Month: February 2007

Anyone who has ever lived with me would report that I have one bad habit that is singularly intolerable: I am extremely obsessive in my consumption of music.

This takes the unfortunate form of a tendency to listen to specific things over and over. Not just a type of music, or a particular artist – I am capable of listening to the same song all day long without any variation.

I recognize and put the smack down on most of my compulsions. But when it comes to music, I’ve decided that so long as I have ten songs playing I am fine.

Bystanders might not agree, and a few have been known to shriek in rage when I hit the play button for the seventeenth time in an afternoon.

When I walked off the plane from the most recent Seattle trip I flipped through the borrowed iPod, selected an album I’d never really listened to that suited my mood, and turned it on.

Three months later I know every last word and intonation and I’m still listening. In fact, since I have a Walkman phone now, I’m listening more than I would have before.

Efforts to change this have been unnerving, and mostly include adding extra songs from the same artist. It is unfortunate that my brain seizes on random enthusiasms, though I suppose it is good that I’m not in a Rhinestone Cowboy sort of mood.

This winter will forever be connected to a specific album I never approved of in the first place.

Spring is imminent. I need to find some new music.

Tonight over a sushi dinner my daughter said Tell Dylan about the ducts – nobody believes me!

I sighed; that particular story has been removed from my repertoire of anecdotes.

During the scant few months her father lived with us he did not know how to drive. Every morning I would make the trek to drop him off on base, thirty miles away, then drive home with the baby. In the evening we picked him up again and headed for the campus where I was attending graduate school, another thirty miles south. After my class I would then drive the sixty miles home and we would all collapse in various states of exhaustion.

Adjusting for other chores that would put my daily commute at something like two hundred miles a day – while still experiencing massive panic attacks during every single drive.

My lovely daughter, then two years old, only put up with it if I kept the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack on constant rotation. Even then she was inclined to break out of her car seat, so I often drove (manual transmission, no power steering) with my right hand in the back seat, attached to her leg.

The bit of the story she most enjoys (and definitely remembers) is what happened during the three or four hours each night she hung out with her biological father.

To add a piquant detail, remember that he would have been dressed in his Army uniform, he was often armed, and that the school was, well, extremely liberal.

What did her father think was suitable entertainment?

He broke into the heating ducts and took the baby prowling through the walls of the seminar buildings.

I thought this was a good use of their time, and also highly amusing. My classmates… didn’t.

Next week my UK publisher is throwing a party at the V&A and I’m sure that the whole thing will be terribly fascinating.

When I mentioned it to Mark Mitchell he replied I want to know what you’re wearing from head to toe, in case I need to stage an intervention. Then he tried to argue once again that a grey silk dress he shuffled me into at Barney’s was gorgeous.

I responded In Bewitched terms it was more Samantha’s mother-in-law than her mother.

He did not object to my stated dress choice for the bash. I cleverly neglected to tell him which shoes I’ll wear (he will not approve – nor would Trinny & Susannah – I’m crossing my fingers they’ll attend!).

I’ve been terribly remiss in reporting on other fun parties, including a trip to London to celebrate Iain’s birthday. It was lovely to catch up with Suzy and Ian from Nude Magazine, chat with Susan, and meet a few new people. Iain and I played dueling cameras:

On my birthday Sally hatched a plot with Jean to have a bunch of us over to her cottage to meet some people from South Africa. Of course everyone forgot except me, but the event was hastily organized at the last minute.

Jean and Peter shared a cab with me out to Grantchester where we had an excellent dinner and super conversations with an eclectic crew of people from all over the world. When the wine ran out Byron convinced Don to run home and plunder his supply.

My spooky ability to suss out lies was mocked by Byron, who does not believe in the concept of truth. In fact, the first time we ever spoke he tried to pass off a series of stories that had no basis in reality. I was feeling charitable that day so I just stared at him and announced to assembled friends that he was a liar.

Sally says that Byron is the devil. This is not entirely accurate, though he is a trickster. He can’t stand up straight in the cottage but he still danced:

Snow day!

Oh, what delicious words…. even if I mostly huddle against a radiator, I still feel the genius thrill of knowing that regular life is cancelled in favor of fun.

This afternoon I dug out my snow boots, last seen stomping around Buffalo NY with Stella and Al.

I miss them.

I’ve been reading a biography of Bruce Chatwin that is exacerbating my pre-existing nervous disorder around discussing writing projects. He spent something like thirteen years telling everyone he knew about a book that was never published.

My tendency to claim that I am not working at all seems like a comparatively good tactic.

Yesterday I was rummaging around in a cupboard and found a one hundred and fifty page manuscript that I decided to abandon a few months ago without consulting my agent.

I tossed it in the recycling bin and went back to searching for my boat safety certificate.

Mash wrote to ask if I remember a dinner party we threw, which involved blindfolding the boys and driving aimlessly around the southern end of the county to make sure they did not guess the destination. Which, if either of us could remember, was probably an elementary school playground.

That would have been a typical weekend excursion, when we had grown bored of standing around in supermarket parking lots. Other amusements the crew indulged in were a bit more esoteric.

We forked lawns. We had an effigy that we would string up in each others forested yards. We threw dog weddings.

As David recently commented, we were extremely innocent and good. If we skipped school (and we were only caught once, when eight of us went missing on the same day) it was to go to the city to see a play.

There were no drugs, no drinking, no smoking. Sex, if it happened (and for most it did not) was a secret.

We were honors students, and we took over the International Society in order to have an officially recognized clubhouse.

Yet, at the same time, we were the social pariahs of the school – the kids who couldn’t ride the bus for fear of what might happen. The ones always suspected of wrongdoing, because we had strange haircuts.

One evening in Seattle Jeffrey asked if, when I achieve something, I think of someone or something in my past. I replied The high school vice principal who told me I would not be allowed to graduate…. and then had to retract his statement when I won more merit scholarships than anyone else.

I’m not motivated by the memory. I have no need to settle scores, and nothing left to prove. It is just that the look on the face of that small gray man with the twitchy moustache was a pure distillation of every other fight with someone attempting to exercise false authority over my life.

Today I was interviewed by a journalist who noted that my book betrays no hint of bitterness about the facts presented.

I replied that there are a lot of people who feel bitter about their perfectly pleasant lives. Attitude is incidental to experience. I could mope around and complain, but what would be the point? There are so many interesting new adventures to pursue.

Later in the evening I managed to catch up with Satnam at a pub. He moved here in October but our schedules have never allowed us to have a long chat about the strange experience of living in this town.

I warned him ahead of time, exactly like Don warned me, but it is hard to grasp in the abstract. Cambridge is a beautiful, exhilarating, and exasperating place to live – particularly if you come here from Seattle.

Satnam was surprised that I’ve cracked the social scene but I knew people here before I even arrived. That is one of my primary skills and a trait I inherited from my paternal grandfather (along with poor eyesight and a silly surname). Wherever he went in the world he always found someone he already knew.

During another recent interview in London the journalist asked me to describe the place where my family homestead is located – a small and obscure town on a peninsula hardly anyone has heard of – and he looked puzzled and finally interrupted to ask for the name.

But I have family there, he said. There is a street named after my family.

I blinked in astonishment and replied So, we might be …. cousins?

Several people have inquired why I will be traveling so much when I claimed that I would not do so this year. The answer is simple: I’m restricting myself to ten weeks on the road. While that may sound like a long time, it is a drastic reduction from what I’ve grown used to. That is why California in June is a temptation, not a certainty – I might not be able to work out the time.

Knowing that I am stuck here makes me feel itchy and restless.

Amy Joy wrote to say that my daughter looks exactly like the photo of me at seventeen, if the girl were the sort to brood. This is true – she is my physical clone. The only contribution from her biological father is the fact that she is the first person in my entire extended family who does not have pale blue eyes.

This means that, if anyone gets recognized when the book comes out, it will be my adorable youngster. She is much more capable of handling the attention; in fact, I would send her out to do the press if I could. Her capacity for chit-chat is in fact legendary.

The other night I accidentally went to the Granta on quiz night. I didn’t play but could not resist whispering answers to the strangers at the table next to me as they did not know basic facts such as the last name of the Angie immortalized in the Rolling Stones song, or how many members formed Sister Sledge.

My primary talent is the acquisition of trivial knowledge.

Spring is filling up – a teenage visitor arrives from Seattle any day. Rachel will be back in town for awhile, Marisa will be here in early March. Jeffrey might visit after that, and Gordon has asked if I’ll be around immediately after. Eli is talking about stopping by on her way to perform in Vienna. Byron Number One will be in the country on and off throughout the spring and summer.

There is a wedding to attend in New Jersey in April, assorted literary events to look forward to, and the possibility of the west coast in June. I’ll be in Berlin for part of July, and then there is the big question of where to spend the rest of the summer – Seattle? SF? NYC?

I’ve resorted to carrying a calendar around with me – for the first time since I walked away from my career in government.

The post today included a stern letter from the University of Cambridge School of Clinical Medicine. They point out, correctly, that I have fallen six months behind schedule on cancer tests.

My excuse is that I’ve been busy. Though if I’m being honest the truth is that I have a superstitious belief that avoiding doctors is the easiest method to stay alive.

This irrational notion persists – and unfortunately, it feels good. I only grasp my profound stupidity after the tests, while waiting for results.

The journalists who have interviewed me here in the UK invariably ask about my medical status and I reply that I’m the healthiest person I know.

This is, mysteriously, true. Or not proven otherwise, at least.

The fact that I am at risk of developing another lethal disease is incidental to that fact so I never mention it.

Lots of people need to believe that I’m safe and well. Including me.

The UK Lessons in Taxidermy release date is officially March 21. If you tune in to BBC Radio 4 at 9AM that morning you can hear my demented squeaky voice talking about the book on Midweek.

If you are inclined to pre-order, Amazon has a good price at the moment. Otherwise you’ll be able to purchase it in all the standard bookstores.

You will also be able to find the book at every Tesco nationwide.

The supermarket version has a different cover, featuring a photo of my face:

Recently Scott and I were reminiscing about the Bad Old Days and I remembered that an ex-boyfriend spread a rumour that I might not know who fathered my first child.

At the time I was incredibly indignant about the accusation. Because, as I reminded Scott, I might have been immoral but I was always very organized!

He replied “Immoral, But Organized” is going on your tombstone.

That would be hilarious, though it is no longer accurate. Somewhere in my mid-twenties I acquired an ethical code, and later in that decade learned empathy.

Now if I had the capacity to feel envy I might be almost human. Or at least, I would better understand some of the puzzling behavior of my comrades.

During the course of the conversation I also recollected one of the various stunts I pulled off – a Rotating Date that featured a ferry ride and assorted other amusements, switching partners at short intervals.

Scott remembers attending, and that I ordered everyone to have a very specific and odd amount of money on hand, down to the last cent. Neither of us can recall who else was there that night; my bad boyfriend, James, and Pell-Mell for sure. Most likely Kath-E, Byron One, Buffy, all from Governors’ School, and probably Dave-E (an adult and mentor who must have been a true friend if he suffered the general insanity of my behavior and still showed up for both my graduation and wedding).

I wrote to Mash to inquire if she has any memories of that adventure but she has large gaps because of the accident – and it is likely she was in the hospital anyway. She said that she still has one of the Rotating Notes locked in a cupboard somewhere.

It might be interesting to look at the document – hundreds of pages of late eighties teenage drama as documented by me, James, Mash, Scott, David, and other people who disappeared long ago…. though most likely it would be too painful to even open the cover.