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In Good Company: Bridlington Beige

Enid Blackburn tells of coming to terms with the menopause.

‘If I get hot flushes, I just fan myself, I have several which I keep close at hand,’ said a well-known TV personality.

She certainly has my admiration; and if I had the sort of friends who wouldn’t bat an eyelid if I selected a fan and wafted myself every half-hour, I should certainly try this.

I realise, too late, I have been treating this menopause all wrong. Instead of ignoring my glowing facial transformations – the colourful transition from pale porridge to pink, pink to puce, then when you reach scalp lift-off back to pale cod again – my friends and I fall about laughing, which usually triggers a repeat.

My family is becoming quite experienced at ignoring the ‘bursting into tears’ syndrome. This is the part I confess I like least. When you are trying to command a ship, tears do nothing for one’s superiority. Although I’m working on it, the unexpected variety is even harder to bear.

For instance, I have been producing technicolour washing quite accidentally for years, and I still don’t know why husband’s white vest suddenly turned powder-puff pink, while daughter’s pink lingerie finished up sludge grey.

Withering comments are just something I have learned to live with, yet in the middle of a well-rehearsed defence the other day, concerning a pair of burgundy-tinged blue jeans, all of a sudden I am crying like a baby.

Still, tears are recommended as a beautifier, and are purported to leave the eyeballs sparkling clear. If they could squirt to the ground without touching my skin, I might indulge more often.

Experimenting with make-up can be rejuvenating, but it’s a pity one cannot be allowed to walk around in daylight for a few hours to test before buying.

I admired the peachy silk tones of my new moisturiser in the kitchen mirror last week. Then, as is my wont, I sneaked another peep at my refection in a pan lid in the hardware shop window. What a transformation! Was that radiant orange sun really me? Every time I spoke to anyone I had to either blow my nose a lot or stand in the shade. So it was particularly surprising to be told by an old school chum, ‘You never look any older.’

By only using half a squelch of make-up I have managed to regulate my New Guinea fever look to a modest Bridlington beige.

Naturally, I intend to continue wearing it!


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