PJs and Me ...

I really must stop sleeping on my face.  The effect is not at all flattering.  I look like a granny version of a cabbage-patch doll until about four o-clock the following day, by which time the overnight crinkles have disappeared and my face has settled once again into its familiar folds.  The worry is - this de-creasing process is taking longer and longer - and I know the day will come when the cabbage-patch granny face will be the only one I’ve got.  That will be the real me.

As a change in my sleeping habits is unlikely, I had better get started on a face-lift fund. 

I am aware, however, that a number of age-related foibles – mostly concerned with clothes - have crept into my life and, unlike giving my frazzled face a lift, there isn’t a damn thing I can do about them.

Of course, there are garments that should never be worn by anybody other than those for whom they were intended.  Prom party dresses, for example, should be limited to those young enough to be attending a prom and only babies and toddlers should ever wear onesies. 

But, as age invades, there are particular items of clothing that my body now simply rejects.

Polo neck jumpers sadly feature amongst the ‘don’t even think about it’ pile.  Although the perfect thing to hide a scrawny neck, these jumpers now seem intent on strangling it and induce a surge of sweat-laden panic so severe that my head takes on the appearance of a burst boil.  Not my best look.

Jeans have also had their day.  These are now merely muffin-top highlighters and will remain forever in the bin.

My stilettos, whilst still adored, are too often discarded in favour of more sensible shoes and even then, if I can get away with flip-flops or bare feet then I will.

And can there be a woman over the age of forty who does not relish that liberating moment as she unhooks that constricting bra, does a little wiggle, and slips it through her sleeve in less than a second?  Oh the release!

There must be more than me who can’t wait to get home, tear off her clothes without so much as a flicker of passion, and reach for those beloved jim-jams?

I have been obsessed with pyjamas – often referred to as ‘lounge-wear’ for some time now.  I have been known to don a big coat, stick the pyjama bottoms down my wellies and walk the dog, with no intention of getting dressed for the entire day.  There ought to be a ‘wear-to-work’ range or slightly posh ‘pyjamas-and-proud’ sets where you could happily pop out for lunch to meet up with other pyjama-clad patrons before having a little wander round the shops.

How perfect would that be?

I suppose some would argue that gym-wear and jogging gear are just as comfy as PJs, but these garments just add to my sense of guilt – as I am neither at the gym nor am I jogging.

Even though my burgeoning battle with certain apparel continues, I draw the line at nudism.   There’s a difference between getting your kit off, and leaving it off.   I would rather spend eternity in skin-tight jeans, six-inch heels and a bra two sizes too small than mingle with a bunch of nudes swinging their sorry-looking saggy and slack bits for all to see.

Perhaps their nakedness is nothing at all to do with an expression of their cultural beliefs?  Perhaps nudists are simply suffering from an extreme case of ‘garment intolerance’.   After all, so many of them are pretty old and like me, will have fallen out with much of their wardrobe.  But they really ought not to be on display. 

Maybe they just haven’t discovered jim-jams?

When in Rome ...

3.45 a.m. is not my sister Paula’s favourite time of day.  Well, to be honest, anytime before 8.00 a.m. is pushing it.  So, when her phone alarm went off at that ungodly hour, she stabbed at it, fiercely and repeatedly until it rendered itself disabled and would have nothing more to do with her.

‘Time to get up?’ I ventured, leaping jauntily from my bed, winding her up even further.

Rome awaits!

Four in the morning and Manchester Airport heaved with a horde of humanity – some sleepy and sluggish, some sprightly and swift.  Having only cabin-sized baggage, we were pleased to be able to avoid the check-in serpent and make straight for security, where we joined an even longer queue. 

Much, much later, furious at having been relieved of one or two bottles of essential toiletries, we emerged, just as the hungry headache started to harass the temples.

Food!  We scanned the outlets like scavengers in search of scraps, and were disappointed to see each one utterly besieged by earlier risers.

Sod it!  We’ll eat on the plane.  Let’s have a gin and tonic.

It’s never too early.

In no time we were in the air.  Despite our voracious hunger, we were quite unable to conquer the pretence of a Panini and the lacklustre lump of goo laughingly labelled ‘lasagne’.  A word of advice …  when flying Ryanair, pack some sarnies.

But it got us to Rome.

Our hotel embraced us like an Italian Mama, tempting us to a perfectly palatable pizza as we perused our itinerary - two days of sightseeing sandwiched between two days round the pool.  Great plan.

Day 1 – swim; read; (check to see if Paula’s phone is speaking to her); snooze; eat and … drink.  The latter, we discovered, because we had upgraded, was free in the Club Lounge from 5 to 11 pm!  Fantastico!

Not surprisingly, five minutes past five found us in said Lounge.  Four hours sleep combined with one or two Pinots soon loosened our tongues and we got chatting to a very nice couple that were determined to indulge in a spot of ‘holiday Olympics’.  They had been simply everywhere and couldn’t wait to tell us all about it.  We couldn’t compete with these gold medallists, so we headed for the patio, graciously accepting silver.

Day 2 – Sightseeing.

There wasn’t much hopping to be had on the ‘Hop on, hop off’ bus, as the heat was such that even Satan would have shrivelled.

Having ‘done’ the Coliseum some years before, we felt obliged to visit the Vatican Museums and Sistine Chapel.  Perhaps some almost forgotten tendril of Catholic guilt tugged at our conscience?   

Whatever our motives, we’d had the foresight to buy ‘Skip the Line’ tickets and watched, as we sipped our G & T from our meeting point, the many hundreds of dedicated tourists too tight to do the same.  Consequently they would swelter in the blistering queue for hours and hours.  Stupido!

‘I see knees.’ I observed.  ‘And shoulders.’

Both, strictly forbidden. 

A team of enterprising street vendors hovered around the queues selling scarves to those whose offensive bits were on display.

At our allotted time we were ushered to the front like celebrities, but sadly, once inside, our celebrity status vanished, as we became just two more sweaty bodies shuffling along the designated route amid a teeming multitude of sweaty bodies.   

It is difficult to fully appreciate the magnificence of those awe-inspiring works of art when distracted by the sound of a thousand flapping flip-flops and when battered by rucksack-bearing boors.  And those ceilings – majestic as they are – don’t do a thing for arthritic necks. 

The Sistine Chapel, a holy place, we were told, where talking is forbidden, throbbed with the buzz of a swarm of gabbing and unrepentant sinners.   The Guards’ insistent demand to ‘keep moving’ meant that Michelangelo’s ceiling was mostly missed.  I did catch a glimpse of the ‘Creation of Adam’ and, thankfully, managed to resist humming the theme tune to Melvin Bragg’s South Bank Show -   at least until I got outside.

Oh well, never mind.   We were back in the Club Lounge by seven.

Day 3 – More sightseeing.

Today’s plan - Piazza Navona – heralded by the Guidebook as one of Rome’s loveliest squares.

Indeed it is.  And, furthermore, it loses none of its appeal when observed from the edges, having been forced to shrink into the shade to escape the searing sun.   We darted, no – plodded - up a lively alley lined with restaurants for a late lunch.

A striking, Senegalese giant of a man approached us, with skin like coal and teeth like pearls.  He smiled broadly as he told us about his two babies whom he hadn’t seen for three months.  He wished us long life and happiness.  We were to learn, to our astonishment, that back in his country both the names Paula and Julie mean long life and happiness.  Imagine that!  This determined chap would ceaselessly and insistently wish us long life and happiness until we pressed some Euros into his outstretched palm.   Finally, we succumbed and were rewarded with two symbols of long life – an elephant and a turtle.  Oh, and a beaded bracelet that even the lowliest Christmas cracker would shun. 

It’s better than sticking a gun in your face I suppose.

Day 4 – Sunbathing

The grey clouds were welcome at first.  Not so when they turned black.  It poured down all day.

So … finished my book.    Club Lounge at five.

There is much to discover in Rome.  And, on our second trip to this amazing city we discovered a little more:

·      It’s very, very, very hot in August

·      Don’t make a plan

·      Sunbathe when it’s sunny

·      Pay extra for ‘Skip the Line’ everything

·      Avoid ruck-sacks

Oh, and most importantly – upgrade to Club!

Sir Tom ...

I never used to be a fan of Tom Jones – I think it was the gyrating – I found it a little disturbing.  Nevertheless, I didn’t take much persuading when asked to accompany sister Paula and mate Andrea to see him perform at Scarborough’s Open Air Theatre.  Andrea – a serious groupie – was making the journey from Burnley so it would have been churlish not to make the effort to simply pop down the road.  And anyway, I’d never been to the Open Air Theatre…

Time I did, I thought, happily forking out seventy-five quid for the ‘not quite’ VIP seats.

We arrived only a little late, to avoid the queues, and joined the enthusiastic throng of fans, being ushered along, exceedingly and surprisingly efficiently, by exceedingly and surprisingly pleasant staff.

Being ladies of a certain age we were relieved to see loos-a-plenty and delighted to see a number of conveniently placed bars.   Could this get any better?

Right, time to find our seats.  Ask one of those pleasant staff.

No, that can’t be right, cried Andrea in horror as a guide pointed to where we were to be seated.   I booked seats at the front!

To be fair, the seats were at the front – not part of the fixed seats of the auditorium, but stackable chairs placed almost on the grass just by the lake.  We were to be in row two of three.   The problem, as Andrea zealously pointed out, was the view – a fully side-on view of the stage, not a full-frontal view – not at all what she was expecting.   At this point the hapless official was set upon by another group of equally disappointed folk, all of whom were tactfully directed towards the ticket office.

Andrea, clutching the evidence of the misleading diagram of the theatre layout; the very thing that had duped her into booking these hopelessly inadequate seats, lead the way.

Meanwhile, Paula and I sat in those seats, sipped our wine, and waited for a couple of giants to come along and sit right in front of us.

I’m always polite when I complain, said Andrea on her return, or it doesn’t get you anywhere.  So I was very polite.

And where did it get you?

Nowhere.

Ah well, no matter, we can see the wonderful ‘goings on’, illuminating the backdrop behind the performers, on the big screen.  And anyway, this is a good spot for dancing!  Or so we thought.

By this time the first act was over and the second was in full swing.  They were good.  The wine was good.  A comb-over and a perm, both of only average height were now seated before us in the front row.  All was well.  Won’t be long now.

The second act had finished.  People were starting to fidget.  Excitement was building, moving swiftly through the theatre like mice through a meadow.  Just got time to wee and stock up on wine.  Don’t want to miss the main event.  I’ll go, I said.

Had there been a roof, the resounding roar that bellowed from five and a half thousand pairs of lungs would most certainly have raised it.

Ah, it would appear that Sir Tom has appeared, I thought, as I sat, peeing in a port-a-loo. 

Furious at missing the opening song, I dashed back to the strains of ‘Mama told me not to come.’  Managing to regain my seat but not my composure, I clapped along, like a hard-of-hearing seal, out of sync with both the audience and the melody.  

And there he was, Sir Tom Jones!  That distinctive halo of silver hair shimmering in the searing heat of Scarborough’s setting sun.   

That’s a complete lie – it was drizzling.   And cold.

There was no keeping Andrea in her place once Tom started belting out ‘Sex Bomb’, her boundless exuberance finally overwhelming the weary official, who gave up trying to redirect her to her seat after three attempts.

Having said that, the continued efforts of the valiant staff eventually shamed us into occupying the space in front of our chairs.  But who can remain seated on such a night?  Fearful of offending the good people behind us, we happily gave up our most unsatisfactory seats, swapping with them to occupy the back row.  And so we jiggled and wiggled, swayed and sashayed all night long.  Even the weary official smiled.

As you would expect from such a consummate professional, Tom performed brilliantly, captivating his audience with songs old and new, his voice as vibrant and powerful as it ever was.

There must have been many hundreds of fans in that audience, who, like Andrea, have faithfully followed Mr Jones for many years.  And there would have been just as many, like Paula and me, who were newcomers to his talent – recognizing as he reaches his seventy-fifth year that he’s actually not at all bad.  In fact, pretty damned good.

So, Sir Tom, I salute you … I am now a fan!

Bless me Father ...

The first time I lied to a priest I was just eight years old.  Possibly even seven.

It was a Wednesday - after Mass at school.  Perhaps they thought that our Sunday performances at church didn’t quite cut it.  So every pupil in the school was corralled into the assembly hall for an excruciatingly long Mass, which was followed by the ritual confession of every sinner in that god-fearing catholic institution – the youngest among us about six, the oldest barely eleven.   

My fellow sinners and I shuffled nervously along the corridor, nudged ever closer to the confessional by the painful jabs of Sister Josepha’s cane.

My turn next.  Only Declan O’Leary in front of me now.   Declan is naughty.  With luck, he should be in there for ages.

What shall I say?  I haven’t done anything wrong.  I know I haven’t because they tell us everyday about everything that’s wrong.  I’ve tried hard to be really good.  I don’t even know how to be bad.  I regularly stick all my pocket money in the spastic society doll’s head outside the paper shop.  I can’t say that though can I?  I can’t say, “Sorry Father, I’ve been good…”.  I’ll have to make something up.  I’ll have to lie.  But lying is a sin.  I can’t commit a sin!  I can’t!

And then I remember …  last week … in Sister Francine’s class …

I felt the swish of her habit as she floated past my chair.  I held my breath, hoping that she wouldn’t stop and look at my work.  The page, empty but for the stupid title, “Where I went on holiday”, staring back at me.  We hadn’t had a holiday this summer, so what was I supposed to say? 

Should I lie?  Should I pretend that I went to Filey with my friend Theresa and stayed in their caravan?  Will she know I’m lying and punish me by making me stand on the chair with my hands on my head like she does when I get my times-tables wrong?  Which is every week – every Friday, at the mental arithmetic test. Even worse, will she hit me across the hand with her ruler?  Or the cane?  I hope not.  That always makes me pee myself.

The busy scratching of pencils on paper was the only noise in the room.  Everybody in the whole class must have been on holiday except me.  How I hated my parents at that moment!

Sister Francine was shouting at Declan O’Leary.   He was holding his pencil wrong again.   Poor Declan was always in trouble. 

Oh no, she’s coming back!  I gripped my pencil, positioning my finger exactly half an inch from its point as we had been commanded and bowed my head low over the paper so she couldn’t see that I hadn’t written a single word. 

In that instant I decided to risk the wrath of God and lie my head off.  Filey it was.  A  far-off fairy-tale place.  I was fairly sure there was a beach so I could take it from there.  Bucket and spade; donkey-ride; ice cream.  Sorted.

I’ll confess on Wednesday and then everything will be all right again. 

But God knows I lied.  He will kill me.  He is vengeful, unforgiving and cruel.  He’s not like my protestant friend’s God who does nice things in bible stories - like helping people who have fallen by the side of the road.  My God doesn’t do that stuff.  My God talks about hell fire a lot, damnation, purgatory and endless punishment.

But even so, I can’t tell the truth about my lies.  I can’t!  The priest will tell on me!

Oh no!  Declan is out.  I’m in the confessional, which every other day but Wednesday is the sick room.  It stinks of Dettol.  I wonder fleetingly what happens to the kids who get sick on a Wednesday.  And then, suddenly, I’m on.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.  It is one week (yes, one week) since my last confession, and these are my sins…”

From behind a blue curtain, a soft, Irish lilt says, “Go on, my child.”

Oh well, here goes…

“I’ve had bad thoughts about my big sister.”  Stupid!  That’s so naff!  And then,

“I washed my baby brother’s face with the floor cloth!”  No I didn’t, my big sister did that!

I hold my breath.  I wait for the bolt of lightning and the question from God’s representative about the pretend holiday in Filey.  Maybe he’ll make me tell him the name of my imaginary donkey.

“Well, that’ll be two ‘Hail Marys’ and three ‘Our Fathers’ for you my child.  Now off you go.”

I flee to the praying pew in a panic.  If I get these prayers said quickly before God realises I’ve made up lies so I didn’t have to tell the truth about the genuine lies then I might be all right.  I did my penance, and threw in another three ‘Hail Marys’ for actually lying, and another two ‘Our Fathers’ because the lies themselves were really quite embarrassingly poor. 

And then, nothing happened. 

Nothing.

It was at this point that my devotion to Catholicism started to wane and my long held desire to become a Nun was gradually replaced by more devilish ambitions. 

By the time I was eleven I was free of my faith and had become an accomplished liar.   I was so well behaved in reality that I was obliged to inhabit an imaginary world of naughtiness.  I spent many entertaining hours conjuring up sins and practising bad thoughts so my confessions would sound plausible and interesting for the priest behind the curtain.    

Unlike many others, I never suffered abuse at the hands of the ‘Brothers’ and the ‘Sisters’.  But there was a point when my young mind was imprisoned so completely by doctrine and unquestioning devotion that, I am now uncomfortably aware of the profound and unjustifiable nature of destructive religious dogma and can understand, when in the hands of extremists, how people can be driven to strap bombs to their chests in the name of their Almighty God.

Now, it will take more than a few Hail Marys to sort that!