Spectacles: A Memoir
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
When I began writing this book, I went home to see if my mum had kept some of my stuff. What I found was that she hadn't kept some of it. She had kept all of it - every bus ticket, postcard, school report - from the moment I was born to the moment I finally had the confidence to turn round and say 'Why is our house full of this shit?'
Sadly, a recycling 'incident' destroyed the bulk of this archive. This has meant two things: firstly, Dear Reader, you will never get to see countless drawings of wizards, read a poem about corn on the cob, or marvel at the kilos of brown flowers I so lovingly pressed as a child. Secondly, it's left me with no choice but to actually write this thing myself.
This, my first ever book, will answer questions such as 'Is Mary Berry real?', 'Is it true you wear a surgical truss?' and 'Is a non-spherically symmetric gravitational pull from outside the observable universe responsible for some of the observed motion of large objects such as galactic clusters in the universe?'
Most of this book is true. I have, of course, amplified my more positive characteristics in an effort to make you like me.
Thank you for reading.
on holiday to the seaside but, on finding out they had German blood, deliberately starved them. It scarred her for life and taught her to conceal her identity, her ethnicity. It was wrong to be foreign, it was wrong to be Ashkenazi. Right up until her death she would staunchly deny she was Jewish, though when drunk (which was most of the time, courtesy of Harvey’s Bristol Cream) she would launch into snatches of Yiddish. So it isn’t just a card; it’s so much more than that. For her, an
and look down from a position of safety. Anna: Right, Sue, if you’d like to travel back to a point in time when you feel you are being blocked. There’s a nagging itch in my big toe. I can’t move to assuage it. I am too busy, too busy travelling down my own personal zip wire to the past. And I am there. Anna: Where are you? Me: I’m over my bedroom. Anna: How old are you? Me: I’m eight. Anna: Who’s in the bedroom with you? Me: My mum. Anna: OK, do you want to go down into the
restaurant in St Martin’s Lane. I arrived late, as always, in full wet-weather gear to find a semicircle of unspeakably beautiful people sat at the table waiting for me. ‘Hi, I’m Tamara,’ said the immaculate blonde to my left, proffering a manicured hand. ‘I’m head of talent acquisitions.’ I leant forward to greet her. Dried mud cascaded from my sleeve into the amuse-bouche. ‘Sorry, I’ve been walking the dog on the heath.’ ‘I’m Sarah-Jane,’ said the immaculate blonde to my right.‘I’m the
for. By the time the show finally ended, I only knew one thing. I never, ever wanted to do it again. But I did. Something about the combination of people, the allure of a tent in green fields, the flap of bunting, pulled me back. Now, after six series, the show is a finely oiled machine. Plus, with all the new technology – CGI and green screen – and the judicious placing of mirrors we get the whole thing done in twenty minutes. BAAAAKE! Overworked! Nice buns! I’ve still got a taste of plums
the tedium of endless driving with games – the finest of which was the Water Buffalo Game. This involved driving into a massive, wet, freshly laid buffalo turd and seeing how heavily you could saturate the driver-side camera in shit. I told you – four-year-olds. This meant that when it came to viewing the footage back in London, the editor of the B camera had to listen to us singing ‘Love Hangover’, punctuated occasionally by a flying wet dung-ball smacking into the camera. I like to think it’s