It’s called masking, Brenda, look it up!

I’m being haunted by neurodivergent people. Kind of like Haley Joel Osment in The Sixth Sense, only less spectre and more spectrum. Literally every third person I encountered this week had some kind of neurodevelopmental disorder, one of which I’m married to and two others I grew up with who didn’t appreciate my independent, totally unqualified and obviously un-asked for diagnosis of them. In fact, they also refused to believe that I had adhd because i went to St Paul’s, Westminster and then Oxford. It’s called masking, Brenda, look it up!

The whole thing got me thinking: Is everybody on the spectrum? Or am I just some kind of magnet that attracts frantic, chaotic energy to match my own? Even my masseuse had adhd. She was also, she told me, a witch and said that there were strong connections between neurodivergence and witchcraft, which i can totally believe. I guess it is a kind of superpower? Being able to oscillate seamlessly between hyperfocus and distraction (particularly when putting small children to bed, getting them up, and anything in between), and never remembering where you left your phone, keys or wallet, but then also being able to hold 5 million concurrent thoughts up at the same time. Maybe I am a witch? My masseuse certainly seemed to think so. She also told me that I have a deep affinity with Egypt, which she articulated by doing the walk like an Egyptian dance - before calling me Clarissa, cleansing my aura, and acknowledging the West Indian spirits of the Notting Hill area, after which she vanished into the night - in what was certainly one of weirder experiences I’ve had in my bedroom in a long time. Which pretty much sums up life on the spectrum.

Speaking of neurodivergence i came across a lol comment the other day from someone who was told they weren’t on the spectrum because they had great eye contact over zoom. They were staring at themselves the whole time…

A cultural melting pot of people gather in the gardens of the V&A museum at their annual summer party. Everyone there either looked like Grayson Perry in some kind of adult baby asymmetrical tulle situation or some of the sleepier members of the Tory frontbench - the latter of whom looked rather bemused by singer Jessie Ware, who, performing in the middle of a lake, was flanked by two pussy-bow wearing dancers. Pulling shapes in unison, they reminded me of the Siamese Cats in Lady and the Tramp, but like gay cruise edition.

After a quick round of shoot shag or marry- everyone was shot- i fled the scene and went to meet some friends at the pub to watch the England game, where I pretended to know what was going on, although I think the ball gown might have given it away that I’m no football casual. In fact, there is nothing casual about me.

On Tuesday I forgot I was bidding real ass money at the Kerry Taylor Auction and nearly spent three terms of school fees on a Galliano dress. Emboldened by my anonymity - ever the keyboard warrior - something tends to come over me during an online auction where I feel like i have to absolutely annihilate the other person bidding. The perks and pitfalls of gamified shopping. Which is exactly what happened during Galliano gate, when I got locked into a duel with a phone bidder until finally snapping out of my trance to acquiesce the win. But not before hoiking up the price bc i am a salty, spiteful bitch. Lot 170, i shall never forget you.

An article in The Cut about a mom who heads up a household full of AI staff and it does look pretty sweet i must say. As someone who routinely leaves the diaper bag at home, has forgotten the pram at baggage claim and can barely make a sandwich, I like the idea of having an army of AI labourers who can essentially mother for me. Fuck it, maybe they can mother me.

On Thursday I drove past my first ever snog, who, 25(?) years on, now looks like a potato. TBH maybe he did then too? It was very dark on the D floor where I was grinding up on him. Was that Kevin Little Turn Me On playing in the background? I think it might have been. I also remember exactly what I was wearing; a vagina skimming khaki belt skirt which doubled as a skirt, with built-in shorts, from Miss Sixty and a turquoise chiffon top I’d stolen from my sister. I’d also stuffed my quadruple A bra with a nest of tissue, which this boy was now disturbing with his fingers, and I’d gotten some budget biscuity-smelling spray tan, which was now rubbing off onto him. A thought that still sends shivers down my spine.

On Thursday I went and had a tarot reading at my friend’s Poppy’s (pictured) book launch. After asking me things like: “who is George?” Not sure. “Who is Margaret?” Unclear. “Who had lung cancer and a brain tumor?” Again, drawing blanks. I was about to lose interest until she asked the following: “And who was the drinker?” To which I obviously replied, “me!” But she lost me again when she said I was going to have twins and move to Surrey, which, if that were true, would contradict what she said about living till 93, as i’d be pulling the plug early, joining the likes of dear George and darling Margaret on the other side.

ps you can buy Poppy’s briliant book here.

On Monday, I went to a dinner at some very rich art collector’s house where I knew absolutely no one - not a single soul - but was served delicious plates of River Cafe food which I hoovered up before doing a French exit. Otherwise, ive been living off roughage.

“The queen is coming down” Phoenix

So who are Margaret and George? What do they want from me?