In March 2003, ignoring the protests of up to 30 million people around the globe, (and my mini demonstration waving a chicken leg in the back of my car), the United States and the UK invaded Iraq. It seemed unreal seeing it on the television, almost like a video game, with the green night vision pictures looking like something you’d see on Xbox. I was outraged that the British government were taking us into a war that was not supported by the majority of the UK population. Tony Blair was clearly taking lessons in democracy from the Dear Leader of North Korea, Kim Jong-il. The war was opposed by most of the world’s population, not authorised by the UN, and the evidence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq was as solid as a straw hut in a hurricane. I totally lost faith in Tony Blair, who was the only Prime Minister I had ever voted for and resolved not to vote for him again. Of course the majority of these weapons were not found during the invasion of Iraq. They might as well have been looking for chickens of mass destruction instead. The BBC story that the dodgy dossier published in September 2002 on weapons of mass destruction had been “sexed up” hardened my view of the illegality of the war. I thought that the governments of the US and the UK had told a bunch of porkies to justify the war as big as the giant Bangur pig in Nepal.
But on a personal level everything was going extremely well. The rent of my house in Notting Hill was paying me almost double what I’d been earning in my staff job at the BBC. So with oodles of money coming in, in exchange for as little work as the idlest footballer’s wife, I discovered a new addiction, shopping. I was staying with Susanna at her flat in Notting Hill, but practically never saw her as I was out from 8am till almost midnight, combing the shops for items to complete my perfect wardrobe. Sometimes I didn’t eat all day power walking up and down the streets hunting from shop to shop. If only I had another pair of shoes, trousers, metal studded g string, my wardrobe would be complete. As I had no interest or need for recovery yet I had not heard the slogan “one is too many a thousand is never enough.” That was exactly true of my shopping. The more my tiny room at Susanna’s flat clogged up with new purchases, so the bed entirely disappeared, the more I wanted to shop.
I was particularly obsessed with Selfridges on Oxford Street and would often have to be escorted out by Security when it closed at 9pm. As I was often there at 10 am when they opened the next day, I suggested to the management that it would be better if I moved in. One time I had been exiled from Selfridges at 9pm but then had to break back in, through the unwilling security guards, as I’d left my handbag inside. I was always leaving my handbag in strange places, and it was stolen while I was prancing around buying exotic lingerie at Agent Provacateur in Notting Hill. I also had an obsession with buying fake designer bags, amassing a massive collection. I was the fake bag equivalent of Philippine Shoe Queen Imelda Marcos. Again I kept thinking if I just buy another Dior bag to add to the (fake ) Fendi Baguette, Gucci Gigolo and Louis Vuitton Lollipop I would stop. Not all of it was fake I started buying designer shoes and expensive clothes. As well as designer hedge croppers which I was sure would come in handy (when I finally had a hedge). I would turn up at Susanna’s flat near midnight with bags of shopping as exhausted and starving as if I’d done a polar trek. I didn’t really consider that this might have made her jealous as she was a struggling single mother on benefits. But Susanna, a sweet natured soul, never held it against me. Though we did row a lot when we were drinking leading to threats of my being evicted at 3am. I refused point blank to leave, saying I wasn’t going anywhere as Selfridges was closed.
Although I barely had time for a love life, what I had was as satisfactory as a month old piece of bread. I was seeing my BBC boyfriend, Mike-R-Phone, who was a wonderful man, kind, caring and had so much in common with me. But the relationship was as lacking in spark as a fused plug. And when Tarzan came to London and unexpectedly wanted to re-kindle the relationship, I decided I’d better juggle the two and said I couldn’t see Mike-R- Phone as I had a flu. Happily re-united with Tarzan, (how we forgive men who are hot!) in a 5 star hotel in London, Tarzan started playing with my nether parts. Suddenly something happened that felt like an earthquake was erupting in my groin. This was very alarming, not pleasant at all and I immediately dialled 999 saying I needed an ambulance. When I explained the symptoms to the emergency operator she said I was suffering from an orgasm and should just lie back and enjoy the ride. This had never happened before, was entirely earth shattering and, after I got used to the sensation, made me as keen on Tarzan as a besotted fan of Leonardo di Caprio. I dumped Mike-R-Phone, manufacturing a row but actually because I fancied Tarzan much more. But Tarzan was soon up to his old tricks again, criticizing my vine swinging skills and saying he didn’t want a relationship. Of course I now know what this means. He didn’t want a relationship with me, he went on to marry someone else. Once again I was bereft although being absolutely knackered from the shopping really took off the edge.
I met a short Irishman at a club in Notting Hill who developed an obsession with me phoning me every 5 minutes and saying we should get married. Apart from the fact I didn’t fancy him, I was slightly put off by the fact that he said, if his wife was ever unfaithful to him, he would cut her into pieces and throw her in the Thames. Luckily he was working as a surgeon on the NHS, so he was being paid by the taxpayer to cut people up. I had BUPA so hoped I would avoid his surgical attentions for the rest of my life. Nonetheless I enjoyed the attention and spent a considerable amount of time with him.
One day when both of us were pissed on cider and vodka and hanging out with a girl I had met in a club, we suddenly fell into an enthusiastic threesome. She gave him a voracious blowjob and I snogged the face off her. She then tried to have sex with him but I put my foot down about this, he was mine to reject. You might have thought, now all my lesbian fantasies had come true, my world was rocked. But she was blonde and I’d gone off blondes as I wanted to snog Nicole Scherzinger from the Pussycat Dolls instead. And I did get put off when the girl’s dog tried to make it a foursome by enthusiastically humping my leg.
When I finally headed back to Jamaica, I was shattered by the shopping and had to hire a Winnebago to transport all my luggage to Heathrow. The Irishman was driving, still professing undying love, amid obscure and random threats. When we got to Heathrow, he had to procure a trail of family sized luggage carts as long as the Heathrow Express. And when I finally got to the check in, the woman asked, “where are all the other passengers from the coach?” When I answered that I was alone she said I would have to pay ten times the cost of my flight in excess baggage fees. I got on the flight to Jamaica, 10,000 pounds overdrawn, but mystified as to why this was. I was earning 6,000 pounds a month so surely that meant I could spent 6,000 pounds on fake designer bags? The, quite frankly, unduly restrictive concept of “disposable income” wasn’t something I understood at all. It would take a crash in my life, (and the removal of all my cards) for it to finally sink in. Sign up for updates on this blog
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