Lipstick on the Mirror

LIPSTICK ON THE MIRROR

By Mark Brennan

On Tuesday I was at the deli counter in Sainsbury's - I used to swear
by M&;S but I simply won't pay the prices anymore, not since their
Chicken Tikka went up - and it turns out they're having a German week
or some such promotion because the whole display is decked out in reds
and golds and what have you, with plastic bunting everywhere. Tacky, I
remember thinking to myself. And prowling nearby, done up like
Christmas trees in what I can only assume is German national costume,
there's a couple of blonde young things with frozen smiles who are
probably very ordinary under all the make-up. Well, I say blonde: if
that was natural I'm the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And all the while
they seem quite undaunted by the likelihood that the closest tie they
could claim with the Fatherland is the occasional slice of Black Forest
gateau in the Bentall Centre of a Saturday. Anyway, they're accosting
innocent shoppers with great salvers of cooked meats that look like
they've seen better days - you know the kind of thing, all garlic and
gristle, not my cup of tea at all. And in any case I can't abide all
this forced American servility they seem to go in for nowadays.
Demeaning, I always think.

So I was doing my level best to slip by unobserved and get a spot of
Emmental for Amanda - she'd kill for a nice wedge of Emmental; I always
have a joke and ask them to take the holes out, which gets some of the
younger ones going for a while when I put my straightest face on - and
also a bit of coleslaw which just happened to catch my eye. I'm a fool
to myself, of course - gives me the most appalling heartburn - but I
just thought it'd go a treat with the slice of Melton Mowbray I'd saved
for my lunch.

Then, just as I'm making my getaway, eyes front, places-to-go sort of
thing, one of the Christmas trees intercepts me and only thrusts her
tray up my nose, which gets my back up straight off. "Would you like to
try some of our German speciality sausage, sir?" she says with an
accent more Finchley than Frankfurt. I said, "And add halitosis to my
ever growing list of afflictions?" which is something I'd dreamed up a
minute earlier on the off-chance that my escape route would be barred.
This tart rebuff - no pun intended - was designed to send her scurrying
off with her Teutonic tail between her legs but she just looked blank
and said "Pardon?" So for maximum dramatic impact I said nothing,
sighed disdainfully and strode off in the direction of the bread. As I
did I heard her mutter something under her breath. I think it was
"fairy" but I may have been mistaken. I rounded on her and said, "I beg
your pardon" with all the menace and outrage I could muster. She denied
it, of course, claimed she was calling to her friend, Mary. "Mary"' I
said. "Shouldn't that be Heidi or Brunhilde?" The frozen smile made way
for her best insolent glare, which years of practice at the cutting
edge of customer service had clearly perfected. Then I played my ace
and threatened to summon the manager, which I wouldn't have done
anyway, not after that other business. Putney's quite a small place
when all's said and done, and tongues are wont to wag. I already had
the idea I was being watched before all this unpleasantness. Store
detective. Some people will do anything. Didn't even use my coupons at
the checkout.

When I got back I was straight on the phone to Amanda. Well, she's
always exhorting me to be more assertive. "Why can't you be more
commanding," she said to me the other evening, out of the blue, in the
middle of the Holiday programme. I said, "I command the housework
alright."

Anyway, I thought my incident in Sainsbury's would make her sit up. In
a meeting. Can' t be disturbed. Had a nice chat with Tabitha, Amanda's
personal assistant. She's started a course in Management Sciences at
night school. Terribly ambitious. And bright with it. We always have a
good natter. Asked me how I was. Fine, all things considered. I said,
"Tell Amanda I'm doing Chicken Surprise but it'll keep." Then I got
stuck into the ironing.

By the time I was fully compos mentis this morning Amanda was up and
away, live wire that she is. Half seven this was. I'd gone up to bed at
half ten on the nail. I know it was half ten because I'd looked at my
watch when I called the cat in. I vaguely remember some conversation
about a leaving do when she got in - Amanda, not the cat - but I
couldn't tell you what time it was. I don't know where she gets her
energy from, I really don't. Never stops. I'd fought to stay awake for
her - well, we're like ships in the night most of the time, what with
her advertising and me with a million and one things to do - but these
latest things Doctor Seymour's given me are better than a club to the
back of the head. One minute I was scouring the situations vacant in
the Telegraph, the next Amanda's alarm was shaking the foundations, but
she'd already left for the day.

When I got downstairs there was a strong smell of burnt offerings and a
note, written on the back of my note from the night before. Seems she
hadn't even read it when she got in, just gone straight to bed, so the
oven had been on all night and the chicken had got more of a fright
than a surprise. The cat had it. Spoilt rotten she is, but great
company for me. Amanda's got her monthly sales meeting after work,
apparently, after which they generally go somewhere for a bite. "Late
home. Don't cater." Signed A. And a kiss. Least I think it was a kiss.
Obviously written in a furious hurry and it could have been part of the
A. She's a one.

Breakfast was simple. I don't go in much for breakfast. A bowl of
muesli and I mixed some bran with it, but I ended up throwing most of
it away. Never have been a big eater. Couldn't get the chicken off the
Le Creuset, even with the cat's help, so I put that in to soak and gave
Amanda a quick ring but she hadn't made it in yet. Must have had a
meeting in town before the office. Bit daft of her not to have kept
Tabitha au fait with her movements. I mean, what if I'd been somebody
important?

Australian men really are the end, you know. Look at this situation
with Wes and Andy. It may only be friendly rivalry at the moment but I
can see it's going to get out of hand. Melanie's right. Then there was
the big bust-up over Elaine, culminating in fisticuffs between Mike and
Simon. And whenever I meet an Australian, which I admit is rare these
days, it's absolutely spot on. No, personally I'm more of a Dale man.
Now there's someone I can identify with. A bit of an original but very
real nevertheless. Terrible shame about Susan. Dale adored that girl.
And what a way to go, stranded in the desert like that. It's funny: I
hate soap operas as a rule, but I just can't help it when it comes to
Outback Surgery.

The lunchtime post yielded only more doom and gloom. Of 15 applications
fired off in a rare and fleeting fit of what the ads call
self-motivation about a month ago four haven't replied and seven have
rejected me. However, five of them wished me success in my future
career, which is something, and one even went so far as to say that a
candidate of my obvious qualities would be sure to find suitable
employment before very long, which cheered me up no end, even if the
letter was photocopied. The remaining four of the original 15 sent me
back formal application forms with all those awkward questions. There's
not much point wasting time on those. Then later I spotted an ad in the
paper. I'd noticed them before, of course, but always dismissed them,
only this one seemed different somehow. Took a bit of nerve but I'd
absolutely nothing to lose. "Four years ago I was stuck in a dead-end
job with no money and no prospects. My mind was going. Today I earn a
six-figure salary, own three homes, two Ferraris and a yacht. My family
spends the entire summer abroad; I work a four-day week and take ten
weeks holiday a year. Are you ready to take control of your destiny?
Call Dick now." I called Dick and told him I very much wanted to take
control. I used the same voice I use when people come to the door
selling liquid soap and ironing-board covers, polite but questioning.
He said I sounded like just the kind of Individual - and he stressed
that word - they were looking for. I said, who is they exactly? He
said, tell me a bit about yourself Geoff. Geoffrey, I said. Gave him a
quick resume, the edited version. I said I left work a year ago through
illness, was now fully recovered and looking for a challenge. He said,
I'm pleased to hear that, Geoffrey. We're not concerned that you've
been out of the workforce for a while. We don't think anything's that
cut and dried. We have people from all sorts of backgrounds working
with us, and they're all winners. You sound like a winner to me
Geoffrey. I think we should meet, don't you. I said, yes but what does
your company do? There was a pause. Then he said, what does financial
planning mean to you, Geoffrey? I hung up. It began to rain a bit and
the cat was crying to get in. I watched her for a while, then turned
Radio 3 on and read the paper.

Tonight we went to one of Amanda's dos in town: the agency's second
birthday party. I'm not normally involved but this one was for partners
as well so I spruced myself up and took myself along to a restaurant in
Soho - white walls and disturbing sculpture, you know the kind of
thing, like a dream sequence from a low-budget horror film. Amanda was
greeting the guests in the foyer with Sandy - that's Alessandro. She
kissed me on the cheek, missing by a full three inches, and she must
have read my face because she smiled and whispered "Lipstick". Then she
said "You might have shaved. Tabitha's here, why don't you go and say
hello?" For the next three hours she was a distant figure always on the
opposite side of the room, always the centre of things, looking
vivacious but not frivolous, just so. In her element, as Mum used to
say.*

The party was quite something. There wasn't a stitch of clothing in
that room that hadn't seen more of Italy than I had, which is saying
something, because what I didn't see on my tour of the Italian Lakes at
Easter wasn't worth seeing. Amanda was off on a conference with Sandy
in America, but she insisted I went, said it'd do me the world of good.
The conference was the AFIA, or the AFAP or something like that. I
mentioned it to someone at the do who seemed au courant, as it were,
but he'd never heard of it. But then that's Amanda: she moves in pretty
exclusive circles these days.

Some of the guests were a bit on the strange side. Chatted to one young
chap in an over-sized suit and a pigtail. I thought he seemed
semi-literate and decidedly peculiar. Turns out he's a "creative"
somewhere. I said, "A creative what? What do you create?" "Concepts",
he said. "And whom do you create these concepts for?" says I. And he
rattled off a list of surnames as long as your arm which is apparently
the name of his company. I said: "That's what I like about advertising:
it's so concise and economical." He grunted and walked off. A pigtail,
I ask you.

Another unsavoury character buttonholed me later on. He looked
comparatively normal but he was a bag of nerves, fidgeting away the
whole time. He said, "Sandy and Amanda have really got it together
here." I said, "How do you mean?" He said, "You know, really made a go
of things." I looked at him searchingly. "The agency," he said. "Ah," I
said. "Yes. I'm very proud of her." He looked at me searchingly. "I'm
Amanda's other half," I said. "Nice one," he said. "And what's your
game?" "Geoffrey," I said, then quickly excused myself and retreated to
the sanctuary of the loo. Only he must have followed me in there,
because when I emerged from the cubicle - I simply can't function at a
urinal - there he was, waiting. He said, "Can I interest you in some
coke, Geoff?" I said, "No, thank you, I've a Perrier on the go
next-door." Odd, I thought, so I got out of there smartish.

Sandy was making a speech on my return. The usual thing. Thanks for
coming. Thanks to all the clients for their loyal support. Thanks to
the team for making the agency's second year even more successful than
its first. Thanks for the Porsche, someone heckled, to widespread
hilarity. Sandy was mortified. Then he recovered himself and said his
wife had insisted on a reliable, economical and roomy family car, so he
left her and bought a 911 Turbo. The room was in pleats, of course, but
it was hardly off the cuff. And it was true, he did leave his wife,
about a year ago now, although I understand from Amanda that she turfed
him out. Nothing to do with the car, of course; bit of a ladies man,
apparently, is our Sandy, a gav Lothario. Must be the Italian in him.
"You always did like a bit of poke, Alessandro," someone else shouted,
which judging from the response contained some vulgar innuendo which,
I'm happy to say, went straight over my head.

Likes the sound of his own voice, that's for sure. The agency was more
committed than ever to its original guiding principles of
professionalism and creative excellence. Hoped to offer clients an ever
more comprehensive range of services while retaining the all-important
personal touch. Aimed to go public within five years. Lot of hard work
ahead. Confident of success. Etcetera, etcetera, we got the full works.
Then he said he couldn't have done any of this without Amanda. Her
flair and dynamism on the sales side were driving the business forward.
Then he pulled Amanda up onto the platform and held her arm aloft in a
gesture of triumph that brought cheers and applause. Then he hugged her
- a bit ostentatiously, I thought - and they kissed and to the
amusement of all and sundry Sandy was left with a vivid lipstick mark
on his cheek, which Amanda wined clean with a handkerchief. He finished
with a joke about the young copywriter working on a condom account who
described the product in question as "the coming thing". He'd like to
think Ferrigno Farr - Farr being Amanda's maiden name - was likewise
the coming thing. More generous applause and a whistle or two from the
more loutish elements in the audience, including my friend, the soft
drinks fiend.

In the taxi on the way home the driver seemed intent on discussing the
relative merits of an assortment of exclusive London restaurants,
although how he could afford to eat in them I daren't imagine. Perhaps
taxi-driving was merely a front for more lucrative criminal activities.
More likely, his information was all second-hand, gleaned from the
routine grillings he no doubt inflicted on all his unfortunate
passengers as a tip-enhancing exercise. I replied in monosyllables,
then ignored him, pretended to be dozing, and in time the interrogation
became a monologue and petered out.

Amanda was quietly staring out of the window. I said, "I made up a joke
tonight. Would vou like to hear it? What's the plural of Filofax?" I
waited but she didn't answer. "I said, "Filofaeces". The driver made me
jump by laughing loudly and our eyes met briefly in the rear-view
mirror. He continued to chuckle away to himself but Amanda didn't
respond. I leant forward to look at her face and saw that she was
asleep. I think she'd overdone the Pimms a bit at the party. We pulled
up outside the house and she stirred immediately. The driver turned to
me and said, "That'll be nine pounds exactly, please." Amanda fumbled
in her wallet and said, "Call me guv and we'll make it a round tenner."
He gave another loud guffaw, glanced at me and said, "Ten pounds it is,
guvnor." I left them to it and went inside.

This afternoon is best forgotten. First, I had a bit of a run-in with
Doctor Seymour. I'd only gone in for a repeat prescription which I
normally just collect from the receptionist, but this time it seems His
Lordship would actually like me to put in an appearance. Sing for my
supper. As per usual they were running late and as per usual the
surgery was overrun with screaming, snot-encrusted kids who probably
had nothing wrong with them a good clout round the ear wouldn't cure.
One child didn't remove his hand from his crotch for a full twenty
minutes, and only then because he needed both hands to unwrap a toffee
the receptionist gave him. Quite turned my stomach. And the mothers
don't seem to care, just let them run riot. Is it any wonder it's not
safe to walk the streets? The woman next to me was in dire need of a
bath. Why is it the denizens of the doctor's waiting room are so
obviously of the lower classes?

Some people are scared to death of the dentist. Not me. No dentist ever
had to break the news about the malignant tumour. No, the worst you'll
ever hear from the dentist is a wisdom tooth's got to go. It's the
doctor I worry about, the common or garden GP. That stands for Grim
Prophet and Gross Profit. I joke about it but in my dream there's
always a doctor with a frown who can't look you in the eyes. Look me in
the eyes. And anyway, Doctor Seymour's the image of Dad. Even the
voice. Eerie. I spoke to him on the telephone once. Doctor Seymour, I
mean; Dad and I don't speak as such, on the telephone or
otherwise.

I thought when Mum went it might make a difference, but it hasn't.
Quite the opposite. I've made the effort. I said, "Can't we be
friends?" but he squirmed visibly. You'd have thought I'd asked him to
stick his tongue in my ear. He just keeps coming out with things like
"Pull yourself together" and, his classic, "Be a man", whatever that's
supposed to mean. I don't know what came over me but I said last time,
"Like you, you mean?" He said, "If you like. I'll tell you one thing
m'lad. I know who wears the trousers in your house". I said, "Hasn't
women's emancipation reached Altrincham, then? Amanda and I are a
team." He said, "Teamwork hasn't produced much in the way of sons and
heirs, has it? The trousers were on the other foot when your mother was
alive. She knew where she stood." I said, "Dad, I've been under the
weather, you know I have." "Don't believe in all that nonsense," he
said. "Don't be taken in. Just a bunch of overpaid witchdoctors
justifying their parasitic existence." That was over a year ago. We
just don't get the time with Amanda working such long hours and often
weekends on top. I drop him a note every once in a while, just to say
we're alright, but he doesn't reply. Never was much of a one for
writing. I've got a photograph of him in my wallet but every time I
look at it I think of George C. Scott as Patton. I blame the Civil
Service.

Doctor Seymour is in an insufferably cheerful mood. I'm just grateful
he doesn't kick off with "And how are WE today?" We have been known to.
I wonder what Freud would have to say about this inability on the part
of the entire medical profession to come to terms with the second
person pronoun. No doubt he'd find a suitably pretentious title for it,
sympathetic semantics or some such.

Doctor Seymour is Jewish. The name doesn't give it away but there's no
mistaking it in the face. Sallow complexion, and the nose, of course.
Permanent set of golf clubs in the corner. Has a chip on his shoulder
the width of the Gaza Strip about the Lakeside Club refusing him entry.
Apparently it's common knowledge they don't let Jews in. I said, "In
this day and age? You should take it to the Race Relations." He
reckoned it'd been tried before, to no avail. It's not a religious
thing with him; he hasn't seen the inside of a synagogue for years.
It's more the prestige and status; the club has a certain name. Course,
you daren't suggest to him that the club may have acquired its cachet
because it's restricted. Even so, it's his life's ambition to hold his
eldest boy's Bar Mitzvah there, which gives him precisely two years to
undo centuries of enthusiastic xenaphobia. Marks and Spencer, they're
Jewish; you'd think they'd know about persecution. One pack of smoked
streaky. Perhaps that's why they went through with it. I don't even
like bacon, brings me out in a rash. Or should I say rasher.

Before I was ill properly I swear Doctor Seymour used to have the
prescription all written out ready when you walked in. Didn't seem to
make any odds what you'd gone in for. I used to go a lot with one thing
or another. But later when I started with my nerves he became a bit of
a pest. Inquisitive. Was everything alright at home? Did I delegate
enough at work? That's a laugh, I thought. Who to? As I've said before,
as Deputy Office Manager for a highly regarded wine importer I cannot
entrust complex and vital work to mere children. Find me someone even
remotely competent and I'll delegate for you. Still, that's one less
thing to worry about now that my career's on hold, as it were. His
standard line was I mustn't let things get on top of me. Learn to
relax. And all the while he can't take his eyes off the golf bag.

So today I said, "You wanted to see me, doctor," a bit brusque. He
said, "I've been meaning to have a word. Nothing to worry about. I was
just wondering how you were coping." "Couldn't be better," I said.
Embarrassing silence. "Was there anything else?" He said, "Are the
tablets doing the job?" I said, "Which?" Doing the job indeed. Finally
he gets to the point. Says he'd been wondering if I'd given any further
thought to his suggestion about talking to a colleague, a Doctor
Emmett, who's an acknowledged expert in these matters. He'll be able to
talk through any feelings of failure and alienation I may be
experiencing. I said, "Doctor, my nerves may be bad but I'm not the
Elephant Man. I don't think anyone's going to get their name in the
Lancet with me." He said, "Don't you think you're over-reacting a bit?
Doctor Emmett is outstanding in the field." I thought, so is a cowpat.
I said, "And which field would that be?" He said, "Emotional
disturbance, problems of that nature." I said, "The last thing I need
is a psychiatrist. You must think I'm mad." I hadn't meant to say it,
it just slipped out. "You've got completely the wrong idea," he says.
"Psychiatry is a very enlightened branch of our profession. These are
no longer the Middle Ages." I said, "I've heard stories would make your
hair stand on end. Now, if there's nothing else, I've got the dinner to
put on." Then he said he
thought it was time WE were thinking about cutting back the
tablets.

On the way out the receptionist gave me a patronising smile and said
goodbye. I ignored her. She's new, not a patch on the old one. But she
distracted me momentarily and I tripped on a child's toy. Nearly went
flying. The owner of said toy - I can't believe Action Man is still
selling strongly - or at least the mother of the owner was very
apologetic. Called me "love" and threatened her offspring with a good
hiding, His name was Leonard but he looked more of a Keith to me. My
heart was still pounding over what the doctor said so I garbled
something about the surgery being a deathtrap and made for the
door.

At the chemist the pharmacist, who's Asian, couldn't read the
prescription, which caused quite a scene as it was passed from one
member of staff to the next for deciphering. Before long there were no
less than six people poring over Doctor Seymour's hieroglyphics,
including two customers who just happened to be browsing in the
vicinity and of a public-minded disposition. I was mortified. I would
have sneaked out except they had my script, so I tried to merge into
the background instead and pretend I was an innocent bystander. I
recall I scrutinized the full range of ladies' sanitary products with
unseemly fascination while I listened to the discussion in progress
behind me. Then the pharmacist, who by this time was getting a bit
irritable, looked up from the melee and said, "You don't happen to know
what it's for, do you?" Upon which I dropped some item I had been idly
inspecting back onto the shelf as all eyes were turned on me and I
could almost feel them burning into me. I was hot and sweating and
there seemed to be no air and I clenched both fists tight and tautened
my whole body to keep me from shaking and for the first time I became
aware of a pounding headache. I was about to speak but nothing came
out. And so hot, it was like a furnace and I couldn't breathe and I can
just remember my hand clutching at my throat.

Next thing I know I'm coming round having fainted. I'm sprawled on a
makeshift bed of shampoo bottles which, prior to breaking my fall, had
formed an attractive sales display. Three for the price of two. And
there's all these faces and the pharmacist is telling me not to move
which frankly hadn't occurred to me anyway. I said, "I'll be alright.
It's valium. The blue one mind." So I was heaved onto a chair and
fetched a glass of water while they rang Doctor Seymour to check what
the prescription said. I wish now I'd told them straight off but that's
the whole point of writing it like that in the first place. It's
supposed to be private.

The crowd dispersed having had its sport except for one small boy who
fixed me with bemused, suspicious eyes from a safe distance. His mother
soon arrived, presumably having realised somewhat belatedly that there
was no longer a child on the end of her arm, and dragged him roughly
away. I watched them until they disappeared from view, then left
clutching my little white bag.*

The chemist is only a stone's throw from the house but I've taken to
going the long way round so I don' t have to walk past M&;S. Well, I
have been warned, as the magistrate said. While he sympathised with my
predicament, when that predicament manifested itself in criminal acts
it was the court's duty to ensure there was no 're-occurrence'. I
probably shouldn't have corrected his grammar at that point. Still,
're-occurence' for goodness sake. What is the judiciary coming to? Kept
on referring to my "predicament". So did my brief, brief being the
operative word. Money for old rope, and so insensitive. First, she
comes strutting through the corridor shouting my name - we'd not net
before - while I try and catch her attention from behind a pillar, with
all those black faces watching. I'd deliberately worn a dark suit and
carried an old briefcase in the hope of being taken for a barrister,
but this blew my cover completely. Then I have to sit in the dock and
listen to the smans of a row of delinquent youths, as the popular
press calls them, while she paints me as come genetic aberration with
an allergy to the routine pressures of modern living. To add insult to
injury she invites me for a "celebration drink." I said, "What
precisely do you wish to celebrate?" She said, "Well, we could have got
a custodial sentence." I said, "We are fortunate. I can scarcely
contain my jubilation. This calls for champagne." And with that I left
her standing in the foyer, open-mouthed.

As I was saying, I usually opt for a circuitous route, only today I
walked straight past the store, bold as brass. I did it without
thinking really, I was in such a lather. I even got stopped by some
market research women, would you believe. I thought they were
prostitutes from a distance in their furtive little huddle. Outside
Marks? I thought. Putney? In broad daylight? Then I noticed the
tell-tale clipboards. Very interested in my coffee-buying habits. I
imagine they're trained to spot the intelligent, discerning consumer.
Anyway, I couldn't linger.

At home I added the new bottle of pills to my little stash I've managed
to amass, in case, and took two. The dishes still weren't done but I
needed a sit after all the drama. The cat came in and sat purring in my
lap for a while. Then she spotted one of her playmates through the
French window, the one I caught spraying the hi-fi last week, and she
was off. And I had a little weep. Don't know why. Soon passed, Then the
grogginess came over me. I shut my eyes, put all thoughts from my head,
but I couldn't settle, let alone doze off. I just sat there feeling
nauseous as daylight faded and a chill descended on the house, but I
just couldn't move.

I'm a firm believer in every cloud has a silver lining. Third night in
a row I've been up but at least it's given me the opportunity to
rediscover the joys of the jigsaw. I've built up quite a collection in
the last year or two, everything from the Van Gogh self-portrait to a
scene from The Aristocats. My tastes are nothing if not catholic. I'm
quite an expert, even if I do say so myself, and nothing less than a
thousand pieces mind. This one's the Arc de Triomphe, circa 1890, and
there's a woman in it who's the image of Amanda, which is odd because
she hasn't been to Paris in years to my knowledge. Can't beat a good
jigsaw, I say. Very therapeutic.

I happened to be up in town yesterday so I dropped in on Amanda on the
off-chance she was free for a spot of lunch, but she wasn't. In a big
sanpro presentation apparently. I didn't actually see her. Tabitha
nipped out to tell me she was tied up. So I said is it a!right if I sit
and read the magazines in reception for a while, and I immersed myself
in Creative Review for half an hour. That was an education, I can tell
you. Incomprehensible nonsense, which is precisely what I said to the
lady polishing the potted plants, with whom I struck up a conversation
to pass the time. I said, "You don't happen to know what a sanpro is,
do you?" at which point Amanda strode purposefully through reception,
clients in tow, en route to some over-priced eatery no doubt. I tried
to catch her attention by brandishing my Creative Review, but she
didn't spot me. When I turned back the potted plant lady had vanished,
so I gathered my belongings and made to leave. "Ex,cuse me, Mr Farr,"
said the receptionist as I headed for the door, "but I think you've
picked up one of our magazines by mistake." I said, "Please forgive me.
I get more absent-minded by the day. It's not Farr, it's..." The phone
rang and she answered it. I dropped the magazine on the counter and
left.

Haven't seen much of the cat recently, contrary creature that she is. I
don't think she's forgiven me for smacking her when she got up on the
good armchair. Didn't mean to hit her so hard but she knows the
three-piece is out of bounds. Normally it's enough to talk to her when
she's been naughty. A wag of the finger and a stern note of censorship
in the voice usually elicits the desired effect. But this time she just
looked at me, challenging my authority, and I flew off the handle and
swatted her. Regretted it immediately, of course. I must remember to
get something special for her when I do the food shopping. Yes,
tomorrow, I'll nip along to the shops tomorrow. And the housework. I'm
way behind. Must get back into the swing of things.

Amanda's taken to writing her messages in lipstick on the mirror like
they do in American films. It's a devil to get off - they don't show
that in the films. No, they just read between the lines and, Bob's your
uncle, an hour and a half later, another case solved. "We must talk,"
she wrote this morning in Tokyo Rose. "See you tonight." She even came
home at a reasonable hour but I'd developed one of my heads and gone to
bed early. I was dead to the world by nine, with a little help from
something else Doctor Seymour prescribed. That reminds me. The garden's
turned into a jungle this last fortnight or so. I might just run round
with the secateurs a bit later, otherwise we won't see another rose
this year. Must press on with the Arc de Triomphe first though, see if
we can't make some sense of it all.