It is with a heavy heart from whence I write.
The full gravity of the situation, has, 24 hours later, begun to sink its gnashers into my hypothalamus. Which, I think, is where humans process emotion. Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, because I don’t give a fuck either way.
Peas, the tragic and defeated heroine, throws, with lacklustre, an electrical appliance into the bath tub with her in reckless abandon. To the accompaniment of a clutch of violins.
The appliance would be a Defy. FYI. As it rhymes with deny. Which is coincidentally the word that defines my life story right now.
Let me explain. I won’t harp on, as it’s a sore topic. This weekend was meant to be my silver lining. Amongst my Departue Lounge living. I feel like Tom Hanks in the fucking Terminal right now.
I prioiritised family peace for Richard Hammond. I blew Hammond off. Again, never thought I’d say that sentence in my life, as I dangle the ghd dangerously above the bath, but there you have it.
I had family concerns, and couldn’t meet Hammond. I was meant to meet him after the show, he couldn’t make it, and then we reorganised for the next day when I couldn’t make it.
Am I a martyr? No, I am a solutions architect. I suggested to a mate that he dress up as Richard Hammond for a party, so then I can officially say I have met him.
But since he has met Hammond he said : ‘No I can’t go as someone I already know.’
Good one. Even if I do let the cord go, to a cataclysm of sparks and lavender bath bomb shrapnel.
(In turn, and as a true example of fatal comebacks, I suggested to my mate that he looks exactly like Bryan Adams. Was your favourite summer in 1969? Is your favourite name Ryan with a b in front of it? Do you know not what you do and do you want forgiveness? What age do you want to be until you die? Do love Canadian power ballads from the 90s?)
I was going to write Hammond a letter pretending he did meet me, as if I really was at the Top Gear post-production party at Sapphire in Camps Bay. [Getting an invite was a good shout I suppose]:
So great to take body shots from your belly button last night. You were a such a card.
Then thought better of it, in case he was drinking Vitamin Water the whole night.
So, might as well write the real deal:
Richard my sweet,
I put on my finest red heels, a skirt, eyeliner, I peacocked myself up a storm. I outpeacocked everyone, save the bird in the shirt with ‘I Love Hammond’ on it, and when you said to the audience she was your favourite,’ I was insane with jealousy.
When you entered the Cage Of Death stunt, surrounded by maniacking French motorbike drivers with a thirst for blood, I didn’t want to look in case you [almost] died again.
The fact that I saw your physical self about, er, 100 metres away from a dizzy height, was, in itself an orgasmic experience. You are really a yummy yummy Brit. And I can’t believe the opportunity to meet you is lost.
Maybe after my immigration court battle, if all goes well, I’ll bump into you grabbing a coffee off Holland Park, with a newspaper stuffed under your fragrant armpit, and I’ll resist the urge to pounce on you like a fat kid on a tray of petit fours, but instead look so beautiful your eyes will start watering. We can talk about the weather like it’s a surprise that it’s raining, and the millions of ways one can get to Shepton Mallet from Church Stretton, really, I won’t mind.
Or maybe even I’ll invite you over for a pot of Earl, and you can advise me on the pitfalls of buying a 1960 Fiat 500 from Italy and driving it back up to England with my boyfriend. I am told I won’t pay road tax for such a vehicle in London, which has to be a bonus.
Stay amazing. I will try not to cry in the meantime.
If you’d like me to run your official fan club site, hi if you’re hiring.
PS: I was Google Imaging your bad self to find a picture of you to whack up here. But got too depressed, so laughed it off.
PPS: I’m listening to Twin Peaks as I write this. It’s a catharctic thing. Not especially healthy, and it does remind me of pine trees, but it seems appropriate, given my mood.
PPPS: My horoscope in the latest Elle says I’m about to come into some money. That’s all very nice – to pay fees and such – but really all I want is a visa. So if you’re a Virgo [not you Hammond. You’re a Sagittarius.], but other Virgos, enjoy the splurge.