Monday
A seven-bedroom Victorian house in Birkdale, Southport is for sale complete with its own ball pit. Owner Julie Williams says she was inspired by model Cara Delevingne, who installed one in her LA home on the grounds that “you can’t really be sad in a ball pit.” Wise words, Cara, albeit ones suggestive of a life blessedly free of the experience of dragging screaming pugilistic toddlers apart at a soft play centre.
Anyway. Julie had a spare room and, suddenly, a dream. So she bought 11,000 plastic balls and fulfilled the latter by filling the former with them. “It’s great,” she says. “This is the new relaxation method for mums and dads. Get a ball pit and hide away from the children.” I had thought my admiration for a woman who builds her own ball pit for fun could not increase but – to find that she did it and shuts the kids out so that she can enjoy it? This is next level living-your-best-life stuff and I could not applaud it more.
Tuesday
The new editor of Vogue has been announced. I won’t keep you in suspense: it is not me. I’m afraid the era of bobbled cardigans and Sainsbury’s leggings is not yet here. Instead, the job went to American Vogue editor Chloe Malle, the daughter of director Louis and actor Candice Bergen (who once played the magazine’s editor-in-chief in Sex and the City with many nods to Anna “Nuclear” Wintour’s tyrannical regime, which no doubt helped seal the deal for her offspring, given Wintour’s legendary sense of humour).
Malle has her work cut out navigating a hostile economy and modern publishing landscape but imagine the glorious life that stretches before Wintour now. No more early morning tennis, daily blowdries, high heels or trademark sunglasses – she can see in colour any time she chooses for the first time in 40 years! She could even have a sandwich if she felt like it. It makes me genuinely joyful to think that she can now experience genuine comfort at last.
What’s that? She’s staying on? Same office, different title? Overseeing Malle and the rest of the 27 international titles? Why? Why would you plan to die hungry in harness like this? Anna, please. Try one elasticated waistband before you decide. Or get yourself over to Cara’s gaff. There’s something there that might just blow your mind.
Wednesday
Sweden is putting the finishing touches to its official “cultural canon” – and has left out Abba. People are head over heels at the news. I mean – mamma mia, what in the Fernando is going on? Excluding your greatest claim to fame, your most dominant export since the Vikings – that’s not the name of the game! Such is the controversy that officials may find they have met their Waterloo and have to send an SOS to the world. Voulez-vous this, really, Swedish powers that be?
In fact the whole list is slightly off. Pippi Longstocking made the cut instead of Astrid Lindgren’s Bullerby children. Ikea’s original headquarters have placed, when it should obviously have been specifically and far more potently the Billy bookcase. And Ingmar Bergman’s The Seventh dreary Seal has been recognised instead of Alexander Skarsgård in True Blood. It’s a travesty. Abba, if you’re listening – thank you for the music. Alexander – thank you for so much more.
Thursday
I have done the worst thing. The very worst thing. I didn’t mean to, but I have done it and I don’t know how to move forward from here.
I missed a hospital appointment. I had the wrong day in my diary and I didn’t realise. I am mortified. No Mangan has ever done this before. It is no more acceptable to disrespect a doctor – a doctor! – or spike the wheels of a clinic’s administration than it is to murder a puppy. In fact, I would place money on there having been more puppy killings than missed medical appointments in my family’s history, and I stress that I am neither aware of any dead canine-shaped blots on the escutcheon nor of any previous or extant members of the clan being that way inclined.
I don’t know what to do with myself in this new reality. I may have to take the veil. Immure myself as a secular anchoress somewhere. Anything to show how sorry I am, prove that I am not the selfish moron you would assume. I’m just, you know, an ordinary moron. One who can’t, apparently, tell the difference between Wednesday 3 September and Thursday 4 September, 15.30. Please, forgive me?
Friday
I turn for solace to my mother. This is generally a mistake. But this time I ask for proxy comfort only, in the shape of her sole contribution to our culinary history – the sausage pie recipe, handed down through the distaff generations. I’ve never made it before because I like neither it nor cooking, but my son loves it and as I didn’t take him to enough ball pits as a child, my conscience smites me.
So I call Mum for the recipe.
“It’s skinned sausages, onions, Paxo and tomato ketchup,” she says. “Fry them. Put mashed potato on top. It’s very dry, so make a jug of gravy.”
“Okay,” I say, scribbling it all down and hoping Yotam Ottolenghi doesn’t walk past. “And – quantities?”
“What do you mean?”
“How much of each thing.”
“Enough for the number of people you’ve got to feed.”
“But – proportions?”
“What do you mean, proportions? It’s some sausages, some onion, some stuffing and some ketchup. A dollop. You dollop. You want it more sausagey, add some more sausage. You want it more oniony, add some onions. It’s not rocket science.”
“I see,” I say. And I do. I see so much.
