I am stroppy. I think it has something to do with the full moon, something to do with being in on a Friday night, and something to do with feeling so cold that I am constantly surprised to look in the mirror and not see icicles hanging from my nose. I am already wearing four jumpers, a hood and a scarf, as well as tracksuit trousers and the biggest socks in the world. Any more clothing and I would barely be able to move my arms enough to write a tediously whining blog post. It may or may not also have something to do with hormonal anguish, but I will snap you in two if you suggest it.
Everything is good (although for some reason I feel the need to say that with narrowed eyes and a snarl). Ben arrived back from Nepal with a tan and presents (you can read about his trip and things here). I went to the airport to meet him, and only just made it in time, in spite of the fact that he had missed the first flight and so was two hours later than planned. I was nearly late because I had decided to use the extra time wisely, by sitting in a gruesome station pub drinking horrible wine and calling everyone I know. I drank one glass, then headed to the bar to buy another. I had a horrible cold, so I sniffed as I ordered. The barman was a different one than had served me before. He leaned lazily on the beer taps and made a show of looking me up and down.
"I.D.?" he intoned, smirking.
I stared at him.
"I'm twenty-six. I don't have any I.D. as I don't drive, but, I'm twenty-six, so..."
His eyebrows crept upwards, and he smiled slightly, returning my incredulous look without blinking.
"I'm not serving you."
I explained to him that I had just been served earlier, to which he replied, "Yeah, love, but not by me. I'm the manager. I'm not serving you."
I argued further, then started rummaging around in my bag, hoping perhaps that my passport would magically appear. As I was looking down my nose dripped conspicuously onto my bag. I felt my cheeks flush red as I angrily wiped my face.
"Look" he said. "I'm twenty-six too and I get asked for I.D., so..."
"So you do believe I am over seventeen, then? But you still won't serve me a glass of wine?"
He shrugged again. I swore at him then, and went to the toilets. (Perhaps I shouldn't have sworn, but he was being deliberately obtuse and deserved it.) On the way out I was on the phone to my sister, and I saw him up a step ladder, putting up decorations. He caught my eye and grinned. To my shame I, without thinking, put my tongue into my bottom lip, in that age-old gesture of people under ten everywhere, and gurned enthusiastically at him.
I keep getting asked for I.D. in Manchester. I am not going to take it as a compliment, because it has been quite humiliating most times. I am pleased that I don't look older than I am, but I am not thrilled that on meeting me people assume that I am not old enough to drink, smoke or download porn off the Internet.
It is a strange thing to feel angry about, but then I am in a strange, angry mood. I have been glowering at things ever since I got home. Apportioning blame to inanimate objects and getting internally cross with people, not for things they have said, but for things that they might say (although probably wouldn't).
I went to the Job Centre yesterday, where the lady told me I "seem to have my head screwed on" before writing the word "waitress" in a little box on the screen. While I was waiting to be seen there was a fire alarm, so we all had to trek outside and wait in the snow for the security guards to decide that it was a false one. Once back inside I watched the staff and tried to guess who was going to get off with whom at their Christmas party.
I have a gig to prepare for, which is at Pizza in the Park in London next Friday. (It is not paid, so please don't report me as a benefits fraud like that woman on those adverts who somehow manages to iron guiltily.) I am singing some Christmas songs, and some other jazz standards, but right now I am feeling far too cross to even consider rehearsing. I am going to think about it crossly and hope that has the same effect.
I am too cross to blog. To stroppy to write anything other than that I am stroppy.
It might be hormonal, lady things that are fueling the fire, but I don't care. I am going to glower a bit more, eat my body weight in chocolate and then sulk off to bed. Although before I do I might phone up that idiot bar manager at the train station and ask him whether he believes that I am old enough to menstruate.