Just another Friday night ...

There has been a long-held tradition in my family – well, amongst the women at least – that Friday night is the night that we should get together, gather in whichever is the hosting house, eat, drink, plot and scheme in the way that only women can, and simply celebrate the fact that it is Friday.

The last forty or more years have seen some spectacular Fridays.  There has been much laughter and much heartbreak.  There has been a staggering scattering of significant secrets and much searching of souls.  We girls have, of course, spent many hours righting the world’s most dreadful wrongs and undoubtedly just as many hours talking an astounding amount of bollocks. 

Not surprisingly, all of our gregarious gabbing has been accompanied by the gobbling of gallons and gallons of wine.

Well, this Friday was no different.

Eleanor was this week’s host.  Paula and I had been willingly lured to Ellie’s lair by the promise of yummy food and a drop or two of vino, but there was to be more than idle chitchat and girlie gossip featuring on the agenda.  Ellie had not invited us merely because she loved us and it was a Friday.  Oh no, we had a mission to accomplish!

Interior design was the theme of the evening, as the lounge had reached that critical point of ‘finishing off’.  There were pictures to be hung and new furniture to be arranged.  Not wishing to show off, but, Paula and I are pretty good at that kind of stuff and you would be surprised at how many people are simply not.  And, weird as it may sound to anybody below the age of thirty – that placing of paraphernalia in the right position can make for a pretty good night!

And indeed it did.    

So, having won our place on the yet to be invented home makeover show entitled ‘How to hang pictures and arrange furniture’ we bade goodbye to our grateful host and left for home.

It was all going so very well …

Now, I am tempted to blame Ellie’s house.  It, being in an elevated position sporting a ridiculous amount of steps leading from the gate to the front door, interspersed with paths of slate and all things sharp and jagged …

Or, could it have been the shoes that I had chosen to wear?   Given that we were walking and shoes and I do not get on terribly well, I had decided to wear flat, comfy, ever so slightly too big shoes that don’t hurt a bit.   A mistake, perhaps.

Or, maybe it was the dog, and he just tugged too hard on the leash?

Yet something, I know not what, made me fall. 

Obviously, there is no way it could it have been the wine!  No way at all.

If only that had been the end of it.  A little bounce on the bum is really nothing to remark about after all.

But no, my heroic sister Paula, in her noble and selfless attempt to save me from harm, launched herself in my path and plummeted, back-first, into one of the many sharp and jagged things that litter the route from Ellie’s door to gate.

Yes, it’s all the fault of Ellie’s house!

Paula, battered and broken, could barely breathe.   Something was very wrong.

‘Do you need an ambulance?’ I asked, being the caring sister that I am.

‘No, let’s just get home,’ she gasped.  

This was now our second mission of the night.  

There is very little as powerful at propelling a person along as a spot of Pinot and we made it, uphill all the way.

At some point along the way I lost one of my ever so slightly too big shoes.  But, despite being breathless and barefoot, we made it home.

The following morning it was clear that all was not well.  Paula spent the next twelve agonising hours in A and E with a fractured rib.  An overnight stay was advised as her pain was so severe.

‘Had you had a drink at all?’ asked the Doctor.

‘Er…’

No!  It’s Ellie’s house!

As I walked the dog that morning, we came across an abandoned shoe.  Bodger (my dog) shoved his nose right in it, as if to say, ‘Hey, Mum!  This smells just like you!’  Averting my gaze I passed by, tugging the dog behind me and yelling, ‘leave that tramp’s shoe alone!’

I realise that two ladies, both the wrong side of middle aged, staggering up the South Cliff in Scarborough, one barely able to breathe, the other bearing only one shoe, is not what one could consider attractive, desirable, or even remotely tolerable. 

But … well …  it was a Friday!

The Unseasoned Traveller

‘Two days!’ said the sensible, yet irritating voice inside my head, ‘you’re going for only two days!’

Well yes, I know, but … well, I don’t get away much.

I am not one of those seasoned travellers, who are able to chuck any old thing in a bag at the last minute and arrive at their destination relaxed, looking fabulous and, having spent all of five minutes packing, are completely confident that the chosen attire in their bag is utterly fit for purpose.

No.  That’s not me.  Such a degree of slick is the stuff of dreams.  Sadly, my recent two-day trip to Newcastle to see Mel and Derek merely underlined the limitless ineptitude that is my lot.

The expedition’s itinerary was established well in advance.  Obviously the less- than-two-hour journey had to be planned with regimental precision and provision made for being seen in the city of Newcastle in possibly up to three public places in order to partake of a spot of lunch and the odd glass or two.  There had been mention of a stroll on day two to view what would soon be Mel and Derek’s new home, prior to partaking of yet another spot of lunch and quite possibly the odd glass or two.

 Much to do!

And how does one dress for a programme packed with such potential?

Now, unlike most women I don’t have a lot of clothes.  My wardrobe consists of either pyjamas or posh frocks, with very little in-between.  The little in-between is usually hidden beneath my bag-lady coat, which I don when I walk the dog. These garments really shouldn’t be exposed and would certainly not be accompanying me to Newcastle.

With only weeks to spare, the steady stream of parcels containing ‘fit-to-be-seen-in-public gear’ started arriving daily. 

-       Only to be returned the very next day.

Panic buying started when a mere measly week was all that remained prior to the launch of this mission.

Tops that went with absolutely nothing were snapped up.  Trousers that were six inches too long, or two inches too short somehow came home with me.    Three pairs of flat boots (remember there was to be a ‘stroll’) of varying colours to partner the tops that went with nothing and the ill-fitting trousers nudged their way into my wardrobe.

At forty-eight-hours before lift off, I hit the ‘next day delivery’ button and an avalanche of uncomfortable but will-have-to-bloody-do jeans hit the doorstep.  I hate jeans – they hurt.

Offering up a ‘please don’t be too cold’ prayer, I purchased a snazzy-looking suede jacket and also a scarf, in case the prayer didn’t work.

And so, to packing …

Faced with the jumbled morass of pitiful purchases that now littered my bed, I begged for help from my sister Paula, whose talents, when it comes to sorting, folding and packing, are unequalled.

The PJs jumped in the bag with that self-confident air assumed only by those who know they are the beloved favourite.  And then, well, it got a little tricky.

‘Should I pack some choices of outfits?  You know, just in case?’

‘Absolutely not!’ yelled Paula.  ‘All you do is take your indecisiveness with you and you spend the next couple of days agonising over what to wear.’

Good advice.

The three pairs of flats, most of the tops and all of the trousers never made it to the bag.  A very old pair of jeans, some ‘comfy’ old trousers and a nearly new jacket did.  The only shoes that made it were agonisingly high and so that stroll would have to be in the car.

When Paula had left I unpacked and repacked, and even had the stuff that belongs in the ‘little-in-between’ category out of the wardrobe at some stage.

Finally, after many hours, I finally put a stop to this ludicrous, self-inflicted torture and vowed to change my ways.  I will throw out all the rubbish from my wardrobe and replace it with items that fit, match, don’t hurt, look good and like to travel.

And with a four-day trip to Becky’s in July already in the diary I had better get a move on!  

Time to start packing!

Hair ... Mags ... and Orgasms ...

Left to its own devices, I suspect that my hair would now be 100% grey and consequently, I am obliged to visit the hairdresser’s every three weeks in order to maintain the myth of the brilliant brunette locks.  Given that I practically live there, you would think that I would arrive at my appointment prepared to fill the time it takes to bring-back-the-brown by indulging in a spot of reading, maybe by taking along my Kindle, a book, a magazine?

Yet, in spite of the fact that I have been high maintenance for some years now, I habitually turn up at the hairdresser’s armed with absolutely nothing to read.   Occasionally, I regard this as an opportunity to tidy my phone and delete the 100s of emails, messages and long-forgotten photographs taken by some talentless drunkard, but mostly, I have little choice but to delve into my hairdresser’s magazine rack.

Now, I have a great deal of respect for my hairdresser – she is a superfast, fab stylist, and has looked after my head for more than twenty years - but her magazine rack, in terms of choice, quality and currency, is undeniably poor.

I must say I’ve never been a massive fan of magazines, perhaps because my experiences of this literary genre are somewhat limited.  I graduated from the childhood comic ‘Mandy’, which focused on nasty bitchy little bullies getting their comeuppance to the much cooler, “we’ll solve your problems” teen mag ‘Jackie’, where all troublesome boyfriend and menstrual cycle issues were resolved in an instant and eventually, like all girls at the time, progressed to the well–thumbed ‘Cosmopolitan’.  This, of course, was the sex education pamphlet for the grown ups, and, if the recent cover headline “Inside the Orgasm Club” is anything to go by, remains so to this very day.

Had I been more organised, I would have brought along my magazine of choice, such as ‘House Beautiful’, ‘Homes and Gardens’, ‘Ideal Home’…

Yes, I agree, most would say that when compared to Cosmopolitan, these are about as dull as you can you get.  I mean … who would not want to know how to have twenty orgasms in the space of as many seconds?  And even if I was one of them, is it fitting that one should discover such secrets whilst sitting patiently in the hairdresser’s chair?  Admittedly, we all need to be distracted from the ghoul staring back at us in the mirror while we wait for the dye to restore our youth, but come on!  Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to be in a darkened room?   Alone, without the pressure to participate in the “where are you going on holiday?” and “are you ready for Christmas?” conversations that punctuate the pauses between the colour, cut and blow?  I mean, twenty orgasms?  Twenty seconds?  A girl needs to concentrate!

As some younger, still optimistic hopeful has usually bagged the tattered, ten-year old copy of ‘Cosmo’, I generally grab a handful of whatever else is on offer and seek entertainment from within the now glossless glossies.

Is there only me on this planet who has no idea who any of these celebs are?  Where have I been?  What have I been doing?  As I flick through page after page of faces I’ve never seen and names I’ve never heard of I can’t bring myself to care about their break-ups, marriages and babies, and can only wonder at how much money it actually takes to put together such appalling outfits.

‘Hello’, or ‘OK’ might then invite me to have a little wander around some European Royal’s palace or attend some footballer’s wedding or even share in the birthday celebrations of our delightful little Prince.  Sometimes I get to see the gowns worn by the winners at the Oscars from films made only about six or seven years ago.  You just can’t buy this excitement!

I would rather shove hairpins down my throat than open the cover of the drivel whose headlines scream:  “My baby was born with two heads!” and “Seventeen year old youth marries Granny!”

On my last visit, despairing once again at my pathetic preparation, I rummaged through the sorry-looking rag rack, hoping to get lucky, and, hidden amongst the garbage, was a copy of ‘Woman and Home’.  Only a year old.  Not bad.  I’ll give it a go.

My exceedingly low expectations started to rise ever so slightly as I found that I recognised and could name almost all the celebrities featured within its pages.  People whose talent deems them worthy of the title.  People like Helen Mirren, Anne Reid, Meryl Streep.

Amongst the celebrities were inspiring tales of real women, of love and loss, success, challenge and triumph, and an article encouraging women to embrace and manage change that had me unexpectedly hooked from its first line:    

 ‘The certainty of misery is preferable to the misery of uncertainty.’   (Virginia Satir, Psychologist)

- A quote that expresses perfectly why so many of us fear change.

Of course this magazine is aimed at women who are 40 or 50+ and those who have some way to go before they reach their middle years will no doubt dismiss it with the same derision that I fling at most of the mags in my hairdresser’s rack.

But because its editors know exactly what they are doing, and because I am firmly within its target audience, it had me entertained throughout my colour, cut and blow-dry.

So much so, in fact, that I have now bought November’s issue of ‘Woman and Home’ and on my next trip to the hairdresser’s I will be placing it proudly on top of the rack in the hope that it might not only raise the standards of the current collection, but also entertain someone like me, who scoffs with intolerant exasperation at almost every mag on the market and who is so ill-prepared that she fails to bring her own.

 Well, unless I forget ….

Overheard in a hospital waiting room

I don’t want anybody there.

Where?

My funeral.  Well, in fact, I won’t be having a funeral, as such.

What do you mean?

Just have me taken to the crematorium.  Just me.  No service.  No religion.  No tea and cakes. Nobody.

Oh.  I’m surprised.  You know a lot of people.  You’re well liked.

No, can’t be doing with it at all.

Well, all right then.  Of course, you were on my list to come to mine, but I quite understand if you don’t want to.

Will you be having a lot of folk to yours then?

I doubt it.  Not many left.

Well, no sense in worrying about it yet.  It’s some way off at least.   

No.  No it isn’t.  Some way off, I mean.

Nonsense!

It’s true.  There comes a time when you just have to accept the inevitable.  And I have.

Can’t they do anything?

They want to try certain things, but I don’t really see the point.   With my allergies and all.  And I can’t have a general anaesthetic.  Better to just accept it.

But they’re bringing out new things all the time! 

Yes …  I suppose.  Accept and hope eh? 

Exactly!

It’s the blood you see.  There’s so much of it. 

Oh.

Still … accept and hope.  Accept and hope. 

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?