Whenever I tangle up my little ball of teenage angst, I end up worried and angry at the point of life. Well, quite. Only teenagers have enough time for self-absorption on this scale.
But whenever I want to calm myself down, I watch Richard Curtis movies. I think it’s because they represent a middle class ideal that a certain type of English person aspires to. (I am one of this pretentious bunch.)
The movies are based in white, minimalist houses, with arty stand alone bathtubs on wooden floors. The guest bedroom’s done in IKEA, but if anyone asks it’s from a divine little place in the Italian district. The china is artfully mismatched, they drink from coloured glass goblets (clear is so 2000, darling) and they frequent French art galleries that are too hip to have a name.
But at the same time I have to ask whether this is real. Does anyone actually live like this? Well apparently, but the only evidence is from the film. And we all know what a realistic reflection of reality movies are…
So perhaps I am aspiring after an imaginary scene.
I will never eat Cocopops from purple bowls in late night bonding sessions with estranged relatives. I will never have obscure ethnic statues form the supermarket, which I say I bought whilst trekking in Tibet. I will never make colour coded, nutritionally stable and geometrically arranged lunchboxes.
Ah well, I’m not sure I would have liked it anyway. I’ve never understood having different jars for the fettuccini and the linguine is so calming. Maybe I’m missing the moral atrocity of pasta mixing…