Spectacles

by Sue Perkins

  The researcher was becoming impatient. ‘Anything?’

  I was being rushed. I panicked. I forced the jigsaw to piece itself together. Emotions came in to fill the cracks; sounds, smells, sensations.

  ‘The Serpentarium on the Isle of Skye!’ I blurted without thinking.

  ‘OK, that sounds good …’

  Before I continue, let me tell you, as honestly as I can, what I really remember of that day.

  Mel, her brother and his kids, Emma and myself were staying with lovely Lady Claire McDonald at Kinloch Lodge, the family seat of the McDonald clan. We’d had warm scones and kippers for breakfast (note how my memory so perfectly records food) and browsed through the numerous oil paintings of previous McDonalds that hung on the wall. We’d particularly enjoyed the portrait of Lord Ronald McDonald although were sad he was without his trademark red wig and large yellow shoes. It was raining. A gale was blowing. We enquired as to what might be a fun thing to do with the kids if the weather stayed inclement, and Lady Claire recommended the nearby reptile sanctuary. So off we went.

  Memories are slippery bastards – bring them into the light, handle them too often, they’ll bend, change colour. Keep them in the dark and they’ll slowly retreat to a place you can’t find them. In truth, I could only recall the very basics of that trip:

  We approached an unprepossessing low-rise.

  A large sign outside proclaimed something along the lines of WELCOME TO THE MOST EXCITING EXPERIENCE ON EARTH. We took a photo of the two of us outside it.

  A kindly woman welcomed us in.

  Jan, Mel’s nephew, was frightened of snakes, but the aforementioned kindly women got a wee albino corn snake out of his tank and let him hold it. At first Jan was loath to touch it, but slowly he became transfixed by how smooth it was, how strong. By the end he didn’t want to leave, his phobia totally cured.

  We went back to Kinloch Lodge for high tea by the roaring fire. I can remember the EXACT contents of the tea, but I won’t bore you with the details.

  And that’s it. That’s the sum total of my real memories.

  And so back to the briefing chat.

  Me:

  The Serpentarium on the Isle of Skye!

  Man:

  OK, that sounds good …

  I hear the sound of sticky biro on paper as the researcher jots down ‘Serpentarium’. I wonder if he spells it correctly, an indictment of both the skills shortage in television and my own inveterate snobbishness. There is an expectant pause.

  Man:

  So the Serpentarium is your worst holiday destination.

  So, just like that, my trip has been rebranded ‘the world’s worst’. Suddenly it’s become a fact.

  Man:

  Why was it hell? What was so hellish about it?

  It was sealed. Now I had to find something negative, even if it was barely there – blow it out of all proportion and bend it so it was funny. Fill it with stuff that would make it entertaining. Neatly tie off experiences with an exhilarating, upbeat flourish. So my imagination set to work, rounding off the rough edges, adding detail, quirks, shaping it into a perfect narrative. To sell. To sell to the crowd, whoever they might be.

  Which is what I did.

  And so the yarn began. Into all those blank spaces little silly details got poured. Into the silences went ‘funny’ dialogue. That quiet, sweet visitor centre became a dark dungeon with sticky walls. The bucket that had been in the corner became the snakes’ repository. The snakes themselves were things of horror. On and on I went, like a dancing bear, until I felt the researcher was happy. And every adornment, whether big or small, went down as fact. FACT. How tragic that I’d rather invent an experience than admit the simple truth:

  a. I hadn’t had many real experiences.

  b. I have a terrible memory for anything outside of comestibles.

  And then I went one step further by going on national television and saying it all out loud, in public. And the more detail I threw in about how dreadful it was, the more people laughed, and the more people laughed, the more I embellished the detail.

  Even as I did it, I felt something was wrong. It felt personal. It wasn’t like I was slating Benidorm – a burned tract of land filled with drunk people (there, I have slated it) – this felt way too singular and personal a target.

  But I did it. I complied. I did my bit. I made myself look good by making some strangers look worse. And then I got into a nice car and got whisked home.

  For the next twenty-four hours I felt uncomfortable but wrote it off as general post-performance malaise. Then I returned to normal, went about my daily business – everything was fine. The show aired. I didn’t see it because recording a television show then tuning in to watch it is like a dog returning to its own vomit. Plus, there’s always this annoying speccy girl in my shows who irritates the living hell out of me.

  About a week after airing I was checking my Twitter feed when I noticed a message from a man who seemed hurt and angry. It’s rare that a negative post has adverbs in it, so it stuck out from the usual crowd of trolls and click-baiters. I read on. The man, it transpired, was the son of the couple who owned the Serpentarium. Understandably, he wanted to know why, instead of all the corporate holiday behemoths out there, I had chosen to focus my limp comedic ire on his parents’ tiny rescue centre.

  Oh. Didn’t I mention that bit? Yes, it’s a wildlife sanctuary. It’s a CHARITY. It’s a NON-PROFIT ORGANIZATION.

  I did what I always do when confronted by a calm, rational adult with a genuine point to make – I became a terrified, whiny child. I immediately followed him back so we could continue the conversation privately on direct message.

  It became clear, pretty quickly, that my comments had had an impact on the island. Folk had rallied round the couple, who were well loved and respected. There was outrage that I could have picked so small and innocent a target. I think there might have even been an article or two in the local press.

  I privately messaged their son who, even though protected by the anonymity of social media, opted to be a gentleman and was dignified throughout. Our exchange went something like this:

  Me:

  I am so so so sorry. What would you like me to do?

  Son:

  Why did you do it?

  Me:

  I don’t know. I really feel awful about it. What can I do to make it better?

  Son:

  I don’t know. That’s up to you. Personally, I think you should call them.

  Me:

  Oh.

  My worst nightmare is unfolding. I am going to actually have to take responsibility. For myself. I carry on typing.

  Me:

  Would that … help?

  Son:

  Well, it might. You should ring them.

  Their number follows. The digits of doom. Then we say goodbye.

  I sat on the number for a day, working up the courage to call. Eventually I took a deep breath and dialled.

  ‘Hello,’ came a gentle voice at the other end. It was a voice I remembered, the voice of the kindly woman who had cured Jan of his snake phobia.

  Me:

  Hello. My name is Sue.

  Woman:

  Hello!

  Me:

  Sue Perkins.

 
; Woman:

  Oh.

  There is squirmy moment during which my arse makes buttons.

  Woman:

  Well, I am surprised to hear from you. We didn’t think you’d ring.

  Me:

  I am so, so sorry.

  Woman:

  OK …

  Me:

  Really, I am.

  Woman:

  The thing is, we don’t mind that you didn’t like our Serpentarium, but we did mind that you implied we don’t treat the snakes well. Because, well … the thing is, we love those snakes and we’re the only hope they’ve got. There’s no one else doing the work we’re doing. And we don’t get paid for it; we just do it because we want to help.

  Another pause – just long enough for me to fully inhabit what a monumental twat I’ve been.

  Me:

  I’m sorry – it just came out.

  Her response is simple, measured.

  Woman:

  Really? Really?

  Of course it didn’t just slip out. I chose to do it. Not because I wanted to hurt a lovely couple on the beautiful Isle of Skye, but because I was too lazy to commit to a better option. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. Not the researcher or the producer or the programme or the BBC. It was me, just me. I did it.

  I’ve done lots of things I shouldn’t. I have behaved in loutish and cavalier ways. I have hurt those I loved. But there’s something about that still, small voice I keep coming back to, that small, still voice that remains in my head every time I give an interview, or tell a story, or embellish an anecdote. That still, small voice that peeps through for a tiny moment, just to catch me before I fall – that makes me stop and think, Who does it hurt? Why am I choosing that target? Can they fight back? That still, small voice that simply says:

  ‘Really?

  ‘ Really?’

  The Power of Trance

  At last, I’m happy again. The dust I kicked up around me aged forty is finally, finally settling. I have moved to a top-floor flat, so there is no zealous German above me performing esoteric crack-of-dawn exercises. There are no rats. No rogue fishermen. I do, however, live above the north London legend that is Sylv, a septuagenarian peroxide and perma-tanned powerhouse who spends nine months of the year in a boob tube.

  Sylv’s modus operandi is to greet you with a threat.

  ‘I’m going to rip your fucking head off if you don’t take them bins out … Morning, darling!’

  ‘If you don’t wipe your boots when you come in I’ll carve off your ear ’oles and fucking post ’em to you. Now where you been? I’ve missed ya …’

  I love Sylv. We keep an eye out for each other. I find her cheap antibiotics on the Internet and she power-hoses journalists off the top step. It’s a perfect symbiotic relationship.

  I am now with my new partner, Anna. There’s that old adage: you don’t know how long you’ve been contending with the gloom until someone turns the lights on. Well Anna didn’t just turn the lights on; she brought several spotlights, a couple of flares and a glitter ball for good measure.

  She has balls of steel, a heart of gold and a pancreas of pewter (though she’s having an op for that). If you want to know what kind of a person she is, then consider that this is the woman who organized a full-on thirty-strong rounders match in the park, just so I, aged forty-five, could finally know what it’s like to be picked for a team. I’ll always love her for that.

  Anna is not only excellent at her television job, she’s also training to be a cognitive hypnotherapist. On the one hand, this is wonderful – I now have a first-hand resource when life is difficult. On the other, it’s a total and utter nightmare. Now every time we have a row, I find myself put in a trance-like daze with my subconscious self being informed that it is a total and utter arsehole. A lot like my conscious self.

  After one such row Anna suggested (see also: demanded) I might want to do some timeline regression, a process which involves going back to a difficult past event, amending it, then leaving it well and truly behind. I say she suggested; in truth, I no longer know whether I have anything approaching free will or if everything I do is being subliminally influenced (see also: demanded) by her. Maybe I’ve just become her mind-bitch.

  I like hypnotherapy – it works for me. It helped me quit smoking, dulled my tinnitus and calmed my PTSD (gifted to me by that second break-in). These were, however, sessions conducted by qualified healthcare professionals in a dispassionate environment. It’s an entirely different ball game when that professional is

  a. your girlfriend

  b. has an agenda

  c. not yet a professional.

  Much as Anna has the makings of an incredible practitioner, she is only halfway through her diploma. At the moment her technique consists of lots of swearing and flicking through manuals, the flow of the therapeutic process slightly jarred by the constant, exasperated, ‘Oh wait, I haven’t done that bit yet.’

  Would you let a trainee hairdresser loose on your fringe? Maybe.

  Would you let a hobbyist accountant loose on your VAT return? Possibly.

  Would you let an unqualified hypnotherapist tinker with the darkest recesses of your mind after doing only half of the required reading? I did.

  As part of her studies Anna needed a guinea pig to practise on. And apparently I was it. Our first few sessions together were something of a mixed bag, although they started well enough. It’s fair to say Anna had mastered the art of getting me into a trance state, but was less confident about getting me out of one. In the first session Anna suggested (see also: demanded) that I should examine the feelings I still had for an ex and our excruciatingly painful break-up through a technique known as visual squash.

  We settled down on the sofa – me lying prostrate, Anna sitting by my side. As I feel shattered most of the time, the induction bit was easy.

  Anna:

  You are feeling sleeeeeepy …

  Me:

  Yes, I am …

  Anna:

  You are feeling nice and relaaaaaaxed …

  Me:

  Why are you doing that weird voice?

  It has suddenly become soft and silky. And more than a little bit posh.

  Anna:

  Shuuuuut uuuuuup.

  And off I went, down an imaginary flight of steps, each tread sending me deeper and deeper into trance.

  I listened to her voice, felt my muscles relax and my bones melt. My body felt like warm syrup in a drawstring bag. If you’ve not experienced it, the hypnotic state is hard to describe – in that moment you are both a particle and a wave, resisting and complying, acquiescing and questioning. A dance between the self you live with and know and the one behind the scenes, pulling the strings, that you don’t.

  Anna asked me to imagine the break-up as an object. Immediately I felt my left hand sag with the weight of a large spiky metal ball. She carried on talking. The weight in my arm grew more intense. She carried on talking. I could feel the prickles of the ball digging into my palm. She carried on talking.

  And then she stopped.

  Anna:

  Shit!

  Me:

  [struggling to speak] What’s going on?

  I am still in a dream state but slowly become aware o
f the frantic flicking of pages in the background.

  Anna:

  Oh God, I think I’ve done it wrong …

  My consciousness scrambles to attention. I sit up, suddenly taut with anxiety, my eyes still closed.

  Me:

  What do you mean ‘done it wrong’?

  Anna:

  I can’t remember what you do after that.

  Me:

  What are you talking about!? What … What am I going to do with this?! [I moan, struggling to raise my leaden arm]

  Anna:

  I don’t know. We haven’t got to that bit yet.

  The imaginary ball feels heavy and cold in my hand.

  Me:

  Does that mean I am going to have to just carry her around with me?

  Anna:

  For God’s sake! Yes! Probably!

  Since then I’ve been a weekly guinea pig. Every Sunday night I’ve had sessions in metaphor therapy, positive and negative hallucination, future pacing – all in an effort to stop me, and these are Anna’s words, from being a ‘massive dick’. It got to the stage where I became frightened of the sound of her key in the lock. Until she hypnotized me out of that.

  One particular Sunday night Anna came back, the familiar textbook a little more thumbed and nearly completed. This week, I was informed, it was time for the Time Tunnel.