They’ll be sorry. Photograph: Posed by model; SolStock/Getty Images View image in fullscreen They’ll be sorry. Photograph: Posed by model; SolStock/Getty Images Opinion Life and style Don’t tell me it’s wrong to hold a grudge. I’m making the world a better place, one petty boycott at a time Polly Hudson Forgive and forget? I haven’t set foot in my local bakery since I was belittled by the woman behind the counter
‘I f your name’s not down, you’re not coming in” is a phrase with which celebrity party planner Fran Cutler will be more than familiar. However, her latest list has a distinctly different quality, and you definitely do not want to be on it.
This week, Cutler told the Second Act with Ateh Jewel podcast that she keeps a physical record of people with whom she has issues.
“It’s like, I see you, I know who you are. I write it down at night when I’m bored,” she said. “I don’t talk about them; I just keep it on a list and I think, I’ve got you and I know exactly who you are.”
Finally, somebody who takes pride in being a grudge-holder. A brave soldier who, rather than allowing society to make them feel small and petty, revels in resentment. As a keen member of the grudge-holding community – our least favourite song: Frozen theme tune Let It Go – obviously I concur that we should be celebrated, not looked down on. Holding a grudge isn’t easy, or for the faint of heart. It proves you have dedication, determination, principles. This isn’t about exacting revenge or ill-wishing – it’s taking a stand and sticking to it come what may, regardless of the sacrifices involved.
My grudges seem to follow a pattern: they are usually held against those I don’t know well, if at all, and the person who is inconvenienced as a result is always me, while the other party neither notices nor cares. Also, I will never, ever break, even if doing so would be sensible, simpler and much less embarrassing.
For example, a huge factor in choosing our home was the handy parade of shops less than a minute from the front door, including a Londis, a newsagent and a dry-cleaner. Now, 15 years later, due to long-story disputes involving, respectively, yoghurt, their laughably unfair card policy and a pair of my husband’s trousers, I can’t go in any of them. Instead, I waste time and energy patronising businesses much further away. So far, they seem to be surviving despite the massive loss of upwards of £12 a year.
Similarly, a few months ago, when everyone I know was raving about the TV Show DTF St Louis , which sounded right up my alley, I refused to watch it, because it starred David Harbour. Out of undying loyalty to Lily Allen (a complete stranger), I just couldn’t.
Then there was the time a fancy bakery opened locally, and word quickly spread about its incredibly delicious cruffins (part croissant, part muffin). Walking past one afternoon, I popped in, said I’d heard rave reviews and was excited about buying some. The woman behind the counter regarded me with an undisguised air of smug pity. “Oh, no,” she said, witheringly: “You would have to come in much, much earlier than this if you ever wanted to stand a chance of buying a cruffin.”
Of course, I wish I had suggested that they perhaps, oh, I don’t know, made more of them, to keep up with demand, but I was so intimidated that I slunk out, ashamed of my insane pastry expectations. I will now die of hunger on that shop’s doorstep rather than set foot inside it again. Well, its new doorstep, as it has moved…