Not in heels

Yesterday I learnt the location of the other Norwich house of Miss Margaret Fountaine. It mattered to me so, because writers on Margaret Fountaine have concentrated on Eaton Grange (which wasn’t, she was glad to discover, so different from living in the country, and they didn’t have to wear their Sunday best each day) and barely acknowledged the move to Eaton Lodge, where Margaret was to become quite unhappy. I guess I belong to the gothic tradition – I feel buildings – the ‘stage’ for action – are of great consequence.
The heritage section of the library was useful, because I was able to read directories of Eaton Road and confirm that Eaton Lodge was indeed, at one time at least, on it. There was the Belle Vue School (now The City of Norwich School), and The Poplars, and Eaton Lodge, Park House, Park House Lodge… I learnt that though the census had called Eaton Lodge number 45, the directories listed it as 38.
When I was walking around the area, in the splendid sunshine, I spotted an elderly gent digging his garden, and walked up his drive to question him. “I’m researching Margaret Fountaine,” I said. “Have you heard of her?”
“The ballet dancer?”
“No, no. She was a Victorian butterfly collector, and she used to live on this road. In Eaton Lodge. Do you know where that might be?”
“Oh, that one,” he replied, pointing at a white house. And then he told me the names of all the people who have lived in it since the seventies, and where they live now (most of them moving around the corner. At one time he spoke of a gynaecologist, but I lost that thread.)
Apparently it was the lodge to Park House, once upon a time, but was no longer called Eaton Lodge because one of the owners had taken the name with him. And indeed it was still number 38. The front has been perverted with mock-20s-style glass tiles, but through the icing sugar façade you can spot a Victorian chimney. The other side is pink, and like a cottage. It’s a confusing building.

My friend Thomas and I had dinner in a pub garden, and wondered what other mysteries might be out there.

After a couple of ales he went home. A cold had been creeping over him as the day went on. So I went to watch the Sex and the City movie on my own. I just felt like it. I found it interesting how the audience, probably usually very quiet, polite and English, thought it was okay to shout things out at this movie, as though it come with a whole different set of rules. I’m all for shouting at movies, the telly, the computer, but if people are going to be unexpectedly vocal, I’d rather it was watching something worthwhile, and not the innocuous Sex and the City.

It had started even before the film. “I love this,” I heard a girl say (to the whole auditorium), about the sexist Mail on Sunday advert (the battle scene – footballs against Chihuahuas), which made me want to slap her on the shoulder with my flip-flop.

The movie itself was fun, though, and last night I dreamt of Caron perfume and ruffled fabrics. Going to the cinema alone was quite okay.

Pout

In The Observer's version of The New York Times, dated May 25, there was a lovely little article about lipstick. I was drawn to it because of the picture - a rich, red, waxy tip protruding from a glorious gold tube. It was written by Kayleen Schaefer, who noted that in times of deflated economy, more lipsticks are sold as a 'little treat'. Mr. Lauder, of Estee Lauder noticed sales of lipstick were up following 9/11. Kayleen Schaefer calls lipsticks 'morale boosters, like Charlie Chaplain films were during the depression'. Dr. Benson, who is a psychologist, says: 'When women use lipstick in times of stress, they're doing it to put forward an image that they are more alive and more vibrant, and not as down in the mouth'.
I love lipstick. I love the taste of creamy powder and the plasticky essence of violets. I'm glad women are still wearing lipstick. Lipgloss is so boring and throwaway.

(The picture is of an Estee Lauder lipstick, available from all good department stores.)

Footnote

Since taking the first one, a couple of weeks ago, I have been thinking it might be useful to track my progress with Prozac, since there are such varying accounts of it to be found. Prozac – Fluoxetine – sprang out of antihistamine research, when it was found certain antihistamines effected serotonin in the brain.
I’m not romantic about depression in the slightest. I’m sure it comes in many colours – and for some it may be vibrantly morbid – but for me, it has been the coldest, concrete of greys. I think that like falling in love, it’s different each time it happens – has a different taste and effect on one’s life. I have been very sad before, frustrated, not in control of things, but it’s only in the last year and a half that I have experienced ‘depression’. I interviewed Thea Gilmore last week, and her latest album, Liejacker came out of a bout of darkness. More so than any album she’s penned before, these songs seemed to write themselves. Her art was an outlet for the turmoil, and indeed, internet features ask – would Winston Churchill, Ernest Hemmingway, Abraham Lincoln been so great if they didn’t suffer from depression? Well, I can only speak for myself, but as someone who has written all her life, both prose and music, there is no way this feeling could be of any use, artistically. It’s dank, sour, boring and unenlightening. It separated me from both my environment and other people – and without an interest in people, one can’t hope to write anything of much use.
And I believe fiction MUST be useful.
Over time, I became more alienated from females than I ever have been before, and this caused me much pain, because I want to be in harmony with womankind. I saw the characters I could have created as rivals, and the girls I doodled on paper as usurpers. These creations seemed fuller than I.
Relationships became difficult because every scene was played out with a string quartet as accompaniment. And after a year and a half, I forgot that my heart hadn’t always lived in my shoe.
The first few pills gave me a tingle along the cranium similar to the effect of MDMA – a drug I have no interest in taking these days. A few hours after the first pill I noticed I hadn’t experienced anxiety or longing since I swallowed it. Every morning I have woken up feeling sick though, and I have a heavy head a little like when you’ve overslept.
Alcohol doesn’t hold the same appeal – an unwelcome side effect, because I miss that effervescent first sip of a glass of wine you’ve fancied all day. I do still drink, but the thought of it doesn’t twinkle at me like a jewel. I’ve lost weight – about a quarter of a stone – and this may be because my appetite has depleted. I walked around Tesco with an empty basket today, because nothing looked right in it, and in the end settled for a lunch of vegetable crisps, humous and strawberries. This morning I forgot about half of my toast.
My hands shake more, and when I get anxious I feel it in my legs.
The plus side is that I am reminded of how things were before this whole debacle began. Listening to music is becoming less of an ordeal (something I have really missed) and I am excited about writing my novel again.
People who know me well and commenting that I seem much better. And I am glad.