Good morning. I woke up today in a froth of confusion, having stayed up late (for me) to watch, in a fit of dormiveglio, the England vs France match. When I woke up, I thought it was Monday which, for us, marks the first day of the school holidays. I love the school holidays because I don’t have to get up crashingly early but school-run routines also give me…a routine. And like a young baby, I thrive on routines (actually most of us do).
Anyway imagine my delight to then realise it’s one of my favourite days of the week: Sunday. And here we are. This week’s Guardian column (out yesterday in print, today on line) has already garnered lots of comments veering between “you did right/you did wrong”. It’s about a friend who has ghosted another friend. *
Ghosting is a relative new term. What did we used to say? I’m ignoring someone? I’ve cut someone out of my life? I’m not sure what you’re meant to do to end a friendship that has an actual end - and doesn’t just peter out. I have, in the past, written to friends who no longer seem to want to be my friend and where I’ve been genuinely unaware of why (and maybe that was the problem!) to say look your friendship does mean something to me so please let me know what I did wrong so I can try to put it right. Neither time did the person write back.
Since my cancer diagnosis I’ve realised how hard I work in certain friendships and with certain people I’ve just stopped doing that hard work and often the friendship then flounders. Which rather proved my point that I was keeping it going. My husband and I were talking the other day about this very thing, and how we’re going to put our energies into people who actually want to be our friends and make the effort and look at historic friendships and wonder why we cling onto them. It’s been liberating.
Having cancer is like having the mother of all sick notes. It gives you permission to stand up for yourself.
I’ll be writing more about this in the autumn for the Guardian.
This week has been busy. I started it at the National Gallery, a place I haven’t been for a while. After my super stressful trip to the Louvre where I remember almost none of the art, but all of the hullabub and insane queuing, the NG was wonderful. So calm even though it was busy and the art was staggering. Since I did the podcast with Pr Daisy Fancourt, about the importance of the arts in our life (not just art-art) I’ve made a really conscious effort to let the arts come into my life more. Not because I have to, but because I want to. I went round with my youngest, arm in arm, as she told me all about certain art works (she studies art) and there was no pressure, from either of us, to do anything. We didn’t need to respond to the art in a certain way, we just wandered from room to room and it was a quasi perfect day, in the way that days that are the least planned, can be.
I’m a House Member, which isn’t a cheap thing but for me was well worth doing. I added a plus one to my membership, so I could bring family and friends (the ones that are still talking to me ha ha). I love me a bit of luxe. You walk up to a very discreet door, a security man asks you for your pass, the door magically opens and then you are in this wonderful sanctuary off Trafalgar Square. There’s a bar/brasserie where you can have coffee/snacks (the cappuccino is not cheap be warned, but it is good), a fully fledged restaurant and a salon for relaxing in. And your own private entrance into the museum. It’s bliss. You can go to all the exhibitions for free and with no booking. So we went to see Zurbarán, a painter I’d never heard of who we really enjoyed and we’re going to try to get his name in, as an adjective, into our copy/essays asap so watch out for that.
A few weeks ago, at my friend Lucy and Richard’s house, Richard poured me a Mother Root drink. Now keen and interested readers - which I know is all of you - may know that I don’t really drink anything other than water. The occasional diet soda (sssh) as a sort of act of defiance. At parties I might drink - gasp - sparkling water. But otherwise it’s just water for me and whilst I’m really fine with that it can get a bit boring as everyone else is clinking and clunking their colourful drinks with ice and slices and whatnot. But Lucy suggested this drink, and so I checked the label and it’s quite low in sugar so I thought why not. Well, I LOVED it and now drink it to mark the end of my day in a full-on crystal glass and pretend I’m Beth from Yellowstone.
When I was in London for the second time this week for medical appointments I treated myself to a Botivo from Honey and Smoke (an insane £8.50 for a glass but I try to give myself a treat every time someone ‘does’ something to me medically and I was about to have a needle stuck in me so…) and I loved that too. But then when I went shopping I was lured by the special offer on another non-alcoholic drink: Pentire. Which has great reviews but I’m really not sure about it yet. It tastes a bit insipid..
What do you recommend as a low-sugar, non alcoholic, not-full-of-crap drink? I’d be keen to hear.
Talking of crap, do not do not buy this ridiculously useless hook called Stowey. When will I learn not to be taken in by things seen on Instagram? The hook is too shallow to work for anything bar a jacket hook (you cannot put a bag handle on it/in it) and tbh you can use various other, cheaper things instead. I’ve tried to get my money back (they say you can return it) but no-one answers my emails. Be warned.
We’re in post production on Series 13 which will drop in a few weeks here, first. We did the final episode with Joshila DeVille who is a specialist in exercise and oncology and she was fascinating.
These Crosta e Mollica bread sticks are insanely good. Incidentally this means ‘crust and the middle’, mollica is a word that doesn’t seem to exist in English - if you know different let me know - but means the middle of the bread, the soft bit. It’s a great word.
A few pieces you may have missed that are worth reading. This one on talking about dying - I’ve long ‘campaigned’ for more conversations around this tender, but inevitable, subject. When my parents died, because we’d talked about death easily before I knew exactly what they wanted and it was so much easier, in an already very challenging landscape: but some of the decisions had been pre-made - by them, which gave me a peace of sorts. I saw how much harder it was when my in-laws died, because they’d never talked about death with their family.
For those interested in our press - and that really should be all of us - Andy Beckett’s piece on Paul Dacre, the right wing press and the Daily Mail is fascinating and exquisitely researched. I know a few people who worked under Dacre and they’ve all said he uses the word cunt a lot. I’ve never really understood the use of this in English as an insult. Cunts give pleasure and bring forth life.
In Italian when we want to insult someone we say : cazzo. Far more apt.
*At the time of writing this was the most read thing in the whole paper, beating even the World Cup. Just goes to show how much friendship matters impact.
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