Someone Else's Shoes
Synch or swim
I am wearing a clothes peg on my nose while impersonating a paraplegic frog. Blowing underwater bubbles, with one leg up, the other bent. Now I’m grappling with the glamorous Travelling Ballet Leg sequence – but looking like a sinking lawnmower. Next I do the Tub Turn, rotating with my knees and feet on the water’s surface, like something that has gone wrong in the launderette. Meanwhile svelte women swim around me with precision, skill and co-ordination.
Sunday Express, 09.06.96
When credit runs out at the sperm bank
It's hellishly hard to get hold of frozen sperm these days. I'm sitting in the Lister Hospital - the Dorchester of London hospitals - in the waiting-room of the Assisted Conception Unit. The doctor is running three-quarters of an hour late. I can only console myself with the thought that if I were going for artificial insemination on the National Health I'd probably have to wait months.
I am hoping to get offered some sperm-bank sperm and thus become one of the growing number of single women who are accepted for artificial insemination by donor sperm (AID).
Evening Standard, 20.11.89
Tramp and the ladies
The pouting girl in the loo shimmered, unremarkable legs squeezed into Lycra tights and see-how-far-you-can-go skirt hitched high. "Go on, you're next," she said. "It's your turn."
"I don't want any," I say.
"It's coke." She proffers a razor blade packet of snow provocatively from the palm of her hand. Outside, blissfully unaware, Mrs Toilet Attendant, sixtysomething, loses her rag: "Hurry up. We're B-U-S-Y." She spells out the word. Nearby stands a dish of peppermints, le pre snog preparation that the management vous propose, and a mound of makeup left behind.
Thus begins a night at Tramp, the London nightclub in which Pamella Bordes picked up Sunday Times editor Andrew Neil.
Evening Standard, 08.05.89
I'm lying on the floor wearing a healing gem on my solar plexus while trying to tune into a ley line. Ley lines are like a cosmic grid across Britain carrying spiritual power and tend to cross at ancient centres like Stonehenge. But I can see no reason why there shouldnt be one in a South Kensington basement. Naturally, I've just dangled a key on a pendulum string, asking it questions.
This is the College of Psychic Studies; a place of noble portraits, inner unfoldment and spiritual advice.
Evening Standard, 14.12.90
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