Swiss Cheese

I highly recommend going on an impromptu holiday to Zurich with a handsome man you barely know, if ever you get the chance. Especially if you take a 6am flight the morning after your dog has just died. Sometimes it turns out that a change of scene and unexpectedly kind company are exactly what you need.

Zurich is lovely. It’s a city perfect for people who don’t like cities. We went hiking up a mountain and swimming in the lake, all within view of skyscrapers and highways. We also took a train to Vaduz in Liechtenstein for the day, because why not go to two different countries if you can? This means you can also take very Instagrammable pictures of each other on the bridge that straddles the border between the two countries, a foot in each one. It’s fun.

We played travel Scrabble and enjoyed the very Heidi-esque train views and tried to decide which mountain cottage we would live in and whether we would ever get bored. We then spent a very pleasant day out in Vaduz, which involved excellent pizza, Shakespearean gangster rap, oversharing conversations, and the Postal Museum (which really delivered a first-class experience, obvs).

We stayed in west Zurich, which for shorthand purposes we just called ‘Brooklyn’. We stayed in a high-up flat with a balcony and a tall twisting staircase and a skylight that reminded me of being at the Chelsea Hotel. Behind our building, there were art studios under railway arches, expensive coffee places, outdoor flea markets and pop-up bars with live jazz and many, many fairy lights, not to mention excellent sweet potato chips.

We walked into downtown Zurich most days, where we looked around old churches and graveyards and botanical gardens, saw Marc Chagall stained glass windows that made me think of Jandy Nelson books, ate a lot more pizza. We drank wine on our balcony while listening to the Tom Waits version of Sea of Love. We ate Frosties for breakfast every day, like children who had been allowed to go on holiday by themselves with no parents, and watched stupid horror films every night under our blankets on the floor.

We missed the World Cup final, and were quietly bemused by the sound of car horns and cheering below our balcony. We ate sandwiches in the park and also drank quite a lot of beers in the park, which seemed like an entirely OK thing to do in Switzerland.

We felt very at home at the Brockenhaus (basically a Swiss version of Snoopers Paradise). We ate chips at the top of a mountain. We sat and looked at views a lot. We talked about a lot of things. We ate noodles in an empty restaurant that played early 90s soft rock.

The very best place in Zurich is the China Garden. It is unimaginably peaceful, whatever else is happening in the world. There are koi carp (you too might want to give them names), and there are pagodas and you can make a wish on a friendly dragon statue as you go in, as long as you step in with the correct foot first. You can spend the whole afternoon lying around half-asleep by the lake, feeling dreamy and with David Bowie songs running through your head. You know, if you want. (Actually, you can't: we did but eventually a security guard woke us up and told us off for lying on the grass).

When it’s time to leave for the airport, you can sit on deck chairs on a terrace overlooking the runway. There you can drink glasses of white wine bought with the last of your Swiss Francs. If you don’t want to go home, maybe you can be secretly relieved when your flight is delayed and you get to stay longer, even if you have an early breakfast meeting with a publisher the next day. You can be sad when it’s all over and you have to go home. But maybe you can decide you will go on holiday together again.

Lilian

We didn’t have dogs when I was growing up. We had goldfish. They often came from the fair and lasted a matter of days, if not hours. When I was a teenager, we got a rabbit and a guinea pig, of whom I was quite fond (but not fond enough not to throw a huge strop whenever the time came to clean out their hutch). Honestly, I think the biggest arguments my little sister and I ever had all stemmed from my mum asking on Sunday afternoons ‘have you two cleaned out the rabbit..?’. Cue genuine shudder at the far-too vivid memory of pissy newspaper and carrier bags full of hay and dried poo.

I was into my twenties and living in Brighton when we met Lily. She belonged to an acquaintance of my mum’s who, due to various divorce and relocation dramas, could not keep her. My mum – never hitherto a dog person – agreed to look after her for six months, as a favour.

It was love at first sight, for all of us. I looked into her eyes and I swear that we were instant soul sisters. This was unprecedented. There was nothing I would not have done for her, uncomplainingly.

Lily was the prettiest Yorkshire terrier I had ever seen, but labouring under the misapprehension that she was some sort of fierce wild beast. We should all go through life with the misplaced confidence of Lily. I am also convinced she thought I was the dog and she was the human, and that I was far below her in the family pecking order.

Lily was full of character and sass and idiosyncrasies. She loved eating apple cores, licking empty yoghurt pots, shredding any tissue she could get her paws on, gracefully sidestepping any body of water on tiptoe, savaging her toys, chasing pigeons…

Whenever I went back to my mum’s (which I started doing more often so that I could hang out with my new favourite sibling), she would greet me with the most enthusiastic of welcomes reserved for anyone, because she knew it meant she got to sleep in my bed. Not to mention share my dinner.

I would go and housesit whenever my mum was away, taking days off work so that I could do nothing but hang out with Lily. We would nap together under a blanket, share shepherds pie (‘what shall we have for dinner tonight, Lily?’) and go to bed early so we could hang out and watch TV.

She would come and visit me at the seaside. I would take her out for long walks that I enjoyed far more than she did. There was the time I fell over a tree root and cut my knees, and she tried to attack any animal or human that dared to come within a ten-metre radius of me until, limping and crying, I managed to get us both home.

After six months – thankfully – Lily’s previous owner decided to sign her over to my mum for good. If she hadn’t, my mum, Lily and I were plotting to flee the country together. I will be forever grateful, but also mystified that anyone could have given her up – I would genuinely rather have lived on the street.

We were meant for each other. A shaman told me that my mum and I have been related for lifetimes. I believe Lily was with us, too.

When my mum unexpectedly found herself living alone and going through the worst time imaginable, it was Lily who saved her life. When I was in the depths of depression, sometimes the only thing capable of cheering me up was my mum putting Lily in the car and driving her down to see me.

‘Lily loves you,’ Mum would remind me, whenever I was in need of a boost.

Lily saved us all at one time or another, as my sister pointed out. It’s true.

Nearly two weeks ago, I was staying at my mum’s. Lily was acting strangely. We hoped it was the weather. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t. We slept together on Sunday night but didn’t sleep much. On Monday morning, my mum and I agreed we should take her to the vet. I told work it was a family emergency and I wasn’t sure when I’d be back.

There followed three days of dread, uncertainty and heartbreak. But still, I savoured every moment. How could I not? My mum and I agreed that she would not be left alone for a moment. I stayed up all night stroking her head and listening to her breathing. We cooked her favourite foods and carried her up the stairs to bed. When she became too weak to drink from her bowl, she licked water from my fingers.

She went downhill quickly. She got weaker and weaker. She was brave to the end - and still sassy, growling at the vet when she came for the final time.

We were with her. ‘You are so loved,’ I told her again and again. She knew.

I still can’t believe it. I hated leaving my mum in the house without her; I am dreading going back and Lily not being there – my poor mum is having to deal with that every day, constantly. She can’t go down to the kitchen in the morning or even get home from work at night without crying uncontrollably.

I am sleeping every night with her favourite toy and wearing the tag from her collar. I am so, so sad that she is gone. I wonder if I will ever believe it.

Lilian, nobody could have been more beloved. Our hearts are broken. You gave us all so much. We miss you.

Ask Polly

Quite some time ago - literally years ago, in fact - my friend Ruth sent me a link to an 'Ask Polly' column. My friend Ruth is really good at sending me stuff I will like. It was entitled 'I Hate Men' so obviously she thought I would relate (ha ha). Not strictly true, but I did find that the incredible advice and use of language made me feel genuinely inspired.

I woke up the other morning* and felt the urge to re-read it. I trawled old emails until eventually I found it** and I was not sorry I did. If anything, I now found the words of advice even more inspirational. I have been reading the entire 'Ask Polly' archive and have found it invaluably wise and true, even when I don't particularly relate to the original problem. It has been making me feel smarter, more thoughtful and - yes - empowered.

In recent readings, I also finished my friend Holly Bourne's 'How Do You Like Me Now?' within a single weekend. I think a lot of - if not all - young women should treat it as required reading. I am only young-ish (if that, by this point, really?) and I still found it funny, sad, true and thought-provoking.

I've taken up 'Crazy Ex-Girlfriend' again and remembered how much I enjoyed it.

I went to film club and we forgot to watch the film because we were having far too much fun.

I went to see Jack White and he surpassed all my expectations and all gigs should have no phones.

I am going on an impromptu holiday to Zurich next week. If and when it's possible, I would say that booking surprise travel is Good For The Soul. The prospect of travel to a new place has perked me right up.

Before then, I will be watching two of my best friends get married, surrounded by loved ones and glitter and joy, and I cannot wait.

* This morning I woke up with 'Spin the Bottle' by Juliana Hatfield stuck in my head. You just can't pick and choose! However, it has made me want to listen to the 'Reality Bites' soundtrack.

** I also spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time over the past few weeks searching for an article I once read about how Anthony Bourdain is the Queen of Coins. It was perfect. Thankfully, finally - here it is.

You Learn

Remember the old Alanis Morrisette song?

Well, here's mine.

• I recommend taking vitamin D supplements. It's really helped me.
• I recommend listening to 'Bled White' by Elliott Smith on a Saturday morning.
• I recommend burning sage whenever it feels even a tiny bit like it might be a good idea.
• I recommend re-reading 'Heartburn' and admitting to yourself that if Nora could find the comedy in that whole situation, you can certainly do the same.
• I recommend the new Glossier perfume, even if you're too old to be a millennial.
• I recommend cooking on a Sunday. It makes you feel more in control of the world.
• I recommend opening the windows.
• I recommend watching 'Ibiza' on Netflix and eating pizza with a great girlfriend and not worrying you're basic.
• I recommend taking a couple of Valium and sticking 'Love Island' on if it all gets A Bit Much, TBH.
• I recommend Yoga With Adriene. Obviously.
• I recommend listening to Belinda Carlisle in the bath.
• I recommend chanting, even though I usually forget to.
• I recommend reading the archive of Strawberry Fields Whatever.
• I recommend watching a really scary horror film when you need taking out of your own life.
• I recommend Dear Joan and Jericha.
• I recommend running things into the ground, flogging dead horses for longer than any sane person would, praying to gods that you know full well don't exist, and never learning any of the lessons anyway
• I recommend Epsom salt baths.

People doing the things.

It’s a week of brilliant people doing great things.

Last night I went to see my friend Steve in the play ‘DRUNK!’ by Jack Evans. It was great. The Brighton shows have all sold out, but they are taking it to Edinburgh Fringe and I would highly recommend checking it out if you are so inclined. Steve described it to me as ‘Cheers as directed by David Lynch’ – and if you’re not totally sold on that concept, then I’m not sure we can be friends.

The play last night was followed by music from Mister Jones and the Living, which was very jolly indeed. It was at Junkyard Dogs, which I hadn’t been to before, a very cool café/performance space. They do a good vegan hotdog. (I am not, in fact, vegan. But I have been known to dabble.) Once again, all of the above, highly recommended.

This evening I am going to the launch party to celebrate another utterly brilliant friend, Holly Bourne. As you probably know, Holly is a highly impressive, prolific, hilarious and zeitgeisty YA superstar. Her first adult book – ‘How Do You Like Me Now?’ – is published today and I could not be more excited about it. Right up my street. I can’t wait to read it, celebrate her wonderfulness, and eat a lot of cake.

This week I also read an advance copy of my friend Jess Vallance’s new book (coming out in August), ‘You Only Live Once’. Jess is one of my very favourite people in the world. She is also highly impressive: she’s already written two YA novels (‘Birdy’ and ‘The Yellow Room’, both excellent), has a film in the pipeline, an adult thriller coming out soon, and ‘YOLO’ is just the first in a new MG trilogy. She is highly blasé about all of the above achievements. ‘YOLO’ is as funny and sharp and secretly warm-hearted as she is.

Currently reading another YA pal’s new book, ‘Wild Blue Wonder’ by Carlie Sorosiak. I’ve literally only just started but I am already falling in love. Carlie’s writing is magical and beautiful and swoony. Her first book, ‘If Birds Fly Back’ is highly recommended by me.

In other news:

• I am still disproportionately sad about Anthony Bourdain.
• Earlier this week, my mood could pretty much be summed up by that time I burst into tears on a bus in Poland and accidentally shouted out loud ‘I’M SAD AND I’M HUNGOVER AND I MISS COLIN AND I WANT MY MUM AND I DON’T LIKE THIS BUS’. However, matters have since improved somewhat – for no good reason, which just happens sometimes.
• I am very excited about my friend Neil’s stag do this weekend.
• I watched ‘Mother!’ and it was batshit insane.
• Then I fell asleep watching ‘The Omen 2’ for slightly bizarre and convoluted reasons – it was surprisingly relaxing.
• A week today my little sister is getting married, which is lovely but utterly unbelievable.
• I am furious that Miz Cracker has sashayed away.

Parts unknown.

Two weekends ago, Katherine and I sat on the beach and spent the entire afternoon drinking rose and looking at pictures of Anthony Bourdain’s face.

What a face.

On Friday, I was at work. It was a quiet day. I was feeling slightly melancholy. I was a tiny bit hungover from drinking mescal with a stranger the night before (don’t ask…). I was wearing a Sonic Youth T-shirt that a boy made for me over a decade ago. It’s falling apart now, but I will wear it forever. I had been to the café over the road for a bacon sandwich and an orange juice. I was drinking tea; I couldn’t quite stomach coffee.

‘Oh no,’ Olivia said. ‘One of your favourites has died.’

Fuck. Who?

I could not believe it. In the most literal sense, I could not believe it. Not Anthony Bourdain: bon vivant, brilliant human, basically my dream husband.

This beautiful, inspirational, curious, generous-spirited man. How could it be possible? I still do not believe it.

I didn’t know him personally. But the nature of his work – and the modern phenomenon of social media – made me feel like I did.

My phone buzzed with friends asking if I’d heard the news, expressing similar disbelief. Sarah and I decamped to the pub; it seemed the only thing to do.

I haven’t felt right all weekend. I, who didn’t even know him. I have drunk too much red wine. I have smoked too many cigarettes. I may even have eaten a whole camembert with my hands. In bed. In my pants. Weeping. Ahem.

I stayed up all night and watched old episodes until my eyes hurt. The Layover in Paris is my favourite: eat some cheese, get drunk, have sex with a French person if you can. Unarguable advice, in my opinion.

If only being an extraordinary, kind, funny, clever person could protect you from death.

The good people die. Even heroes die. One day Bruce Springsteen and Patti Smith and Viv Albertine will die.

‘Your body is not a temple,’ the dream man once said. ‘It’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.’

We will all die.

But, please, not like this. Not today.

37

Rather delightfully, I spent my last day of being 36 in Paris.

And then I woke up on my 37th birthday alone in my house, drank coffee and listened to the Beatles. My mum arrived, with her dog, a huge homemade carrot cake and the loveliest presents. Most of all: Fiesta Melons (look it up).

We spent the day on the beach, chatting in the sunshine, drinking wine and eating chips.

In the evening, we went to see Patti Smith - on my ACTUAL BIRTHDAY, IN BRIGHTON. She was everything I could have hoped. What an inspiration. What staunch.

I feel powered up for the next year.

The next day, we drank tea in bed and then I had lovely friends and family round to hang in my sunny garden, eat party snacks and drink more wine. There were wonderful pals, a dog and singing in the garden as it got dark.

Then I had a nice long sleep before getting back to work.

What a treat. I really like you, 37.