Ben Elton - Inconceivable

Dear Penny

Sam is still moaning about my aromatherapy and herbal remedies (I’m currently boiling fennel and ginger, which I admit is a bit whiffy). He’s so cold and dismissive of anything remotely spiritual or sensual which is very frustrating for me because I really do feel the need for softness and spirituality in my life sometimes. I mean, what’s the point of sharing your life with someone if you can’t communicate with them about the things that matter to you? Sam, I’m afraid, thinks that feelings are an inconvenience and never really wants to talk about anything important. He’s only interested in his work and trivia like old popmusic. Sometimes I even wonder about whether he still fancies me.

Sheila took on an important new client today. An actor called Carl Phipps. He came into the office. Very arrogant. Good looking, certainly, but what does that signify?

Dear Self

Now she’s started using this little candle and dish arrangement in which she warms aromatic oils. The house stinks like a student party. I know I shall have a blocked nose in the morning. On top of which the whole business has made her all upset with me as well. This evening she wanted me to massage nutmeg oil into the crease of her bum (not, I hasten to add, out of any sudden erotic desire but because it’s what it said you should do on the bottle). Well, I put down my newspaper and did it, of course, but she could tell that I wasn’t overly enthused about the whole thing. She felt I was massaging her bum crease in a perfunctory manner and took this as further evidence of my lack of tactile warmth, similar to the shameful way in which I don’t like to cuddle while watching the telly. Lucy thinks I’m uptight and unloving, that massaging her bum crease is something I should relish, that I should be rejoicing in the sensual dialogue betwixt my fingers and her bum. I just think that I wanted to finish my paper.

Look, Book, I’m not saying I don’t fancy her. Of course I fancy her, but we’ve been together for nearly ten years! I just can’t get as worked up about her bum as I used to. I know her bum, I’m familiar with it, we’ve been through a lot together. Caressing it can never again be the same journey of mystery and delight that it was on our first wild nights together. I can’t say this to Lucy, of course. She’d be horrified and think me a callous pig. Although I can tell you one thing: if I strolled up to her while she was watching EastEnders and said, “Stick your fingers up my arse now,” I’d get pretty short shrift.

But it’s always the way with women, isn’t it? One law for them, one law for us. She’s completely irrational. She says that I’d probably be more than happy to massage aromatic oils into Winona Ryder’s bum and the truth is that of course I bloody well would! I don’t say so, of course, but naturally she takes my silence as an admission of guilt (contrary to all civilized law, I might point out). So she says, “Well, go on, then, I’m not stopping you,” so I say no, I’m not going to massage oil into Winona Ryder’s bum because I love her (Lucy, that is, not Winona) and whatever my unworthy male hormonal response to gorgeous film stars might be, I have chosen to be faithful to Lucy. Also, I have to admit that Winona might not be one hundred per cent keen on the idea and her wishes would of course have to be taken into account.

The extraordinary thing is that Lucy thinks that an attached man finding other women attractive is virtually tantamount to his being unfaithful. Which is bullshit! Only being unfaithful is tantamount to being unfaithful! I have tried to explain that the fact that a man remains faithful despite finding other women attractive (which all men do unless they’re dead) is the proof of his love and devotion and should be recognized as such and appreciated, not condemned. To which Lucy says, “Well, if you’re that desperate, go ahead, then. I’m not stopping you,” and I say, “I don’t want to! That’s the point! But the reason that I’m not unfaithful is not because I never find other women attractive, but because I love you!” And she says, “Well, if you’re that desperate, go ahead, then. I’m not stopping you.”

And so the long day wears on.

Dear Penny Pal

I feel a bit sad. I know Sam loves me and I suppose he still fancies me, but he doesn’t bother to show it very much and he never says it. He says he does, of course. He claims that I have selective ears, that I never hear him when he says nice things but only when he doesn’t. I don’t think that’s true. I think he only really says nice things when I ask him to say them, but I can’t be sure. I think that perhaps his mother didn’t cuddle him enough as a child or something. Tonight I made him massage some oil into my lower back and although he did do it I could tell that it was a major inconvenience for him, which made the whole thing pointless. I mean, if aromatherapy is going to have any effect at all I imagine it will be a pretty subtle one, dealing as it does with one’s most delicate biorhythms. Sam’s reluctant vibes will have buggered all that completely. Let’s face it, delicate biorhythms are not exactly going to stand a lot of chance against a great big lump of negativity that just wants to read its newspaper.

He used to be much more tactile but now he doesn’t even bother with foreplay when we have sex. I mean it’s not as if he’s In Like Flynn or anything like that. He’s not rough or insensitive. In fact I think he’s quite a sensitive lover, but he just doesn’t try so much any more. He just cuddles up for a bit until he thinks I’m ready and then he’s off. I sort of try to talk about it but he gets irritable. You see, he thinks it’s inevitable that two people will become less sensuous and erotically aware of each other as the years go by, but I don’t. Sometimes I’d rather just stroke a bit and cuddle than have sex, but I don’t think Sam would see the point.

Dear Book

I think Lucy is at the end of her tether. She’s been a bit quiet these last few days and I know it’s because she’s thinking about fertility. There’s been this documentary running on the Beeb about IVF couples and she seems to have learnt it off by heart. Personally I can’t watch it. I just cannot bring myself to be interested in the sad and desperate experiences of complete strangers. Lucy, on the other hand, tapes it. She tapes anything about fertility, even that arrogant pillock Kilroy who’s on in the mornings. She cuts articles out of the papers (incredible how many there are) and writes off to all sorts of organizations. It’s all a bit heartbreaking, although she’s very good about it, determined not to become emotionally dysfunctional, she’s quite clear on that one. But I must say I do find it slightly alarming how attractive she seems to find baby clothes. Mind you, this is something I’ve noticed in many women. They look at a pair of tiny socks and say, “Ahh, isn’t that just so-o-o sweet and just lovely.”

Why is this? I simply cannot fathom it. These are empty socks we’re talking about here, socks with no baby in them. How can women go gooey over a pair of socks? I find Winona Ryder attractive (as I think I’ve said), but I wouldn’t go all gooey over her socks… Well, possibly… I don’t know. Anyway, what I’m saying is that the sight of a group of girls picking up a tiny jacket or a little hat and going “Aaaaah” is a mystery to me.

It’s the same with dolls. Lucy likes dolls. She’s a woman of thirty-one and she loves them. Of course, because she’s a grown-up she has to pretend that there’s some kind of pseudo-artistic attraction, it’s old dolls she likes, interesting ones. She goes on about the porcelain head with the stamp of the German maker on it. But I know that she just loves dolls and that if she thought she could get away with it without looking sad she’d buy a Barbie.