I live in fear of turning into one vast cliché. Mainly, I think, because I'm on the verge of embodying so many already.
This fact was brought to my attention by something Gin Operated posted to Twitter a while back:
I have become the middle class cliché, tidying before the cleaner arrives.
I do this too. In preparation for the cleaner's arrival on a Friday morning, I run round on a Thursday night once I’ve got in, generally very late and rather squiffy, making sure that I’ve scooped up any cotton buds and nail files that Colin has hoiked from the bathroom; plumping sofa cushions and removing errant washing lest she think the radiators are where I keep my knickers on a permanent basis. It's something done by everyone I know, which would seem to suggest that I'm in a stereotypical hole it'll be hard to crawl from.
But where the others concerned, I am railing against the little things.
Being blonde, working in PR, and sounding like I do (I was told the other day that I have a voice for radio, which I am choosing to take as a compliment. Or, at least better than being told I have a face for it) people assume certain things. Which is why I take pleasure in only reading the sleb weeklies when I really have to for a client; try my utmost never to utter the word “daaahling”; and don't plan on jacking in the career as soon as I’ve been proposed to by the banker boyfriend (not that I'd be able to anyway: the current dalliance - The Northerner - is a management consultant).
It would appear I also fall into the dumb blonde category to look at. Which isn't entirely fair, given that I'm - by and large - deeply snobby about what I choose to stimulate my grey matter (by which I mean: I'll only read Jilly in private) . The next suited man to perform a genuine double-take at a station newsagent when I pick up the Economist rather than heat will get a sharp wallop round the head with a copy of Amis.
My politics don’t preclude me from standing up for the apparently antithetical things I believe in; and the fact I’ve not eaten meat in 14 years doesn’t stop me from dragging out the ancient fur when the January winds bite just a little too harshly.
Of course, none of that stops me going slightly gooey over a particularly beautiful pair of Louboutins; using a flutter of the eyelashes and a flick of the hair to get some strapping chap to carry a suitcase up a staircase or onto a train. Or, apparently, cleaning up before the cleaner arrives.
Some clichés, it would appear, are clichés for a reason.
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