I’ve been on holiday twice this year. I only mention this because I just got back, late last night, crawling back to my hideous Berlin Alltag like a guilty earthworm.
Actually, no. I mention it to show off a bit, as well. Twice in one year! Ha! Almost as good as Fergie! I mean the depraved debt-ridden duchess, by the way, not the lady with the sexy bum who always seems to be wearing far too much lip-gloss, even by celebrity standards, but who am I to judge, she does have a very nice bottom.
Ha! Two holidays in one year, in proper hotels and everything! Ha! Suck my dick, you mother fuckers! If I was younger I’d spell it “mo’fos2 or something, but I’m not, so unfortunately we’ll just have to stick to mother fuckers like the old age pensioners we are.
It’s amazing how quickly human beings adjust to the good life. I had a friend from Ukraine once, who said to me: “It’s so easy to get used to not being hungry anymore. I got used to that so quickly. I’m not even sure I could get used to being hungry again.” Well, although I am sure I could verzichten auf one of my annual Fergie-esque holidays, whenever somebody says something vaguely jealous to me – actually jealous is an overstatement, whenever anyone registers even vague surprise at my “going away again” – I remember how I used to feel about people who had two holidays in one year, in proper hotels and everything.
“What a bitch,” I used to say to myself. “Her parents have money, or maybe she got compensation from being in that car accident that time. God, I’m so jealous. Twice in one year. That’s just showing off. Hope she doesn’t put the pictures up on Facebook, or I might puke over my computer and all the keys on the keyboard will stick together.” A stern inner-censory-type voice would call from inside me: JACINTA NANDI, YOU SHOULDN’T BE SUCH A JEALOUS BITCH! ANYWAY, YOU NEVER KNOW. SHE MIGHT END UP IN A PLANE CRASH…
Anyway, we went to Rome. We had the most brilliant time of our entire lives, possibly, and at dinner one night sat next to two ultra-trendy Australians. In a very tiny restaurant. I could see the girl’s pores. Actually, I could count them.
“I cannot stand that girl,” said the boy, who was wearing seriously snazzy glasses. “Look,” the girl said. “I totally understand how you feel. But really, there’s no point confronting Em about her behaviour. Kel and I, we’ve discussed it, and we both agreed it’s pointless. She’ll just think we’re jealous or something.”
“I really hate her,” he said. “She’s just an awful person.”
“Em is who she is,” the girl said wistfully. “I learned to accept that a long time ago. Deep down, she’s insecure. That’s why she operates in that way.”
“She’s just awful,” the boy repeated.
After they left, I sighed happily.
“Weren’t they bitchy?” I said to my boyfriend. “I’m so glad you’re not like that, darling.”
Whenever I try to bitch about anyone to my boyfriend he is not exactly forthcoming. He just blinks nervously, and nods, and says: “Maybe you should stop being friends with her, then.” It’s not exactly a helpful suggestion. The bitchiest thing he will ever, ever say is: “That sounds really exasperating. If I had been in that situation, I would’ve felt really exasperated.” He never gives me the pleasure of him slagging other people off, so I get put in the deliciously bitchy position of being able to “defend” someone, while surreptitiously destroying their characters. Ooooh.
“Who?” He asked blankly.
“The couple who just left.”
“Them who were sat there?”
“Yeah.”
“How were they bitchy?”
“Weren’t you listening? They kept on bitching about their friend Em. Even Kel doesn’t like her!”
“When were you listening to this?”
“The whole time!”
“You mean, when I was telling you about Ian Fleming’s writing schedule?”
“I can listen to you talking about Ian Fleming and two Australians bitching about their friend Em at the same time. Anyway, I’m so glad you’re not like that. You never let me bitch about anyone. Imagine how bitchy I’d be if you encouraged me….”
“Anyway,” said my boyfriend, “the thing is, Roald Dahl wrote for four hours every day, but he wrote longhand, on paper. He just handed his secretary all his paper and got her to type it all up.”
“You’re so non-bitchy,” I said. “You won’t even bitch about the bitchy couple!”
My boyfriend laughed then, and kissed me. “You mad bitch,” he said. “Why would we bitch about that couple? We don’t know hardly anything about them! But did you know that Jonathan Franzen says no good novels can be written in rooms which have internet connections?”
“Hmmmn,” I said. “I didn’t actually.”
Non-bitchery. It’s the secret ingredient for a perfect holiday.
