Wednesday, December 30, 2020


 I think maybe what I need is to live in a soap. When you live in a soap you turn up with a career, or pick one up over two episodes (so within a week). When you change careers you get another job top speed: usually working in a cafe. Were I in a soap, instead of still wondering what the hell I want to do when I grow up (I'm fifty in Feb) I would be working in a cafe. In Roy's Rolls. With Roy. (Currently take-away only: Tier 4 tomorrow.) Roy. I would rock that.

Also, when you live in a soap, your house decorates its sweet self. In between episodes. I would sit at my kitchen table with a brew and the feature wall would shift and shape around me. Like Bradbury's jungle wallpaper, but with a floral yet geometric repeat design you could never acutally choose, but why be picky? It's done for you, whilst you dunk the last of the Danish butter cookies into your PG Tips (now compostable plastic-free).

When you live in a soap you have to take your turn with seventeen divorces, three spousal deaths, one spousal re-appearance, a daughter who believes you are her big sister, a big sister who is your mother, a brother who steals your laptop for drugs, your own drug habit that ends with a beard and homelessness, three train crashes, a tram crash, two plane crashes, too many hospital stays with a beep beep machine to count, twelve court appearances (eight aquittals), three prison terms, a body under the patio, and at least one stint as a landlady. At the very least. Fair doos. But alongside all that soap life gubbins you get regular employment and a quickly decorated residence. I could do soap life.

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