Monday
I was walking back from escorting Mum from Catford to Euston (the annual Preston visit is upon us – I would hide yourselves in the Trough of Bowland till the danger has passed if I were you) because I am the perfect daughter, when I was suddenly confronted with the unexpected and to be frank deeply unwanted sight of a huge procession of naked cyclists bearing down on me as I tried to cross the road. Truly, no good deed (all the way to Euston! From Catford! Early in the morning because she likes to get there in time to meet herself coming back) goes unpunished.
I don’t know what their point, their protest or their message was. Maybe they didn’t even have one. Any agenda they might have had, I assure you, would have been lost amid the hundreds of questions that immediately fill the onlooker’s mind as they bomb past. Things like: doesn’t that hurt? If not instantly then surely very soon thereafter? Aren’t you cold? Do you think I want to see this? Why have so many men got thick metal rings around their parts and do I want to know? And why, given the profound novelty of the sight, does it all become, within nanoseconds, so, so boring?
Tuesday
Taylor Swift, the Euros, the election, a reported increase in fox hunting, milkshakes being thrown at Nigel Farage – there is currently almost too much for me not to care about. I’m gonna have to write to that John Donne and take issue with the whole “no man is an island” thing.
I know I should care about at least fox hunting – I understand that killing animals for mere sport is a Bad Thing – but I just don’t have it in me. Sorry, Reynard. But life’s so exhausting already, you know. And there are plenty of others to care about you instead.
And I can see that we probably need to uphold the principle of not launching dairy-based or any other missiles at public figures, however despicable we find them, but – really?
Swift and the Euros? Everyone enjoy! I’ve just never knowingly heard one of her songs or watched a football match and I’m too tired to start now.
The election? At least here I have company. All of us just hunkering down and praying for daylight.
Wednesday
About once a year I can stand the grimness of my body no longer and book myself into a salon for all sorts of terrible waxings (“Lay in extra strips, general anaesthetic and some Kendal mint bars for the workers”), a manicure, a facial (“Do you have anything that takes care of spots AND wrinkles? You don’t? Then I’ll just take the Beltsander 30-min Supreme”) and a pedicure. Then I enjoy wearing skirts and sandals and considering myself remade for a week before slipping into joggers, pilled cardigans and battered trainers for the remaining 51. This was the week it was, and while I was having my face massaged the young lady in charge ranted at me about the deep unwisdom of women Botoxing their foreheads. That’s where your third eye is, apparently, and if you freeze that you are cutting yourself off from all your emotions.
This is actually a much better explanation for the rise in Botox use than any other I have heard. The older you get, especially as a woman, the more expressing your feelings becomes less of an option. You haven’t time, and you certainly don’t have time to deal with the fallout. Much better to cut them off at the source entirely. Although if I have to see those naked cyclists again, I might just jab the needles into my first and second eyes instead.
Thursday
The people in the flat downstairs (students – I hate them, but only for their youth and idealism) have just acquired a dog. Its name is Biscuit. Which would be fine, except that from a distance and through doors and windows it sounds a lot like Lucy. As a result, I am jumping at ersatz summonses, commands and tellings off about 80 times a day. “Biscuit!/Lucy!” one of them snaps and I am immediately flooded with adrenalin and mentally cowering, wondering what it is I’ve done wrong now. It is like being a child again, but not in a good way. I am in a state of constant hypervigilance. I’ve got to get double glazing or the dog’s name changed as a matter of urgency.
Friday
Ready for Mum’s return from the frozen north tomorrow, I prepare a batch of my laundry for her to do when she gets home. “Are you really sure that you, a fortysomething woman, should still be getting her mother to do her laundry?” asks my husband. “I am not getting her to do my laundry,” I reply, “I am giving her a reason to live now that Dad’s dead.” This is true. My mother needs to be busy at all times. And now, without Dad to care for and to make up a load of whites and darks every week, it falls to me to provide. So every week I pack a load in a suitcase and take it over with her grandson when we visit. It’s a carefully curated selection – mostly his clothes, because she loves him best, nothing that needs ironing because it’s pegging out that’s the pleasure, not that, and a few pieces from me and her son in law so she doesn’t realise how thoughtful I’m being as I grant her this beautiful favour. And then she washes it, pairs all the socks, folds all the rest and packs it in the big Sainsbury’s bag and sends me home with it. I really am such a good daughter.
