Polished perfection is passé – memoirs need misadventure
1.
I went to a very nice party this week where I saw a woman who I had worked with more than 20 years ago. She was already becoming rather famous back then. I reintroduced myself, reminded her of our brief working relationship and that we had even had dinner together. She did a good job of pretending to remember who I was but when the clouds of forget refused to properly dissipate, she sprang my favourite line of the night, “I’m sorry to ask but did we ever sleep together?” I assured her that she was safe on that count.
2.
“Did We Ever Sleep Together?” would be a good title for an autobiography. Though if I were going to use this myself, I might need to ask the other half for permission to research a few extra chapters in order to have a bestseller.
3.
Actually, a few catchy titles for autobiographies have come to mind of late, though once again, I might struggle with enough relevant material once I had dragged readers past the enticing title page. In Mallorca, for example, while swimming in the sea with Monocle Patrons Daisy and Paul, I let out a not very brave squeal when a fish, all of 10cm long, bit me. Daisy kindly enquired after my wellbeing and I explained, hoping for some sympathy, that “A fish bit my nipple!” Let’s just say that I didn’t feel that either her or Paul’s responses reflected the gravity of my piscatorial plight. But “A Fish Bit My Nipple – And More Fishy Tales From A Life At The Keyboard” would be a fitting sequel to “Did We Ever Sleep Together?”
4.
The final part of the trilogy could include my time in Spain. I would give this the catchy and accurate title, “A Croqueta In My Pocket”. Now I promise that this will be the last reference to The Quality of Life Conference in Barcelona but during the pause for lunch at the Palau de la Música Catalana venue, I needed to find a quiet spot to work but also needed something to eat, so I snaffled a little bowl of just-made mushroom croquetas. I bit through the golden-brown breadcrumbed casing only for the creamy molten interior to erupt instantaneously, shooting up into the air before landing with guided-missile accuracy in my jacket pocket, the goo secreting itself between cloth and protruding notebook. Now I have every hope for “A Croqueta In My Pocket” because it will join a line-up of books about Brits’ lives in Spain that all have quirky food references, such as “Driving Over Lemons”, “Snowball Oranges” and “My Half Orange”. I really believe that it’s time for the genre to move beyond citrus fruits and into the deep-fat fryer of inspiration.
5.
Every now and then my knees suggest that I should give up running. In these moments I deny them their wish and I seek out a podiatrist to check my orthotics (a secret footwear companion since as far back as when I wasn’t sleeping with famous women). This week I had a two-hour session with a nice French gentleman who had some very good knee-side chat, which is handy when you are spending two hours having your gait analysed (wonky), your posture assessed (too tilty) and new orthotics made from moulds of your feet. Rather than suggest that age might be the cause of my aches, he said it was more an issue of the “mileage” I had clocked up. When he explained how my running shoes would feel with my new orthotics, he said that they would “kiss my arch”. But the most cheerful phrase that he used to conclude any long explanation about biomechanics or the potential beneficial outcomes of his work was, “Oh happy days”. Such an upgrade on my many versions of FFS.
