Is It Just Me? (3 page)

Well, it’s not going to be quite like that. It’s still going to be interesting and jolly good, just . . . bumpier. A bit bumpier.

Oh.

And may I also point out that thirty is very young. Very young, indeed. As indeed is thirty-eight, which I happen to be. In fact, I would say thirty-eight is probably the age when a woman is only just reaching her
^*
lowers voice
^*
sexual
^*
normal voice
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prime.

Urh, urh, urh.

Moving on. I have a hunch that life is a bit bumpy, not just for us, but for everyone, so I’ve been sharing our little foibles with my dear reader. I told them about Jennifer Grey carrying the watermelon, and how much we loved that –

We LOVED that.

Exactly. It made us feel that we weren’t alone. And I’m hoping that maybe this book can serve the same purpose. Can help someone feel that they’re not the only one who always sweats the small stuff.

Yeah. That would be quite a cool thing to do.

^*
getting a bit grand, politician-style
^*
Maybe, just maybe, this book can be . . . someone’s watermelon. Because
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even grander now
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life isn’t always about the big things, but the little things. The little things we encounter over the years that go to make up the big part of life –

Now you’ve gone too far. You’ve ruined it.

Soz. But I hope that it’ll give
you
, eighteen-year-old-Miranda, a glimpse of what’s to come. A few pointers because, just to warn you, life might take some unexpected twists and turns.

So, I have chosen eighteen vital subjects to reflect upon: one for each year of your life so far – I know, clever, isn’t it? We weren’t given a rulebook at birth about this whole how-to-manage-life business (there really should be some kind of manual, methinks), but I can at least show you what I’ve learned since childhood. Call it your own personal Miran-ual. Ooh, don’t you love that? A Miran-ual. I am very pleased with that.

Show off.

But come on –
Miran-ual
.

Yes, all right. Now, I’ve gotta dash. Me, Bella and Clare-Bear are watching
The Breakfast Club
in the common room. For the thousandth time. Don’t you just love it? ‘Eat. My. Shorts.’

What?

It’s a quote from
The Breakfast Club
, you dweeb. Bella’s got a new Swatch watch just like one Molly Ringwald wears. She’ll be showing it off. Bella’s so annoying. Laters.
^*
vanishes
^*

Bye, Little Miranda.

So, My Dear Reader Chum, whoever you are . . . Whether you are a bit famous or not famous, young or old, tall or short, dark or fair, beanpole or Rubenesque, soprano, alto, tenor or bass – I am hoping you might relate to my tales, rants and musings. I’m hoping it’s
not
just me. So, let us for now park life’s big issues. You may say to me, ‘But, Miranda, each of your chosen subjects is an innocuous, trouble-free issue – there’s surely nothing to discuss?’ Well, I will say to you this: there is many a muddy, murky, lurk behind my carefully chosen chapter headings. Let’s forget the economy, forget war, forget births and deaths and big, deep, serious gubbins. Let’s buckle down to the nuance-y nub of life on our literary romp. I’m talking the different stages we go through in life. I’m talking dating; I’m talking holidays and all that blooming beach etiquette. I’m talking how to cope with being mistaken for a pregnant lady on the bus when all you’re really carrying is a second-helping-of-pie-and-mash baby. Not that that has ever happened to me. (It has.) I’m talking not feeling awkward having a massage; I’m talking how to use chopsticks with grace. The real coalface of life.

I’m not sure I’ll have all the answers to these conundrums (or is it conundra?). But I’m practically an expert having made every mistake going, and it will be a pleasure simply to get these weighty issues off my chest. (Or issues off my weighty chest. Either works.)

Now, let’s enjoy a brief fanfare, drum roll, excited cheer and a replenished cup of tea or second roast dinner as we turn the page, proceed to chapter two, and confront head-on our first issue . . . MUSIC.

N
ow, are you settled? Lovely. For it is time you and I have a little chat on the subject of Music. You may be wondering, My Dear Reader Chum – actually, hold on, this is going to get a bit cumbersome as we proceed, My Dear Reader Chum, isn’t it? How about an abbreviation; how about I call you ‘MDRC’? OK with you? Good. So, whenever you read the letters MDRC, in that order, please know that you, My Dear Reader Chum, are being directly addressed with all the love and affection that you deserve.

So, MDRC, I don’t know whether you’re a ‘muso’? Have you always had an ear for the latest sounds? (a ponytailed Status Quo fan would ask, ‘Are you down with the rhythm?’). Are you in your late thirties or beyond, and still aware of what the current Number 1 is? Can you
really
be that age and stick with Radio 1 and not be drawn solely to Radio 4; or if when feeling ‘a little bit groovy’, Radio 2? Do you actively seek out new bands, or perhaps collect vintage vinyl, whilst keeping cheerfully abreast of the mainstream? If so, I applaud you; because ever since I can remember, I have always wanted to be . . . well, you. You literally and figuratively rock.

I love music, I do, but for some reason I have never really found my groove. Forgot to pay it enough attention, I suppose. And now – and I do hope this isn’t just me – I could blithely walk past most of the world’s pop stars and have absolutely no idea who they are. Though I might assume that any boy aged around sixteen with very, very neat, blown-forward, invisibly gelled hair was some kind of pop force to be reckoned with. What
is
it with the hair-brushed-forwards-over-forehead-and-cheeks thing? Have you chaps got cheek shame? Or is that where you keep your sweets? Are you hiding something? And if not, why would you
choose
to have hat hair? Confusing.

I imagine that by now you don’t need much more convincing that I’m old before my time as regards the world of music. And, I confess, this never-finding-my-music groove has led to some awkward social hiccups. Recently, I found myself at a party, and an on-trend muso type approached me. (This was confusing enough.)

‘I really like this DJ,’ he said.

Confidently, I replied, ‘Yup, oh, tremendous. He has some smashing beats.’

‘Do you know Kanye West?’ he went on.

‘Oh, isn’t that near Cockfosters?’

‘What?’

‘Kanye West – I think it’s on the Piccadilly Line. Would you like a tube map?’

‘No,’ said terrifyingly trendy man with a mix of bewilderment and pity. ‘Kanye West – the musician.’

‘Oh, of course, the
musician
. What am I like?’ (By now I’m nervously doing my over-the-top laughing.) ‘I thought you were looking for a tube stop.’

I hoped this might be endearing until I remembered that my over-the-top laughter to disguise feeling at sea at a social event makes me look like a cross between a horse, a goldfish and Princess Anne. (No offence, ma’am, your good sir-ladyship – well, she is bound to be reading.)

Strangely, the young man scurried away, pronto.

I then got myself terribly muddled in a conversation about Tinchy Stryder. I’d always assumed – and I have a horrible feeling this
will
just be me – that Tinchy Stryder was some sort of toddler’s walking boot. Come on, don’t laugh, be fair; it does sound a bit like it might be one. So when my friend’s new ‘I’ve achieved everything at twenty-five’ manager said, ‘I really like Tinchy Stryder,’ I said, ‘Oh, yes, lovely – how old are your children?’ Which, of course, would have come across as a totally random segue. Bemused by her scary, blank face, I blindly continued, ‘Are they good for kids’ feet?’ An equally confusing statement. (For my non-muso readers, Tinchy Stryder is a ‘rap artist’, innit.)

‘Sorry, I’m confused,’ she said. ‘I was talking about Tinchy Stryder.’

‘Yes, me too,’ I replied. ‘I think they must look so cute. Nothing sweeter than a grown-up shoe on a toddler.’ We both stared blankly at one another for a few seconds, before moving slowly off, aware that we’d somehow come a serious conversational cropper. Later, I realised my error and rushed over to her, shouting, ‘Rap artist. Not small walking boot.’ Cue the horse, goldfish, Princess Anne laugh.

I tried to claw back some cool by casually sauntering off saying I was going to listen to Kanye West: ‘Yes, that’s right, I’ll be
listening
to Kanye West, not getting off at him on the Piccadilly Line.’ Which would, of course, have sounded desperately weird, as she wasn’t privy to my previous Kanye mishap. Every single thing I had said to that professional groovester made me look, at best, crazy. I left it there. The evening could not be salvaged.

With all this embarrassment in mind, I think it only fair that I take a moment to give my younger self her first life lesson. It is time to warn her just how things are going to turn out on the music front. So please, bear with, MDRC.

Dear Eighteen-Year-Old Miranda.

Oh, hello. So you’ve deigned to address me. At last. From your big throne in the sky.

I’m not in the sky. I’m on earth. Like you; just twenty years on in the future. It is a tad confusing, I admit, but it’s hardly
The
Lord of The Rings.

I just assumed that twenty years into the future I’d be dead. From being so old and dweeby and everything.

I told you, thirty-eight is VERY YOUNG. It still very much falls under the ‘late twenties’ bracket in my literal and metaphorical book. And I am very much alive and thriving, thanking you. Which is lucky for you, because I think it’s time we had a little chat. About music, specifically. From my current vantage-point – twenty years your senior (but still young and fresh), looking fondly back at you and eager to spout a few home truths, I can see that you’re in need of some help.

No, I’m not. I know heaps about music. Actually, I’ve just –

^*
holds up hand, regally
^*
I’ll stop you there. I know what you’ve just done. You’re going through a brief and, I hate to have to tell you this, wholly unique period of being ‘musically cool’. The reason being you’ve just returned to boarding school after the holidays, carrying a cassette of music by a band (or group, or troupe, or ‘combo’ – to be honest, you’re not entirely sure what you should call them) named Talking Heads.

Yeah, I know. Talking Heads. I love them. Well cool. They’re kind of punk rock . . .

Yes, I know. They were of the New Wave musical style and combine elements of punk rock, avant-garde, pop, funk, world music and art rock.

Well, you sound musically cool. I’m not sure we should be fretting about this.

Ah, no, but you see, I just googled them.

Googled . . .?

Oh, yes . . . Umm, it’s like a library on a laptop . . .

Like a what on a
what
?

It doesn’t matter; I’ll explain later. You have to admit, you don’t really like Talking Heads, do you?

I do. I really do.

No, you don’t. When cool cousin Steve gave it to you, you had to work very, very hard to summon up even the tiniest bit of enthusiasm for this noisy popular music quartet. And you’re rewarding yourself by swaggering round the dormitory loudly saying things like, ‘Yeah, I’m just gonna put some Talking Heads on, OK? What, you don’t know Talking Heads? I’ll just put the Talking Heads on now.’ You’re saying these things in a confident, nay, arrogant fashion, but deep down you’re hobbled by a sense of fraudulence. Crippled with it. Because in your heart, you know that you’re not a music person.

How dare you? I like LOTS of music. I like T’Pau
^*
sings
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‘
China in your haaand . . .’

Please, don’t . . .

And, and, I like . . .

Kylie and Jason? I can’t help but notice there’s a Jason Donovan poster on your wall.

He’s gorge.

You might briefly think he’s gorgeous, but he’s not musically cutting edge. Admit it, Little Miranda, you know absolutely nothing about music. It’s official: you lack the muso gene.

You are totally rude. And wrong. So stop bugging me.

Well, let’s look at the record (PUN. MDRC, pun. Just saying – at ease). You recently participated in what a newspaper report would describe as a ‘horrifically botched sing-along’.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Oh, I think you do. A merry band of sixth-formers were on the bus to a lacrosse match (rock and roll). You were all singing ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’. After a chorus or two, the others became distracted and piped down. You, unaware of this, ploughed on through the chorus, revealing to the assembled crowd that you’d been singing the lyrics as ‘feed the birds’ instead of ‘feed the world’.

Yeah, maybe. That might have happened.

It did happen. And it happened, I think, because you’d got the song muddled up with ‘Feed the Birds’ from
Mary Poppins.
I mean, think about it: why on earth would Bob Geldof have been getting so het-up about feeding the
birds
? What birds would he have been talking about? He’s staging a massive campaign, Band Aid, for starving birds? What birds? You should be ashamed of yourself.

All right, fine. Why are you reminding me of all this?

It’s for your own good. I want you to know and accept a certain fact about yourself, Little Miranda. You will never, ever, be a music person. You will forge a strong attachment to three songs by Billy Joel, four or five hit Broadway musicals, one song by Dolly Parton (‘9 to 5’, obviously), one album by ABBA and a sort of jolly thing, which may or may not be by Stevie Wonder. And that’s it. You’ll spend the next two decades listening to those same songs on a loop, and you’ll waste barrels of your time and energy feeling vaguely guilty about this.