit of a demon...

Pounce

To stalk, or not to stalk?

I have found that I, Mrs Nice, have turned into a psychopathic, stapler-wielding stalker girl. Not that I've actually followed someone. Oh, I did, last Thursday. Okay. I am officially a loon. Lock up your chest of drawers and hide your laundry basket! Keep your cat in at night and never leave a saucepan, a rabbit and a packet of OXO together in the same vicinity. Mermaid is a stalker and she may be able to see your house from her van.

I realised this fact about 1/2 an hour ago, which is roughly five years after the rest of the world accepted the fact I was a serial werido with a penchant for jokes about poo and a frightening story about knives that I use to scare off drunk City boys who try to chat me up on the tube.

By the way, if you want to borrow the UBER-FREAK story to scare off unwanted admirers, it goes like this.

Keep your eyes fixed firmly on the victim's jugular, head slightly tilted and a sinister voice like Mr Burns, accompanying the words: "Do you like knives? I like knives... I have a whole collection under my bed... The smallest one is called Christina after a friend I had called Christina."

Suddenly, look up from their neck, stare them in the eyes without blinking, and say: "SHE GOT STABBED".

If they are still remaining in close proximity to you, start gazing at their parting and continue: "I have a very big knife too. It's called Ben, after a tall friend I had. HE GOT STABBED TOOOOOO."

I used it once on a fund manager I was having lunch with. He did not want to divulge any details about a company merger and I really needed the story. What's the point of taking a journo to lunch if you don't dish the dirt? So I told the story to him, while the PR I was with silently pissed himself and the manager - the honest truth - backed his chair up so far away from me that he hit the wall behind him and was still trying to back away even though he could not get anywhere. His little legs were desperately working away at the marble floor, trying to propel him into safety. Aw, bless. He's a very good friend of mine now, is Aidan.

I even have a knife named after him.

I've digressed. No I DON'T have a massive knife collection under my bed. I don't have a knife collection at all. Yes, Christina, Ben and Aidan are all still very much alive and living a long, long way away from me.

But back to stalking. On a level from 1-10, with 1 sounding like the "knife" sound from Hitchcock's Psycho, and 10 sounding like the theme tune to Jaws, here are the reasons why I think I am a stalker:

1) I have actually found out where Alan Rickman lives

2) I thought about standing outside his house and "accidentally" bumping into him

3) I would staple a man to my floor to prevent another one getting away.

4) I have followed a man off the train. Okay, now this sounds worse than it is. He was young, handsome and kept smiling at me all the way on the train journey. I was interested. He was also interested. Given that he had 10 mins to speak to me, I was pretty miffed when he got off one stop before mine, opened his mouth to speak, and then left the carriage. I mean, I don't LOOK scary and I'd not mentioned the word "Knife" or "stapler" or "Severus Snape" once. WHY are men such cowards? In the US and Canada, they're really forthright and will approach a girl regardless of the consequences. In England, they just tremble their lips slightly like Hugh Grant in one of his ground-breaking, Oscar-award-winning psychological foreign film noir roles, and run away. Some have been known to say "Hem". What is with men in their 30s? Get a life. Anyway so he started to get off, and I thought, well, give him another chance. I got off too. I know the area really well and I needed to use the big Sainsbury's anyway. I've not done that before. No it was not successful. The ginger-haired twat.

5) I keep the telephone numbers of ex boyfriends. I never use them, but I keep them. you never know.

6) I dream about Alan Rickman, Gary Oldman and, lately, Jeremy Paxman. Oh yes.

7) Getting married seems increasingly like a dumb idea to me. I might just become a mistress. Men don't want to get married anyway, and if do, they're only going to be like the ones I end up with all the time and expect me to pat them on the back and whoop like a cheerleader every time they fart. Even if my farts are better.

8) I would definitely approach a nice-looking guy in a bar and ask for his number. For you, this might not be a crazy thing to do. For me, this is a sea-change in the way I approach my potential conquests. I usually run away and hide.

9) I'm starting to think violence is the answer to most of my problems. I've started to listen to all my old 1980's heavy metal albums for the first time in 15 years.

10) I have not eaten a bar of chocolate for four weeks, being fixated instead on fantasies. When a woman eschews chocolate as a form of stress-relief, the world should be very worried.

So... I think I am a stalker. I am sorry, all of you. Forgive me.

But I am also thinking - is this really such a bad thing? I'm sure Alan would love some hair clippings. Which do you think he would like most? They're from head, armpits and elsewhere.

Severus Snape and the demise of Alan Rickman

I never read the sixth Harry Potter novel.

Sorry, let me start from the beginning.

I have only read one HP novel - The Order of the Phoenix, in 2003. This was because it was a freebie from one of my contacts and I had nothing to do that halcyon summer except read it to my best friend while sunning ourselves in Canada. And quite frankly, JKR's writing style sucked. She used repetitive descriptions and basic syntax. Her structure was incomplete as she endeavoured to weave various fragments together. But anyway.

I have, however, seen all the films and am coming to the very startling conclusion that I am in love with Alan Rickman as Severus Snape. I am in love with Professor Snape.

I am surely not the only one - I believe Catty also loves him. Now this started to present a problem for me when the last book came out, exactly a week ago (Hong Kong time).

The problem was, I knew that he violated Prof Dumbledore with his wand in the sixth book. Now I was supposed to care about this, I know that. Dumbledore is good, Snape is bad. Snape belongs to MouldyWarp the Mole. Or is it Voldemort? Whatever. Snape is on the Dark Side.

Dilemma:

a) Dumblebore is dull
2) Alan Rickman is Snape
c) 2) should have been b)
d) Snape is sexy
e) So is Ralph Fiennes, who plays Voldemort
f) Voldemort is not attractive
g) Therefore e) and f) are irrelevant to the argument
h) Dumblebutt is good
i) Snape is evil

I am sure by now you are all either in total agreement with me, or completely confused.

So, to help clear up my traumatised heart, I had, in my stupidity, bought the last novel last Monday. It cost me £10. That, for my Canadian cousins, is what books should cost. Not CAN$45:00 + Tax. In Canada, the same book in hardback costs, with taxes, CAN$49:50. Which would be about £24. I paid the equivalent of CAN$22:00 by getting it in England. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Not so proud of living in the second biggest country on Earth now, are we?

Books are so expensive in Canada. This is because it's the second largest country on earth, rendering distribution expensive, but it has a low population density of just 34,000,000 people. Suppose the fraction of Canadians buying HP and the Ring of Utter Crassdom type of novels is one-eighth of the population (the entire under-18 demographic), it is still economically unviable to transport those copies to stores across the Land of the Beaver and charge less than $45:00 per book. Canadians would be best served by driving down to the States and picking up their books there, along with a bottle of booze, purchased at the border.

I digress.

Severus Snape: Evil, or playing a deadly double-agent role? Given JK Rowling's literary prowess at developing the subtle genre of subterfuge (ie, none), I feared that Snape would not prove to be good in the end. I really wanted him to be good. I knew that I would hate Harry Potter for the rest of my life if he or one of his boring friends knocked off the best character in the books. I may end up stalking Daniel Radcliffe or send him threatening letters with used staples inside.

So I bought the book and, in my hunger for knowledge and power to take over the world, I skimmed the first few pages at lunch on Monday, and read that he was talking nicely-nicely with Wimpleport.

All day, I was thinking: "What if Snape is evil? What will I do? What can I do? What can any decent girl do? I wonder what he wears under his robes?"

That evening, and any moment I could snatch on Tuesday, witnessed me finishing the entire novel - ah, be still, my poor, beating heart...

(slow readers who've not finished the book please turn away now)


You see, I knew in my heart that he could not have been evil. And he isn't! I knew it! My greasy-locked, shampoo-phobic, stinky, self-sacrificing dreamboat is "The bravest man that I ever knew" according to Harry Potter. Severus is a hero! And I love him!

So... I thought... Maybe someone had Alan Rickman's address? Maybe I could stalk him for kicks? Maybe in life he could be a slightly cleaner version of Snape? Maybe I could sneak up on him, drug him with chloroform or rehypnol, drag him back to my studio flat, staple him to the floor and make him mine. ALL MINE... mua ha ha ha ha ha. Well, let's face it, I've tried normal ways to attract men and they've failed.

And then I found this.




Oh oh oh, how the mighty have fallen. I'm sure he looked buff in Robin Hood. WHAT IS WITH THE TOUPEE? WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? Did a piece of gingery minge just land on his head after being blown off a German tourist who leant too far over the Tower of London? Has Alan Rickman been attacked by a leprous Tribble? He has seemingly gone from being GQ mag's Buff Thinking Woman's Man in 1991 to a pissed-up retirement home janitor.


Bring back Snape. Please Alan, for the love of Merlin's underpants, I beg you, ditch the neon flange bestriding your noble temples. Eschew the comfy loafers and crumpled 'chinos for a mysterious cape. And make sure your wand is in good working order when you perform some magic for me.

Please remove your item from the bagging area

Shopping for lunch should not be a chore, but a pleasure.

I had opted for Tesco over Sainsbury's this lunchtime, however, which proved to be a stupid, schoolgirl error. It was traumatic.

Firstly, I embarrassed myself by setting off the alarm when I walked in. Note. I had nothing on my person except my clothes, my purse and a smile. No-one was coming out, no small midget sneaked past me, furtively clutching a Milky Bar. No. I walked in, and alarm bells rang. What a comment about the state of my life: no matter how hard I try, I always make an entrance. And it ain't pretty.

Then I have to trawl through the vegetable counters for my weekly salad purchases, while this little old guy who looked like the incarnation of Mr Magoo kept following me around the veg. stand and smiling every time I looked his way. Short of beating him around the head with a carrot or shoving a squash up his wrinkly nose or stapling his head to a marrow with a pricing gun, there was little I could do except call it a day for fresh fruit and veg and go and hide in the deep freeze under some McCain's chips for a few hours.

Note to Tesco's: Tinned Treacle Pudding is not one of the following: "Tinned soups, vegetables and meats." It is not one of the four main food groups. It belongs to the group: "Bad, Very Bad, Totally Calorific and Cavity-making." Tinned tuna, however, does not qualify for either of those two food groups and therefore does not exist in the world of Tesco employees. "Tuna? Tinned Tuna? Uhhhh...Not Sure..."

Furthermore, putting a small Krispy Kreme counter right next to the weightwatchers yoghurt and dairy section is simply barbarous.

Also, selling "fresh" pomegranate chunks that, when opened, taste like soured vodka that has been left to stand for six days in the heat, beggars belief. The taste - and some of the darn pips - will remain with me for days.

Then to proceed to the self-service checking counter. All goes well until it does not allow me to take my full shopping bag off the "bagging area" and start a new one. "Please place item in the bagging area" it says in a loud woman's voice, over and over and over. Eventually I end up talking to the machine, just as loudly. Yes. I am insane.

Then after I pay, I realise it has not charged me for something worth £5 (that's US$10 and CAN$600,023). So I ask the lady if I can re-do my shop or just pay for that one item at the same bagging counter. She is very helpful and polite - a highlight in that dark Tesco - and I put the order through for that one item. As I go to pay, the automated voice starts up again: "Please put your item in the bagging area. Please put your item in the bagging area. Please put your item in the bagging area."

By now, I am thumping the bagging area and cursing like an old sunday school teacher - vis-a-vis: "Condarn you, you little beggar", "Confounded nuisance" "Dadblamed machine." All the while the same message is booming out: "Please place your item in the bagging area."

Eventually I bang the bagging area so hard the red light starts flashing on the top of the self-service (SERVICE? HA!) area and a voice starts up: "Calling for assistance. Calling for assistance". I pull out my credit card, throw £5 cash at the attendant who has been standing there all the time, and run out of the shop like a thief.

All this for a bleeding garden salad and a lemon yoghurt.


Life sucks

What message would you like to leave?

Maybe it's just that I've been to too many weddings recently that I am suffering from what I call post-wishes fatigue. Perhaps I am bitter that none of those weddings have been my own, and I am merely jealous. Though if any of you had seen the groom on one occasion, there would be a petition right now outside of parliament to amend the Human Rights Act. Teeth simply should not be like that.

Post-wishes fatigue occurs when you finally get around to phoning in in order to give some money to the happy couple. Despite the fact you actually spent money getting to the wedding, buying drinks at the cash bar, possibly buying a wedding outfit and a disposable camera because you keep forgetting to take your digital one with you, darn it. (Try stapling it to your hand the night before).

Post Wishes Fatigue starts with a simple spoken pleasantry. You hear from a friend or relative that they are to tie the knot. If you are like me (female or gay), you will probably clap your hands together in a happy way and say something like: "Oh how exciting, congratulations, when is it?". If you are not like me (male or an ugly spinster), you will probably say: "Really? Are you expecting a baby.?" But we deal not with the latter, but the former.

Then of course, you spend weeks and weeks talking wedding, planning how to get to wedding, what to wear for wedding, who else is invited, what the bride/groom is wearing, blah blah blah until you know as much about the day as the bride or groom does.

The day of the wedding comes. You write a card out for the happy couple. "Wishing you every happiness in your married lives together" or some such yadda. You greet the happy couple on the day with more congratulations, you look wonderfuls and Thank you so much for inviting mes. Just when you think the smile on your face will crack you find there's a book of condolences to sign. "Dearest Princess of Hearts, you will always be with us. I will never visit Paris again in Spring without thinking of you."
I think I got barred from that wedding reception.

You stare at the book of congrats, probably slightly sozzled by then, and desperately try to think of something witty and beautiful that someone else has not said. You skim-read the other pages, probably dribbling wine and spittle over it, and of course it's all written in fountain pen, but the ink runs out while you try to use it and all you have in your bag or pocket is a chewed-up biro. And it's red. In the light of your pikey shame all you can muster is: "Wishing you all the best for your married lives together" and hoping that it's "lives" and not "life" and wondering whether you wrote that in the card as well. Not that they'd notice anyway, because you could only find half an orange crayon to write on the card with.

Skulking back to your seat, you think you can relax, but NO! Along comes a second uncle twice removed, It could be Uncle Leo, Harry or Jake, you can't remember, although you know it's not uncle Norm, who wasn't really your uncle but he hung around anyway until he disappeared "Up North" and your mum had to explain with a Barbie doll why Uncle Norm no longer visits. "Where exactly did he put the cake? Show me on the barbie... are you sure it was on your head?" Where was I?
Oh, Uncle Leo, or Harry, comes up with a video camera and shoves it into your mug and says: "Send your wishes!"

This reminds me of a funny story recently. Mum and I were in Greece for a wedding and someone came up to us with a video camera. It was late and we were not paying too much attention. He said: "Wishes.... speak wishes." Mum looked flustered for a second, before replying: "I wish I were 29 again."

So you're put on the spot and have to think of something that does not sound banal. The best one I ever heard was at the same Greek wedding where my friend Simon, glass of port in one hand and a fat cigar in the other, waded up to the lens, raised both cigar and wine, said: "Cheers" and walked off. Class.

What else can you say: "Best wishes for the future and all that, blah blah?" There simply is nothing in those old Victorian etiquette books that prepares one for this sort of enforced bonhomie. It's enough to make you eschew all friendships, tear up your phone book and take to yelling "Bah humbug" at random passers by (this works well if you live near a bus stop and can shout it out of the window without anyone seeing you. Hours of fun. Note to self - Get out more. Not to weddings. Staple note to hand so don't forget).

You think you've escaped when you get home. But no, there's the post-wedding "heck I forgot to contribute to their present/honeymoon/cosmetic surgery" moment when you fish around your bag and find the wedding invitation and gift list stuck to it with a piece of old chewing gum. So you ring up. Phew! It's not too late. How much do you want to contribute? ("what's the minimum limit on a credit card?" is not an acceptable answer, I have since discovered.) When all the details are taken, you go to thank the helpful assistant.

but wait....

"What message would you like to leave on the card?"

"There's a CARD?"

"Any message for the couple?"

Slight moment of panic.

"Um... er... best wishes for your married lives (or is it life?) together."