So I'm pretty addicted to the last page of the Sunday Times Magazine. You know the one - A Life in the Day interview, where the great and good tell us of a typical twenty four hours in their fabulous lives. As a chronic nosey parker, poking into anyone's life fills me with a dirty delight, but prodding into the nitty gritty goings on of a VIP gets my heart pounding and my right hand reaching for the baby oil. However, these articles have started to trouble me. No one featured in A Life in the Day resembles a functioning carbon based humanoid; They all get up at dawn, exercise to the point of exhaustion, have their significant others cook extravagant banquets for them, work a solid ten hours without complaint, have a wonderful meal of brown rice and organic vegetables, watch an award winning documentary and are asleep before the birds are in bed. The interview with author Jodi Picoult is a case in point, here's the first paragraph:
I get up a 5 every morning and try to hit the alarm clock before Tim wakes up. Then I go meet a friend of mine for a three mile walk. We rendezvous between where we both live, and we do it rain or shine - even in the winter we're out in the freezing subzero temperatures...by the time I come into the house, my husband is making breakfast for our three kids.
It's like a scene from Julia Roberts upcoming film Eat, Pray, Love (check out the and tell me that it doesn't resemble some kind of horrendous T Mobile ad. Even the awful "inspirational" folk jingle that plays throughout is a carbon copy of countless "post hippie" cellular 30 second offerings).
But see, I ain't convinced by Jodi's answers. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. How do I know she's full of bull? NO ONE'S LIFE IS LIKE THAT. Even if you have the best day ever - even if you win the lottery while simultaneously snogging the person you've secretly been in love with while Julia Roberts (again) hands you your Oscar - it doesn't read like one these interviews and they are supposed to be "regular" days in a life. I wish people would be honest when it comes to things like this. Just a little bit. Sure you want to present your best self, but to present bogus life style perfection makes the rest of us feel like hunchbacks. It makes us feel lonely, isolated and subpar. It fills us with regret and frustration. Our lives feel dull and meaningless. The spin and airbrushing damages us in a place that's dark and hard to get to.
So with that in mind I've decided to give you my Life in a Day. It's not pretty, actually it's pretty hideous, but it's the truth and I think in a world where a politician is praised for appearing sincere on a TV debate, not actually being honest just appearing to be truthful, thats when the ugly truth is needed most.
Dominic Mitchell's A Life in the Day
I wake at 9am from an awful nightmare about being dead that my cruel subconscious has feed into my snoozing brain. I hate my subconscious more than Marmite. My t shirt is soaked in sweat and my head rings. I've only had 3 hours sleep due to drinking two bottles of Tesco's Own last night then stumbling / dancing around my room listening to my iPod, fantasizing about living a life that resembles a mildly uplifting Mark Ruffalo independent film. I set the alarm for the afternoon, take two Nurofen plus and put my head back on the pillow.
My subconscious pumps in more horrors and I rise in a panic. Signing on day and I've forgotten to fill in my Get Back to Work Booklet. I scramble to the internet, pull up direct.gov and cut n' paste the latest jobs. I dress without showering and ran full pelt to the Job Centre. I'm met by Stuart my new advisor (their always new, where do Work and Pensions get the giant staff pool? Do they grow'em?). He's an enthusiastic and kind person and I always wish I could give him a scrap of good news. But I can't. I'm a loser, who didn't even get a reply email from Lavazza coffee (I'd applied to be a "Caffeine Ambassador" and headlined my email "Coffee Enthusiast" - but still no joy).
Stu takes me through the latest vacancies: Admin assistant, Admin manager, Admin intern. All the jobs require 50 years of experience and a Masters degree in Boredom Control. I smile and nod as he suggests ditching the occupation WRITER on my job seekers agreement and replacing it with RETAIL. I tell him I've actually got an interview tomorrow with a director attached to the Young Vic theatre in London. Oh crap! I've forgotten to book my ticket down and secure accommodation. I sprint home and check my bank balance - almost as low it'll go. It's the Megabus coach or my legs. I consider walking. Nah, no time, I fork out the £9.50 and get packing. I pack light, not because I'm some Up In The Air George Clooney smoothie, but because at present I own one pair of black jeans (seriously, if you ever see me in public you'll see me in black jeans, this isn't any kind of fashion statement, it's to do with my bank statement). I'm out the door, leaving three unwashed plates in my room to fester until I return.
6.15pm and my Megabus is running 45 minutes late. Finally the cramped bus limbers up to the terminal and I take a seat next to someone playing Ricky Martin at maximum volume (by the time I get to Victoria I will know all the lyrics off by heart to the two classics; Livin' la Vida Loca and Shake Your Bon-Bon). I open up my book on the columbine massacre and hope the evil doings of two teenagers will drown out Rick.
Across from me I hear a slapping sound.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see a woman slapping herself in the face. She slaps her face four times then stops. I return to my page. SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP. It's the lady again, hitting her own face. Maybe she hates being on the Megabus, I think, or maybe she just really hates Shake Your Bon Bon. But when the power runs down on my seat partner's mp3 she's still at it. Slapping her face over and over again. This continues. For hours. She slaps, rests for 20 seconds, then continues with the self abuse. No one is commenting on this but the slapping is loud and even Ricky Martin's number 1 fan is disturbed by it. The hitting persists. My iPod is out of battery so I have to sit and listen to the slapping. It's like water torture. Why the hell is she slapping her own face? Forth hour in and I can't take it any longer, I'm out of my mind. I don't care if she's crazy and has a tick, if she has to slap herself in the face she can bloody well mime it like any other decent mentalist. I turn to her, mid slappage and say: "Excuse me!". It's loud and stern and I'm ready for war. She turns to me and for the first time I get a good look at her. At this moment it becomes terribly clear why she's been slapping herself in the mush: Her whole face is covered in eczema. Obviously the only way that she can resist scratching her own features off it by lightly slapping the infection. She looks at me with puppy dog eyes. I was ready to berate this person, now I do a 360 move and say; "Excuse me...is there anything I can do to help?" We have a heartbreaking conversation about her affliction. She's so nice and lovely and understanding. Then comes the kicker, she asks me; "My slapping isn't disturbing your reading is it?"
I feel 31 flavour's of awful.
I lie. I lie big; "No, no, not at all, I just wanted to see if you were alright." She smiles "No, but thank you for asking."
I turn around. She begins slapping herself again.
A weird thing happens though. The slapping doesn't bother me anymore. I can hardly hear it. My concentration returns and I can fully focus on my book. Empathy and understanding seem to trump the best headphones in the world. I feel terribly guilty of course, but it's coupled by a rush of pure love for my fellow travellers. Everyone on this Megabus, the people that many in this country believe are the lowest of the low, did their level best to ignore the Slapping Lady. They felt for her and didn't want to embarrass her or tell her off. I wonder how things would have gone down on a Virgin Trains 1st class carriage. My guess is That Slapping Lady would have lasted fifteen minutes then been kicked off at Watford Junction.
10.45pm and we finally rattle into London. I call a university friend and beg for a couch to sleep on. Like the champ he is he says no problem and when I arrive he's already mixing cocktails for me, and over lurid conversations about his latest sexual adventures and his flatmates dry witty put downs I feel content. The VIP's can keep their dawn risings, their banquets, their flawless spouses. Sometimes all you need is the kindness of strangers and the generosity of old friends to make a bad day good.
is part of the Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ Northern Voices scheme and Bolton WritersLab