Down and out and struggling in London – Part 4

 As I find myself at yet another party where I don’t know anyone, desperate to please, desperate to disguise my broad kiwi accent whilst avoiding saying ‘yes’, ‘ten’ and ‘fish’, nursing my mulled wine and anxious to appear impressive to the pretty Glaswegian actress I have managed to corner, knowing at any moment she will make her excuses and render me the official loser of the party, I wonder what has led me to this point, what sacrifices have I made to be here, all to be ‘living the dream’?

 I will start this blog with a confession and a self-diagnosis. It all began when I was nineteen. I’d kept a journal before but there was something different about the process that went into this one. I found myself obsessed with my journal, it consumed my every thought. Things would happen to me throughout the day and all I would think about was how I could record it in my journal that evening, what adjectives I would use to describe my feelings, my surroundings. I was literally writing my life in my head as it was happening. For example, a dear friend would come around at their all-time low, sobbing away, and wanting nothing but a shoulder to cry on, and I would spend the whole time mentally recording how their nostrils flared, or their mascara ran, all to be written later. Or things would happen to me directly. I’d be dumped. I’d be humiliated. I’d have a joyous time at a party. But I simply wasn’t present in any of these situations. I’d be writing them out in my head as they were happening. This drove me mad. I wasn’t living life at all. I was simply a character in some sick journal. so I abandoned it and returned to some semblance of sanity.

 A few years later I picked up the pen again. And since then I haven’t stopped writing in a journal. This time the obsession is worse and has developed into a monster. On top of this I also started writing fiction – a dangerous situation where I was no longer the central character and wasn’t always on the receiving end of my actions. So not only am I writing events as they happen, I am engineering the events for the sake of my journal or stories. I am manipulating the characters in my life to see how they react. I am pre-writing scenes or scene plans and seeing how they play out. I am finding myself in intimate relationships all for the sake of research. When there is family tragedy I am recording how grief is expressed whilst experiencing nothing (except maybe glee that a new story is a’forming). I am mining people for their stories than sadly moving on when they become boring characters. I am finding myself in sometimes criminally and life-threateningly dangerous, sometimes sexually degrading, sometimes publicly humiliating, sometimes outwardly cruel, sometimes self-reproachingly hideous scenarios – all for the sake of writing about them later.

 I’m not at all proud of this fact. It’s an obsession that is difficult to control, all the more frightening for the fact that the only other person I’ve heard of this happening with is the fictional character, Catherine Tramell, the ice-pick-weilding sociopath in Basic Instinct (surprisingly a film I could really relate to, though I can assure you I am not a sociopath, and my stories are usually highly sympathetic looks at the humble outsiders in our world – though I have written about a plethora of rapes, murders, massacres and suicides. Oh dear)

 The reason I have shared all this is three-fold. Firstly I’m putting it out there to see if anyone else suffers from this affliction. Secondly, in my naive ramblings, I hope to lay claim to this unusual disorder and forever name it the Sainsbury Disorder (SD). Thirdly, this affliction means I will limit the amount of my blogs. Not only am I constantly writing a journal and various other stories in my head, I’m also writing a blog 24/7 and it’s driving me mental.

 Okay. Now onto more important things. Life in London. Tis a struggle but I have not been disheartened yet. Unfortunately I have only been to see one live show in the last three weeks, and no movies, but that is for the simple fact that I am rehearsing non-stop. Every single evening I have a rehearsal either for The Christmas Monologues or . . . and then you die.  I love rehearsals, though, so it is no burden. The monologues are being performed this Thursday night – my first British performance – woohoo! – at a cafe called Sacred. It has sold out already (it can only hold 40 people, so this isn’t all that impressive) and it is all ticking along nicely. But I’m just not sure about the monologue format. It’s all a bit of an experiment (I’ve attached another one at the bottom of this entry) – will let you know how it goes. The main obstacle has been people’s timetables and finding spaces to rehearse. If you want to put on a no-budget show in London give yourself two extra weeks of rehearsal and make sure you have a big living room to rehearse in and have sympathetic flatmates.

 . . . and then you die has sadly taken a back seat, though we nearly have the play up and running. I’m having a wee bit of trouble with unity for the production, but I know we will get there in the end. In this particular tale I am a relentless, invincible Trojan and everything will work out exactly how I plan under my iron grip.

 Right, now onto the most important of matters. Mr R. E. I’ve decided not to write too much about him because I just know it’s going to be like Geri Halliwell’s nude photos and Paris Hilton’s homemade porno and that it will come back and bite me in the ass when I least expect it (but unlike these beauties, it will be detrimental to my career). So all I will say is I’ve met with him again. It was an intimate house party (no, not an orgy). I was terribly underdressed (humiliatingly so) and developed this weird bobbing/curtsey/handshake whenever I met someone new. He’s very nice, though he looks permanently disgusted. I’m not sure what to make of it all. Maybe I’m just a colonial plaything. I’ve given him LUV to read, though every englishman who has read it so far has commented on my homophobic portrayal of the character of Jacques. So – gulp! So in regards to Mr R. E. I will let you know if anything truly exciting happens. At this stage all that has happened is I’ve humiliated myself and quite possibly offended his lifestyle.

 Okay, must dash, will let y’all know how the monologues get on. In the meantime I want to remind you all that our time on this earth is short (another of my myriad of anxieties) and that you are the protaganist of your own stories so make them fucking exciting please – if for no other reason than my own entertainment when you regale me with them.

 Much love. And here is another one of the monologues. Sick, I guess. Macabre, most likely. Dark, definitely. One day I will mellow and deal with the beautiful in life, I promise.

 CHRISSY: Chrissy leans down onto her elbows with a groan. She touches her not-the-same-shade-blonde hair piece.
 
Chrissy’s Christmas Crackers. Just ya standard gun powder cracker filled with treats and ya standard paper hat. That’s what you’ve come to hear about. So basically I started my business after my partner, Les, died of testicular cancer. He was into Christmas big time. He was a real giver. Started up the business with his life insurance. Didn’t foresee it sky rocketing quite like it has, mind. Cos of course locally made products are a bit of fresh air, aren’t they? We’re marketing as a boutique business. Small number of staff work out in the back here. In the garage.
 
Chrissy prepares a cracker.
 
It’s all about giving, isn’t it? Sometimes people forget that come Christmas. They’re all running around wildly. Aren’t they? Not me. Like to take my time, cos of course we have our orders to fill but my workers are prepared to work sometimes twelve – thirteen – fourteen – even fifteen hours to get the orders filled. I provide them with accommodation. Comes with the job. I like to give back.
 
So as I said I’m working with the standard Christmas cracker. You’ve got your traditional gun powder strip. Then you’ve got ya paper hat. And you’ve got your one or two trinkets. And then you’ve got ya joke.
 
I know how kids love the ol’ cracker. Jesus, I can just see their faces light up. Bang! And then the trinkets. You’ve just got your plastic necklace addition. Or you’ve got your – geez, there’s all sorts. You’ve got your compass. That’s for the boys. You’ve got your balancing eagle. You’ve got ya little puzzle. Isn’t it great? And the folks just love it. They love the fact that they’re buying British made and the money’s going back into the community. Sure, we charge up to twice what you pay for your other crackers, your inferior crackers. But you’re paying for quality.
 
I can’t stress how important it is to buy British-made.
 
Cos of course come Christmas there aren’t any crackers left, not that they’d be much use to me. Since Les died I’ve been living alone. We didn’t have kids. I couldn’t on account of my inhospitable uterus. Would have loved a little girl to dress up. I could still adopt. A nice little Chinese girl. It’s just the bloody immigration laws. But they just leave them to die! I’ve seen it. A couple of baby girls. Just left on the side of the road. 
 
She reads one of the jokes. She laughs.
 
Listen to this. God, these crack me up. What’s green and sits in the corner of the room? The incredible sulk. Ha! Aren’t they clever?
 
Cos of course every January and the July I head over to China to buy up on the trinkets and what have you. Geez they’re nice to you over there. How do you do? Can I help you with anything? They treat you like bloody royalty. And I go to these factories. And I order two tonnes of paper hats, or what have you. In green colour, thank you Chao Chang, or whatever your name is. And it only comes to a few quid. I kid you not. Some of those conditions I’ve seen those Chinkies working in – let me tell you – it gave me ideas as a businesswoman.
 
She puts on the paper hat. She can’t fit it around her hair piece. She gives up.
 
Cos of course I got my garage out the back. There’s six of them out there. Chinese. My “nieces”. They’ve got a toilet and what have you. And an area for food preparation. That didn’t turn out exactly how I was expecting. I thought the bloody Chinese were born cooks. Turns out they’re not. Well, say a delivery arrives. I hide the girls in – well, not hide – the girls go into the kitchen area while the boys unload the delivery truck. And when they’ve gone I set the girls to work. Like I said, I’ve got them up to twelve, thirteen – you know, even seventeen hour days. They don’t complain. Sometimes I even let them listen to the radio. Mostly pop music. They’re so good, aren’t they? Those Chinese. Such hard workers. And so cheap too!
 
Well, technically, by British standards, it’s slave labour. Using quotation marks. “Technically”. But I don’t think that really applies to my lot. Cos of course by their standards back in China, this would be easy living! Well, the same kind of living. I treat them no different to how they’re treated back in their home country. And now they’re in Britain. So . . . you be the judge. I don’t know about you but I’d much prefer to be living over here with Chrissy then over in Chinky land.
 
I have the only key. Wear it around my neck at all times for security sake. I try to keep the times that I visit irregular – don’t get me wrong, they’re good, hardworking girls, most of the time. But they have been known to slack. I try and burst in and catch them at it. I sneak up to the door, slide the key in real quiet like, then burst in. Occasionally I catch them out. I’d never beat them. I just give them a good telling off and restrict their food.
 
One cracker should take one minute and eleven seconds to assemble. And you know when they haven’t been achieving that. Cos of course some of the girls are so young. Some people would say too young. But I rescued some of them from certain death. So . . . you be the judge. Ooh, would I rather be dead or would I rather work for Chrissy? Hmm. I know what I would choose.
 
Cos of course there’s always one in a group, isn’t there? And this one was called Baio Xiao. Her mother was pleading with me to take her. Didn’t like the look of her. Had that glint in her eye, even then. Should’ve known. When I went around doing my usual yelling session, which I plan for about once a week, just to keep them on their toes, and while most of them would cower, Baio Xiao would be staring at me. All defiant like. So I slapped her and she just stared at me. Cos of course next thing I know she’s gone. The door was locked and all the windows were bolted. But there was a small window in the bathroom. Lord knows how she managed to squeeze out of there. But she was gone like a rabbit on fire. Out of there. Cos of course it wasn’t until morning that I found this out. By which time my driving around the neighbourhood and knocking on neighbours doors, asking for my “niece” was fruitless. Then I catch wind that she’s been taken to the Chinese Embassy and that they were driving around trying to see if she could recognise my place. This Baio Xiao wasn’t gonna ruin my potential earnings. So I tied up one of the little ones in the front room – they’re easier to manipulate, the little ones. And when she saw a police car pull up outside she pushed a button and an alarm went off. Shit, you should’ve seen me. Three minutes is all it took. Everything was hidden. All the hats, the trinkets, and what have you. All were stacked up the back of the garage. I then drugged each of the girls in turn, using some horse tranquiliser and a needle I got from the local vets. Got little Britney (she was the one with the alarm) and then hid all the girls in the boxes with the last of the paper hats. I then ran to the door all breathless like. Maybe five minutes, tops.
 
Cos of course they didn’t find anything. They checked everything out. I was very accommodating. Made them tea and what have you. Biscuits even. They were very nice. Nice gentleman. They asked to be taken to the garage and I acted all surprised and enquired what was this all about, gentlemen? Next thing I know they’re rifling through the garage, checking it out, looking at each other. Not saying much. One of the little girls let out a groan but I disguised it with a mention of the old piping system that hadn’t been changed since whenever. They bought it. They opened a coupla boxes, thankfully without the girls in them, and I explained about my little boutique business. I also gave them a box of crackers to take home. And they were very appreciative. Lovely Gentlemen.
 
Cos of course Baio wasn’t with them. Lord knows where she is now. I just hope she’s taken back to bloody China where she belongs. Better off without her. And now there’s no bad apple in the bunch. Little Britney, unfortunately, didn’t make it. I think I got the horse tranquiliser wrong and she didn’t come too. Gave her a proper decent burial in my back yard. So we’re down to four, but come my next visit to China, I’ll bring back another “niece”.
 
So, yeah. That’s Chrissy’s Christmas crackers. Help yourself to a box I will be at the door, taking money for them.
 
Ta ra.
 
Chrissy salutes the audience and heaves away.
 
THE END