Census day at Dalrymple Towers

Household questions

Who usually lives here?

Me. My aunt. Our combined neuroses.

Starting with yourself, list the names of all the people counted in the previous question.

Christina, Lady Dalrymple

Aunt Joanna

Who else is staying overnight here on 27 March 2011? These people are counted as visitors.

Despite having interviewed a number of candidates, no single applicant has yet been persuaded to stay overnight at Dalrymple Towers. The lines remain open until midnight, people.

What type of accommodation is this?

It is, improbably, a mansion flat (the primary householder is still so embarrassed by its SW7 location that she has taken to describing it as ‘East Hammersmith’)

What type of central heating does this accommodation have?

None.  It also has no interior doors since they were chopped up for firewood in January.

Individual Questions

Name

As above.

Sex

Please.

Date of birth

1 March (reader, it’s never too early or too late to start thinking about presents).

Are you a schoolchild or student in full-time education?

No. I just look like one.

Do you look after, or give any help or support to family members, friends, neighbours or others because of either long-term physical or mental ill-health / disability or problems related to old age?

I telephone my parents regularly.

How would you describe your national identity?

Mortified.

What is your ethnic group?

Pink.

What is your religion?

Lesbian (entered as a favour to Cara, who lives with her partner and cat in Oxford and is for entirely inexplicable reasons attempting to manipulate the census).

What qualifications do you have?

A varied selection that make me almost entirely, but not quite, unemployable.

What is your full and specific job title?

Stalkmaster General.

Do you supervise any employees?

No-one can prove anything. I was just sitting in my car. Who’s to say I knew she even lived there?

How do you usually travel to work?

On an aged Brompton; fuelled by half a banana, fear and foul language.

Favourite colour?

Green. Red. Green. Purple? Black (slimming).

Beatle?

Ringo (daft labrador quality).

Smell (if only one for the rest of your life)?

Peppermint.

Loves?

You.

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innocent ltd train customer services operatives in banter

16/12/2010 13:55

To whom it may concern

Dear Sir or Madam,

First all, I want it on the record that in general I am generally EXTREMELY PRO Innocent veg pots… especially the Indian Daal one. My colleague Aggy favours the Moussaka one. And I certainly wouldn’t kick the Mexican Potato one out of bed (if our local shop had it).

Today I have the Thai Coconut Curry pot. And Innocent… I am so disappointed. There is a little kick, but it is, somehow, simultaneously tasteless.  It tastes of spicy water. There are too many water chestnuts (nobody’s favourite vegetable). I am not excited by this vegetable pot. A pot like this was not worth the £2.78 paid in Waitrose, nor the vast amounts of emotional energy I expended waiting for 4.5 minutes in fevered anticipation. This pot may, in fact, have ruined Christmas.

Aggy says she had this one before and it was rubbish for her too.

Innocent – help me enjoy lunchtime again. Stop selling horrible pots.

Regards,

Christina

16/12/2010 17:19

Hello Christina,

Thanks a lot for your e-mail. Consider your general love and appreciation for our veg pots firmly on the record. We are however very sorry to hear that one of the little fellows may in fact be solely responsible for the ruination of your festive season. That’s pretty serious. Thai coconut curry is one of our most popular recipes, but we appreciate that it’s not for everyone and we’re just really sorry it wasn’t for you.

In an attempt to reignite your Christmas spirit, we’d love to send you a veg pot voucher so you can enjoy one of our other recipes on us, so if you let me know your address I’ll get some out to you.

All the best,

Jojo

16/12/2010 17:30

Dear Jojo,

Your e-mail arrived just as I was about to upend the remnants of my disappointing veg pot over some urchins singing carols in the street below. However, your soothing words have gone some way towards reigniting the latent Christmas spirit trapped deep within my blackened soul. The urchins live this time.

I do agree that sampling further veg pots may restore full festive bonhomie round my way and so would be most grateful for anything you should care to send to me at the below address.

Thanks very much.

Ho! ho! ho!

Christina

24/12/2010 13:49

Hello Christina,

Thanks a lot for getting back to me, and please accept my apologies for the delay in getting back to you. I’ve just got back to work after a week long party in celebration of the salvation of the urchins, and frankly I’m a little the worse for wear.

I have popped an extra voucher in the post in the hope that some veggie goodness can help lighten that blackened soul of yours.

All the best,

Jojo

24/12/2010 14:00

Dearest Jojo,

My soul overflows with felicity. Tears of joy fall from my eyes and coins from my hands. My happiness quite literally knows no limits.

Thank you for this Christmas miracle.

Festive snogs,

Christina

07/01/2011 11:26

Christina,

My feelings reciprocate yours wholeheartedly, the elation experienced upon reading your beautiful words trumped only by my discovery that our Office Angel Janel has tidied out the condiment cupboards and restored order where chaos once reigned. The world can spin freely once again.

Jojo

10/01/2011

 
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oh dear

It hasn’t been a great week.

Work reached warp speed on Monday, as various projects came up for completion: cue two days’ frantic juggling of hefty spreadsheets and Eastern European cardiologists. (The spreadsheets were certainly very large; it brings me a certain amount of satisfaction to imagine that the cardiologists were, too.)

To wind down, I thought I’d take in some culture. Yshani’s concert on Monday evening, which I’d naively pitched to myself as a relaxing evening of contemporary song, saw me sitting next to an enormously fat man wearing a three-piece pinstripe suit in the otherwise empty front row of the stalls, watching a (doubtless talented) Catalan pianist coaxing harmonics from a repeated, ear-splittingly loud B natural, and praying for a perfect cadence.

(Explanatory note: a perfect cadence is the part of a piece of normal-sounding music that tells you when to start clapping. Bom, BOM. Etcetera. Interesting though it was, there were no bom BOMs in this particular concert. Luckily, I had bought a programme and with this my new friend and I were able to lead the audience in applause at appropriate intervals.*)

On Tuesday, I rushed late from work to the first Canticum rehearsal of the season. Our forthcoming programmes (‘Bach and the German Tradition’ and ‘Bach and the Double Choir Tradition’) are so exciting I can barely breathe, and not just because of the asthma. I found out at Tuesday’s rehearsal that Canticum’s official constitution actually states the choir’s obligation to uphold the works of JS Bach. Brilliant. Then, halfway through the rehearsal, I found out that I’d left my keys in the office, which meant that instead of having a relaxing catch-up with the Cantiladies I had to rush back to Ealing to meet my long-suffering father and his spare set of keys.

Luckily, today I left work at a normal time and was able to schedule a grown-up evening of writing, laundry and cooking. I even managed to sing through some more of the Bach motets and Mahler’s exquisite Ich Bin Der Welt Abhanden Gekommen. Seriously, these concerts (at Holy Trinity Sloane Square and St Martin-in-the-Fields) are going to be amazing. And then Voce is doing an exciting Passion Sunday Passions concert. The next couple of months’ singing will be OH JESUS I LEFT THE BATH RUNNING OVER FORTY MINUTES AGO I’VE BEEN FAFFING ABOUT CROONING AND WASHING UP AND WONDERING WHY THE WATER WAS SO COLD AND ALL THE TIME THE BATH HAS BEEN SILENTLY OVERFLOWING AND PROBABLY DROWING ZEINA DOWNSTAIRS OH GOD OH GOD WHY WHY THE NEIGHBOURS ALREADY HATE ME ENOUGH I SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO LIVE ALONE I WANT MY MUM

*Ventolin*

* This isn’t true: the concert was superb. Yshani’s playing was as incandescent as ever, the soprano she accompanied was in wonderful voice and radiant in her Terracotta Dress, and the Catalan pianist blinded himself when the B natural key splintered, lodging itself deep in his skull.

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