Real life

I realise that I have for some time been approaching my life with all the flexibility of an Orangeman. Every day I march my traditional route to a well-known sandwich shop. I buy the same sandwich and march back. Anyone who gets in my way is treated with the sort of courtesy that a member of the Orange Lodge might muster to deal with a group of Catholic residents on the Garvaghy Road. ‘Stand aside, I must walk over this precise piece of pavement because that is the way it has always been.’ Tourists taking photographs are given particularly short shrift — I must figure in literally thousands of smiling holiday snaps as I fulfil my lunch requirements with the grim determination of an Apprentice Boy of Londonderry.

Ten minutes into Les Misérables my boyfriend turned to me and whispered, ‘Is it just me or is this Charlie Rap?’ As the thunderous clatter of a large prop being unceremoniously dropped backstage reverberated around the mournfully tatty Queen’s Theatre, I concurred that the legendary musical was indeed a load of Mr Charles. It was also Kieron Dyer. And downright Pete Tong. Despite everything that has ever been written about it stating the exact opposite, it seemed embarrassingly obvious to me that for some bizarre reason, perhaps for one night only, the plot was stupid, the music was awful and most of those on stage could neither sing, act, dance or move around without bumping into each other, dropping things or coughing.

Silly really. Although it seemed like a good idea at the time. A girls’ poker evening. I forgot that trying to persuade a group of women to do anything involving a certain absence of men is like trying to get them to turn up to their own funeral. I’ve tried to organise these sorts of escapade before and it has inevitably been like pulling teeth without gas. Everyone spends the night looking at their watches and fiddling furiously with their mobile phones under the table. You can hardly hear the sighs of despair above the frantic tapping of text messages to real people, i.e., men. At 10.30 p.m. sharp the entire gathering simultaneously announces that it is absolutely shattered and whilst it has been a lovely evening it really is time to go home to bed.