A Day in the Life of a Successful Columnist
I wake up at 6am, as always. I would love to lie in later than this, but Frida Katlo is pawing at my face, demanding breakfast. Fridays are special in our household. I like to prepare a simple dish of Wagyu beef for her before heading out to Guillaume’s [Guillaume’s Eating Establishment, Mains starting at £35, see GEE.co.uk.food] for my own, much more rustic, slap-up affair: smashed avocado three ways on rye bread (this features Guillaume’s famous “avocado skin twists” – an acquired, slightly rubbery taste, but one that has all the foodies in Chelsea buzzing]. I stop and think about the ramifications of our combined meals. Frida’s Wagyu beef keeps her fur luxuriously soft. Her eyes are bright, and she is in excellent shape. My Cat Yoga instructor is forever complimenting me on her suppleness, while kindly turning a blind eye to my own inability to perform the Twisting Pigeon without a small amount of gas escaping at both ends, no matter how tightly I clench.
Despite the obvious nutritional value, as well as the knowledge that the cows were treated very well in life – they live in a 4-star barn complex with access to daily grass-therapy and mineral water – the carbon hoofprint is immense. Perhaps I should look into a vegan diet for Frida. After all, my friend Poppy’s cat was vegan, and she lived to a grand old age of seven. My own meal has a much lower carbon death impact, but it is, according to my family in the North, terribly expensive. Is it right for me to spend the same amount on breakfasts each week that my sister spends on her whole family’s groceries? This sort of moral quandary leaves me quite dizzy first thing in the morning, so I resolve to give some money to charity (perhaps Stonewall UK or Kids Company, or something like that) and think about it later, once the avocado skins have at least partially digested.
By the time I’m done ruminating on these dietary difficulties, I’ve almost unicycled to the office. Unicycling through London’s rush hour traffic is tremendously hard work, but my Gen Z friends all assure me that it’s the done thing now. Apparently, it’s rejuvenating. Not that I’m at all worried about my age or my appearance. At thirty-eight years old, I’m old enough to have empowered myself through years of positive self-affirmations, but still young enough that I don’t need Botox. My forehead is in fact, naturally shiny and turgid. It’s all in the genetics, completely natural, I’ve not had anything done. I only went to the Fountain of Youth Clinic for a face peel, I swear (more on their innovative Orangutan urine based facial in next week’s column).
My editor is unusually anxious to see my latest write-up of an interview with a Very Famous Star of Stage and Screen. There seems to have been some misunderstanding, as her agent has given feedback about my “rude and unprofessional demeanour”. She must have me mistaken for another journalist (and part-time novelist). I don’t see how I can be “that horrible woman with the orange dungarees and Doc Martens”. I only wear coral or ochre overalls with my Doc Martens, never orange. I try, in vain, to explain this to the boss, but she just begs me to send her my work as quickly as possible. I make a note to speak to HR about not feeling heard but return to my desk anyway. I am nothing if not a trooper.
I file my work and head out for a long lunch with my friend and colleague, Amira. I suggest we get lamb koftes for lunch to celebrate Eid. I quickly whisk her away, before she can mutter anything about carbohydrates, to my favourite street vendor. He is a delightful Moroccan man called Mohammed, or possibly Mohammet, or Muhammad. I am excitedly ordering a veritable extravaganza of Eastern flavours when Amira quietly informs me that it is still Ramadan, she is still fasting, and the man is in fact a French Jew called Jean-Pierre. A small sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I have committed a grievous faux pas. Despite this, and despite my uncertainty around Israel’s foreign and domestic policy, I continue with the transaction. The unicycle back to the office is a quiet one.
What remains of the afternoon passes quickly. My editor has offered me some constructive feedback on my recent interview with the aforementioned Very Famous Star of Stage and Screen. Apparently, I should not ask about the interviewee’s haemorrhoids, their sex life, or if their rumoured haemorrhoids get in the way of their sex life. Honestly, you would think a Dame would be made of tougher stuff.
I take the tube home, as someone has stolen my unicycle. I wouldn’t complain, but it’s the third one this month. Still, I remind myself that the person who stole it may well have been a migrant, or another marginalised identity, and they may have a greater need for one-wheeled transport than I. With this sanctifying thought, I let myself back into the apartment.
Frida Katlo has knocked Jeremiah, my potted fern, off his pedestal and smashed the original Peruvian-Indigenous-person-made pot. I burst into tears, for the first time in a week. Annoyed at ruining the longest tear-free streak I’ve had since childhood, I decide to put on my big girl pants and clean the soil up without further upset. I manage to hold it together until Frida adds insult to injury by defecating directly into my dustpan while I’m on my hands and knees cleaning. I call my therapist and book myself in for an extra support session.
Sigh. It’s not all glamour being a hotshot journalist, you know.