2012 Was supposed to be the year that changed my life. After all, it was written in the stars that big things would be bestowed upon me, (according to a Dutch woman who speaks to the dead anyway). She told me that 2012 would be the year that I would make my mark.
In a way she was right. I wrote for Hacker the dog on CBBC and got viewer complaints for the high level of fart noises that were used in one of my sketches (v proud), I went to the Edinburgh Festival and got reviewed by a 12* year old who said I was past my peak, and belonged in Whetherspoons, on a Saturday night, in a dark corner, and, I was on Deal or No Deal. Box 12, 10p. I thank you.
I’m not the sort of person that makes New Year resolutions, primarily because at my very core I’m exceptionally undisciplined, and for the most part, lazy. But whilst hauled up in a haunted cottage in Somerset this Christmas, with my beloved Mater and Pater, I decided that I would give up booze for Cancer Research, take up swimming lessons, and lose twenty stone. Jan (Mater) would like to add to my list:
get husband – ‘go online, get yourself a business man, you can forgive the face if they’ve got money’.
get knocked up – ‘Barbara’s daughter got her sperm from Manchester, she’s a lesbian, Manchester’s the best place apparently, cos they clean it’.
And buy a house with a granny annex. (Insert thought here.)
I say the cottage was haunted. For my dad’s b’day in December I bought him a home wine making kit, with the view that he can provide the vino for Christmas. I bought one that I thought made six bottles of wine. Just a little something to get him going with a mini hobbie. Two weeks later and I get these texts from Jan. (Please bear in mind that mother, god bless her, likes to start a conversation in her head, before letting the rest of us know what she’s on about. For example, whilst dad and I were watching Dr Who on Christmas day, out of nowhere, Jan pipes up, “Yes….see I told you cinnamon was a diuretic”. Blank face. No, we have no idea either.) So yes, I get these texts from mother on the run up to Christmas:
M: We have 18l we are having to ask the neighbours ha ha.
(No, hello, how are you, here’s what the hell I’m talking about)
M: Yes 18 god know how we will drink that amount. You will have to bring some bottles (empty) one with you.
Me: 18 what?
Me: You what dear?
M: No just testing my spelling and I sent it instead of sending.
So the wine was unleashed over Christmas. My dad, bless him, on each sip saying, ‘its better than it was last week, just needs maturing’. It was pear droppy, and strong, and would have knocked the back out of a very randy donkey. Still, it was better than it was last week, and considering they had over 30 bottles of the stuff, one has to do ones bit for the family, strap in, and just drink. After several glasses of the stuff on Christmas Eve, Jan had gone to bed, and dad and I were still up drinking and watching telly, and outside, some carol singers piped up. How lovely. I went to the window to look, and, there was no one there. Then the radio came on in the kitchen. And that sent me over the edge. I can’t watch Miss Marple without getting scared, so I spent the whole night in bed with the light on, trying to get to sleep with my eyes open. Good shit that wine I can tell thee. I entered Christmas morning with a rude awakening by staggering to greet my parents on the landing, getting my toe stuck in my pyjama bottoms, and going head first down the stairs. Jan was in hysterics. Not hysteria. Hysterics.
Christmas was quite educational, we went for a walk on the beach, where the carpark was of no mystery to the parents, who unwittingly through their chatter about dogging, informed me of the process and who gets in whose car and why. Jolly good. Dad revealed he had to have special pants because ‘your mother can’t get in the normal ones.’ and whilst watching 8 out of 10 cats, a very disgruntled Jan, was planning a letter of complaint because at no point had the programme mentioned anything to do them. Cats, that is.
And so here I am, in 2013. Back in Manchester. Going back to normality. If someone was to stick a video camera in my living room, they’d get hours of two 30 something women, laid on the sofa in slankets, farting and speaking Elven, (thanks to the Lord of the Rings trilogy). Laying in our own stench in our pj’s drinking copious amounts of tea, farting, occasionally snoozing, and eating what is left in the fridge from Christmas, because we’re too lazy to go out into the real world to buy proper food. Meals made up of lasagne, chorizo and beans, or sausage and battered balls, contents unknown, and left over cheese. Both wondering why we’ve got no boyfriend.
Last night I had my first swimming lesson. It’s all very well flapping your arms about and sticking your face in the water, but I forgot to breathe. Out. Whilst trying to get more in. Very complex. Still I managed not to die which was the objective. Although half the pool was missing when I got out, and reappeared on the journey home. (I’ve a tendency to hang on to things, down stairs, if you get me. Just a small fear of ever having a prolapsed womb like nanny. She once had to stand over her doctor and jump up and down so he could see if it was crowning. Sort of like a womb yoyo. Least I think he was a doctor, no one need ever go through that.)
And I’ve been off the booze for three days. So far so good, so sponsor me please, http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-louise-conran it’s for a good cause, go on. Those that know me know that this is unheard of, not that I’ve got a problem you understand, but well, dads got 30 bottles of pear drops to drink, and I won’t survive if I have that. Even if it is better than last week. Who knows how much better it will taste in a month?
*Stephanie Bartlett watch out. This old mare is coming to get you this year.