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THE AWKWARD LIFE OF A PEOPLE- PLEASING-PLANT-BASED-PERSON.
AUDIO QUACK (SKIP INTRO 2:12)
Also available on all popular podcast apps.
I was on a flight heading back from Australia. It was dinner time, and my vegan meal arrived, hand-delivered by the flight attendant. I tore open the silver foil and began wolfing down my specially made chickpea stew. As I ate, I could sense the glares from the other passengers as they waited impatiently for the food trolley to deliver their dinner.
The woman next to me leaned over.
“Are you vegan?” she asked.
“Plant-based.” I corrected her with a mouthful.
“Oh.” She leaned back with her eyebrows raised. I could already tell she thought I was an arse. “Is that for the animals?”
I hated this question, so I shrugged it off. “Yeah, for the animals and the environment and stuff….”
“The environment, hey?” She said, raising her eyebrows once more. This time, at the window, where you could see the aeroplane’s engine blasting away above the ocean.
What am I supposed to row from Australia?!
Veganism is the belief that no animals should be exploited, harmed or killed for human use. I am not a vegan. My wardrobe is filled with cute leather boots and suede jackets. I dollop honey on my toast. And I slaughter the occasional bug. I do, though, follow a vegan diet, which means; no meat, no fish, no eggs, no dairy…. and no friends.
I’m exaggerating. I have friends. Promise. Even my parents still talk to me after coming out as “vegan” six years ago. However, I’m the first to admit that on paper, I’m awkward and annoying.
When I go to restaurants, I find my presence alone stresses out my fellow diners. As soon as we sit down, they will scan the menu.
“Is there anything you can eat?” They will ask in a panicked voice. It’s 2024. We’re in Soho at the height of the plant-based trend – there is always something to eat. Even the restaurant, Burger and Lobster, has a plant-based lobster. I mean burger. They have a plant-based burger.
Sometimes, my fellow diners will ask if I’ll be offended if they order something meaty, as if they think I’m going to throw red paint on them and scream out “MURDERER.”
Admittedly, being perceived as the Shark in Finding Nemo feels nice. Fish are friends, not food. But I’m not one for a protest. They could eat a whole hog roast for all I care. Besides, we all assume the pork was once a friendly pig like Babe, but it could have been an evil pig like Napoleon in Animal Farm. Turning him into sausages doesn’t seem such a bad thing.
Once my fellow diners are reassured that I will not ruin their meal. It’s time to apologise to the waiters, who will have to tell the chef that I will be adapting their signature dish to a bland bowl of nothing.
“Could I have the chicken Caesar salad without the chicken, cheese and oh, the Caesar sauce. No, I’m not allergic to animals. I’m just a wonderful person. Thanks.”
Dating is a whole other thing because being vegan automatically puts you in the high-maintenance bracket. I already know my future mother-in-law, wherever she may be, will roll her eyes before she even meets me.
“NO Mummy, you can’t cook your signature aromatic milk-braised wild boar, because Mary is a vegan.”
“Oh, Douglas, you do pick them, don’t you?”
(*Life goal to marry a man who still refers to his mother as mummy at the age of 42).
Because of the stigma, I tend to reveal my vegan diet subtly to a man, in the same way you would subtly tell them you get cold sores.
Once, I spoke to a man on Hinge who liked cooking, and he would send me picture after picture of huge plates of meat. He would talk about romantic days ahead when he would cook for me. After a week of this chat, I realised I had to come clean.
Me: I have a confession.
Me: It may be a deal-breaker.
Me: I didn’t mean to do it, but…
Hinge Man #3445: You’re vegan, right?
Me: Maybe.
Hinge Man #3445 sends a voice note. He is laughing. “I f**** knew it.”
I never did meet Hinge Man #3445….
The only time I strayed from the diet was when some bloke cooked me fresh egg ravioli pasta from a box. I wanted him to fall in love with me, so I ate it. Now, whenever I preach about being an independent woman who lets no man tell me what to do, my friends remind me.
“Yeah, but there was that time you ate fresh egg ravioli from a box to please a man.”
Occasionally, someone asks if I miss any foods.
Yes, is the answer.
I miss bacon sandwiches. I miss throwing and catching Maltesers in my mouth. Sucking the ears of Lindt chocolate rabbits. Dippy eggs. Mum’s roast chicken. Pineapple gummy bears. Crispy duck smothered in soy sauce and wrapped up in floury pancakes. Ben and Jerry’s Caramel Chew Chew. That cheese at Christmas with the cranberries in it…..
So why am I bumbling this awkward plant-based path?
I wish I had facts to convince you to join me. (WE CAN BE ANNOYING TOGETHER). But all I can remember from the top of my head is that pigs are more intelligent than a two-year-old human. When I said this to my Mum, she said, “Eurgh, two-year-olds are a nightmare.” It was not the response I was hoping for. Like I said, I’ve never been good at protesting.
At some point, I watched documentaries, read books, followed some Bali influencers, and became convinced that a vegan diet was good for the planet, my health, and the animals, so it felt like a win-win…win.
Now, six years on, I’m still alive and have gotten used to being annoying. I’m also now used to getting my meals before the other passengers on the plane. So, I can’t turn back now.
However, I have found out, quite depressingly, that the Bali influencers lied – You still age on a vegan diet.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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THIRTY-THREE
Audio Quack
(Skip introduction 2:00)
I woke up on my 33rd birthday to a ticking noise. It sounded like there was an antique clock somewhere in my flat. Curious, I got out of bed and began searching for the source: under the cushions, behind the books, beneath my half-dead plant…
“What is that strange ticking noise?”
“Oh, that’s your biological clock, Mary,” said a bitchy female voice.
“Who said that?”
“Your Barbie doll, Stupid.” My body froze, but my eyes moved to the Barbie doll on the bookshelf. “Hi, there.” She waved.
I screamed, ran into the bedroom and closed the door. Why in God’s name is Barbie alive? I was leaning against the wall, trying to catch my breath when I spotted someone staring at me in the mirror, a woman with the most wrinkled grey face I had ever seen. I screamed again. The old woman screamed too. I moved my arm up. She moved her arm up. It’s me! I’m the elderly woman!
“Nobody will swipe right now,” Barbie laughed from the other room.
The ticking got louder. Barbie was cackling. My face kept creasing up until it fell off completely and all there was left was a skull. The skull then dropped off and rolled across my John Lewis rug.
I shot up my pillow, panting and patting my face. I ran to the mirror and found I was back to my thirty-something self. The ticking sound was gone. And after vigorously shaking Barbie, I was satisfied that she was just a toy. I breathed out in relief. It was just another Barbie nightmare. I really need to get rid of that doll.
I then remembered that today was my actual 33rd birthday, and so I put on my bikini and went to the spa with my Gail’s buddy Sian.
We spent the morning in a hot tub with clay smeared on our faces as if we were disguising ourselves as rocks. As our skin soaked in salt, we had our usual girl’s locker room talk.
“Why do you think he said…see you later?”
“Because he has commitment issues due to his Dad leaving him, and doesn’t want to say a firm date in case you let him down, so he’s keeping it very casual and cool, even though you’re the woman of his dreams.”
“That’s what I thought….”
We then had oily back massages, followed by pizza. You’re right Belinda – heaven is a place on earth.
I went to Hermione and Sam’s for dinner. After reading a book about the climate crisis, Hermione converted to a vegertarian and now she’s a slave to the bean. The other week we planned to meet for coffee, but I got ditched at the last minute as Hermione claimed she needed to soak her chickpeas instead. It reminded me of the time a man said he couldn’t see me on the weekend because he had to do his laundry.
The bean dinner was a Romesco Butter Beans dish. Despite it looking like something you see on the pavement outside Weatherspoon’s on Sunday morning, it was delicious: a creamy autumnanal bowl with squishy bread. (A link to the recipe here. Hermione wants you all to know that she used walnuts, but you can use any nut)
After eating, I was ordered to stare out the window, whilst Hermione and Sam kerfuffled behind me.
“Christ, where are the matches?”
“Use this lighter!”
A second later, they began singing Happy Birthday. Hermione was holding a cake with two candles. She had woken up early that morning to make it. I tell you, nothing makes you feel more loved than when your friend makes you a homemade birthday cake.
And that was day one of the celebrations.
Some people don’t like to make a fuss. They would prefer their birthday to go by as subtly as a leaf falling off a tree. I’m not one of these people. Every year since we got let out of Lock Down, I have summoned my friends to celebrate my increasing age.
This year, I ordered them all to a room at The Duchess on Duke Street in London. To save money, I bought a single ‘3’ balloon, and put it by the mirror to make a 33. You’ve got to make the most of being a palindromic number whilst you can.
Due to its name, I made it mandatory for everyone to wear a crown. I didn’t think anyone would actually do it, but each one of my adult friends walked into the room with a crown on their heads. Hermione and Sam had ones made out of grass. Jenny wore a black tiara. Poetry Ed and Kate had flowers. Carrot had a crown made out of metal. Sex Ed Tom wore a gold leaves like a Greek god…Poor Amy ‘forgot’ her crown. Thankfully, I had set up a crown making station so she can create one and wear it for the rest of the night. That’s what friends are for.
There is the fear of the ticking clock, when you’re single and turning 33. But in the last year I have come to realise that you can’t force life, so you just have to roll with it.
The next time I’m a palindromic number, I will be 44. Hopefully, by then, I’ll stop having nightmares about my Barbie. Perhaps I’ll have kids, but more likely, I’ll be a dictator on a tiny island, summoning people to dress for theme days. Or maybe I’ll just be a skull on a John Lewis rug. Until then… roll on 33.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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WHEN YOUR GIRL LEAVES YOU ON THE SHELF.
🎧 aUDIO QUACK 🎧
(Skip me babbling on 3:28)
In the 1920s, a Listerine commercial targeted single women to sell their mouthwash by implying that the reason why women are on the shelf is because of their bad breath.
This is the transcript:
listverse.com/2010/08/15/10-sayings-and-their-strange-originS
“Poor Edna was getting on for thirty and most of her girlfriends were either already married, or about to tie the knot. How she wished that, instead of being their bridesmaid, she could be the bride! However, any romance of hers invariably ended quickly. There was a reason. Unbeknownst to her, she suffered from bad breath and no one would tell her, not ever her closest friends.”
Thankfully, life on the shelf is not seen to be so terrible anymore and is made easier when your friends are up there with you – friends like Helen. If it was only you up there, you’d constantly be breathing into your hand to check yourself, but because Helen is there too, you feel reassured that it’s not you that’s the problem; it’s everyone else. (Like the whole of the male population).
You’re having a great time with Helen. You send each other single women memes daily, eat all the brunches and go on girls’ holidays. You peer down from the shelf and see the moody boyfriends, screaming babies and the mandatory lunches with the mothers-in-law, and think, no, shelf life is where we want to be.
One evening, Helen gets taken to The Blues Kitchen in Brixton on a date with Greg from Hinge. You are confident that Helen will be coming back because she’s already laughed at Greg’s rollneck jumper. So you sit on the edge of the shelf waiting for Helen to return…but she never comes.
It turns out that Helen and Greg are compatible. GULP.
After two weeks, Helen has spoken so much about Greg that you know him like the the top of your cleavage. Greg is a vegetarian but sometimes eats bacon. Greg frowns in the mirror when he shaves. Greg did the 3 Peak Challenge in 2015. Greg’s mum is called Sue. Greg is so funny. Greg smells like the inside of a saxophone. Greg’s Karaoke song is Ice Ice Baby. Greg’s grandad was in the RAF. Greg’s second toe is bigger than his big toe. Greg goes into Greggs and tells them his name is Greg…haha. It took Greg three weeks and two days to ask Helen to be his girlfriend, officially taking Helen off the shelf.
So you’re left eating brunches on your own. You google how safe it is to travel to Rome as a single woman. (Yeah, it’s safe, just awkward). You see all these single women memes but have nobody to share them with anymore.
Helen manages to detach herself from Greg for a quick girl’s brunch. It had been a few weeks, so there was a lot on the agenda for the meeting, including bumping into Helen’s ex in Gail’s Bakery and a full-breakdown analysis of a text a guy sent you. But then Greg, unexpectedly, walks in with his rollneck. He sits down with a confident sigh and puts his arm around Helen.
“Sorry, you don’t mind if Greg joins us?” Helen says.
And just like that, the morning meeting agenda is thrown away. Greg starts chewing on Helen’s ear, and Helen is telling him to stop, but not in the assertive way you want her to, more in a giggly-girly way that only encourages him.
“Stop Greg!” gigggle giggle “Greeeeg!” gigggle giggle “Stooooop” gigggle giggle.
You go home seething. How dare Helen let a man fall in love with her.
The next time you see Helen, she’s in a rollneck jumper, saying she’s trying Meat-Free Mondays and claiming she is excited about the Oasis reunion. Are you Helen, or is Greg the excited one? You want to say. Considering that your most listened-to artist in 2023 was Kelly Clarkson.
You realise that the woman sitting in front of you right now, is no longer Helen, she’s Grelen.
You would call her out for changing for a man, but you did the same when you dated that beefcake from Putney. You started to wear Gym Shark leggings to brunches, and once, you even posted a gym selfie and hashtagged it #GirlsWhoLift. Helen remembers that time too.
She tells you that she and Greg are going on their first holiday together and believes Greg is The One. This news is followed up with a sympathetic head tilt. “How’s the shelf?” she asks. (Not in those words exactly, but that’s all you hear).
You smile back and tell her that you are completely off men after reading a worrying article in The Guardian that said, ‘being in a relationship makes women age significantly quicker’.
“Double the speed, the scientists are saying.”
When you get home, you redownload Hinge and bulk order Listerine.
A week later, a photo is posted on Instagram. Helen, who once cried when she had to walk the stairs in Covent Garden tube station, is standing with Greg in front of a mountain, wearing a backpack that can sink a baby hippo.
Caption: Let the hike begin! #CouplesWhoHike @GregGreg.
Oh, Helen…Helen. Helen. Helen.
A couple of days later, you are vigorously rinsing your mouth out with Listerine when you suddenly spot two hands gripping the side of the shelf. Who to appear? Helen. She pulls herself up, rolls onto her back, and catches her breath.
“Grelen! I mean Helen. What are you doing back on the shelf? Aren’t you supposed to be up a mountain with The One?”
She tears off her roll neck jumper, flings it to the side, and says, “I’m back.”
bLOG SOUNDTRACK
Listerine Image and quote credit:
listverse.com/2010/08/15/10-sayings-and-their-strange-originS
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THE NOT-SO-WHOLESOME CALIFORNIAN HOLIDAY.
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
(Skip intro/ me talking about the UFO sighting 2:40)
Mum was sick of how technology was ruining family life. The TV was always on. Her teenagers were obsessed with MSN. Her husband was always on his phone. So, in 2004, she booked a remote ranch in California for a “wholesome family holiday”.
The Cottontail Creek Ranch was 850 acres. It had avocado and orange trees, a fire pit, blankets drapped-over rocking chairs…It was like stepping into a Jack Johnson song.
From the moment we arrived, Mum started acting like we were in a 1950s washing powder commercial.
“Children, would you pick some oranges so I can make fresh juice for you all?”
She decided to bake chocolate chip cookies to kick start the family wholesome week. So, in the Californian heat, she slaved away with a wooden spoon, stirring the dough as a bead of sweat dripped down her face. She rolled, cut, baked, and let the cookies cool by the window.
She was arranging her cookies on a serving plate when the lady who owned the ranch appeared at the door.
The lady announced her arrival with a playful knock in the air, “Knock, knock,” and stepped into the kitchen with a plate in her hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m just dropping off a homemade welcome gift. Enjoy!” She left a plate of gooey, thick cookies on the table.
Mum looked at her crumbling, slightly burnt cookies….and threw the wooden spoon into the sink. “F*** SAKE!”
Photo credit cottontailcreek.com At home, we would never sit around a table for dinner during the week, because we were far too busy doing what we wanted to do. In fact, it really unnerved me when I went to a friend’s house for dinner, and the whole family, Dad included, would be eating with us. Does nobody have a life around here?
So, on this holiday, Mum cooked dinner every night, and we ate around the table without TV, MSN or phones. Instead, we played card games and got to know each other better.
“What did you say your middle name was, Dad?”
“Robert. What’s yours?”
After dinner, we would sit by the fire place under the stars, spotting the comets as they flew over us. All we needed was for one of us to know how to play acoustic guitar and for Dad to tell stories about, ‘what it means to be a man…’ One thing at a time.
As sweet as family time was, I was 13, so I was a hormonal monster. I would often retreat to an isolated hammock during the day. I had my Walkman, the new Avril Lavigne album, and a lot of hypothetical thinking to do.
Jack and Joe, 16 and 15, weren’t so keen to sit still and think. They would play ping pong for most of their time, but when they got bored of that, they would play a game of swinging their moody sister in a hammock until she stormed off. Such fun. Such SUCH fun.
Mum gave my brothers the idea to go find the pond with the rowing boat. It was a blissful moment, watching them disappear over the hill, knowing I wouldn’t be bothered for the afternoon.
Photo credit cottontailcreek.com They sheepish when they returned for dinner. And eventually, it came out that they may have maybe, somehow, accidentally…. sunk the rowing boat.
One day, it was announced that the children would put on a talent show as if we were the von Trapp family from the Sound of Music. We had a few hours to prepare and met in the games room.
I was up first. I stood before my family, squashed together on the sofa, they looked like The Simpsons. I missed TV.
I cleared my throat. “This poem is about September 11th…”
Ah, my parents thought, not quite the von Trapp puppet show we were hoping for
After reading a three-minute rhyming couplet poem about the terrorist attack, I bowed to my slow-clapping audience of four.
Jack’s turn was next. Joe got up with him, and they announced they would be ‘sharing their talent’. Their talent? A 15-minute ping-pong match…
After this display of “talent” from their children, my parents agreed that when we get home, we needed to be put into more classes.
We sat under the stars by the fire on the last night of the holiday. Despite being victimised in a hammock, it had been a pleasant week getting to know the team.
“So, what’s your favourite memory of this holiday?” Mum asked as she rubbed moisturiser on her hands – they were red raw from squeezing oranges all week.
The family were silent for a minute as we all thought about the week that had just been.
“OH, I know,” Joe said.
“Yes, Joe?” Mum said eagerly.
“Those cookies the American woman made…”
“Oh yeah, definitely”, Dad, Jack and I agreed simultaneously.
Mum glared into the fire, still rubbing her hands with moisturiser.
And so, we left California with a bill for a rowing boat, and mother who had given up on her wholesome family dream…..
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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I CAN’T CALM DOWN – IT’S TAYLOR SWIFT!
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
CBA to read? Let me read for you….
Skip Introduction (4 minutes)
TS 4EVA🎶💫 admin group was created.
Mary: You all better wear sequins.
Amy: You can, Mary.
Imogen: The only thing that fits over my bump is my dungarees.
Hermione: I may have to bring a sleeping bag.
Mary: Don’t bring a sleeping bag to Taylor Swift.
Amy was the one who managed to get us tickets to Taylor Swift. She has a solid career in the sports industry, which I hadn’t taken much notice of until she told us she had access to seats at Wembley and, therefore, was able to get us tickets to the Eras tour.
Despite being the ticket provider, Amy was not a Swiftie, nor was Hermione. I was gobsmacked when I found this out. I assumed we were all Swifties and that we listened to her songs for at least an hour every day. We just didn’t mention it because it was routine, like eating dinner or showering.
“Well, we’re a bit old for all of that, aren’t we?” Amy said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I stood on my soapbox.
Taylor Swift has united women around the world with her songwriting. She has written the soundtrack to most of our lives. I don’t know about you, but I spent 20% of our lockdown, in the bubble bath, listening to Folklore. She’s endorsed our feelings for nearly twenty years with her lyrics, no matter how gooey or petty those feelings were. For instance, when I was seventeen and found out my ex-boyfriend had moved on in a matter of weeks, I was THIS CLOSE to texting him a lyric from her song, White Horse…. ‘I’m gonna find someone someday who might actually treat me well….’
Thankfully, I did not send it.
This did make me wonder though, how many of us have used Taylor Swift’s lyrics in an argument.
Woman: You always break your favourite toys.
*Man inspects his Xbox.*
Man: What are you talking about? It’s working fine.
Woman: I’m the toy, Stephen!
Woman: You are the smallest man that has ever lived.
Man: I’m 6ft 4!
Or, maybe, some of us have used her lyrics romantically.
Woman: And isn’t it just so pretty to think, Steven, that all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?”
Man: Erm, yeah. Sorry. Did you say you wanted to share the cheese, or…?”
The night of the concert finally arrived. We agreed to meet at The Pret-A-Manger outside the Stadium because we’re all in our thirties, and we love Pret-A-Manger.
Imogen and I were the first there. Yes, THE Imogen from the McCain potato commercial. “You’re supporting the move to regenerative farming.” She was the closest I had to a Swiftie. She swears that her and Taylor are the same person because they are the same age and both grew up in the countryside.
Next to arrive was Amy. I had mentally prepared for her to turn up in corporate wear, but even Amy managed a red sequin top. Hermione came next; she had come from a sailing race. We were relieved to see that she didn’t have a sleeping bag, but she did bring a backpack and a one-litre metal flask that looked like a weapon.
To make her backpack as small as possible, she had to wear all the clothes from inside of it. So, she walked into the Taylor Swift concert wearing an oversized striped shirt and a mustard-coloured beanie. On the way in, we past other girl friendship groups, all matching in pink with glitter designs on their faces. Some of them had gone the full whack with a leotard and knee-high boots.
“How are they not cold?” Amy said, as she put on her black cardigan over her sequin top.
Hermione’s bag got through security, but her big metal bottle was taken from her, and then we went to find our seats in the stadium.
“I’m going to get very emotional,” Imogen warned.
“So am I. Taylor is the GREATEST woman alive,” I said.
“No, because of…” She points to her twenty-week pregnancy bump.
“Oh, hormones. Fair.”
The other two non-Swifties were asking stupid questions.
“Does Taylor Swift have a band?”
“Yes.”
“Does Taylor Swift have dancers?”
“Yes.”
“Oh god, she’s not going to do that ten-minute song, is she?”
“YES, she will sing ALL TOO WELL (THE 10 MINUTE VERSION). It is one of the GREATEST songs ever written.”
The stadium was full of 91,998 screaming fans, plus Amy and Hermione. A girl handed us each a friendship bracelet with Taylor Swift song titles spelt out using beads—a symbol that you’re part of the Taylor Swift cult. She gave me ‘Calm Down’. (I’m still not sure how I should feel about that).
When Taylor emerged from the purple bug things, Imogen started crying. I started crying, too.
“I’VE NEVER LOVED A MAN LIKE I LOVE TAYLOR SWIFT!” I may have yelled once.
The next three hours were magical. Everyone was united, singing in a sequin, glittery army led by the queen, Tay Tay. I never wanted the night to end.
Amy and Hermione, though, didn’t mind the night ending. In fact, they left a few songs early to avoid the crowds.
“It’s like leaving the final of the Euro Cup!” I shouted to Amy, exasperated.
“It’s not though, is it?” Amy said and left with Hermione
Imogen was next. She went just before the last song. To be fair, she didn’t want to queue for too long with a baby growing inside of her. I let her off.
I couldn’t leave until the house lights were on, and I knew for certain that Taylor wasn’t coming back. The fans exited the stadium like sparkling ants leaving a nest. On the bright side, now that my friends were gone, I could buy a Taylor Swift fan T-shirt….and a jumper.
I joined the humongous queue at Wembley Park station. I sent a photo of the queue to the TS 4EVA🎶💫 group.
Mary
I think I’m going to be here for the rest of my life.
Amy
Aw. I’ve just had a nice cup of tea and am about to go to bed.
Hermione
That’s what you get for being a mega fan.
Imogen
I just ate four potatoes.
So much for Taylor uniting women.
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CARROT, MY HALF A LIFETIME FRIEND.
*Names have been hidden for protection.
Too busy to read? Let me read for you. (Skip introduction 2:12)
🎧 Also available on all popular podcast apps. 🎧
It was Sunday, and Carrot* and I were slouching in chairs after wolfing down pizzas.
“You know, we’ve been friends for half our lifetime,” Carrot said.
“Stop. I already feel fat. I don’t need to feel old, too.” I said, staring down at my belly, which had formed into a dough hill.
I met Carrot in the city of Reading in 2008. He looked like a heartthrob from a teen movie. He had floppy brown hair, a chiselled jawline, a rugged satchel, and around his neck was a Nikon camera.
He and my great-great-great-great boyfriend, were taking photos for their GCSE art. I was there because, well, when you’re sixteen, there is nothing else you would rather do than lurk around your boyfriend as he takes photos of McDonalds. After they took many photos, we got frappés from Starbucks and watched the skaters as they did tricks. I told Carrot I could skateboard, but it didn’t impress him as much as I hoped.
“That’s cool. It’s not really my thing,” he said.
That summer, Carrot and I saw each other at a lot of parties. We had finished our GCSEs, and everyone was draped in Abercrombie & Fitch and attached to iPods listening to Bloc Party. Girls were whispery and giggly. The boys were abusing each other and calling it ‘banter’.
Carrot, though, was more contained than the rest of us. He was in the room, but not. It gave him an air of mystery that made girls think about him more than they would like to admit. We had theories as to why Carrot was still single and concluded he was waiting for a girl that we would hate – an A* student like himself, naturally beautiful, and who he could play tennis with. (Very important).
School started, the leaves shrivelled and died, but the parties lived on. It was October half term, and one guy had a garage free on his uncle’s farm. It was dank, with no ambient lighting. The catering offered was a bowl of stale Doritos, a bottle of Smirnoff and a range of cheap beers.
Carrot had cut off his floppy hair into short back and sides. He had highlighted it over the summer, and his all-boys catholic school didn’t approve.
I sat beside him on a blow-up mattress and asked if he was ok. He was keeping to himself more than usual at this party, and I wasn’t sure if, like me, he was regretting attending a party in an unheated Chainsaw Massacre garage.
He fiddled with an empty bottle of Peroni and made a, “mmm” sound.
“Do you want to talk?” I asked.
He did anouther unsure, “Mmm” sound and then said, “can we go outside?”
As we walked out of the garage beneath the starry autumn night, I began to think of what to say when Carrot confessed his love to me. I decided I would play the tortured damsel and say something like, “Oh, Carrot, I know we have buckets of chemistry, but we simply can’t…”
We found a concrete step surrounded by farm tools and opposite a rusting pickup truck. I wiped under my eyes to clear any Rimmel black eyeliner that could have run, then I puffed up my hair like an aroused pigeon.
I turned to Carrot, and he looked me straight in the eye.
“I’m gay.”
“Ooooooh,” I said, as if I’d been told the answer, to a very simple question.
One year later.
I was parked near the all-boys-boarding school in Bubbles, my baby blue Fiat 500. The clock on the radio said 22:42. I nervously tapped the steering wheel and checked front, right, left, right, left, front. It was now 22:45. Suddenly, I heard running footsteps. From the right, a familiar shape was charging towards the car. I turned the ignition just as Carrot jumped in.
“Drive, drive, drive,” he said, and I hit the car into reverse and sped away from his boarding school. It was the night Twilight: New Moon
was released, and we were desperate to see Edward Cullen and his pale, sparkling torso, so we bought tickets for the first showing at midnight. We just had to make sure Carrot was back before the morning roll call. It was worth the risk.
When Carrot and I turned eighteen, we stepped into a gay bar in Reading. We perched on the edge of a booth for a second, then ran out again. “Eugh, they’re all so old,” Carrot said. We went back to the safe haven, which was Revolutions, and drank popcorn-flavoured shots to Black Eyed Peas.
We visited each other’s university, and during the holidays, I would pop to his house and sit at the kitchen island, drinking wine with Mama Carrot and Papa Carrot. (Thank you, Mama Carrot and Papa Carrot for letting me drink all your wine).
Now, as grown-ups with jobs and bills to pay, we weave in and out of each other’s lives. Sometimes, a year will go by without a word, but we’ll always cross over at some point.
Last Sunday was one of our crossovers.
Next to Carrot was his gorgeous partner, Gazpacho*. They live in a house with a fish tank full of exotic fish. There is a patio where Carrot is trying to keep some plants alive. And they buy Hello Fresh boxes. That’s how old we are now, Hello Fresh age.
After an afternoon of discussing the old days and the present days, the bad habits we’re trying to stop and the holidays we have booked, the three of us sat quietly in our pizza haze.
There was a precious, comfortable silence. The kind that can only be earned when you’ve known each other for half your lifetime.
Say hi to your half a lifetime friend today
🧡BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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THE PERFECT MEET-CUTE: FINDING LOVE ON A BUS.
🎧 AUDIO QUACK (also available on all podcast apps) 🎧
Skip introduction 2:25
I was lounging around one day when I started to receive messages from my best friend, Sausage
The most gorgeous South American man is sitting next to me.
On my bus to
NYC
I replied with a drooly emoji 🤤.
Forty minutes later, I asked her what was happening.
She replied in short bursts. I could only imagine she was texting rapidly at every moment he looked away from her.
Sausage:
Ok so
He rolled up and was like
Is anyone sitting here
Because my bag was on the seat
And I was like nope
And he was like lemme put it in a thingy for you and I was like no don’t worry and his strong Argentinian hands continues to take my bag and find a place for it.
WITH ONE HAND
Me: 🤤
There is something about meeting someone in transit.
Hollywood, loves a meet-cute on transportation. If you have a soul, you would have watched the film Before Sunrise, which saw Jesse and Céline, falling in love on a train in Europe. Jack and Rose fell in love on a cruise liner, although, on this occasion, the transportation got in the way of the romance. James Bond meets Vesper Lynd on a train in Casino Royale. Again, not such a happy ending for Vesper. But the point is – transportation and romance go hand in hand.
It’s no wonder we love a meet-cute in transit. If you don’t meet your lover via an app, you’ll probably meet them at work or through friends. But to meet an attractive stranger crossing the world at the same time as you, seems so unlikely that when it does happen…..you can’t help but start creating a wedding Pinterest board.
I had a great meet-cute on transportation. It began when I attempted to take a bus from Oxford to Heathrow.
It was 6 am, and there was a queue in front of the National Express bus bay at Gloucester Green Station. The bus was late, and we were all getting agitated. A few bays down, a bus pulled out, and it was then that the queue and I realised that the bus reversing, was the bus we were supposed to be on.
One of the queuers, a shiny-head man in a suit, ran over to the bus and began hitting its door. He yelled at the driver to open up and let him on.
The bus station manager wasn’t helpful. “Once the bus has left its bay, it cannot go back into its bay.”
The American, confused at how our country worked, was a little hysterical. “But the bus is empty. All the passengers are here. I’m going to miss my flight!”
The rest of us stood silently, letting the American be the spokesman for our feelings, whilst we mentally drafted up the stern email we would send to National Express.
I was off to America. Therefore, I was probably heading to the same Terminal as the man having a meltdown in the middle of the station. I went over to him and suggested we split a taxi. He glared up at me, pink, out of breath….and agreed.
As soon as we got into the taxi, he apologised for his little outburst. I said it was fine. After all, it was refreshing to see a man express his emotions. Heck, give me a wine cellar, and I’ll fill it with all the bottled-up emotions of the British male.
The drive to Heathrow is usually 50 minutes, but there was a crash on the M40, so it ended up being close to 3 hours. As we sat in the middle of the motorway, the American resigned to the fact that he would miss his flight and wouldn’t make the conference he was supposed to be presenting at. He seemed cool about this…. which was very out of character. Either that, or he was holding it all together remarkably well.
In those three hours, we got to know each other. I discovered he was a neuroscientist, was single and lived in Boston. He also did a TED Talk, which I thought was a brilliant flex.
But he was a little older and lived in Boston…so well…you know.
We got to Heathrow, he paid for his half of the taxi ride, and we parted ways.
(If you’re reading this, concerned that I may have missed my flight…don’t worry. As readers of the Quack know, I’m an overly organised flyer, so I had given myself plenty of contingency time to get to the airport. Despite the three-hour delay, I was there two hours before check-in). *Smug face*
A few days later, the neuroscientist emailed me, telling me that he tested positive for COVID-19, which explained the cough I had.
But minus the virus…. It was a great meet-cute. All you need is to cast Emily Blunt and Ryan Gosling, and you’ve got yourself a chick flick.
A lot of the time, meet-cutes are missed. The person next to you on a plane could share the same love for Marmite and make you belly laugh for the next fifty years. You’ll never know this though, because you’re listening to a podcast about the Roman Empire, so the conversation never strikes up.
It’s understandable. You don’t want to risk starting a conversation with someone that’s hot, only to find yourself strapped into a seat for eight hours as they mansplain how aeroplanes work and hint at a bizarre fetish they harbour.
Thankfully, that wasn’t happening to Sausage on her bus.
She texted me a couple of hours into her bus journey.
We’ve been talking for two hours!!!!!
Me: GAAAAAHHH
An hour later, she texted again.
3 HOURS!
Her bus arrived in a blossom-covered Manhattan. The sun was making its first appearance of the year, and the car horns were bouncing off the skyscrapers that were piercing the blue sky. *Romantic setting*
WITH ONE HAND, the South American took Sausage’s bag down from the ‘thingy’, and they stepped off the bus together onto 5th Avenue. She was going south of the island, he was going north.
With one hand, he hailed a yellow taxi for Sausage.No, he didn’t. This is not the 90’s. He waited with her until her Uber arrived. And as they waited, he asked for her Instagram and phone number. Sausage could have melted right there, in front of The Rockefeller Centre.Then, WITH ONE HAND,
the Argentinian dug into his pocket,
pulled out a lighter
and a cigarette.
Lit it
and inhaled.
…..
And Sausage got the ick.
You can have it all in a meet-cute, but if you get the ick…you get the ick.
Or like me, you get Covid.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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THE TIME I SUNG A DUCK SONG TO JUSTIN ROSE, AND OTHER EMBARRASSING ENCOUNTERS WITH SPORTSMEN.
🎧 AUDIO QUACK (SKIP INTRO 1:45)
Also available on Spotify, Apple and Player FM
Despite my life’s mission to avoid sports, I keep having encounters with some of the best sportsmen in the world. Before you get jealous, you will read that these encounters are awkward at best… and embarrassing at worst.
It all began when I was six years old…
Encounter 1 -George Best
I was at a charity cricket match. (It was the same event where Gary Lineker blanked me a few years later). It was the type of event that had celebrities there, but being six years old, I had no idea who anyone was.
All I knew was that cricket was boring. So, I wandered off to find other sources of entertainment. There was a face painter set up in the corner of the gazebo. She had turned some boys into tigers and painted dolphins on some of the girl’s cheeks. I didn’t want a dolphin on my cheek, I wanted a pink butterfly with glitter that filled my whole face.
“Right, I have no pink or glitter, but I’ll see what I can do…” said the eighteen year old face painter. She pulled my fringe back with one hand, and started painting my face bright blue.
“Right. done. Have a look,” she said. I leaned into the mirror. “What do you reckon?” she asked.
I was bright blue with red dots.
“Well, I’m not f-ing butterfly, am I?” I wanted to say, but I couldn’t because I didn’t know the F word then. I nodded gormlessly, slid off the stool, and went to find my parents.
“What’s happened to you?” Dad asked, panicked by his daughter, who now looked like she had caught a rare virus in the last fifteen minutes.
“I’m a butterfly,” I snapped, defensively.
Before Dad could say anything, he was called over by his friend, Ronnie.
Ronnie had the same accent as Ant and Dec. He spoke so fast, his moustache would swing from side to side. He also, always, without fail, had a camera on him.
“Eric, man, come here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Dad, gripping my shoulders, walked me to Ronnie. The man Ronnie wanted Dad to meet was a pink-faced, dark grey-haired man called George Best.
“Let’s get a picture!” Ronnie said, and handed his camera to the nearest person. I stood next to George.
“What are you?”George asked.
“I’m a butterfly,” I said through a defeated sigh. And then the picture was taken.
So, now I have a photo of me with one of the greatest footballers of all time. Unfortunately, I look like a Smurf with chicken pox
Encounter 2 – Lawrence Dallaglio
Fast forward twenty years, I was working in advertising as an assistant producer. I was at a wrap party lunch in Soho, and ended up sitting next to Lawrence Dallaglio. I may be exaggerating a little, but in real life, he’s resembles the Green Giant on the sweetcorn tin, except he’s not green, just a giant.
Lawrence turned to me and roared, “Do you play any sport?”
And I said, “No petal, do you?”
(Ok, I didn’t ask the former England rugby captain if he played sports…or called him a petal, but if I had a time machine and more guts, I definitely would).
Instead, I simply replied, “no.”
And he roared back, “Ok.”
And we never spoke again.
Encounter 3 – Justin Rose
When the Rose family turned up on my Oxford walking tour, they could have been any old family. The mum/wife was very glamorous, with golden hair and big sunglasses. The husband looked like a friendly neighbour – the type of man who would rigorously hoover his car mats on a Sunday morning, and enthusiastically wave to you from his garden.
By the time The Roses came on my tour, I had been a guide for almost a year and had made a few tweaks to the script.
I added a Bill Clinton impression. At the Oxford Bridge of Sighs, I would ask the group if anyone wanted to take me to Venice to see the real bridge. (Still haven’t gone to Venice though, have I?) There is a part in the script where we mention the traditional All-Soul’s Mallard Duck song, and I thought it would be cool to learn the lyrics to it, and sing it to the tourists.
And so I sung this to The Roses….
“The Griffine, Bustard, Turkey & Capon
Lett other hungry Mortalls gape on
And on theire bones with Stomacks fall hard,
But lett All Souls’ Men have ye Mallard.
Sometimes I would get an applause at the end of the song, other times, like this tour, I was met with a baffling silence.
We were on our way to New College, the final stop of the tour, when the friendly neighbour man came and spoke to me.
“How many tours do you do a day?” he asked.
“Two. I have one this afternoon,” I replied.
“So you just have your lunch, and go again?”
“Yup. It’s a lot of walking, but it’s good to be outside and get your steps in,” I bragged.
“…It sure is,” said the friendly neighbour man.
(Just to note….I only walked one mile for that job).
Just as I finished my two-hour tour, the New College porter came rushing over, requesting a photo with the friendly man with the sticky up hair. He wanted to put the photo on the celebrity visitor board. This was very confusing to me. Why would you want to put some random man on the celebrity board?
After everyone had gone, I asked the porter who the man was.
“Justin Rose?” he said, looking at me like I was Flat Earther. “The golfer?” He added, to help me out.
“Oh….a…good…golfer?” I asked.
The Porter rolled his eyes. “25 professional wins. He ranked number one in the world for 13 weeks in 2018. An MBE. Olympic gold medallist. Yes, Justin Rose is a good golfer.”
…
Right.
So, not just a friendly man with sticky up hair.
If you’re ever in Oxford, go to New College, you’ll see that celebrity visitor board, where there are photos of Daniel Radcliffe, Hugh Grant and one of the best sportsmen in the world… Justin Rose.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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HERE’S TO ME, MRS. ROBINSON: IS AGE JUST A NUMBER?
AUDIO QUACK (SKIP INTRO 2:38)
Also available on all popular podcast apps
Jenny and I were in a bar near Marylebone on Saturday night. The bar was set out like a lounge with old fashioned furniture, a chandelier, and a glittery rhino statue. Jenny is a mountaineer and loves swimming in the English sea – we’re very different that way. However, we’re both in our early thirties, have the same hair colour, and are used to our coupled-up friends reassuring us that someone will love us one day.
They will say to us, “It’s when you’re not looking, they will come.” It’s as if they think we’re going out at night with torches and nets, trying to catch a boyfriend.
Back to the story, Jenny and I were in this bar near Marylebone….
I was talking to a curly, fresh-faced boy who reminded me of Dustin from Stranger Things. We were talking about this and that, and then suddenly he dipped his eyes.
“I’m very into mature women,” he said.
I looked behind one shoulder, and then the other, and realised he was talking about me. I was the mature woman.
Great. One minute I was sucked up in skinny jeans grinding to Black Eyed Peas, and now… I’m Mrs. Robinson.
Mrs. Robinson is the antagonist in the 1967 film, The Graduate. She is a disappointed premenopausal housewife who seduces the bumbling, strait-laced graduate, 21-year-old Benjamin. They have this affair…Benjamin turns into a man…He scuba dives in his pool… Falls in love with the daughter…It’s a whole thing. Watch the film.
This wasn’t The Graduate. Even though he was only 19, Curly was far from a bumbling Benjamin. Nor was I a seductive Mrs. Robinson. For one thing, I wasn’t in suspenders and wearing a leopard print coat. ( I was in a long white dress that, according to Jenny, ‘made me look like an unmarried wife.’)
“Come to an orgy with me,” Curly said.
I almost spat out my drink.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“Please. It’s not far, just in Soho,” he whined. As if distance was the issue. He stuffed his cigarette into the ashtray and blew out the last bit of smoke off the balcony.
“There is no excuse for you to smoke,” I nagged. “You were like four years old when they put black lungs on packets.”
“I would rather give up orgies than cigarettes,” he replied and, to make his point lit another cigerette and inhaled it.
Jenny was getting the same chat from Curly’s friend. It was clear from her expression that she also didn’t want to fulfil the ‘mature woman kink’.
I’m not opposed to age gaps in healthy, consensual relationships. I have dipped a little below my age and have got sixteen years above my age. And I’m not alone – age gaps are said to be the relationship trend of 2024. According to a Bumble survey taken last September, 63% said that age wasn’t a defining factor in dating.*
Just look at Hollywood; Heidi Klum married a 29-year-old guitarist when she was 45. Ellen and Portia are 15 years apart. Dick Van Dyke’s wife is 46 years younger than him; she’s 52 and he’s 98.
There are pros to dating an older man. For starters, there isn’t that fear of losing him to #VanLife. They also can age beautifully, like a pair of old leather boots. They don’t kick footballs in the house. And those extra years mean they have more stories to share. I’m also fascinated by first-hand accounts of what growing up in the 80s was like. Was a Rubik’s Cube all you had to play with? Where were you when the Fall of the Berlin Wall happened? Did your mum work out to Jane Fonda?”
I disagree when people say that age is just a number. Whether we like it or not, age moulds our views, routines, and bodies. It’s not a number; it’s part of who we are. Dick Van Dyke is no longer dancing around chimneys for his job. I’m no longer thinking I could be a surfer in Australia. We learn, we mould.
We can still be in love with someone a generation ahead or a generation below, but we may have to adapt to the lifestyle that comes with their age. If dating older, you need to be willing to go to wine and cheese nights, and be there for when their cholesterol rises.
“It may be good cholesterol from the eggs, but it could be that blue cheese you keep eating, darling.”
And if going younger, you risk being cancelled on your sofa for watching Friends. Plus, your youthful partner will never understand the parental pressure you endured as a child of keeping your tamagotchi alive.
Back at the bar in Marylebone with the shiny rhino, Jenny and I were still being chased by Curly and his friend. (I forgot how persistent 19-year-olds could be).
We told them again it was not going to happen. And then advised them to stop smokimg, look after their hair, and if they really had a kink for mature women, then they should just go to Gail’s…wherever there is sourdough and overpriced coffee, Mrs. Robinson will not be far away.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
(https://nypost.com/2023/11/16/lifestyle/age-gap-relationships-to-surge-in-2024-bumble-survey/)
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THE EURO FINAL: THE MUSICAL
Audio Quack (Skip Intro 2:07)
I woke up on Sunday morning, and as usual got my coffee, went outside and sang to the sky.
“Where have all the men gone? La La La.”
To my surprise a voice from the clouds sang back.
“In the pub watching the football. La La La.”
And then I remembered, England were in final of The
World Cup… Euros…whatever. All I knew was that; like bees to honey, donkeys to straw, men would be stuck to screens that night between the hours of 8-10pm that evening.As you have read in 32 Years of Hurt, blog I’m not exactly a big football fan…. but if we won, the après-football would be simply magical. I’m thinking…street parties with lots of singing, dancing, back-bending kisses, and perhaps for the finale, a choreographed dance in Trafalgar Square at 3am… I’ve watched too many musicals.
To prepare for the night, I went to Cos and bought an organic cotton red T-shirt and some earrings. I completed my outfit with my favourite cream denim jacket with a cowboy stitched in the back.
And then I left the house, ready for the Euros.
The plan was to watch the game in Wandsworth. As I made my way to Bond Street station in the early afternoon sun, I passed men standing outside the pubs with half a pint in their hands, and a heart full of hope in their chests. (If you think I’m attempting to create something poetic out of a few geezers getting on the lash – then you’re right; that’s exactly what I am doing).
On the Jubilee Line, I was cuckooed between two summer-scented armpits, and then I had to run through Waterloo Station to catch a train to Wandsworth Town. If this was a musical, this is when they should play Abba’s Waterloo.
Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you
Woah, woah, woah, woah, Waterloo(Like a fast-speed version)
The Royal Standard in Wandsworth Town was a wash of people in red and white, from a distance, it looked like a scene from Handsmaid’s Tale. My brother Jack was there, and his friend from Texas had one of those tattooed sleeves. The Texan had ridden a cow in a rodeo, owned a thousand-dollar cowboy hat, and liked to eat steak and egg for breakfast. He also couldn’t care less about the football. If this was a musical, he would have a solo. (Something about being a lost cowboy in England).
Our group grew: Jay, James, Eve, and Eve’s friend, then a sweet couple arrived from The Globe Theatre. They drunkenly booked standing tickets to Much Ado About Nothing.
“It was a lot of standing,” said the guy.
The girlfriend was wearing multicoloured bracelets and had painted flowers on her toenails. She took out her red lipstick and drew St George’s flags on everyone’s cheeks – even the Texan allowed her to put our flag on his face. When we said it was her turn, she said,
“Nah, I hate football,” and left.
Eve had joined the football bandwagon at the semi-finals, and was the one organised enough to book a table to watch the game. The table was at Brew Dog – a craft beer bar with LED lighting that sells beers named Elvis Juice and Candy Kitten.
In the lead-up to kickoff everyone was singing the anthems at the top of their lungs.
“THREE LIONS ON THEIR SHIRT….
JULES RIMET STILL GLEAMING…”
(Who the hell is Jules Rimet, and why is he gleaming?)
The players came out, and the bar began cheering. The National Anthem turned us all into patriots for 1 minute and 4 seconds, and then it was kickoff.
After ten minutes of absolutely nothing happening, I was reminded as to why I don’t like football. Meanwhile, the actual fans were gazing up at the screen, watching the ball, like Enzo the Cat, would watch a laser light. Now and again, a fan would whack the table in a rhythm, prompting everyone to shout ‘ENGLAND!’ It wasn’t exactly Les Misérables, but it did the job.
Finally something happened…. Spain scored…. and the mood dropped onto the sticky floor. There was a long, painful silence, and then one man took the responsibility of picking the bar up again by banging the table.
“ENGLAND!”
Gareth Westgate-Northgate-Southgate took off the only player I knew, Harry Kane. They did a bit more dribbling about, and finally someone from England scored, and the bar EXPLODED. Screaming, Flapping, Shouting….at one point, I was spun in the air. It was coming home! Whatever It was. I began practising my Charleston in the corner of the bar, ready for the finale.
It stayed 1-1 for a dull amount of time, but then something happened. Spain scored again. The fans clung onto their heads as the clock in the corner of the screen ticked towards 90 minutes.
There was a bit of extra time, but it was hopeless.
The final whistle blew. 2-1 to Spain. The sound of the match faded, and in it’s place, ‘Chasing Cars’ by Snow Patrol was played. I thought this was an odd choice. If it was up to me, I would have played Hopelessly Devoted To You, Olivia Newton-John, as I feel the fans can relate to the lyrics.
I know I’m just a fool who’s willing
To sit around and wait for you
But baby, can’t you see there’s nothing else for me to do?
I’m hopelessly devoted to you“Now, what do y’all folks do?” The Texan asked. It was a good question.
Despite the loss I still hoped the city would go out and have a party. We had come second place after all…..but no. The hot men shuffled out of the doors with their heads dipped down. It was like they were genuinely upset. They should take a leaf out of their own book and not get so emotionally attached.
We ended up in a dark pub called The Ram. James got excited and spilt a beer over my cream denim jacket. Jay disappeared to find a kebab. A bladdered stranger named Ruby danced around us to the song Park Life with a hand fan she found on the floor.
….It wasn’t quite the big musical finale I had in mind.
Blog soundtrack
THE QUACK 