As this is my penultimate column for the good people of Worthing (what do you mean, they haven’t erected a statue of me outside the Guildbourne Centre yet?), I thought I’d spend some time thinking about all the things I never got round to writing about.
“But Lauren!” you might well cry. “ Surely there can’t be anything left! You’ve written about some things five times! You’ve managed to stretch 500 words out of things that barely deserve a sentence!” Indeed, ’tis true. I am no stranger to the bottom of the barrel. But somehow, after 11 years of sitting down once a week to type “Great topics for newspaper columns” into Google and pray, there are a few things that slipped through the net.
Fishing, for example. Not once since 2003 have I written about Britain’s biggest participation sport. This is probably because I’ve never been fishing, but then there are plenty of things I’ve never done and that hasn’t stopped me putting my oar in (the oar you use to clobber the fish with, right?). I haven’t written much about sport at all, of course, unless you count our high school inventions ‘lunchbox chuck’ and ‘sitty-downy badminton’, or when I went giddy over London 2012.
I never got round to writing about how much I hate massages either, or how green peppers are a government conspiracy, or my theory, nicked from an old flatmate, that every person’s face falls into one of three categories – bird, horse or potato. Try it out, you’ll be amazed. I am proudly potato.
Some things it’s probably for the best I didn’t write about, such as the pointless horror of doing cover letters for job applications (“Oh you’re a motivated, hardworking self-starter with great communication skills? YOU AND EVERY CHUMP IN THIS TOWN”), or how I believe that being given fruit for dessert at a dinner party entitles you to take back your bottle of wine.
You’ve also been spared my three-part series on everything that was wrong with the final episode of How I Met Your Mother, and a 10,000 word treatise on the correct way for men to wear smart shoes with jeans that I was hoping to serialise across several months like a Dickens novel. I can’t remember if I ever explained my vision for a world where we all have beds instead of chairs (at work; at the cinema; on the bus), but if I didn’t then at least Ed Miliband can’t steal it.
And what will I do now? What will I do next time I hear that they’ve found a new cure for hiccups, or that 87 per cent of people still think it’s pronounced ‘EX-presso’ or some such? I’ll have to go round scrawling my opinions on toilet walls, just hoping someone will see them and agree. Or tell them to my hairdresser, which means I’ll have to start talking to my hairdresser. Either way, it’ll be a big adjustment.
Until next week, folks – which is both the first and last time I’ll say that.