A bad omen

Okay, I've scared myself

This entire piece is basically a “sorry, I’m running late, but it’s not my fault, there was an accident on the motorway” post.

On the 20th December in the year of our Lord 2024, I tried to write my first Substack. In fact I did write it, then I tucked it away, safe and sound, in drafts for the 300th time. My plan was to come back in 15 minutes and finally send it, or publish it, or ‘stack it, or whatever you lot say. I think it’s definitely ‘stack it, that rings a bell.

But instead I left my laptop lopsidedly propped open on the sofa (is there another way to store the most expensive thing I own?), walked into my hallway and collapsed.

Job done. Smashed it.

It would actually be quite on brand for me to consider this a measured reaction to having done a bit of work. Sometimes I think I deserve a Victorian swoon after putting on a fitted sheet when one of the corners of the bed is against a wall. *back of hand to forehead*

But on this occasion, I wasn’t doing serious TOIL. I wasn’t lightheaded, or low-sugared or stressed or shocked by a bare bottom, or whatever would make a nun in a film faint. I just passed out. Actually, I blacked out (are they different?). I don’t remember what happened at all, which feels like ‘black out’ covers it. Not full Momento (Oh! In fact not even partial Momento as I just reminded myself of the plot of Momento. Wow! Not that!). Just 10-20 minutes of blankness.

I woke up (came to? Again, does it matter? But “woke” sounds like I just dozed off on my doormat). Then I stumbled to my next door neighbours’ house, wearing an assortment of items I wouldn’t usually combine to go outside; bra, pants, socks, massive coat. So far, so inappropriate. She sat me on her sofa. I asked her if it was Christmas Day. And apologised as I couldn’t remember her name. Now, if you don’t know me very well, you might not know that I am very very good at remembering when it is and isn’t Christmas Day, and names I’m pretty good at too. Probs off to A+E, aren’t we? Yeahhhhh…

My neighbour was excellent, in a way that I just know I wouldn’t have been. I don’t think I’m a good emergency person. I wouldn’t scream or cry or run away or anything, but I think I’d be very indecisive to the point of maybe you bleeding out on the ground from the gunshot wound or the shark coming back to get us or something. It’s really emergency dependent, clearly. But she was calm, authoritative, very quick with a glass of water - the universal cure-all. Seeing as our relationship basically consists of 4 years of signing for each other’s parcels and occasionally examining the party wall together, I thought she was very gracious in letting me puke all over her living room carpet. She dressed me in an outfit of hers, and off we went to hospital while her husband bathed the baby.

G’bless the NHS, they were also, obviously, excellent and also very gracious when I puked on their carpet (lino?). They also chose to dress me in their own outfit (to misquote Aretha Franklin shading Taylor Swift “beautiful gown”). They did their tests for a few hours, and then asked me if I wanted to go home. Yes please.

Back at the ranch, with a concussion and no explanation, the room was too bright, and my head was too heavy for my neck to hold up (apparently common, but a mad symptom to have to describe to a medical professional, a bad case of ‘baby neck’). The doctor had said I shouldn't be on my own for the next 24 hours, and as luck would have it, I know (and am related to) some of the nicest guys and gals in town. So they arrived at my bedside - is this a film!? Chatted to me when I was awake, chatted to each other when I was asleep, peeled me satsumas and slurped a Deliveroo Tonkotsu in my bed next to me. The latter was a liberty to be honest, but, you gotta pick your battles, I got Baby Neck over ‘ere! *does Italian hand gesture*. My pal stayed over and came in to check on me in the night. How caring and loving that was made me cry.

In the few days that I was a zombie in bed and the following weeks that I’ve felt out of sorts, a bit overwhelmed and tinnitus-y, I discovered some good things that I thought you might like if, for whatever reason, you’re out of sorts or overwhelmed. Because that’s basically the MO of this month, isn’t it? Conking out or not!

• Not the sort of thing you think you should be listening to after whacking your head AT ALL, but in fact the perfect companion; Sarah Polley, Oscar winning writer / director of the film Women Talking, talks on This American Life (10:19 onwards) about a serious head injury that changed everything. It’s funny, shocking and ends with a really uplifting message.

• Jones crumpets. What the fuck have I been doing messing around with Warburtons for 30+ years? (I’m older than 30+ describes, but I don’t think I was eating crumpets in early primary school, so I’m going to let myself have this age vanity vagueness). They are incredible. Ordered by the Tonkotsu slurping friend, they were the first thing I ate when I felt able to. Jesus. Apparently they are like Supreme and do a limited drop every 2-4 years (approx) and we just got lucky. Queue around the block for them, buy them on eBay, keep them box fresh as an investment piece for your grand-kids.

• Everyone has quite rightly been talking about the brilliance of stand-up Nikki Glaser in the last few days, this year’s host of the Golden Globes. I can be smug and say I discovered her a whole few weeks before this appearance (she’s been a big deal for yearrrs, soz). I’ve rewatched her set on Netflix’s The Roast of Gisele Bündchen’s Ex-husband (39 mins in if you’re watching on Netflix). I think it’s officially called The Roast of Tom Brady. But I don’t know who Tom Brady is, so his public humiliation is largely wasted on me. If you’re the same, just tune in for Nikki, her set is BREATHTAKING. Literally. Her jokes knock the wind out of you and by the looks of it out of the rest of the comics in the studio too. She has brought an AK47 to a water fight. What is an AK47? I just mean a big powerful gun. It tracks, right? The male panel of stand ups don’t know how to recover, so just stumble into a standing ovation and then a few pre-prepared jokes about her promiscuity which she’s already preempted. Her gags are really rough, as a warning, but just brilliantly written and delivered. She talks in an article (which I can’t seem to find now - is it the head injury?! My excuse for everything forever) about why in this particular performance she apologised after every joke, even though she is the master of evisceration. See also: Martha Stewart on the Justin Bieber roast. I didn’t know I was a roast person, in fact I don’t think I am, but these are two very great (though different) examples of the genre.

• Also saw Conclave, thought it wasn’t for me because popes, but was for me coz fab. Don’t read anything about it, just soak up the cinematography and surprisingly compelling jeopardy with fresh eyes. This is a good reminder to tell you my The Substance story - something for another time! In radio world, this would be called ‘share driving’, keeping you captive in your car / kitchen for the next part of the story - now you have to come back to find out. So slick. Wow. nailing this.

Thanks for joining for this first one. I think this Substack will usually

• Be funnier*

• Contain less head injury content, but more spiralling of my brain content

• Arrive in a slightly more timely fashion - unless I find some other great dramatic excuses. And also, who am I kidding? I am late for everything

• Feature some drawings and or photos if I can work out how (drawings? What of? What am I talking about? Time to log off now)

*why did I promise this?

So, please get in touch (if I have switched on that function, shit). In case it wasn’t obvious I don’t really know how this all works yet and I’m not very good at tech. So this will be a fun, ever-evolving (read: potentially inconsistent), DIY (read: messy), hopefully enjoyable presence in your inbox. I was really excited to get started on this before The Incident, so bear with me and I will find a rhythm! Can’t wait to hear from you.

A x

PS Is this a good length? Feel like I’m writing my dissertation again, checking the word count every 2 mins, and that was mainly bulked out by references, maybe I should do a Oxford formatted bibliography from here on in, to give it some heft…

PPS I didn’t know I had to attached a picture, so this is one I sent to the family group to prove I was now thriving. Featuring a hat I complimented my mum on, so she then gave to me. My nana used to do that too. Nice pearls, Nana. Okay - have them. What’s it got to do with anything? Urmmmm….

byyyye…