Life In The Shadows [sniff]

Hi kids, I’m back. I’d like to say I’ve been too busy to write because Mr Right and I have been gallivanting around Italy together, holding hands as the sun sets over the Mediterranean and picking olive rind from each other’s teeth. Or perhaps we’ve been in France, where Mr Right played his lute to me on the steps of the Musee d’Orsay and I sang of autumn sun on the Riviera. Or at the very least I could tell you I’ve been getting some.

Sadly, none of these things are true. Instead, I’ve been pouring all the energy I normally devote to the pursuit of random strangers into “Bettering My Career.” I know, I know; how desperately dull. Do not fear however; I have not strayed far from the dark path. Indeed, my ambition would be better described as “Bettering My Career With The Long-Term Aim Of Saving The Planet Making Shitloads Of Money And Thereby Ensnaring A Higher Grade Of Husband.” Everyone loves a stinking-rich altruist.

For those of you who express surprise that I aspire to be more than a drunken narcissist who lives for the next public toilet touch-up I say "I had no choice." I am surrounded by over-achievers, workaholics and manic-obsessives. And not the nice turn-the-lights-on-and-off-16-times-before-entering-a-room type either. No, I’ve got the ones that make you feel desperately inferior.

The problem started in childhood with The Sister. Hampered by a severe hearing disability from age three, she could have chosen the path of dribbling incontinence, rocking in the corner and talking like “Dark Side Of The Moon” played backwards. Once she’d been tarred with the Disability Stick she could’ve sat back in a pool of her own saliva and waited for life to roll on by, and no one would have judged her for it.

But no. Instead she rises above it all, learns to speak perfectly, gets three degrees, has her first book published by Penguin and by the end of the year will be Dr Sister. She even dresses better than me. What a bitch.

Then there’s The Best Friend. I’m not so clear on the exact details, but from what I recall she was born into a troupe of travelling gypsies who fed her brandy from a goat’s horn and lamed her to make it easier to beg for money. Or was it badgers who raised her? Whatever. She was definitely born in a caravan. On the linoleum table in the kitchen-cum-bedroom-cum-garage.

Yet despite this she has clawed her way from working class vulgarity to aspirational Lady of Bath. Give this woman and inch and she’ll steal your whole fucking ruler. Starting as a humble secretary she worked her way up through a series of marketing positions, was paid to retrain, moved into a completely unrelated field and is now making more in her quarterly bonus than I do in a year. She lives in a Georgian manor and when she speaks it’s like soft rain falling on Norwegian pine trees. No more badger grunting for this one. No siree.

But there’s more. My friend The PopStar recently arrived in London from Australia, having decided that he wants to play with the big boys in the UK. He already has 2 CDs under his belt, sings/dances/choreographs/composes everything himself and found an agent within the first week of landing. Just looking at him you know he’s going to make it. He reeks of determination and oozes success like I ooze the faint smell of old bananas. Bastard.

By far the worst, however, is James vacuum-cleaner-magnate Dyson. For us product designers he is a bit of a god, having proven that by putting design, innovation and engineering at the heart of a product - and sticking to your guns - you can effect incredible change (for more details see my other blog: “Embarrassing Gushings Of A Design Slut”).

I used to work for Mr Dyson, and at a party recently found myself standing next to him at the bar. I’d been studiously sober all night, thereby ensuring my inner dance demon wasn’t able to programme “Flail ‘n Rail” into my discometer and embarrass me in front of my idol. I reasoned that if I did cross paths with Mr Dyson I wanted to be prepared. I would open my mouth and out would flow such eloquence that he would not only become aware of the depth of my admiration, but simultaneously be touched by my deep intelligence and perception.

Sadly I had judged the risk of meeting him passed and was knee deep in free vodka tonics when he struck up a conversation.

JD: “Hello HW, good to see you again.”

HW: “Scchh, Dysun, yrrr fantashic. Yrrr jst… jst ‘mazing you are.” Oh. Shit. HW, what have you done?

JD [stepping slightly sideways to avoid the risk of physical contact]: “Umm, yes. Thank you.”

HW: “Ssslike, vacuums ‘n stuff. Y’know. Sss ‘mazing.” Fuck. Look at him. He’s terrified of you. Quick, get out of here before you do any more damage.

JD [reaching wildy for a distraction]: “Ah, HW, I don’t believe you’ve met my wife. Let me introduce you.”

HW: Oh, bloody brilliant. “Plesssure. Heard shumuch ‘boutcha. Plesssure.”

Oh god. Get. Us. Out. Of. Here. No, don’t touch her! Oh mercy, is there no end to the carnage?

HW: “Right, mush dash. Shum dancin’sin orderrr. Yep, I feel like dancin’. Ta ta.”

And with that I slipped away into the darkness of the dancefloor and gave them my best electrified monkey routine.

Which brings us full circle. Thus is the spirit of drunken revelry cast out and I am reborn full of the passionate desire to Design Great Things! I will reshape the world through graft and personal sacrifice, and in my twilight years the drunks will fawn on ME for my brilliance. Perfect. All the better to give their bums a quick pinch.