This has been a tough week; I’m doing ok but a few of my friends have had very bad news and it looks like the repercussions of Covid-19 will be causing hardship and heartbreak for a long time. I’ve written a blog post on how to deal with personal disasters, but I reasoned that what people actually might need right now is a bit of a laugh. I’ve compiled a couple of stories that I hope bring you a little levity.

The sleep talker

I’ve always been a rather active sleeper; I occasionally sleep-walk and I frequently talk in my sleep. My long-suffering husband has put up with my nocturnal shenanigans for nearly two decades. He is the most patient person I have ever known. However, there are nights when even he finds his tolerance fraying at the edges. This incident occurred in January of this year, I have written it as Pete reported it to me.

At 2.00am Rosa gets out of bed and turns on the light in a panic that she doesn’t have her clothes sorted out for the early morning meeting. Rosa starts riffling through the dirty clothes in the laundry basket in a frantic search for something to wear. Pete assures Rosa that she doesn’t have to be up for a few hours and there are clean clothes in the wardrobe. Sufficiently mollified, she get back into bed.

At 2.10am Rosa says, ‘I hear him.’ Pete asks who? Rosa replies ‘It’s dad, he’s talking to me.’ Pete thinks how lovely, I’ll leave her to her dream.

2.11am ‘Shhhhh’ Rosa says.

‘I didn’t say anything.’ Pete responds.

‘I said shhhhh, I can hear him.’

‘Your dad?’

‘No, David Bowie.’

Ok, less lovely, bit more strange, he thinks but says nothing.

‘Pete, shut up!’

‘I didn’t say anything!’

‘Shut the fuck up!’

‘I still didn’t say anything!’

‘Seriously Pete, shut the fuck up! I need to sort out David Bowie’s Ocado order!’

‘Rosa you’re having a dream.’

‘No! You don’t fucking understand! If David Bowie doesn’t get his Ocado order he’s going to be really fucking pissed off!’

‘Ok, I’ll leave you to sort out David Bowie’s Ocado order then.’

‘For fucks sake!’

Pete lies down and tries to go back to sleep. Verbally abused and rilled up, he lays awake for the next few hours for fear the ghost of David Bowie might have more urgent grocery demands of his wife.

In the current climate, having my nightmare about an Ocado seems rather prescient.

Mistaken identity

In my mid twenties I was working as a dresser in a really fun company in the West End and we all liked a drink. It was probably communal alcoholism and some of my habits were very unhealthy, but I still look back on those heady, fun-loving nights with great affection. There was a little gang of us who would be out most often. One of them was standing at the bar in a gay club, waiting to be served when I staggered past, a touch worse for wear, on my way to the ladies. My mate, for reasons only known to him, said to the barman, ‘See that? Used to be a man.’

‘No! I don’t believe you.’

‘Seriously, true story.’

My friend ordered a round of G&Ts and as he was paying I lurched my way to the dance floor, the barman looked in my direction and said,

‘Oh, now I see it!’

My friend told me this and I thought it was hilarious. Cut to a few years down later when I was a fashion blogger. I was churning out content every day and one morning I was scratching around for something to write about. I had pictures of myself wearing a particularly frilly, feminine dress and I thought it would be funny to accompany them with a recount of the incident in the gay club, as well as another one when I was wearing a bowler hat, I thought they were cool at the time. Little did I know the cheeky sods at the Daily Mail had seen the blog post and taken it out of context to make it sound like I had given them an exclusive interview, complaining that I am constantly mistaken for a man. This also made me laugh, hard. Here are the photos to prove it.

 

 

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