Spectacles: A Memoir

Spectacles: A Memoir

Sue Perkins

Language: English

Pages: 230


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

When I began writing this book, I went home to see if my mum had kept some of my stuff. What I found was that she hadn't kept some of it. She had kept all of it - every bus ticket, postcard, school report - from the moment I was born to the moment I finally had the confidence to turn round and say 'Why is our house full of this shit?'

Sadly, a recycling 'incident' destroyed the bulk of this archive. This has meant two things: firstly, Dear Reader, you will never get to see countless drawings of wizards, read a poem about corn on the cob, or marvel at the kilos of brown flowers I so lovingly pressed as a child. Secondly, it's left me with no choice but to actually write this thing myself.

This, my first ever book, will answer questions such as 'Is Mary Berry real?', 'Is it true you wear a surgical truss?' and 'Is a non-spherically symmetric gravitational pull from outside the observable universe responsible for some of the observed motion of large objects such as galactic clusters in the universe?'

Most of this book is true. I have, of course, amplified my more positive characteristics in an effort to make you like me.

Thank you for reading.

Borrowed Finery: A Memoir

Through the Narrow Gate: A Memoir of Life In and Out of the Convent

The Phoenix Land

The Glass Castle: A Memoir

My Inventions and Other Writings
















one day a week, sat Ms Carole Schroder, manicured and perfect, the sort of character you find in a Roald Dahl novel – suspiciously prim at first but who turns out to unexpectedly save the day. I walked into that room a gibbering wreck. Week after week I was encouraged to stand up and read out painful, faltering renditions of Shakespeare, Wendy Cope and Pam Ayres. I began to learn about breathing. Cadences. Intonation. I began to relax. My voice became less staccato. I raised my head and looked

and a large bin liner, which held my share of our vast array of props. Mum was having a dinner party, was elbow-deep in Marie Rose sauce and didn’t even hear me say goodbye. I slipped out of the house. It felt exciting. I felt like Dick Whittington. The plan was for me to take the direct train from Sanderstead to Victoria and meet Mel at the coach station. From there we’d get the all-night National Express to Scotland. It was a perfect plan, although if there was a flaw in it, that flaw would be

might take. How long my instant-gratification city-honed demanding personality can take. The answer is thirty seconds. Me: [shouting maniacally over her] I need a cab now! Now! NOW! Five minutes later a smiley-faced octogenarian with grey mutton chops pulls up at the hotel entrance. Cabbie: Right, where can I take you? Me: To a church. Any church. All the churches. NOW! I had turned into everyone’s worst nightmare of a Londoner. Rude, pushy and with wonky cockerel hair. Perth has at

Gran: Oh hello. Who are you? Me: I’m Susan, I’m your eldest grandchild. Gran: Oh. [Pause] Are you married? Me: No, Gran. Gran: Why not? Me: [long sigh] I’m gay. Gran: Oh. Oh dear. The last time I saw Granny Smith was that day of her centenary. When the heat of the midday sun became too much I wheeled her back inside while my family went in search of a hundred candles for the cake. Her room was dark and embraced her with a silence you could almost touch. I went up to her and held her

metal. The cameras turned to the driver, who was stepping down from his cabin. It was an impossibly handsome man in his early thirties – trimmed beard, piercing blue eyes. I felt my personal polarity shift a little, then settle. Man: You guys in trouble? Me: No. Charlie: Yes. Man: Need a hand? Charlie: Yes, please. I stood there, dumbstruck, as thick, sleek cabling was uncoiled, hooks attached, weights and tensions considered. Throughout, the trucker worked silently. I couldn’t help

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