Tracey Emin: My Life In A Column

You know, some things really annoy me. Like the fact that it's taken Sky three months to come round and get my picture sorted out. The other night I had to sit in the pub, drinking a cup of tea (because I didn't want alcohol) watching England versus Sweden - God, what a game. That really annoyed me. My hatred for Sweden is so intense that I nearly cried when they got that second goal.

It's strange how you can have animosity against a country just because your ex slept with some old, blonde, Swedish, air-head slapper.

The other thing that annoyed me about that game was that every time I saw David Beckham's pretty blue boots, I had to ask the question: why hadn't he and his good wife acknowledged or thanked me for donating a piece of my art to their charity auction for Unicef - a neon which sold for £28,000?

Another thing that really annoys me is that there's a Japanese restaurant in central London that I will refer to as Nobheads. The restaurant is divided in two: the bar downstairs; the restaurant upstairs. The first time I went there it was pretty amazing - a celebration for Patrick Cox, the shoe designer. Such a glamorous night; the food and atmosphere impeccable. The other week, a group of my friends were eating there. When I turned up, the girls on the front desk wouldn't let me go upstairs. They made me sit in the hallway. Why? Every other bugger was let in. True, I was wearing trainers. But may I say, I looked a damn sight less trashy than most of the short-skirted, high-heeled women prancing past.

Yep, tacky restaurants and people with no style. That really, really annoys me. People who are impolite annoy me. It's true: manners are free - they cost nobody anything.

Anyway, back to The Sky Man Cometh. Have you tried to get Sky on the phone? It's pretty insane. The longest wait so far has been 45 minutes with 10 millions of "press this, press that" options. Finally, an appointment is made; they fiddle around and change the box, but it's still not working.

Then yesterday, I had a knock on the door. I was in a deep sleep having a nightmare that Docket had jumped out of a weird hotel window. I had run out on to a fire escape, only to realise that I was at least 200ft up in the air; Docket with his Elizabethan collar and leg in green plaster cast. Star-shaped, flying through the air. Once I had reached the bottom of the fire escape, with my friend Maria (I call her Moomin), who I've known since I was four, I became aware that I was in Bosnia, walking through a Cold War housing estate, and I knew there were snipers everywhere. Great Alsatian dogs, snipers with Kalashnikov rifles. But I just knew I had to get Docket back. That's when I heard the knock at the door.

I jumped out of bed. Crikey, it's the Sky man - must answer the door. I ran down the stairs, putting on a pair of shorts and a top on the way. I opened the door. Two young men stood there - may I say, quite handsome young men. Handsome young Polish men. "We come Sky," one said.

"Great," I said. "Can I see your ID?"

"We have no ID," one said. "We have appointment."

I sort of half let them in, then said: "No. No, I can't. There's two of you and you have no ID." They shrugged and said: "Well you make appointment. We no come in if you no like us."

My neighbour was outside his house, so I said: "You be my witness - I'm letting in these two nice men from Sky, but they have no ID."

I then closed the door and walked up the five flights of stairs with the two men following me. There, in the centre of my bedroom, stood a large cage (where Docket has to be kept overnight due to his leg injury), my bed all ruffled up and the curtains drawn. Both men said in unison: "What is wrong?"

I then looked at Docket and said: "He's broken his leg."

"No," said the Poles. "What is wrong with picture?"

The TV is now fucking perfect. God, did those guys look scared.

But you do hear about it. My ex used to sell shammy leathers. The older lady in the negligee, dying for it. I have a well-known friend who would shag anyone who knocked at her door - gasman, FedEx man, handyman - and she got away with it, because no one would believe them. It was such a cliché. It showed amazing confidence and initiative on her part. Good going for the older single woman.

This week, I don't really know where this column's going. In fact, to be honest, it's a stream of consciousness, full of distraction. Yep, as I write this, my mind is on something else. And right now I'm going off to do it.

PS. Great news. Molly was returned to the Golden Heart, via Battersea Dogs' Home. Thank you to whoever handed her back.

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