Ariane Sherine's Blog, page 18
May 20, 2009
Fawlty Hours
The weekend before last, I had to get up at 5am to sit on my leg and flap my arms around like an over-enthusiastic green bird. Well, I didn't have to, but for some reason this is what I ended up doing, while talking about my favourite sitcom. But I didn't realise this at the time, because I had adrenaline coursing through me.
That's because live telly is scary. I don't look nervous, but I was terrified. My brain kept saying, "Imagine how bad it would be if you did a huge burp. It will be replayed, and millions of people will watch the burp on YouTube. You will be forever known as Burp Girl, and for the rest of your life, when people meet you, they'll say, 'Oh, aren't you that girl who did that huge burp?!'"
Worse, you could accidentally swear, or say something hugely offensive, or start choking or coughing, or spontaneously be sick. I know this is very unlikely - in fact, I know these things aren't going to happen - but that doesn't stop me worrying about them. It's probably not very professional, but I wrote reassuring words between my fingers, like "stay calm" and "relax" and "breathe". (I didn't look at these words once, but it vaguely helped to know that they were there.)
After watching the clip, I also wrote a helpful checklist of Things To Remember While On TV:
(1) Do not slurp your water on-screen after each question like a thirsty buffalo
(2) Do not gesticulate like an agitated monkey pushing away an invisible banana
(3) Do not sit on your leg, unaware that everyone can see you sitting on your leg. If you must sit on something, make it your hands.
I think the more often you do something scary - whatever it is - the less scary it becomes, just because you realise you can do it (not particularly well, maybe, but you can) and that the thing you were most scared of probably hasn't happened. (Unless it has, in which case you're buggered.)
By the way, Toby and Charlie were ace, and the female presenter (Louise Minchin) is possibly the nicest person in the world (and that includes Nelson Mandela and the woman who called the paramedics after I was hit by a motorbike).
[This post isn't letting you leave comments, because it is evil - to leave one, please click on the post heading. Thank you.]
That's because live telly is scary. I don't look nervous, but I was terrified. My brain kept saying, "Imagine how bad it would be if you did a huge burp. It will be replayed, and millions of people will watch the burp on YouTube. You will be forever known as Burp Girl, and for the rest of your life, when people meet you, they'll say, 'Oh, aren't you that girl who did that huge burp?!'"
Worse, you could accidentally swear, or say something hugely offensive, or start choking or coughing, or spontaneously be sick. I know this is very unlikely - in fact, I know these things aren't going to happen - but that doesn't stop me worrying about them. It's probably not very professional, but I wrote reassuring words between my fingers, like "stay calm" and "relax" and "breathe". (I didn't look at these words once, but it vaguely helped to know that they were there.)
After watching the clip, I also wrote a helpful checklist of Things To Remember While On TV:
(1) Do not slurp your water on-screen after each question like a thirsty buffalo
(2) Do not gesticulate like an agitated monkey pushing away an invisible banana
(3) Do not sit on your leg, unaware that everyone can see you sitting on your leg. If you must sit on something, make it your hands.
I think the more often you do something scary - whatever it is - the less scary it becomes, just because you realise you can do it (not particularly well, maybe, but you can) and that the thing you were most scared of probably hasn't happened. (Unless it has, in which case you're buggered.)
By the way, Toby and Charlie were ace, and the female presenter (Louise Minchin) is possibly the nicest person in the world (and that includes Nelson Mandela and the woman who called the paramedics after I was hit by a motorbike).
[This post isn't letting you leave comments, because it is evil - to leave one, please click on the post heading. Thank you.]
April 29, 2009
It's A Punderful Life
I can't stop making puns. The affliction started when I wrote for Countdown for two years, and only got worse from there. It wasn't my fault - first I had to come up with a set of "alternative dictionary definitions":
affable: fifty per cent of a male cow
bigotry: the larger of two sturdy plants
category: your moggy after it's been in a fight
definite: the more hard-of-hearing of a pair of headlice
And now I've descended to this kind of level:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cif-green/2009/apr/28/do-fish-feel-pain
Rendering myself truly punfit to be called a writer.
I'd like to change, I really would. I'd like to write poems instead (though some would say they're verse) but I don't have the rhyme. Still, to prove that I can produce punfree pieces, here's one I wrote a long time ago for Richard Whiteley:
I'm sorry to say that your ties
Do terrible things to my eyes
It's the colours I think
With the purple and pink
Of the set - on the whole, most unwise
Overall Dick you dress like a pro
With a sharp dapper suit for each show
But those things round your neck
Make me think "Flipping heck!
"Why did someone not say to him 'no'?!"
So: I can do without them, but it's not quite as pun. But does wordplay leave you pungry like the wolf, or do you think writers should be punished for resorting to it? I'd really like your opunion...
affable: fifty per cent of a male cow
bigotry: the larger of two sturdy plants
category: your moggy after it's been in a fight
definite: the more hard-of-hearing of a pair of headlice
And now I've descended to this kind of level:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cif-green/2009/apr/28/do-fish-feel-pain
Rendering myself truly punfit to be called a writer.
I'd like to change, I really would. I'd like to write poems instead (though some would say they're verse) but I don't have the rhyme. Still, to prove that I can produce punfree pieces, here's one I wrote a long time ago for Richard Whiteley:
I'm sorry to say that your ties
Do terrible things to my eyes
It's the colours I think
With the purple and pink
Of the set - on the whole, most unwise
Overall Dick you dress like a pro
With a sharp dapper suit for each show
But those things round your neck
Make me think "Flipping heck!
"Why did someone not say to him 'no'?!"
So: I can do without them, but it's not quite as pun. But does wordplay leave you pungry like the wolf, or do you think writers should be punished for resorting to it? I'd really like your opunion...
February 27, 2009
Sunshine On A Rainy Day
The sun has got his hat on. Hip hip hip hooray! (What would the sun's hat look like? Would it be a sunhat? Why would he be protecting himself from himself?)
Anyhow, what I mean to say is: sunlight is filling the room where I'm typing this, and it's making me feel extraordinately happy. I don't know why a bit of yellow light can make me feel better, but it can, and very quickly too.
So I thought I'd make a list of all the other things which I (and perhaps you) don't notice much on an everyday basis, but which can make us feel alive and happy...
(1) Being well. When you are well, you don't wake up every day thinking "Fantastic! I'm still well!" You just get on with life. But when you're ill, you can't wait to be well again. And when you are, everything seems fresh and new.
(2) Sleeping. Not the actual 'asleep' bit - you don't notice that for necessary reasons - but the warm, relaxed, snug feeling in between sleep and waking. That bit where you're half-asleep and dreamy and enjoying the heated cocoon you've created while sleeping.
(3) Exchanging smiles with strangers in the street for no reason other than friendliness. Babies and kids too. Having someone say "good morning" to you if you pass each other early and are the only ones walking down a street.
(4) Showers and baths. Lathering soap bubbles, lying in bubble bath, feeling hot water on your skin. And feeling clean and smelling good afterwards, wrapped in a fluffy towel, with your hair all shiny and clean.
(5) Being outdoors, feeling cool air across your face and being able to smell grass and flowers. Knowing that soon it's going to be spring, then summer, where we can lie in a park, reading books, eating ice lollies and having a picnic.
Can anyone think of any others?
Anyhow, what I mean to say is: sunlight is filling the room where I'm typing this, and it's making me feel extraordinately happy. I don't know why a bit of yellow light can make me feel better, but it can, and very quickly too.
So I thought I'd make a list of all the other things which I (and perhaps you) don't notice much on an everyday basis, but which can make us feel alive and happy...
(1) Being well. When you are well, you don't wake up every day thinking "Fantastic! I'm still well!" You just get on with life. But when you're ill, you can't wait to be well again. And when you are, everything seems fresh and new.
(2) Sleeping. Not the actual 'asleep' bit - you don't notice that for necessary reasons - but the warm, relaxed, snug feeling in between sleep and waking. That bit where you're half-asleep and dreamy and enjoying the heated cocoon you've created while sleeping.
(3) Exchanging smiles with strangers in the street for no reason other than friendliness. Babies and kids too. Having someone say "good morning" to you if you pass each other early and are the only ones walking down a street.
(4) Showers and baths. Lathering soap bubbles, lying in bubble bath, feeling hot water on your skin. And feeling clean and smelling good afterwards, wrapped in a fluffy towel, with your hair all shiny and clean.
(5) Being outdoors, feeling cool air across your face and being able to smell grass and flowers. Knowing that soon it's going to be spring, then summer, where we can lie in a park, reading books, eating ice lollies and having a picnic.
Can anyone think of any others?
February 5, 2009
Thought For An Afternoon Weeks Ago
Hello. I hope you're all well and happy. Thanks for coming back.
I've been a bit rubbish again, and I'm sorry. This blog is basically turning into one long string of apologies, half-explanations and inept rhymes. I don't want to deluge you with trivia, and blogging about the more interesting parts of my life at the moment with any degree of truth is a bit too surreal, but bear with me - I promise I'm writing new stuff for you to read, it's a lot funnier, and most of it isn't about my two favourite topics of atheism or buses.
Until I upload it, here's an interview I did for Credo, Independent on Sunday. Where are my arms? I am totally 'armless.
Secondly, here's a sympathetic piece on the campaign (see "Wednesday") from BBC World Service. Which was nice, and quite unexpected.
And lastly, here's the text of my Thought For The Afternoon, which was broadcast on Radio 4 on January 10, and which a few people have asked for (someone also kindly uploaded the broadcast - thank you). I hope you enjoy all these things - and I promise to write again soon.
Thought For The Afternoon
We live in a beautiful, fascinating and complex world, and we’re all trying to make sense of it as best we can. There are 6.7 billion of us living on this planet, belonging to hundreds of different belief systems. Most of us want to live peacefully, yet we also want to think that our own personal beliefs are the right ones. And if we are right, whatever we believe, that means millions or possibly billions of other people must be wrong.
As a world full of individuals, we are never all going to think the same way. What we can do is accept that we hold many different beliefs - and focus instead on what unites us as human beings, because we are truly similar in so many ways. We all want to feel loved, and to give love freely; we all want our children to be happy, healthy and safe, and for them to receive a good education. We all want to live long, enjoyable lives free from fear and pain. And we’re all muddling through life the best way we know how.
What’s important are not the beliefs we hold, but that we are free to hold them, and that we always express them peacefully. That we see all other people as individual human beings just like ourselves, who love and hurt and laugh and feel pain and hope. That we share our lives with people of different backgrounds; that we talk about all kinds of ideas calmly and openly; and that instead of letting our differences divide us, we let our similarities bring us together.
Britain is a wonderful country where people are free to believe in whatever they like, and that includes non-belief. Many people think humanists and atheists don’t believe in anything. This isn’t true. We may not believe in a God, but like most believers, we think we only have one life on this planet. Nobody knows for certain what happens after this, but we know that we only have a very short time to experience all the excitement, adventure, love, fun, humanity and kindness available to us. We’re lucky to be alive - and to live life to the full, we need to share it with others and learn from them - whatever you, or I, believe.
I've been a bit rubbish again, and I'm sorry. This blog is basically turning into one long string of apologies, half-explanations and inept rhymes. I don't want to deluge you with trivia, and blogging about the more interesting parts of my life at the moment with any degree of truth is a bit too surreal, but bear with me - I promise I'm writing new stuff for you to read, it's a lot funnier, and most of it isn't about my two favourite topics of atheism or buses.
Until I upload it, here's an interview I did for Credo, Independent on Sunday. Where are my arms? I am totally 'armless.
Secondly, here's a sympathetic piece on the campaign (see "Wednesday") from BBC World Service. Which was nice, and quite unexpected.
And lastly, here's the text of my Thought For The Afternoon, which was broadcast on Radio 4 on January 10, and which a few people have asked for (someone also kindly uploaded the broadcast - thank you). I hope you enjoy all these things - and I promise to write again soon.
Thought For The Afternoon
We live in a beautiful, fascinating and complex world, and we’re all trying to make sense of it as best we can. There are 6.7 billion of us living on this planet, belonging to hundreds of different belief systems. Most of us want to live peacefully, yet we also want to think that our own personal beliefs are the right ones. And if we are right, whatever we believe, that means millions or possibly billions of other people must be wrong.
As a world full of individuals, we are never all going to think the same way. What we can do is accept that we hold many different beliefs - and focus instead on what unites us as human beings, because we are truly similar in so many ways. We all want to feel loved, and to give love freely; we all want our children to be happy, healthy and safe, and for them to receive a good education. We all want to live long, enjoyable lives free from fear and pain. And we’re all muddling through life the best way we know how.
What’s important are not the beliefs we hold, but that we are free to hold them, and that we always express them peacefully. That we see all other people as individual human beings just like ourselves, who love and hurt and laugh and feel pain and hope. That we share our lives with people of different backgrounds; that we talk about all kinds of ideas calmly and openly; and that instead of letting our differences divide us, we let our similarities bring us together.
Britain is a wonderful country where people are free to believe in whatever they like, and that includes non-belief. Many people think humanists and atheists don’t believe in anything. This isn’t true. We may not believe in a God, but like most believers, we think we only have one life on this planet. Nobody knows for certain what happens after this, but we know that we only have a very short time to experience all the excitement, adventure, love, fun, humanity and kindness available to us. We’re lucky to be alive - and to live life to the full, we need to share it with others and learn from them - whatever you, or I, believe.
December 16, 2008
A Year Not In The Merde
This time last year, everything in my life was topsy-turvy. I'd decided, after working on My Family, that I didn't want to write for TV any more - which was a bit unfortunate, as I didn't have much experience of anything else.
I made a very short list of possible new careers:
(a) nutritionist (I vowed to refuse to look in any toilets)
(b) interior designer (ditto)
I was vaguely interested in both, but not interested enough in either, so it was all very confusing. On the plus side, I'd just started an exciting new relationship, so felt very hopeful for the future, but my career seemed to be, erm, in the toilet.
I kicked off 2008 with an interview for a job as an ad agency copywriter. I didn't get it, and was gutted. At that stage, if anyone had told me I'd have been heading up a national ad campaign by the end of the year, I'd have laughed all over their clothes. I also lost my remaining TV commissions, and started looking more seriously into design and nutrition.
Then, in February, I bumped into a friend who I rarely saw, and he mentioned in passing that The Guardian were looking for someone to write lighthearted pieces for their Comment & Debate section. If I wrote a test piece, he told me, and he liked it, he'd send it in. I remember feeling very excited, and grilling him: how many words did it have to be? What did he think of this idea, and this one, and this one?
I'd longed to write for The Guardian since I was young, but while I'd started out in journalism, I'd slid down the TV route and never thought I could get back on track. I went straight home and started writing. Funnily enough, the first words of the (never printed) article were "I'm an atheist"...
Three days later, I sent my friend the piece, thinking he'd go "What the hell is this rubbish?!" But within an hour, he'd sent it to The Guardian, and they'd sent me an email asking for pitches. I was elated, and also very nervous. A day later, on Valentine's Day, I was given my first commission (and stayed up all night writing it, because I'm romantic like that); two days later, my first piece was printed in the paper.
Ten months and 28 columns later, I'm truly happy - much, much happier than I ever was working in TV. The exciting relationship I was in folded back in the summer, but it wasn't meant to be - much like my becoming a nutritionist or interior designer. It's odd to think how much has changed in a year - I thought this would be the year where I wrote nothing at all. I'm glad it wasn't.
I made a very short list of possible new careers:
(a) nutritionist (I vowed to refuse to look in any toilets)
(b) interior designer (ditto)
I was vaguely interested in both, but not interested enough in either, so it was all very confusing. On the plus side, I'd just started an exciting new relationship, so felt very hopeful for the future, but my career seemed to be, erm, in the toilet.
I kicked off 2008 with an interview for a job as an ad agency copywriter. I didn't get it, and was gutted. At that stage, if anyone had told me I'd have been heading up a national ad campaign by the end of the year, I'd have laughed all over their clothes. I also lost my remaining TV commissions, and started looking more seriously into design and nutrition.
Then, in February, I bumped into a friend who I rarely saw, and he mentioned in passing that The Guardian were looking for someone to write lighthearted pieces for their Comment & Debate section. If I wrote a test piece, he told me, and he liked it, he'd send it in. I remember feeling very excited, and grilling him: how many words did it have to be? What did he think of this idea, and this one, and this one?
I'd longed to write for The Guardian since I was young, but while I'd started out in journalism, I'd slid down the TV route and never thought I could get back on track. I went straight home and started writing. Funnily enough, the first words of the (never printed) article were "I'm an atheist"...
Three days later, I sent my friend the piece, thinking he'd go "What the hell is this rubbish?!" But within an hour, he'd sent it to The Guardian, and they'd sent me an email asking for pitches. I was elated, and also very nervous. A day later, on Valentine's Day, I was given my first commission (and stayed up all night writing it, because I'm romantic like that); two days later, my first piece was printed in the paper.
Ten months and 28 columns later, I'm truly happy - much, much happier than I ever was working in TV. The exciting relationship I was in folded back in the summer, but it wasn't meant to be - much like my becoming a nutritionist or interior designer. It's odd to think how much has changed in a year - I thought this would be the year where I wrote nothing at all. I'm glad it wasn't.
December 1, 2008
Small Change
I am quite small. Not as small as my Nan (4'8", makes a great chin-rest) or my mother (4'11", wears kids' clothes). I'm 5'2", I think, or 157cm. And last week I thought about this twice.
First, I saw a female comic on stage and thought, "Blimey, she's tiny! Really small. It must be quite odd being that small". Then later, I met her and realised we were the same height. It started me wondering whether people were surprised at my smallness.
Next, I bought some weighing scales. Not just any weighing scales, though: these did everything except answer the door, and you could probably program them to do that, though the person at the door might be a bit disconcerted. They told you your muscle mass, water content, body fat and BMI - but they didn't tell you what these amounts meant.
So I had to Google up charts for all these categories, entering my height and weight to see if I was healthy. And, in the process, I discovered that I am the height of your average 13-year-old. Yes, 13-year-old. I am, literally, 13 Going On 30. I'm not a grown-up, I'm a grown-not-enough.
Lastly, the scales featured a button with a bone on it, and I asked my friend what this was for.
"Oh," he said airily, "that's for weighing your dog".
I believed him until I read the instruction page called "measuring your bone density".
First, I saw a female comic on stage and thought, "Blimey, she's tiny! Really small. It must be quite odd being that small". Then later, I met her and realised we were the same height. It started me wondering whether people were surprised at my smallness.
Next, I bought some weighing scales. Not just any weighing scales, though: these did everything except answer the door, and you could probably program them to do that, though the person at the door might be a bit disconcerted. They told you your muscle mass, water content, body fat and BMI - but they didn't tell you what these amounts meant.
So I had to Google up charts for all these categories, entering my height and weight to see if I was healthy. And, in the process, I discovered that I am the height of your average 13-year-old. Yes, 13-year-old. I am, literally, 13 Going On 30. I'm not a grown-up, I'm a grown-not-enough.
Lastly, the scales featured a button with a bone on it, and I asked my friend what this was for.
"Oh," he said airily, "that's for weighing your dog".
I believed him until I read the instruction page called "measuring your bone density".
November 29, 2008
Bits And Pieces
Hello. I do hope you're enjoying your weekend. Here's my latest article:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/nov/30/italy-parents
I'm afraid this is turning into my "I have written an article" blog, which is not very interesting for anyone, is it? Especially as I write articles relatively often. It's not like you're going to go "Gadzooks! An article? By Ariane? How quaintly novel!" (Before anyone else says it, a novel would be quaintly novel, but let's not dwell on my inadequacies today...)
So yes, we've all been here before. And again. And I repeat myself. If you truly wanted to know each time I wrote an article, you could sign up to the RSS feed and be done with it.
But I think I like to tell you, because the articles are the brightest bits of my life, like the lights in a shop window even when the store is shut and empty.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/nov/30/italy-parents
I'm afraid this is turning into my "I have written an article" blog, which is not very interesting for anyone, is it? Especially as I write articles relatively often. It's not like you're going to go "Gadzooks! An article? By Ariane? How quaintly novel!" (Before anyone else says it, a novel would be quaintly novel, but let's not dwell on my inadequacies today...)
So yes, we've all been here before. And again. And I repeat myself. If you truly wanted to know each time I wrote an article, you could sign up to the RSS feed and be done with it.
But I think I like to tell you, because the articles are the brightest bits of my life, like the lights in a shop window even when the store is shut and empty.
November 24, 2008
BO Selecta
Further to the dubious title of this piece (which sounds like an order) , my article in The Guardian today is called "Give It To Me Straight":
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/nov/24/bo-honesty-ban-ki-moon
Still, that title's really nothing compared to this...
I liked today's article, but lots of people didn't. Those people are, of course, wrong. I also liked the fact that it's the first Guardian piece ever to have "BO" in the URL. It's these little things that bring me joy on these gloomy November days when it gets dark early. Those things, and double entendres.
My friend Josh has a phrase ("That's what she said") which brings us endless amusement whenever we meet up. We say it after anything which can be remotely misconstrued:
Me (while cooking): I don't think there's enough room to fit all this in.
Josh: That's what she said!
The hours just fly by...
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2008/nov/24/bo-honesty-ban-ki-moon
Still, that title's really nothing compared to this...
I liked today's article, but lots of people didn't. Those people are, of course, wrong. I also liked the fact that it's the first Guardian piece ever to have "BO" in the URL. It's these little things that bring me joy on these gloomy November days when it gets dark early. Those things, and double entendres.
My friend Josh has a phrase ("That's what she said") which brings us endless amusement whenever we meet up. We say it after anything which can be remotely misconstrued:
Me (while cooking): I don't think there's enough room to fit all this in.
Josh: That's what she said!
The hours just fly by...
November 21, 2008
Taxicab Confessions
Yesterday evening, I took a taxi from Oxford Street to Clerkenwell, and had the following conversation.
Taxi Driver: Lots of traffic 'cause of the Christmas lights on New Bond Street. They've just switched 'em on.
Me: Oh. What do the lights look like?
TD (giving me a weird look): Like lights.
Me: No, I mean the ones in Regent Street are stars, and the ones on Oxford Street are bells, so...
TD: A bra.
Me: Sorry?
TD: They're a bra. (Makes 'bra' shape with his hands.) And then there's a bit dangling down from the middle of the bra.
Me: Do you think... it might just be you who thinks they look like a bra? The designer probably didn't mean for people to think they were a bra.
TD (huffily): Don't see what else they could be!
Me: I mean, back home, they used to have lights shaped like candles. And there was a flame sputtering out of the end of the candle. But I thought it was something else.
TD (confused): What did you think it was?
Me: Er... you know.
TD: No. What?
Me: Um... a man... weeing.
TD: Oh.
We sat in silence for the rest of the journey.
Taxi Driver: Lots of traffic 'cause of the Christmas lights on New Bond Street. They've just switched 'em on.
Me: Oh. What do the lights look like?
TD (giving me a weird look): Like lights.
Me: No, I mean the ones in Regent Street are stars, and the ones on Oxford Street are bells, so...
TD: A bra.
Me: Sorry?
TD: They're a bra. (Makes 'bra' shape with his hands.) And then there's a bit dangling down from the middle of the bra.
Me: Do you think... it might just be you who thinks they look like a bra? The designer probably didn't mean for people to think they were a bra.
TD (huffily): Don't see what else they could be!
Me: I mean, back home, they used to have lights shaped like candles. And there was a flame sputtering out of the end of the candle. But I thought it was something else.
TD (confused): What did you think it was?
Me: Er... you know.
TD: No. What?
Me: Um... a man... weeing.
TD: Oh.
We sat in silence for the rest of the journey.
November 18, 2008
Thrift, Procrastination And The £133.84 DVD
In March this year, I lost a DVD. I am ashamed to admit that this DVD was "Anthea Turner: Perfect Housewife Series 2 Disc 1". I would absolve myself by claiming it wasn't my DVD, which is true, but this disclaimer would then be rendered moot by the confession that I indeed chose to rent said DVD from LoveFilm.
LoveFilm (as you probably know) is one of many DVD rental services which sends you discs with "no late fees". You receive them, you watch them, you post them back, you pay a subscription fee every month (for me, it was £15.99). I largely enjoyed this process, even though the Post Office kept losing them, and I worried that LoveFilm were getting a little suspicious.
So when I lost a DVD myself, I decided I had to find it. I refused to blame its loss on the postal service as I had done (legitimately) so many times before. I would hunt it down, return it, and then (as writing was taking up a lot of my time) I would cancel the service. I refused to write the DVD off as lost, because there was no point paying for something I didn't want to buy, which had to be in my room somewhere. The only problem was that it wasn't.
I searched everywhere: behind my bed, under my bed, under my table, in my under-bed drawer. I lost hours of my life to that DVD. But it was to no avail: it was nowhere to be found. Every month, I thought "I've got to cancel!" Yet I kept forgetting. Finally, 9 months later and £133.84 poorer, I conceded defeat.
I marked the DVD as "lost" on my LoveFilm account, and told them I wanted to pay for it before cancelling my account.
Today, I received this reply:
"Dear Ms Sherine
We appreciate your recent email informing us that you are willing to pay for the cost of the lost title 'Perfect Housewife - Series 2 - Disc 1'. We would like to inform you that we have written off the outstanding DVD as a gesture of goodwill and the title is no longer outstanding on your account."
It was very kind of them, but I do wish I'd emailed them 9 months ago. I also wish it had been Citizen Kane instead. That would have been a lot more dignified.
LoveFilm (as you probably know) is one of many DVD rental services which sends you discs with "no late fees". You receive them, you watch them, you post them back, you pay a subscription fee every month (for me, it was £15.99). I largely enjoyed this process, even though the Post Office kept losing them, and I worried that LoveFilm were getting a little suspicious.
So when I lost a DVD myself, I decided I had to find it. I refused to blame its loss on the postal service as I had done (legitimately) so many times before. I would hunt it down, return it, and then (as writing was taking up a lot of my time) I would cancel the service. I refused to write the DVD off as lost, because there was no point paying for something I didn't want to buy, which had to be in my room somewhere. The only problem was that it wasn't.
I searched everywhere: behind my bed, under my bed, under my table, in my under-bed drawer. I lost hours of my life to that DVD. But it was to no avail: it was nowhere to be found. Every month, I thought "I've got to cancel!" Yet I kept forgetting. Finally, 9 months later and £133.84 poorer, I conceded defeat.
I marked the DVD as "lost" on my LoveFilm account, and told them I wanted to pay for it before cancelling my account.
Today, I received this reply:
"Dear Ms Sherine
We appreciate your recent email informing us that you are willing to pay for the cost of the lost title 'Perfect Housewife - Series 2 - Disc 1'. We would like to inform you that we have written off the outstanding DVD as a gesture of goodwill and the title is no longer outstanding on your account."
It was very kind of them, but I do wish I'd emailed them 9 months ago. I also wish it had been Citizen Kane instead. That would have been a lot more dignified.
