J is for ...

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I don’t mind admitting, I’m not a stranger to judginess. I’ve totally been known to sit on public transport and judge someone for their oddly shaped head, or the way they chew gum. Occasionally, in grocery stores, I might judge someone for the speed they push their cart, or how long it takes them to pick out a can of beans.

I was kind of brought up that way. Back in the day, it was not only acceptable but encouraged to judge someone for the size of their ass, or for having a dodgy perm. (Behind their back, of course. It’s important to have proper manners.)

Everybody judged everybody. It’s what the letter J was for. It’s how you knew you were awake.

And when there was no one around to judge, then it was perfectly acceptable to judge yourself: Am I smart enough, thin enough, clear enough, rich enough? Did I say/do/think a stupid thing? Or - my own personal favorite here - am I lazy?

I’m no marketing guru, but I’m pretty sure one of the most basic components of selling something has to involve the concept as to how you’ll be judged by other people, or in fact, how you judge yourself. “Concerned that people find you boring and forgettable? Don’t worry, buy yourself a Ferrari, and everyone can think you’re an asshole instead.” Uhm…you can see why I never got into marketing.

Judging. It’s like a part-time job you don’t remember applying for. And it’s fucking exhausting.

But I am happy to tell you that in this time of absolute global clusterfuckery, my judgy days are over - or, more honestly, very limited.

When I’m feeling a bit negative about myself, I ask myself this one question:

“Do I have a private jet I've used to sex traffic minors to my private island?”

And when the answer comes back no, then I ask a second question:

“Have I covered up for some pal of mine who uses his jet to sex traffic minors to his private island?”

And when the answer to that comes back as no, I can only come to one conclusion. I am adorable - albeit maybe clumsy, foolish, messy, chubby-adorable, but adorable nonetheless. And statistically, I am one of the good guys.

Because while throughout my life I’ve been worrying about whether I made a mistake with my hairstyle/career/sentence choices, and judging other people for their hairstyle/career/sentence choices, these douchebags, who historically have been in positions where they tell the rest of us how we should improve, have in fact been the ones most needing the most improvement.

So, my judgy days are over. Right now I don’t care if you’ve a bad perm or an oddly shaped head. I’m fine if you take a couple of hours to buy a can of beans. Because if you haven’t thought it was cool to be involved in some private plane/private island/sex with kids combo, then you’re one of my tribe.

I was even veritably charming this week to a lady who was willfully doddering down the aisle in the grocery store. I actually smiled at her when she purposely - and I mean purposely - left her fucking shopping cart lined up in such a way that nobody - and I mean nobody - could get past until she decided to move. I admit I did mouth “wanker” to the guy in the Audi driving up our ass on the way home, but you know, “progress not perfection.”

Anyhoos, with all that judginess disappearing, I hear you wondering if the letter J will go completely out of fashion. The answer is no, because I learned this week what the letter J really stands for, and it’s deliciousness. That's right, deliciousness.

You see, it all started at the beginning of the year, when I bought this pink pineapple liqueur on a whim and took it to my friends Julian and Barbara’s house. We had just dropped by their house for the afternoon, as I was making dinner for Fergus and his girlfriend that night.

We agreed we’d save the pink pineapple for an evening thing (and to be honest because we all thought it looked a bit dubious), and then Julian asked what I was making for dinner. I told him I’d slow-roasted a pork pernil and was serving it with potatoes and peas. Julian and Barbara liked the sound of the pork and potatoes and peas, and we agreed they could bring the Pink Pineapple round at a later date and we’d have a P-based dinner party, with all foods beginning with P. (Honestly, it made complete sense at the time.)

Anyway we did. And it was awesome. (Who knew so many delicious things begin with the letter P?) So then after dinner, we got out the Scrabble letters to work out what letter we’d use for the next alphabet dinner party, and pulled out the letter J.

So this weekend, Barbara and Julian were hosting J night - and invited along Amy and Pablo (who on his name alone, should have been invited to P night).

I made Jambons to start. Thanks Ireland for your pastry and ham deliciousness.

Barbara made Jambalaya, which was double delicious.

And Amy made Jello Salad - her grandmother's recipe - which in spite of the name, was absolutely delicious.

And around the dinner table we talked about life, the Universe, and everything, and it was joyous. Fucking joyous.

So much so, we all agreed alphabet dinner parties are a thing, and we set another date, and Julian got the Scrabble letters out, and Pablo pulled out the letter S.

(I predict sausage rolls in someone's future.)

So you might be reading this and think that alphabet-based dinner parties are a smug, self-satisfied, ridiculous idea. You might read this Note and think you couldn't imagine anything worse. You may consider us tedious and trite.

But you see, me and my pals like to kick back by hanging out at at each others’s houses and doing stuff like alphabet dinner parties and like, rather than, say, getting on private planes to head off to do unspeakable stuff to kids on private islands.

And that’s because we’re regularly imperfect human beings, and not power-crazed, perverted, fucking sociopathic morons.

Whoops, bit judgy there. Like I say, progress not perfection.

Lynn

Xo

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji, some wee woman who stops her shopping cart in the middle of the aisle for absolutely no reason, while she stares longingly at several different types of beans, gets smiled at rather than punched in the face. So isn’t that a good thing?

Call yourself fancy? Volume 3 of Notes can be yours now.

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P. P. S: If you enjoy talking/listening/stories/ random facts, come and join me and Mr Tweddle at Fish and Bear every Tuesday. For details and booking, go to Fishandbear.net

J is for ... - Audio