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 October 2007 Disaster abounds! Have slipped disc in my neck! Crash my car! Accidentally get my hair cut REALLY short! Oh mes amies, what a month. In fact, I'm not meant to be doing any typing at all at the moment, but I can't resist the opportunity to discuss my ill-health, so I'll type as fast as possible before the Slipped Disc Police catch up with me and forcibly wrestle me away from my laptop. Okay, here's what happened. You know how last month I went to a specialist and he diagnosed me with carpal tunnel syndrome and he sent me for an MRI scan. Well the scan shows that I have a slipped disc in my neck! That I've had it for years. Well, mes amies, I was fecking delighted! The thing is I KNEW I was in pain. I was telling anyone who'd listen and no-one took me seriously. Years ago I went to Dr Murphy and told him about the pain in my right neck/skull/jaw/shoulder blade/arm and middle finger. He told me to stop carrying my rucksack on one shoulder (this is how long ago it was - back when rucksacks were still trendy!) and to wear it on both shoulders. Which of course I didn't do because there was no way I was going round running the risk of being mistaken for a Rambler. So I just thought I'd have to live with the pain. And like, I've tried LOADS of things, going to my beloved Vilma for cranio-sacral therapy and seeing my beloved Breda for acupuncture and being visited by the wonderful Helen Donegan for massages, and although they all provided relief the pain always came back. So now that I have a proper diagnosis, I'm thrilled. At least now things can be tried to fix it. Straight away I started on VERY STRONG DRUGS - anti-inflammatories and anti-spasmodics and pain killers so powerful they've scared me and which I've had to put to the back of the drawer because I have a tendency to get a little too fond of anything that changes my mood and gets me out of my head. Also every second day I'm doing physio and traction (my head is put in a sort of harness yoke and attached to a machine which winds up the rope and pulls my head off my neck - think the Spanish Inquisition and the rack and you'll get a fair idea. So far I've converted to devout Catholicism 17 times. "I sincerely declare that Christ Jesus is my Lord and Redeemer, now turn off the machine!") Also - tragically - I've got to stop writing in bed. In fact I'm writing this very newsletter at the kitchen table. I'm ridiculously sad about not being allowed to write in bed any more. The world - even my own kitchen - feels like an unsafe place to me, bed is the only spot where I feel everything is going to be grand, but I'm just going to have to feel the fecking fear and do it anyway. I feel I'm going to have to be like an adult now. I've taken delivery of a highly ergonomic chair which had to be a special order because I'm so short (5 foot) that even on the lowest setting on the normal model my feet wouldn't touch the floor. This humiliating event has been facilitated by a lovely man called Kevin Ball from a company called Arise. Also I'm getting a special midget-sized desk made for me by a lovely company called Alpha desks. They've all been so kind, making the transition from layabout bedbound author to upright adult author as painless as possible. 
Oh yes, the car crash! It's my first proper accident. Admittedly I did drive my car into the gatepost the day after I passed my driving test but I've never had an accident involving another car. It's probably not as dramatic as I'm making it sound (nothing ever is) but the very day after I got my diagnosis, I went to the chemist to buy all my drugs. In fact I nearly walked to the chemist, I had a tussle with myself over whether I should walk or drive and in the end laziness prevailed. Which is surely some sort of message about eco-responsibility. (If you walk places, not only do you protect the environment but there is less chance of causing bloodshed and mayhem by driving into another person.) Anyway, after I left the chemist, laden, nay staggering under the weight of the drugs, the traffic was really heavy. I was parked on the 'wrong' side of the road, i.e., facing into oncoming traffic, so I needed both lanes free. I was waiting ages for a chance to pull out and when it finally happened, I went for it - but something was wrong. The car was going really slowly. I subsequently discovered that because I'd been waiting so long to pull out I'd forgotten to take the handbrake off, but at the time, everything went strangely dreamlike and out-of-bodyish, because suddenly there was a car hurtling towards me from the opposite direction and I was directly in its path. Desperate to get out of its way, I pressed on the accelerator and bunny-hopped forward, onto the 'right' side of the road - but the road behind me which had been clear when I set off, now had a car on it and I hit it on the side. Now, as accidents go - and I'm told everyone has them - I was miraculously lucky. I didn't hurt anyone. The woman whose car I hit was the only occupant, but she'd just dropped off her elderly parents and one of them has a heart condition and could you imagine how they'd have felt if they saw me careering towards them. Also she has children but none of them were in the car either. But it was horrific nonetheless. The poor woman was unimaginably lovely, she really was. She had every right to be furious, raging, beside herself with anger, but she was none of those things. She was so kind that she actually asked me if I was okay - ME, the person who had come from nowhere and put her in fear of her life and hurt her lovely car.Still feeling like I was dreaming, I managed to drive home but right away I resolved I'd never drive again. I was reminded of how I'd felt when I'd first started driving - that a car is a dangerous weapon. Also my sense of failure and self-hatred was INTENSE. I kept going back over what had happened, wondering at what point I'd made the mistake, how I could have avoided it. Also my head span off on all the appalling things that COULD have happened. I'm a delayed reaction person - I always was - all my life I've never felt the right emotions at the right time and it was only the following night - 30 hours later - that it really hit me and I spent the best part of the night puking and keeping Himself awake. But anyway, it's okay now. I did get back into the car and drove again, and the lovely woman's lovely car is fixed and she sent me a lovely text and seems to bear me no ill-will, which I'm very grateful for… A few days later, further disaster struck - I took a notion to get my hair cut. I'd been growing it for a couple of years and it was lovely and long and… I don't really know what happened, to be honest. Short, I thought. Short and chic and cheekboney and like Amelie and generally fabulous, you know? Now, this is the mistake I used to make in my youth - I'd see a haircut on someone else and would instantly start to hanker after it, conveniently forgetting the one non-negotiable, that it would still be my face under the lovely haircut. But I'd forgotten and all I can say is… Oh God. Disaster. I didn't look chic and cheekboney AT ALL. I looked like an off-duty nun, a meek, nondescript, colourless creature, a wearer of brown shapeless skirts and beige blouses. I - whoever I was - was GONE. I know it sounds self-indulgent and ridiculous but I felt really sad. I mean how would I cope if I lost a breast, as so many women do? This shamed me into sense for about half an hour and then I was plunged back into the self-indulgence. The problem was the regret. I kept thinking back to the person I'd been when I had long hair. The long hair had done a lot for me, I realised. It imbued me with - okay, not glamour, I'll never manage to be glamorous - but well, at the very best, it had been something to hide behind. Now, I was exposed in all my ordinariness. And the worst thing was, this was ALL MY FAULT. I'd decided to do it, no-one had talked me into it. Crazed with the desire to fix things, I decided that it simply needed a different shape (it was a very blunt bob, like someone had picked up one side of my hair and lopped it off with a garden shears, then did exactly the same on the other side, then ran away roaring laughing.) Back I went to the hairdressers to have the bob layered but to my horror when I left I actually looked - I hadn't thought it possible - WORSE. It was sort of bouffy and lady-on-committee-ish. I had my worst nightmare - LADY HAIR! 2 days later, I showed up again at the hairdressers, this time convinced that the fringe was the problem, if it could be feathered or… you know… whatever terms they use, instead of being swept back in a big ladyish Hilary Clinton style bouff, I might be able to live with it. Well, mes amies, it was okay. I don't mean okay as in 'all ends happily' I mean ok, as in ok. Not hideous but far from nice. I've got a bit used to it now. It's been a couple of days since I cried hysterically. Mercifully it's a quiet enough time - the only person who sees me is my inquisitor - sorry, I mean my physio. And of course the chair people and the desk people, but they were too busy laughing at my shortness to really focus on my hair. And of course it'll grow. (My hair, I mean, not my body.) You know, I actually genuinely considered extensions, but I don't know… I don't know anyone who's had them and I'd be afraid with my current hair karma I'd end up with nylon Barbie rats tails hanging down my back, with my bouffy lady Hilary Clinton hair still perched on the top of my head. In an attempt to counteract my short-haired non-descriptness, I'm wearing about 15 times as much make-up as I usually do. I went to the Sisley counter and pointed at my face and said, "Do what you can," and came away with a load of lovely gear. I've written in the past of my great love of Sisley, of how their Global Anti-Age is the only 'supercream' that I'm willing to put my hand in my pocket for. And their cosmetics are just as deluxe and wonderful. They are not cheap - there's no getting around this - but they're of such high quality that I couldn't help myself. I got myself a lipstick (hydrating, long-last) in L23, which is red, red, red, and a blush duo on pinky-rose and - my super top-dog number one favourite - their Phyto-kohl in plum. And on the up side, there's so much lovely telly on at the moment (if you live in Ireland or Britain.) Strictly Come Dancing is back and more uplifting than ever. I'm up for John Barnes! I'm going to be on Claudia's It Takes Two on Thursday Nov 8th, so I hope he's still in. I'll have to get a hat or something like that. Or a wig! Actually I've just thought of that, a wig is a great idea! Also I'll be at the Chichester Literary Festival on Friday 9th of Nov, so I'll wear the wig for that as well. And if anyone feels like coming along to laugh at me, you're very welcome. What about The Tudors - is anyone watching it? My god, it's so compelling!!! It's sort of like medieval Footballers Wives, so much sex and badness and all of it ever so slightly camp, mes amies, I'm transfixed by each episode. Also Naked Camera is back (an Irish programme) and it is so HILARIOUS, especially the fake taxi driver, he's my favourite. (Apologies to non-Irish readers, I'm sorry you don't get to see it and if I tried to explain it, you wouldn't know why it's funny.) Speaking of Irishness, I'm DELIGHTED that an Irish woman - yes! You heard right! WOMAN - won the Man Booker. She's Anne Enright and the book is called The Gathering and some of the reviews said it was a kind of misery memoir but, mes amies, they are bloody well WRONG because okay, there might be a bit of sexual abuse and a bit of problem drinking, but it's funny and achingly believable and so acutely well-written and honest about the dynamics of families that I actually found it comforting. Now, further to last month's rant on Slovakia, I got a letter from a lovely Slovakian woman who told me that the reason there were no Slovakian supporters at the match was because they were boycotting it because the ticket prices were so high. Also that the SAS Bratislava is not owned by Slovakians, the implication being that if it had been, they wouldn't have given Niall's room away. In the interests of balance I thought it only fair to include her information. On Saturday (Nov 3rd) is the annual ball for To Russia With Love, the chirridy that I'm patron of. In an effort to raise much needed funds, my new book is going to be auctioned. It's not in book form yet, it won't even be in proof form until December, it's just a massive big lump of pages - as we speak, Himself is out scouring stationery shops looking for an attractive lever-arch file to put it in. Please think of me on Saturday night and send me good energy if you believe in that sort of thing because I just have this horrible vision of me standing on the stage, wearing a rictus grin as an entire ballroom of people refuses to bid more than a fiver. Oh God, I must go now! Himself has discovered me typing and is telling me to stop, that what's the point in getting my neck stretched every Monday, Wednesday and Friday if I won't follow the advice I'm given. It's been one long whinge this month and for this I offer my humble apologies. I hope your month was better than mine and that November brings many lovely things for you. (Has anyone been to their first Christmas party of the season yet? You mark my words, it's imminent!!!!) Lots of love and apologies and thank you for reading this Marian xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx |
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Photo © Neil Cooper