Read Is It Just Me? for Free Online Page B

legs. Just what you need to have a go at The Miranda. Might be useful for you to have a look, in case you want to try it for your next swimming race. Go on, have a feel.’
    Was it really necessary to get insistent and a little cross? Time passed; a lot of time, it seemed, until the door discreetly opened and I was ushered firmly from the building. The security guard didn’t
feel
necessary, I must say. I was just a babbling imbecile, not an actual threat to anyone’s security. Maybe The Miranda demo looked hostile. Strangely enough, I didn’t get the job. Your loss, retail section of the Welcome Break service station on the A3 near Waterlooville. I could now be manager there, with a lovely proud grinning photo of me on the staff board, welcoming drivers in for their very welcome break. Your loss, my friends, your loss.
    At least in your twenties your need for a hobby is only purely CV-motivated. Your thirties mark another, more worrying shift. Suddenly, you’re going out a bit less, you’re a bit calmer, you’ve settled into yourself. You aren’t necessarily with husband or children yet; in fact most weekends you never leave the house – you have no need, for there is Dominos on speed-dial – then the moment comes, when you’re embarking on your second chicken wing, and the question hits you: ‘What AM I doing with my life? I don’t have a
thing
. I need a THING that I DO. Something which will make people think of me and go “Oh, yes, Miranda. Did you know, she’s a wonderful diver? Yes, she’s up at five every morning, bouncing about on the diving board. Can’t fathom it myself, but she flies like a swallow, hardly makes a ripple on the pool when she goes in. She says it centres her and gives her perspective. Yes, Miranda’s inspirational. She’s got an incredible work–life balance.”’ Suddenly, just as you’ve given up on ever really having one, it would be good to have a hobby again.
    You panic. ‘My life is meaningless,’ you think. ‘I’m just a shallow little pizza-eating wage-slave.’ So you begin to cast around for a hobby. You suddenly appear – for a fleeting moment – at a hula-hooping class. You phone the Martial Arts School then hang up in fear as soon as they answer. You start to pay a little more attention to yellowing cards in newsagents’ windows inviting you to join Nigel and Ceri and their group of aspiring vegan cooks for a demonstration at the community centre, Tuesdays at 7.30 p.m. (no classes on Wiccan holidays).
    Then, after a short period spent anxiously hovering on the fringes of hobby-land, you take the plunge. You put in a phone call, and before you know it, you’ve joined a book group.
    Your evening at Book Group will, inevitably, go something like this:
    A few THIRTYSOMETHING WOMEN in a living room, sitting on chairs, drinking cups of herbal tea. They are all a little uncomfortable, but pretending not to be. They’ve just had a faux-jokey exchange about herbal tea, including lines such as ‘Oh, I’m a herbal tea-aholic. Ha ha!’ and ‘Careful, you don’t want to end up in rehab!’ with ‘Yes, never mix peppermint and fennel, the hangover’s a nightmare! HA HA HA!’
    They’re now sitting in awkward silence, each of them holding a copy of
THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE
. They’re awaiting the arrival of the final member of their group.
    Right on cue, MIRANDA enters. She is also holding a copy of
THE TIME TRAVELER’S WIFE
. It appears to be well thumbed. This is because on the train on the way there, Miranda has sat on it, bent it out of shape and put a few pages down as bookmarkers. She hasn’t read it.
    MIRANDA:
    Well, hello! We’re all looking very serious, aren’t we?
    The THIRTYSOMETHING women are, indeed, looking very serious. This is because none of them really wants to be there.
    THIRTYSOMETHING WOMAN:
    Miranda. Have a seat. Would you like a herbal tea?
    MIRANDA
    Yuck – no, thanks. I bought a bottle. Who else would like da vino? Da vino de campo?