Monday, 22 February 2010


Man did I have a cob on yesterday. And hell did it find a new outlet today. So I bought the Observer anyway, after meeting in Cafe Oto and eating some nice veg, later followed by stewed apple pancakes. I bought the Observer because I wanted a good feel for the new format, and I really enjoyed it today. A new quoted section of Seven Days, a delicious New Review with the art smacked right next up to the science (all over that), and a new poppy magazine with the lifestyle whacked straight at the front. Nigel 'sang', to quote the master.

So I had a most distressing day. It started off fine, with train and plane tickets committed to, cups of caffeine and a second breakfast. After the insurance osteopath it was lunch in the crypt cafe, shepherd's pie puy lentil-style with a side of Connie Francis, love that album. I'm happy, I'm browsing this god damn hot light range in the Conran shop, hot as hot hell. Then I'm asking Paul about their bread courses, comparing my Marc Jacobs knock-off to the real thing in Selfridges (do I feel bad, maybe) and getting a slight art fix in the basement. Then it's off to the tube.

I fell asleep slightly between Limehouse and South Quay. I was apprehensive. Edgy. Zoe please, yes that's me. Ee. Sequinned waistcoat in the dentist chair, nonchalant assistant making me uneasy. Three lots of spikes into that bit between your gum bone and the fleshy bit attaching it to your face. Ear screech pain ahhh. It's not numb yet. An hour of jostling and stress in the air, he asks the assistant if she's bored at one point and I'm thinking this isn't cool. Suddenly I'm tipped up and numb, talked at with blind eyes about failures and inlays and four hundred pound bills. It hasn't worked. I feel like ultimate shit and I'm covered in mascara tears and I want to spend that 130 quid on two more knock-off dresses not a failed attempt.

I cry most of the way home and wish I had someone to call to say I love you but shut up. I found myself browsing in Sports Direct. It was the anesthetic. I want my mum to take me for hot chocolate in Drucker's like she used to, put a human spin on this teeth drama, I can't even eat this chocolate cake I've got because my teeth smart, but the love is right here on my plate. Instead I get a plan together. I shop for French onion soup, rosemary bread, a side of roast sweet potatoes followed by a poached (in sherry) pear trifle. All of which posted through a tiny fragile gap in my mouth, taken successively and indulgently in the kitchen by myself over the last four hours. It was Nigel's soup recipe. Maybe I didn't need saving yesterday. I did today.

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