We were asked to donate a nearly-new cuddly toy to my boy’s school to raise funds in the Christmas raffle. My son decided to give away one of his precious teddies.
The teddies of all shapes and sizes (and species) jumble together in a seemingly random heap, next to his pillow in bed. However, they apparently have a strict ranking and placing that only my son knows. If a little leopard or a furry duck slips into the wrong area, rearrangement is absolutely necessary.
Out of this pile he chose to donate a small teddy called ‘Gartner’ Bear (the bear was wearing a Gartner t-shirt).
On the morning of the raffle donation, my son was a bit reluctant to give away ‘his’ teddy, but he took the little bear off to school to put in the donation box.
When I picked up my boy after school, he was rather sad.
He explained how he had given Gartner Bear to a school helper, and that the teddy had been put into the box. He said he could see his little furry face peeping out … and suddenly he wanted the little teddy back, very badly.
Then, a much larger toy was put on top of Gartner Bear, squashing him.
I could see my son (very sensitive, highly imaginative) felt really very sad about this. He wanted to rescue the little ted, to bring him home and love him again.
So I do The Mum Thing and told him how happy Gartner bear was! What an exciting adventure — he’s off to see the world — hurrah! And how another little boy or girl will win him in the toy raffle and love him etc. etc.
Over a week later, we went to the school Christmas Fayre to support the drive for funds. My son paid for one raffle ticket at the toy tombola. And of course won back Gartner bear straight away.
So, as you tuck your little ones in tonight, be sure and tell them that there IS a Teddy God.
As this festive time of year approaches, I am reminded that tis the season to lay off staff (fa la la la … la la la LA!).
I know it doesn’t scan as happily as the traditional carol, which is apt for such sad tidings. In the past week alone I’ve heard of two colleagues who are now facing a bleak midwinter; I’m sure with ‘austerity measures’ bearing down there will be more to come.
I’ve been made redundant three times in my life. It’s never a nice thing. The first time I was only in my early 20s, with no children to support, just rent and food to find.
I was working in a London ad agency as a copywriter, and my team mate (art director) and I knew redundancy was on the cards for us. Things had been too quiet in the creative department, and no briefs to work on were coming our way.
Management couldn’t look us in the eye.
But we kept on going in to work.
Gritting our teeth.
Brassing it out.
I think they were expecting (hoping) we would get the message. Fall on our swords of wounded pride and just leave quietly.
But we needed the money, so we kept on painfully going in to ‘work’. Sitting all day with nothing to do.
After a few weeks of this, management moved us out of our nice agency front office with big windows, and installed another creative team.
Devastating.
An old desk was dragged into the ‘video library’ for us. That was our new work station. Basically a corridor with shelves of videos in it.
BUT WE ENDURED.
We still (dutifully) kept going in.
Playing ignorant. Trying to eke out another pay check before the axe would fall.
We papered the walls (well, the video cassette shelves) with ads. But we knew we were a lost cause. No one could look us in the eye. No one came in to ask about our work, or give us deadlines.
We were being cut out of the picture.
Invisibilized.
That’s one of the worst things about the ‘R’ word; people’s embarrassment and wish that you would ‘just go away quietly.’
The Creative Director had lost faith in us. He kept pulling everything we created into pieces. Meaningless shredded thoughts that led us nowhere but the door.
Even worse, we had lost faith in ourselves.
I vividly remember the day the CD hovered in the corridor/doorway after a board meeting. He was ashamed.
He knew we’d done nothing wrong. But we were Out.
Eventually, he mumbled, “Well… let’s call this your last week then.”
The horror and half-hung terror of the past months washed over us.
I don’t know what possessed me. But I decided to make a joke out of the horrible, drawn-out situation we’d been putting ourselves through.
I put my head into my hands and theatrically shrieked in sorrow and pain.
“Aieeeeee!!! No! OHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”
“No. no. NO. I’ve got bills to pay – a cat to feed … ”
At this point I put on a fake Cockney accent, like Dodger from Oliver Twist, and I began imploring him with open arms, begging him for mercy.
“Avent we always dun our best for yoo, guv’nor? We’ve worked our fingers to the bone for you — we ‘ave! To THE BONE!”
“And what ‘ave we got to show for it? BONY FINGERS.’ And I remember showing him my fingers.
I imagine with 25 years of hindsight that I thought I was being hilarious. Cutting through the horrible tension. Getting across our sadness in an acceptably humorous way.
Showing him that we knew he was the creative Good Guy and we didn’t bear a grudge.
After my performance, we watched him, with bowed head, walk backwards out of our ‘room’.
Me and D looked at each other with resignation (ha ha) and began to pack up our desk bits and pieces.
But 5 minutes later, the CD was back. Hovering, shamefaced around our ‘doorway’.
“OK … I’ve got you another 2 weeks,” he says.
!!!
Me and D didn’t know whether to laugh with the relief of 2 more weeks in a warm, safe agency environment … or to cry with the knowledge of having to drag ourselves through more invisibilized wretched torture.
But it meant 2 weeks more money. So I guess sometimes it pays to beg.
Today.
Alone.
Having time and space to myself at last.
Ignoring the washing, the cleaning, the housework.
Wasting time carefully, with a range of activities chosen for myself, me, only.
Segmenting the day into fizzling an hour away on social networking, an hour on news reading, and hour on novel reading, an hour on showering, pondering and writing.
I have another 2 hours of wonderful time wasting. Alone.
The sound of the fridge switching itself on. The noise of a passing car. The quiet blip and bloop of ‘Goldie’ and ‘Splash’ (our goldfish) as they surface in the tank.
The Coat of Power is upon me, and yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow on the way to town, I SHALL fear no evil.
It’s amazing (and frankly, quite shallow) how much a new coat or a new perfume can lift your spirits when you’re down.
Since I bought the New Coat I have resolved:
1. To stop drinking (alcohol) every day
2. To eat more healthy food (again)
3. To lose AT LEAST 2 stone for my health and my children’s sake (again)
4. To start walking more & to work every day
5. To look after myself more
6. To have more patience and not live with constant regret
7. To stop berating and accusing myself for every small mistake or slip I may make
8. To stop seeking approval from the people in my life: I AM OK
The Coat has a mysterious power, and it is working over and through me.
It is a shiny black Parka with silver zips and toggles and has a furry rimmed hood. It makes me feel extraordinarily good when I wear it.
So therefore I am acting more like the Woman-In-The-Coat that I want and hope to be.
I can’t wait to walk and go out in it.!!!
Maybe it is a Voodoo coat??? Drenched in power from some unknowable dark lady who worked on its silvery accents; binding spells into its shining lining, singing strange words in a low voice to an ancient tune; breathing positivity into its fur-lined hood.
It was in the Sale at House of Fraser down from £250 to £175.
I realised that life is a series of flaky compromises — a bit like a bland baklava.
What’s For Afters?
Dirty pan, mucky plates
Not wiped clean
In a mess
Smelly, sticky, ugly to see
Cold, coagulated vomitus
Thrown up and thrown away
Half munched, half crunched
Chewed knobs of gristle, cold lumps of fat
Half gnawed stomach contents in your eyes
EAT THEM
EAT THEM
Chew them
Swallow them
Lick your lips and smile through sick
Go back for seconds
Go on!
Force it down
And then go back for more.
When does this end? When Will There Be Dessert?
Only when your plate is empty
Licked clean, wiped shiny
So swallow every piece of shit
In the hope of something sweet
At the age of 44 I had a sudden urge to get fit and lose weight. So around 4 years ago I gave running a go. Well, I gave running, wobbling and walking a bit of a go.
I used to go out early. Around 6.00am was best. Before anyone could see me. Before anyone younger, fitter, and more toned and honed was running on the same road as me.
How they seem to love gliding past me effortlessly. A flash of tanned calf and Nike trainers leaving me in their wake, seemingly saying “Eat my dust waddler! You don’t belong out here. Get back to your tea and your daytime TV.”
But I wasn’t brow-beaten. And for a while I didn’t give in.
Going through the pain barrier
Starting physical exercise was a huge decision for me. I was the sort of 1980s girl who regularly bunked off ‘games’ at school. All I remember is hideous humiliation. Too small. Wonky eyesight. Poor spatial awareness. Not a fast runner. Couldn’t catch a ball. I was always the last to be picked for teams.
I wasn’t a winner.
It’s the not taking part that counts.
So, it was a pretty startling idea when I told MM I was going to start running.
My determination not to be frightened out of my life-changing decision started back in the running shop. I needed to buy ‘proper’ trainers, you see. To protect my ageing knees, ankles etc.
The super-fit shop assistant looked bewildered. He looked me up and down.
‘You? You are going to start running?”
He gazed down at my high-heeled sling-back shoes.
“Strange choice of shoe to come out in,” he grinned.
But what does he know about being a short 44 year old woman? How flat shoes would do nothing for me? (Except make me look stumpy).
Fun-size Feet
After asking my shoe size, the Fit Smiling Man (FSM) brought out a pair of children’s trainers … my little size 3 feet are obviously not allowed to look sophisticated while they get me fit.
Now, as an ex-goth, the idea of wearing shiny metallic trainers with fluorescent purple and pink piping is not really appealing. I wanted to ask if he had them in black… but no.
My shame was not over yet.
Oh no.
He took me over to a treadmill in the middle of the shop. In broad daylight. Under bright lights. Amongst fit, tanned laughing people.
He cheerfully asked me to ‘hop on’ to the running machine, wearing my child’s size flashing neon trainers.
And he asked me to … run.
Run away from the running shop
So. I’ve gone into a running shop in order to purchase running equipment. In order to run.
But the idea of running in front of the FSM and MM makes me suddenly petrified. I can feel the sweat beading on my brow, before I even start.
The FSM starts The Belt of Shame at what he calls a ‘slow pace’.
I thought I was going to fly off the end. Not cool.
So FSM starts adjusting buttons and then he is training a special camera on my bottom and the back of my legs.
I want to die.
He is saying stuff about ‘pronation’ (in order to track my running ‘style’ apparently). And I am acutely aware that I am a panting middle-aged woman running on a treadmill in the middle of a bright shop, and there is no ‘style’ involved.
I feel red and shiny with sweat, my boulder-like buttocks bouncing and pounding after me. Chasing me. Jumping up and down madly inside my jeans. I know the men are watching me.
I want it to stop.
To go back to being a quietly un-sporty person.
To forget this misguided attempt to be someone else ever happened.
Then the FSM says “I’ll just pop it up a pace.” (I am now thinking he is possibly a sadist… or perhaps a potato couch voyeur?)
But all these thoughts have to be ignored, because now I am really having to exert myself. To run.
Not just my quick London skitter to catch the tube or bus, or a gentle jog after a toddler at the beach; a real proper RUN, perhaps for the first time in over 30 years.
My body is in trembling shock, but I am pounding on. All the time FSM is saying “Just a minute more … just one minute more”.
I still have enough sardonic breathing space in my brain to imagine him somehow getting excited by my humiliation.
Then. Then. He puts the treadmill up ANOTHER notch, and I’m sure he is actually getting off on this.
I cannot believe I can go on. The next 30 seconds seems to last for a hot-horror-pain hour, but then he slows down the treadmill to a walking pace. It eventually comes to a halt, and I can stop.
I grab onto the guardrails. Huffing. Puffing. Red, dishevelled and shamed.
Girl on film (2 minutes later)
I must then stand there, in the shop, whilst he analyzes my ‘running technique’. ?
I didn’t know I could run until today, let alone have a ‘technique’.
I pant with effort, after what to him is probably the equivalent of a walk around Sainsbury’s.
I want to die of hot prickly embarrassment as he shows the film. The film of my chubby legs and bottom FILMED FROM BEHIND.
But he talks me through my posture, the muscles used for running and ‘pronation’. I am waiting for him to smugly diagnose how shit and unfit I am.
But he is non-plussed.
He keeps saying, “Well this is really unusual …” And “You’re telling me you’ve never run before?” And “It’s very rare to see this…” “And you’ve never run before?” etc. as I pant my lungs up over his TV screen.
She’s a walking miracle
It turns out I am one of the world’s rare 10% with what is called a natural running technique. Big news to me.
So I left FSM bemused and amazed which was almost worth all the pain and embarrassment.
I like to think that somewhere, way back in the mists of time, my Celtic women forbears are smiling to themselves at their gift to me of sturdy calves and meaty thighs.
All that running about the hills and valleys chasing sheep and running away from invading Romans, marauding Anglo-Saxons, Norman French, Viking raiders & co. was not in vain.
So I can tell you that I began to run regularly. And it didn’t just become a physical thing. It was also good for my mental health. It scratched an itch I never even knew I had.
I even managed to find black running trousers, a black top and black socks.
Still had to settle for hideous purple/silver trainers though. So uncool.
Watch out. Goth running.
I love his face.
His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.
I love his range of facial expressions.
I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).
His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.
His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.
I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.
I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.
He is so funny.
So, different.
I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.
I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.
To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.
To crunch him up,
Tight.
In a box.
Like school and society want.
Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.
Owey, Owey Oatflake.
Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.
You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.
When I was young and happily grey-free, I thought nothing of going down to Woollies or Boots to pick up a pack of hair dye off the shelf, slathering it onto my hair and gambling with the results. It was fun.
Some results were hilarious (I remember creating a particularly vivid flame yellow and orange effect when I put Belle Blonde peroxide over deep dyed black) but the point is us 70s and 80s girls just went ahead and did it.
Back in the day dye day dye day
Now in my Crone-age, I have forsworn home hair dye in favour of superior salon techniques (and superior salon prices).
However, I recently considered giving home dyeing another go. When the money isn’t coming in but the silver grey is still coming out, you start to consider economy along with your vanity.
DYE CAN MAKE YOU DIE. FACT.
I excitedly approached the hair colouring aisle, feeling a nostalgic rush of remembrance for my DIY Hair youth.
But as I reached for each pack of Damson Damsel and Elvira Black, I was confronted by a list of dire warnings and frightening capital letter instructions. Underlined. IN BOLD.
Risky Business
How do Clairol, Garnier et al make money out of these things when they have to admit you are gambling with death every time you attempt to apply Chocolate Cherry to your tresses?
The inner instruction leaflets are even more frightening. You are ordered (on pain of death) to do a patch test behind your ear 48 hours before even thinking about dyeing you hair.
Got to turn and face the changes, I suppose.
Earn your patch, sister
So, I purchased my poison, got home, carefully re-read the accompanying 12-page instruction leaflet, and smeared the hair dye gloop behind my ear as instructed. And I waited for any ‘adverse reactions’.
After 10 minutes, in true paranoid Crone style, I asked MM to see if my skin looked ‘red, itchy or swollen’.
“Hmmm, oooh.” He said peering at my neck. “It looks REALLY red.”
I started getting panicky. CHOCOLATE CHERRY WAS GOING TO KILL ME!!!
I went back upstairs. I shakily re-read leaflet:
“If you notice ANY shortness of breath SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ADVICE.”
I began to feel a tightness in my chest. Was that a hitch in my throat? The stingy itchyness behind my ear seemed to grow hotter and hotter…
… of course I rushed to the bathroom to wash the flipping stuff off.
As I sat there on the edge of the bath, bedraggled and undyed (but wondrously alive!) MM wandered casually past the door and helpfully remarked,
“But it’s ALWAYS red behind your ear.”
What a waste of £9.45. You can’t get your money back, even if you survive.
Why have things got so complicated? So risky? All I want is ‘100% grey coverage with a natural looking sheen’, at home, in under 20 minutes.
I’ve worked in the creative business for years, and have always been acutely aware of the importance of self-image for women. Punk didn’t ever die (for me), but it has had to be de-spiked on occasion.
So, dressing to meet new clients now I’m older has become a fine balance between displaying personality and professionalism.
Stay Free!
Tough brief
If you are an average-sized woman* who wants to look good for work, I wish you luck.
Once you’re approaching 50, the rules of clothes shopping changes. You must gird your loins (if you need to; See Tummy-control pants) and prepare for The Hanger Games.
Scene 1. Locate an item you actually like Scene 2. Find it in your size and (crucially) in your colour Scene 3. Go into a small overheated cubicle, undress, and try on the item without having a complete mental breakdown as your lost youth reflects brutally back at you under 1000 watt lights Scene 4. Like the item Scene 5. Afford to pay for the item
And you must complete all of this without your self-esteem being sucked dry by the coolly beautiful 20-something Size 0 shop assistants.
PLUMP OLD WOMAN ALERT
As I browse the racks, I know I’m being scrutinized. If I reach out to touch an article of clothing, a beautiful young doe-eyed assassin will pop up and pounce on my size 14 fingers, helpfully informing me that, “These come in 6 colours … and go up to Size TWELVE”.
I am being measured critically, pound for pound, line for line.
I sense a red warning light has flashed on underneath the cash desk. A silent signal is blinking out ‘ALERT! ALERT! FAT OLD WOMAN ATTEMPTING PURCHASE’.
Somewhere, deep in the heart of the Fashion Control Centre, an alarm is going off and it’s all young slim hands on deck.
If you are wily enough to avoid the attention of the assistants’ clear, crinkle-free eyes, the chances of finding something you like – in the size you are – is slim (ha ha).
However, if you do find yourself coaxed into the trap (AKA fitting room) by a lithe young Sales Assassin, please remember she hasn’t lived like you have.
She has no understanding or sympathy with the sartorial packaging of any scars, sags, bags, bums and backtits. And she probably doesn’t give a fat-free fig if you walk out of the changing room looking like a buttoned up sausage.
Just your average fashion fascism
I’m not that fat. I’m not that old. It’s not all over for me yet. It irritates me to say it, but I am actually pretty ‘average’.
So I grew older and I grew some hips: I still want to look good.
To paraphrase Dylan, ‘I’m not yet ready to go gentle into that dark nightie.’
*Source: http://yougov.co.uk/news/2013/11/20/size-12-britains-ideal-dress-size/ Debenhams recently became the first UK department store to display size 16 mannequins, in an effort to break away from the standard size 10 models said to cause women anguish and ‘better represent real women’s bodies’.
the crone 