Staples. I stapled my own hand. Yes, in my efforts to gain my so called extra excitement points, what I managed to gain was a couple of staples in my own goddamn hand! Life is not fair, life is not just; all the good people just end up in the A&E getting their hand stitched up by some young, shaky handed doctor called Paul (yes, I asked his name who lets a total stranger stick a needle in their hand?). Karma doesn't exist, if that were true it would be Alexa sitting here in the cubicle next to a man that talks far too loudly and apparently has developed some sort of burning purple rash in a place I don't even want to think about. Behold, the Accident and Emergency Ward; Welcome to England!
3. I will stop doing unfathomably stupid stuff like stapling parts of my anatomy.
"Lizzie!" I turn my head to see Jane standing in front of me looking wind-swept and extremely worried under the fluorescent hospital lights. How the hell did she get here? I don't even have the energy to look shocked.
"Hi," I say, offering a weak smile, "They say I might need staples for my staples."
Jane shakes her head, her bottom lip quivering "Lizzie, don't joke! Are you OK? What happened? Why didn't you call me?"
"I'm fine mum." I mock, "How did you even know I was here?"
"Charlotte texted me; I came straight out of my meeting as soon as I heard." Her words come out in a breathless tumble.
"Jane!" I protest, "You should not have done that! I'm fine! Tell her I'm fine Paul."
Paul looks up at me, startled. Then across to Jane. "She's fine."
"See, Paul knows what he's on about. He has a degree and everything."
Jane rolls her eyes and sits in the chair next to mine. "How did this even happen Lizzie?"
I shift uncomfortably, not wanting to look at her. She waits patiently as I try to think of what to say, but it all just comes spilling out. "There was no promotion Jane, just a stupid press pass to a shitty Tatler party. That was Phil's bloody surprise. Bloody brilliant. And once again I look like a complete idiot."
I feel my face heat up and my eyes sting with tears.
"Oh Lizzie, you're not an idiot!" Jane gasps, "I'm sure Phil will see how talented you are!"
"No he won't, his head's too far up Alexa's arse to see anything." I mutter bitterly. Paul stifles a laugh; well I'm glad someone sees the funny side.
"Is the party tonight?" Jane asks and I nod.
"Well we're going." She says it with such resolve and finality that I'm left speechless. Jane is the type of person who won't even pick the Ben and Jerry's just in case it's the flavour you don't want.
"There'll be free drink, free food, and dancing! You are going tonight Lizzie. You need a bit of fun after the day you've had." I half heartedly nod my consent and Jane's face breaks into a gorgeous smile. It's times like these that I know why she's a lawyer.
After Paul has finished on my hand, Jane takes the tube with me back to the flat, insisting that she is taking the rest of the day off whether I like it or not. It feels so long ago since I sat on the tube in my twitchy, crazed excitement with hopes of promotions, new laptops and freedom from Cheryl Cole. The reality of the situation is depressing, not to mention embarrassing! I cringe at how I acted today with my over-excited, over confident idiocy, prancing around like an arsehole in my Whistles suit and holy tights. The horror of it all makes me want to just curl up in my bed and down a tub of Pringles whilst watching a John Cusack movie. I'm pretty sure there's a can in the cupboard.
Phil left a message on my mobile saying that if I still felt up to going tonight, he had sent someone over with the passes. And sure enough, when we get in, a stiff brown envelope is sitting expectantly on the doormat. I pick it up and put it on the table next to the front door with the rest of the mail while Jane checks our messages.
"Lizzie, it's your mother!" Mum's voice explodes in all its middle class glory through the answering machine speaker, filling the room with its sheer volume. I'm rooted to the spot, consumed by fear; she'll definitely be expecting me to call her back! For those of you unfamiliar with the ever growing breed here in England known as the "pushy, middle class mother", this basically means I will be stuck on the phone for precisely two hours, being grilled in the manner of a CIA agent about the state of my love life.
"You do remember me don't you? I brought you into the world; gave you the precious gift of life!" OK, I'm taking bets on how many times mum will manage to insult me within the space of one phone call.
"It seems that I am always the last to know and am no longer considered important enough to warrant a telephone call," (jab number 1) "But apparently you're in the hospital? Jane said something about a mishap with a stapler? Surely not! You're not that much of a durr brain now are you?" The second jab is thrown artfully in with a trill of airy laughter.
"Oh! And I almost forgot! Good news! I've found you a new man! Very dishy! He's a banker, so lots of money there; you won't have to carry on with that silly little job of yours." Ok, mother, you are currently getting the finger for that one. "Sally from down the road says he has a Porsche AND a four bed roomed country house!" Gah! I don't fucking care!
She pauses with a dramatic sigh to impart her final piece of philosophical wisdom: " Lizzie you're in the prime of your life, if you don't settle down soon you'll be damaged goods... Anyway, must be off, I'm having my hair done by Auntie Debbie; ash blonde highlights! Cheerio!"
By the time the message has ended, I am seriously contemplating smashing the answering machine with a sledge hammer, asking myself what I did to deserve such a mother and more importantly, how I flee to Japan and change my name to Ling Su without her ever finding out, when-
"Lizzie, it's me again!" OK, deep breaths, deep breaths; think good, pure non- homicidal thoughts. "Give me a tinkle when you get in; I'm beginning to feel rather neglected." Oh, cue the bloody violins.
The answering machine beeps again, indicating yet another bloody wonderful message and I let out an angry, high pitched cry, which sounds more like a wild cat being murdered- something I wouldn't really be opposed to right now- than a human being.
"Elizabeth Cecelia Bennet, where on earth are you?" She's mad now; note the use of my full name. "Have you been abducted? I believe I have called three times now and-"
"Lizard." Dad's deep voice filters through the speaker. It's never failed to calm me down; he read the best bed time stories when I was little, put me to sleep straight away.
"Ignore your mother, I might have to slip her something to calm her down," he says in a rather conspiratorial stage whisper and I giggle, my anger dissipating with his soothing voice. "What she meant to say is we all hope you and your hand are doing just fine and we'll-"
"Joe, give me the phone back now!"
The line goes dead.
"You have no more messages." The snooty automated woman's voice tells me and never have I been more happy to hear her. Next to mum she sounds like Daniel Craig (the celebrity voted to have the number one sexiest voice by the people of England if you were wondering). And speaking of mum with a voice like hers she should not be in contact with humans on a daily basis, the sheer pitch is suited much more for hyenas. How the hell has dad managed to put up with her all these years; I'm pretty sure I would have pulled a Mr Rochester and just locked her in the attic. But, after all my twenty five years on this planet and a psychology A-Level, I am still no closer to figuring out the enigma that is Francine Bennet. She's deranged! I mean seriously, I'm not a dog; she can't just put me next to a member of the opposite sex and expect us to dry hump over the buffet table. Even if he does have a Porsche and a four bedroom country house. And trust me I can't meet another one of her so called eligible bachelors. Last time at one of mum's garden parties (or cleverly masked ruses to set up her single daughter), said bachelor took me for a spin in his open top Mercedes and proceeded to tell me every single detail about his ex girlfriend. And his plaid fetish. See, you're beginning to understand why I refuse to be set up aren't you? It's not like I go willingly either; I don't actually go out on dates with these guys. It's more like we're in the same place at the same time at some sort of public event all in thanks to mum's intricate military style organisation. If she was a secret navy seal I would not be shocked.
4. I will try my hardest not to indulge evil thoughts about my mother.
OK, I am making a promise that I will no longer be coerced into her transparent blind dates ever again. Especially with my stitches in my hand and all that, she'll play that off in her favour. I'll be made out to be some accident prone damsel in distress that constantly needs 'saving' by the egocentric banker of the week with a penis complex. He'll constantly run around holding doors for me and calling me patronising nicknames like "sweetie pie" and "dumpling" and mum will absolutely love it! How awful!
Come to think of it, how the hell did mum even know about my hand? I didn't tell her, Phil didn't tell her, Paul the doctor sure as hell didn't tell her... "Jane said something about a mishap with a stapler," I hear mum's voice echo in my ears. God I feel like I'm House having an epiphany. Cue dramatic electro style instrumental... I didn't even question how mum knew about my hand, I didn't really listen to what she was saying. But now it's so clear; Jane! She told mum; she is the reason I will have to endure a two hour conversation talking to the woman that makes Jason Bourne look like a puppy; the reason I will be bombarded with highlighted excerpts from Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus; the reason I will have my horoscope recited to me from three different monthly glossies. (Red magazine be damned!) Jane Bennet I will kill you!
"Jane!" I shout as I storm into the kitchen flinging the door open for dramatic effect. But I'm stopped in my tracks. At the kitchen table Jane is sat down with a teeny tiny bird. I wish I was kidding. Yes my sister is currently tending to an injured baby bird. How the hell can you shout at this girl?
"Yes?" she looks up with a smile. God her eyes are so big and kind; she's bloody Bambi; you can't kill Bambi!
"Just wondering what you were doing?" I mumble; I mean what else can I say, there is a bird on our table?
"Well when we got in I found this little creature outside on the patio with a broken wing," she strokes its head with her forefinger. "I think it'll have to stay with us for a while, I've got a cardboard box it can sleep in."
"OK," I say, now feeling a total bitch, I mean an injured bird is lying on my table! "We should name it!"
Jane chuckles, "What do you have in mind?"
I pause contemplatively. "Alan Sugar."
Jane raises her eyebrow and laughs, "I'm not even going to ask."