IT allows you to bask in the warm anticipatory glow of your own merit without shifting off the sofa. It’s the Joining a Gym=Exercise factor. So when Babs leaves I am floating on a blissful pink cloud of resolutions. I’ll find the perfect new job, I’ll be the perfect daughter (second helpings—just say yes), the perfect sister, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect ex-girlfriend (it’s about time I apologized to Saul), the perfect friend, the perfect landlady (no rebuking lodgers for rucking up the carpet or leaving tea bags in the sink). I’ll eat just enough to stop molting, I’ll be what everyone wants and I’ll be happy. First on the grovel list is my mother. I dial with the fervor of a convert. “Doctor’s office,” declares a bored voice. “Hello?” “Mum, it’s me,” I say. “I just wanted to tell you not to worry, because everything’s going to be okay. Andy’s going to be my lodger—the brother of the bride!—so that will help pay the mortgage, and I’m going to start looking for a new job straightaway.
