Plittering: the perfect way to fill a lazy night in.
My friend Karen texted me today. I haven’t heard from her since about last September as it happens. (I found a Christmas card I had addressed to her knocking about on the back seat of my manky car at the weekend FYI. That’s how I roll, Christmas card wise) I’m a rubbish friend. Inconsistent, y’know? I’m all in your face for a while, then I fade away into the shadows again.
Anyway, I’m meeting Karen for lunch tomorrow. Nothing unusual there. Or is there? Yes, there is. There is if your name happens to be Lindsey Mason. I’m anti-social. Nobody believes it but I am. My friends know it. They invite me to things knowing full well that I’ll say ‘Oh that sounds fab! Count me in!’ Note the overuse of exclamation marks.
They fool no one. When the day finally arrives they’ll get a text from me (I don’t phone them, basically because am a big fat coward) with an overly elaborate and completely implausible and complex set of excuses. It’s pathetic isn’t it? Well, I’m sorry, but tough.
I simply cannot allow some social occasion to interfere with the hurly burly of my sofa lounging and hectic Internet plittering schedule. (Plittering? Are you au fait with this word? It’s maybe a South of Scotland word. It means to faff. Or to footer. I’m good at plittering. I may teach it. I could do evening classes in plittering. The course content would look thusly:
7pm (or whenever you can be arsed to turn up) - warm up exercise. Flick idly through Heat magazine. From back to front, of course. Covet the precious things within its seductive pages. Sniff the pages. Think Bad Thoughts about the celebrities portrayed therein, especially if thin and female. Entertain notion of buying wildly expensive cosmetic frippery-frappery with imaginary windfall from HM Revenue and Customs.
8pm - Channel flicking technique. Hone your channel hopping skills. Intermediate level includes Ninja style empty Haribo and/or crisp packets down side of sofa poking and then practicing indignant face in front of mirror in order to blatantly deny such activity in face of accusatory husband / wife / partner / disgusted wean / significant other / parent.
9pm - Freestyle plittering. Group activity. Demonstrate your own favourite plittering activity eg. moonwalking across laminate flooring in socks for about half an hour back and forth. Or why not mix it up a bit by incorporating a bit of self-imagining as Beyonce performing Single Ladies video dance routine?
10pm - Lordy! Is it 10pm already? Where does the time go? Time for a cup of tea and a six pack of Kit Kats? Don’t mind if I do, vicar.
Blimey! That was such a huge digression from my original topic there that I can’t be bothered to check to see if I need to close any brackets. Ach, whatever. So yes, social phobia - I has it. I get invited to things, but I rarely go. I think it’s to do with my inability to make up my mind about stuff. Or I may not feel like it on the actual day. I may have a bad hair day.
This alone can render me paralysed with self loathing and unable to function beyond a primeval grunt. So leaving the house is out of the question I’m afraid. Even the lure of pastry-based party foods isn’t enough to drag me out. I am however, meeting Karen tomorrow. Unless my hair refuses to play ball. In which case, she’ll get a text with an overly elaborate and completely implausible complex set of excuses.
Oh here’s a funny story to leave you with - a friend of mine told me this story yesterday and I’ve laughed and laughed about it. She and her husband were sharing a bottle of wine and a bowl of peanuts one Friday evening, as one does. The bowl of peanuts emptied fairly quickly, but husband spotted a stray peanut on the carpet so bent down to victoriously retrieve and eat it. On attempting to pick up the peanut, he yelped. Turns out he had a hole in his sock and had tried to pick up his own, very surprised, wee toe…
Lindsey Mason is writing in a private capacity. Her views do not necessarily represent those of STV plc.
