2 hours ago
4
Monday
You almost find me on my way to Berlin. I’m not usually one for travel – I haven’t left the UK since 2017 and my passport has about 10 minutes left to run (it’s not patriotism, by the way, it’s sloth) – but exceptions must always be made in the case of a Kartoffel-Flut.
It means “potato flood”. There has been such a bumper harvest of God’s own tuber this year that German farmers are literally giving them away. Around the city 174 dump/distribution spots have been set up, and charities, churches and citizens are being encouraged to take as much as they can. Berlin zoo has also been given tonnes to feed its animals.
What a vision. What a demi-paradise. All those whose roots, like the Mangans’, are to be found in Catholic Ireland will feel the urge to go and stock up stirring in their ancestral DNA. The connection is deep and it is real. I genuinely had to be restrained from going. It made no financial sense, said my husband. “You’re an Ulster Protestant,” I replied. “Of course you’re going to say that.” He has hidden my passport. What do they say about history? Tragedy first, then it repeats itself as domestic farce. But I’ll find that passport yet.
Tuesday
Are you a lark, perhaps reading this over a cup of coffee early on a Saturday morning after a jog or child sacrifice or whatever it is you people get up to before, say, noon? Or are you that most unfairly maligned creature, the night owl, perhaps reading this online before you go to bed at a sensible hour like one or two in the morning?
If the latter, beware of research that claims there is not one type of night owl, but three: “vulnerable”, more likely to be sedentary and prone to depression; “energetic”, risk-takers at low risk of depression; and “high-performing”, those who have quick reaction times but lack emotional regulation.
Look, far be it from me to dismiss scientific research by experts on circadian rhythms, but babes, you haven’t found three types of owl. You’ve found one type of owl before, during and after coffee. Save yourselves some time and effort next time and just ask me. Just not before midday and 20 fluid ounces of Nescafé Gold Blend, obviously.
Wednesday
This! This is what we need! A storm in a teacup, a news story with no discernible claim to the title that is nevertheless everywhere, involving a dispute with two clear sides with everyone able to cleave instinctively and implacably to one or the other while accusations and counteraccusations fly, and requiring no emotional investment or exclamations of genuine horror whatsoever. It’s been a while, no?
Basically, Jan Leeming’s kicked off. She posted on social media that an expensive lunch to which she was treating a friend had been ruined by a noisy child (“menace”) running about uncontrolled by its “oblivious” parents. The staff played with the child, she said, instead of remonstrating with its parents, and when she complained as she paid the bill she was the one made to feel at fault.
Perfect, isn’t it? I needn’t bother giving you the other side. What does it matter?! We’ve all made our minds irrevocably up anyway, haven’t we?! You’re either always and forever Teem Leeming (I demand this spelling) or you are Team Narcissistic Parent Who Should Be Barred From All Eateries Forever. I may have given my allegiance away there. No matter. The beautiful simplicity of the choice in a meaningless row amid the rest of the appalling complexities of the world remains for us all to enjoy.
Thursday
I can’t believe it! I’ve attracted my first book scammer. This is a proud day for any author. “The Manhattan Book Club” – and I imagine there is just one, don’t you? – wants to spotlight – in its “Spotlight Section” – my book, Bookish: A Love Letter to Reading, because it is the best book ever written. I paraphrase, but not by much. Apparently they are especially drawn to “the way Bookish weaves together memoir, cultural reflection and literary appreciation” and the fact that my “affectionate tribute to libraries, bookshops, secondhand stalls and personal bookshelves speaks directly to the shared emotional geography of readers everywhere”. All I have to do is contact them to find out more about scheduling, format and participation.
Obviously I’d rather have an actual bestseller and actual money rather than an email bent on chiselling the latter from me should I choose to respond, but still I’m rather pleased to have registered on a swindler’s radar. That’s progress of a kind. Now I’m just pondering how to get in on the act. I think I might target British authors with a more convincing email. “We saw your book and it was quite good. Want to come and talk about it with fellow shut-ins? We can do it by Zoom or something. You pay for the privilege, obvs. You know how the book economy works. Put your card details below. We haven’t got all day.”
Friday
I’ve chosen a rug for the sitting room. You don’t know how momentous this news is. I sent a pan-contacts WhatsApp bulletin and am still receiving congratulations.
I have been looking for a rug for the sitting room for five years. It is possible I have been quite boring about it, but I do not take the outlay of anything over £10 lightly, and parting with rug-level money is almost impossible for me.
But the choice has now been made. The process of mental separation from nearly £500 has begun. Another five years and I will be ready to part with the cash itself. This is why my house looks like shit, but I can sleep at night. Money in the bank and potatoes in the larder. It’s what we need.
