Is It Just Me? (5 page)

Then you become a teenager, and that terrible concept of ‘cool’ makes its way into your life. Suddenly, you’re only able to do hobbies if you’re actually good at them. If you want to be in an orchestra, you have to be able to actually play an instrument: you can no longer get away with screeching blue murder into a recorder and waiting for the grown-ups to clap. Or, in my case, randomly plucking at the double bass: I disregarded the bow, thinking I was instinctively Jazz (and whilst we’re on it, was it really necessary to give people instruments proportionate to their size? I think it would be have been far funnier for tiny Twig Smythson to struggle with a double bass and me to have the piccolo, but there you have it.)

Excuse me, but do you really need to tell everyone about the double bass?

Yes, alas, Little Miranda, I think I do. If only to exorcise its terrible demons from our soul. I thought you were auditioning?

I have been told to go and ask Miss Everett what a basic waltz step is . . . Not sure why . . . Maybe Liesl had to do the waltz . . .

Don’t get your hopes up.

Oh, and if you
are
telling them about the double bass, at least mention lax. I’m VERY good at lacrosse.

You most certainly are. But that’s why you do so much of it. You wouldn’t do it if you were rubbish, would you? Just do it for fun?

Defo not. That would be so square.
^*
goes off singing ‘I am sixteen, going on seventeen . . .’
^*

Point made. As a teenager, we suddenly had to get serious about hobbies (which, incidentally, doesn’t include walking around shopping centres in feral packs, buying tops). So, no more gymnastics unless your forward roll is good enough to represent the school at the county championships.

And,
by the way
, at what age does it suddenly become impossible and terrifying to attempt a forward roll? I don’t know about you, but I always used to be forward rolling. If I wanted to jump on a friend’s bed, I might casually forward roll my way on. I was like a piece of teenage elastic, throwing myself everywhere. We all were, weren’t we? Then, suddenly, in your later years, you might be faced with the prospect of doing a forward roll only to hear yourself saying: ‘I can’t do it. Seriously, oh my goodness, it’s really scary, I can’t, I’ll break my neck, won’t I? My head’s going to fall off. No, I can’t. How did I ever do this?’ Ditto handstands. There was a stage in my life when I was never
not
doing a handstand of a summer month. There I’d be, walking along; I’d see some open grass, up with a quick handstand, and keep walking. No one would think it odd.
Now
if I attempted a handstand, firstly everyone would assume I was deranged but secondly, I would assume my arms would break underneath me. Also, it looks an awfully long way down, that grass. What happens if I do a good one, a really marvellous perky handstand, but can’t get down? Or what if I lose control and flip over? That would be truly terrifying.

I’d like to apologise to any older readers who haven’t considered this handstand/forward roll issue, and are now tempted to try one or both. Good luck to you, I say. If you’re reading this in bed, try the forward roll now. Go on. Particularly if you’re with a partner who’s lying next to you. Don’t tell them what you’re about to do. Just get up, stand at the end of the bed and do a forward roll. Wait for the reaction. What pre-sleep larks you’ll have. I’m now imagining couples in various parts of the British Isles, coaxing each other into a forward roll on their bed. It’s a smashing image. Makes me feel I’ve made a real difference.

Now I’ve done what can only be described, in literary terms, as a Big Old Fat digression. So, a Big Old Fat apology needed – sorry, soz, soz buckets, a bucket full of soz to you. Let’s resume.

Yes, so – you’re in your teens. Hobbies can’t be just for fun any more: you have to be good at them. There’s no more lolloping around in a leotard and tights for you, missus. No more collecting stickers. And no more swapping. At the age of ten you’ll swap your last ever sticker at a swapping party: the next time swapping will be even vaguely acceptable is when you’re fifty-five, divorced and exchanging pressed flowers with the ladies from the local Nature Club. Or, if male, when you’re fifty-five, divorced and a member of a very serious Stamp Collectors’ Society of Great Britain (unless, of course, you’re into sci-fi memorabilia. Here, new rules apply – I believe there’s a natty underground scene revolving around the exchange of latex Spock masks and
Star Trek
phasers. I don’t understand what I’ve just said, let alone what this involves, but each to their own. And if this appeals to you, then may God bless you, and I hope you find a girlfriend soon so you can move out of your mum’s utility room).

The worst thing for me about the teenage loss of hobbies was
NO MORE BALLET
. It was a sad moment in my life to discover that a six-foot fifteen year old was no longer welcome in the ballet class. Suddenly, it was all about being proficient and ambitious. There was talk of certain members of the class ‘going to college’ and ‘turning professional’.

‘Balls to that,’ I said, as me and my very small, very round friend galumphed on for a few rounds of ‘I’m a little teapot.’ It was going fine until we got to ‘Here’s my handle, here’s my spout . . .’ (the rest of the class were dancing
The Nutcracker
, by the way). I lost my balance, jarred into my friend, whose excellently placed spout nudged into one of the dancers when she was
en pointe
, who then fell into the girl next to her, causing a domino effect of collapsing ballerinas. I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever seen, but we were, shall we say, ‘not welcome back’.

How rude is that? What if I – perhaps at age seventeen or eighteen – had suddenly passed through the clunky teapot phase and really come into my own as a ballerina? What if I had suddenly blossomed? What if my gawkiness had fallen away to reveal a truly major dance talent? I could have been Darcey Bussell. That could have been
me
. I could have re-invented modern ballet with my elongated strides. I now regularly re-invent modern ballet in the privacy of my kitchen and, in my humble opinion, believe it’s a crying shame others don’t get to pay to witness it on a grand stage. But the English National Ballet will never know because between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, you’re not allowed to do
anything
fun unless you’re immediately and conventionally good at it. ‘Harrumph,’ I say to that.
Harrumph
.

The abandonment of hobbies in your teens means that by the time you’re in your twenties, the extra-curricular cupboard is bare. You’re doing nothing. And, by some terrible twist of fate, this is also the time of your life when you have to start applying for jobs, and applying for jobs involves putting together a CV, and a CV inevitably involves a Hobbies section. The one time you need hobbies, you are hobby-less. You stare at the blank page, and panic. What do I like? Do I like anything? What are my hobbies? You ask your friends – what do I like? What do I do? What do I like to do? Well, your helpful friends respond, you like drinking pints, you like impersonating certain television presenters like Roy Walker from
Catchphrase
, and occasionally you like ordering a pizza. Last night you thought it would be fun to see how long it would take you to eat a bowl of popcorn with boxing gloves on. And last week you thought you liked putting the takeaway container on your head and pretending you were a spaceman (but the next morning you changed your mind about that because your hair smelt of korma). You turn forlornly back to the CV and type ‘HOBBIES: Swimming, reading and travelling’: the holy trinity of boringly acceptable things everyone likes. Or no one would admit to not liking, at any rate (‘Travelling? No, hate it. I’m an enormous fan of staying put, actually. I’m happiest within a three-foot radius of my toaster and my pillow. I don’t want my horizons broadened, thank you’).

You arrive at the job interview, your CV in hand. Everything’s going surprisingly well. You’ve got through the strengths and weaknesses section (although I’m not sure ‘height’ does technically count as a strength). You’ve dealt with work experience and now you are at ‘. . . and finally – hobbies’: you’re practically out of the door, until the interviewer’s eye falls on ‘Swimming’. It turns out he swims at county level and is very eager to quiz you on your sporting habits.

This is where things can all go very, very wrong, as they once did for me.

‘So, what’s your stroke?’ the interviewer enquired.

Lovely, safe swimming. Now not so safe.

Of course, I panicked. Because basically I only really swim when on holiday. And even then it’s mostly just splashing about in a rubber ring, and actually I get a bit frightened when the water goes on my face. Stalling, I tried a thoughtful ‘Umm . . .’, rolling back my wheelie-chair reflectively. I was going for smooth, measured and authoritative. And I said, ‘Uh – butterfly . . . Butterfly is . . . my stroke.’

I could have left it there. I
should
have left it there: silently suggesting that butterfly is so important to me that I couldn’t possibly address my passion for it in the brief time we had left. I could have been enigmatic.

I wasn’t.

I was nervous. And nerves lend themselves to the babble. I babbled, ‘Well, it’s not MY stroke, ha ha – I didn’t invent it, and if I did let me tell you this, I’d have called it “The Miranda”. What would The Miranda look like, do you think? Probably something like this –’ At which point I gave a very weird, ferocious demonstration involving flapping chicken arms and thrashing legs.

The panel of interviewers looked a bit confused. I began to worry that this wasn’t going terribly well for me. Bravely, I decide to remedy the situation by offering – unsolicited – my views on body-hair removal for streamlining purposes: ‘You’d probably need to shave your legs, though, to get a good head of steam going with The Miranda. I mean, I’m blessed with very little hair; I’m not hairy, no, no, siree, I’m smooth as a billiard ball. But someone like you’ – pointing aggressively at the slightly boggle-eyed county-level swimmer – ‘might need to . . . Sorry, not that you’re hairy – I mean, most men have hairy backs. Do you have a hairy back? None of my business, obviously, but if you do, then –’

Luckily, at that point, the main interviewer concluded the interview. ‘Phew,’ I thought, ‘I’m out of here.’ Not an unmitigated triumph, but it could have been worse.

I stood up and things did, indeed, get considerably worse. It turned out my long skirt had got trapped under the wheels of the wheelie-chair, and so as I rose, said skirt shot down, revealing my pants and legs.

Now, this is one of those situations – isn’t it, MDRC? – when you think, ‘Right, where is the pamphlet on what to do next? Why is there no rulebook?’

I think a lot of people would have quickly gathered their skirt about them and dashed out. Instead, I thought the following would be appropriate: ‘Oh, good. I’m glad that’s happened, actually. I meant to show you my lovely smooth legs. Just what you need to have a go at The Miranda. Might be useful for you to have a look, in case you want to try it for your next swimming race. Go on, have a feel.’

Was it really necessary to get insistent and a little cross? Time passed; a lot of time, it seemed, until the door discreetly opened and I was ushered firmly from the building. The security guard didn’t
feel
necessary, I must say. I was just a babbling imbecile, not an actual threat to anyone’s security. Maybe The Miranda demo looked hostile. Strangely enough, I didn’t get the job. Your loss, retail section of the Welcome Break service station on the A3 near Waterlooville. I could now be manager there, with a lovely proud grinning photo of me on the staff board, welcoming drivers in for their very welcome break. Your loss, my friends, your loss.

At least in your twenties your need for a hobby is only purely CV-motivated. Your thirties mark another, more worrying shift. Suddenly, you’re going out a bit less, you’re a bit calmer, you’ve settled into yourself. You aren’t necessarily with husband or children yet; in fact most weekends you never leave the house – you have no need, for there is Dominos on speed-dial – then the moment comes, when you’re embarking on your second chicken wing, and the question hits you: ‘What AM I doing with my life? I don’t have a
thing
. I need a THING that I DO. Something which will make people think of me and go “Oh, yes, Miranda. Did you know, she’s a wonderful diver? Yes, she’s up at five every morning, bouncing about on the diving board. Can’t fathom it myself, but she flies like a swallow, hardly makes a ripple on the pool when she goes in. She says it centres her and gives her perspective. Yes, Miranda’s inspirational. She’s got an incredible work–life balance.”’ Suddenly, just as you’ve given up on ever really having one, it would be good to have a hobby again.