Open Writing

‘Mum, I don’t feel like myself,’ said our seven-year-old at breakfast, a change of personality some of us would welcome during the winter of discontent, not to mention demoralisation. Far from being the month of hope renewed and promise of better days ahead, January is merely presenting some of us with a cold front, whose chilling effects could be felt for quite a while.

After weeks of practice for the lead in a new show, the vivacious Elizabeth Seal, who is nearly my age, received the ‘don’t come Monday’ treatment. Her director decided he had miscast her, at forty-two she looked too old for the part.

Queen Juliana and Lee Radziwell, who always look immaculately dressed to me, were recently voted among the ten worst dressed women.

The proprietor of a body-building studio has just told Raquel Welch that she needs special exercise to slim her hips, raise her assets and correct the ‘sag’ in her rear. He also pointed out that Miss Welch had a tendency to ‘loose-muscle’ tone, which must make mine on the verge of collapse.

As if all this wasn’t ego-damaging enough, while visiting the doctor the other day I received another deadly shock. While daughter was having her verucca excavated, in my eagerness not to miss anything I accidentally stood on the weighing scales, I don’t know who looked the most distressed as we left, daughter or me.

Of course I blame it all on the snow. To think I once couldn’t get enough of the stuff. When I wasn’t rolling my friend’s face in it, I was eating it, sliding happily home from school with a large juicy icicle in my mouth! Now for some reason it has me in a state of semi-slumber.

Hibernating animals have the right idea, they stock up their little bodies for a nice long sleep until spring. My little body is well and truly stocked but nasty people keep waking me up. All the articles I ever read on ‘How to Relax’ have taken their toll, smoking can’t be as hard to give up as the soporific relaxing.

Night after night I can be seen dozing in front of the embers a frail picture of senility. The same two buttonless shirts shielding my knees and the same needle and thread resting in my lifeless fingers. All this easy pleasure must surely be bad for me. I know, I ought to be out somewhere learning to slim, or being taught how to stick flowers in plastic, but at this time of year I always feel tired and listless, my eyes constantly straying towards the ‘tired blood’ adverts.

After reading about the vicar who feels better after standing on his head for a while each morning I did reach for my yoga book again. But when I stand on my head, the blood that drags itself to my brain is accompanied by ten stones of loose ‘muscle tone.’ But I do believe a few mornings of this treatment would alter my shape considerably. The top of my head should become quite firm and flat, the wrinkles on my neck would probably disappear – but so would my neck! I suppose everything would just start hanging the other way.

If only I had the courage of one Dutch fish and chip shop proprietor in the news recently. He persuaded his dentist to sew up his jaws with steel thread to stop him eating. He hopes to lose weight by existing on a liquid diet poured through his teeth.

Unfortunately, after one needle prick my dentist and I are not on speaking terms and he has such difficulty getting me to open my mouth I suspect he thinks my jaws are permanently locked anyway. I wonder what happens when the stitches are eventually removed. How does one keep the figure so painfully acquired? It would mean a lifetime in and out of stitches for me.

Although it does nothing for my figure I am an enthusiastic plant-watcher during the winter months. Mine give me endless pleasure. It’s a satisfying, unenergetic and warm pastime and definitely beats gardening.

There is a peanut-growing craze sweeping America at the moment. Carter enthusiasts are paying £2 for a ‘presidential starter kit’ – one peanut in a plastic pot. But plants need not be expensive. Most of mine started from one ‘mother’ plant. One year I planted some green pepper seeds just for curiosity. We have never had any flowers, but the glossy green leaves flourish every year and look very decorative. Fruit pips – orange, apple and lemon – grow quite successfully in a pot; it’s more fun not knowing what to expect.

Apart from me in my wellies, the snow has brought forth some strange sights. Glancing through her curtains at the silently falling snow a friend was mystified at what looked like a tiny red light floating through the air. On closer inspection it turned out to be a young man on skis with a light fixed to his bob-cap!

It sounds paradoxical but I think the labour-saving age is most exhausting. I am beginning to realise why my gran was almost always full of interminable energy until she died at ninety-three.

She managed to raise a family of eight without modern gadgets I know, but my grandad didn’t change his shirt every day. His stiff collars were sent to the laundry. The heavy serviceable shirts were not always in the washer. Nowadays men don’t just change their collars, everything is washable. Instead of one weekly wash, most of us are at it two or three times.

They did not have to go trampling round various supermarkets serving themselves, shopping meant leaving a weekly order at the Co-op to be delivered later. Also there was not such an exotic choice of meat and veg to choose from. The Sunday joint had to last much longer, meals were less varied and, therefore easier to prepare. So that’s why we need more rest today – husbands take note!