Page 10 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
Look at this journal,
The Guide: A Journal for Manifesting™
It was always meant to be in your hands.
How did the Universe bring you together? Take the time to reflect and record the story of this beautiful connection.
So… Mum and Dad give awful presents. Awful. It’s Mum really – she doesn’t believe in ‘expectations’ or the idea of getting something for nothing, which is quite ironic given what she inherited. (Although maybe the fact she lost most of her inheritance through unwise share investments has something to do with the expectations part.) She insists it’s ‘the thought that counts’ when it comes to gift giving, which is clearly where she’s going wrong. I’ve had my share of awful ‘presents’ over the years even if, according to Arrie (who’s apparently scarred from the infamous ‘bestowal’ of NHS prescription glasses), I’ve been veritably ‘spoilt’ as the youngest with generous gifts such as the quilling set when I was eight (‘I thought it would be fun, darling!’) and the electric kettle for my eighteenth (‘Think how popular it will make you at uni!’).
But the worst part isn’t even the presents, it’s Mum’s hurtface when you’re unable to feign gratitude for her latest offering (again, quite ironic given she doesn’t believe in expectations).
Anyway, the year that Mum and Dad ‘gave’ me a donation to the RSPB was the year I snapped: I’ve never been a fan of birds. They’re horrible pecky things. I told Mum this, and Mum told me I was an ingrate, and that birdsong was an absolute gift, and suggested that perhaps I’d like a cash donation instead, and I said, ‘Yes, I bloody would – I’m absolutely broke and I’ve had to stop eating lunch this week – that donation could have fed your daughter and those birds could have eaten worms!’
And then Dad got upset (he’s a real feeder) and said he knew I’d lost weight and this was the first rung on the ladder towards an eating disorder (he listens toAll in the Mindon Radio 4 and drops in references to impress Aziz) and asked how much money I needed. I explained that basically £400 a month would really sort me out. So then, predictably, Arrie and Astrid started getting upset (because they wish Dad would give them some cash too but they’re too twatty to admit it), saying that I was a freeloader and I’d never learn to stand on my own two feet if Dad was always bailing me out. Arrie monologued for a good five minutes about how she had her own business as well as the twins by the time she was my age, and that Astrid had been made a senior partner as a corporate lawyer. Dad pointed out that Arrie and Astrid had successful careers and wonderful homes, which not only did they own but which were shared with wonderful men, and that surely they should be concerned that their youngest sister was at risk of an eating disorder.
Astrid asked exactly how I was *at risk* and Dad explained that I was female, skipping meals, had low self-esteem and was a high achiever. Astrid snorted and said that I’d miss a lot more meals if I worked seventy-hour weeks like she did, and that anyone wearing *that outfit* had a pretty high opinion of themselves (she’s always been jealous because I got my cup size from Granny Carver and Astrid’s offerings are pure Mum – stingy) and was Dad really trying to claim that I was a ‘high’ achiever?
‘Maybe not,’ said Dad, ‘but Alice said herself she wasn’t eating. That’s a warning, right, Aziz?’
Aziz had been trying to stay out of things, but he said whilst he wasn’t unduly worried about me, I should come round to his and Astrid’s if I was hungry.
‘See,’ said Dad triumphantly to Astrid, whilst I gave Aziz a hug because he’s lovely, ’your husband is more concerned about your sister than you are!’ You can imagine how well that went down.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, after a massive family argument – where Astrid ended up driving back to London in a pique (not helped by the fact Mum had given her a donation to a Cow Sanctuary), and Arrie went off on one about the NHS glasses again (‘You were four years old, Arrie, and loved pink,’ said Mum crossly. ‘I thought you’d be delighted with the pink frames!’) and how, unlike fucking Alice, she had to fund her own fucking therapy (and contact lenses) because she wasn’t a spoilt freeloader and then bored us all by talking about the therapy – Mum saw the light and finally realised that her awful presents were just another source of discord in the Carver household.
Since that year, she’s asked us what we want a couple of weeks before Christmas, and pretty much just got it for us. She puts a £50 limit on it, to ensure it is fair. It has improved things. Not that Arrie and Astrid have ever thanked me.
Fast forward to this year. I thought long and hard about the gift I wanted from Mum and Dad – really hard, because very few things in this day and age come in around £50 – and I asked forThe Guide(RRP £99 but only £59 on Prime). All the best people have it – there’s barely a post or a video from any mega influencer where you don’t see this manifesting journal artfully placed. You can personalise the front cover and so I asked for it in pink moleskin like Radhi Devlukia-Shetty has got (that’s +£45 but I’m hoping Mum won’t notice the small font on her phone now her eyesight’s fading), and honestly, the anticipation of receiving that gift is pretty much what kept me here, after the horror of the wedding yesterday. For a moment last night, I was tempted to call Drunk Stephen and ask if I could join him at his overbearing mother’s for Christmas Day. But as Drunk Stephen and I have discussed numerous times when we’re talking about the benefits of being single, other people’s families are even worse than your own. Plus I got the twins nerf guns and I quite want to try them out.
Anyway, Christmas morning didn’t get off to the best start: Mum woke me up, oblivious to my banging head, yanking back the pencil-pleat-gathered Laura Ashley monstrosities I mistakenly asked for when I was twelve and which she’s since refused to replace, telling me it was after half-ten in the morning, everyone was due to arrive imminently, and I neededto get out of my single room because the twins would be sleeping here tonight, top to tail, and she needed to change the sheets quickly. If we were still in our old house with all its lovely bedrooms, I’d be able to sleep in.
‘Merry Christmas to you too,’ I muttered sarcastically. ‘It’s nice to know you still love me, your actual daughter, even though you’ve got grandchildren.’
‘Get up,’ she said, pulling the duvet off me whilst I was still scrolling through my feeds. (On a positive note, there was no further sign of Guy Carmichael in any of Charlotte’s posts. Clearly she wasn’t all that, sexually, despite the GlowCycle.) ‘Up!’ repeated Mum. ‘I’ve still got the turkey to do and the cat’s gone missing again.’
‘So where exactly are you putting me?’ I asked, shivering ostentatiously in my vest and pants. She didn’t notice. ‘To make way for Arrie’s offspring? On the sofa bed downstairs?’
‘No. Aziz and Astrid are taking that. You’re in the spare room.’
‘Oh.’ I felt somewhat mollified. ‘Nice. Fine. Don’t get why the twins aren’t in there though? Then I could stay in my room.’
‘Notthatspare room. Arrie and Roger are in there.’
‘So where am I?’ I sifted through some of the clothes in my wardrobe that were too shit to take to London, hoping to find something to put on.
‘The other spare room,’ she said, not looking at me.
‘What? The garage? But it smells!’
‘That’s just the damp,’ said Mum, stripping my duvet. ‘It’s fine in winter when the radiators are all on.’
‘But it doesn’t have a radiator.’
‘You’re right. That’s why it’s got all the black mould ofcourse. Silly me. Well, never mind. It’s Christmas and we all have to muck in.’
‘Hang on,’ I said, my alcohol-addled brain kicking into gear. ‘Who’s in Arrie and Astrid’s old room? Surely the twins can go in there?’
‘No,’ said Mum firmly. ‘Maud’s in there.’
