Bird Brain

I saw the birds perched in a tree at the end of the Close.
Black bird shapes on black branches, settled in silhouette against the cold white winter sky. I count 10. I think there are 10.

What is in their minds? I know birds cannot be said to have consciousness of self in the same way humans do. Or can do.
I am sitting, staring out of the window and wondering about the birds.

I try to get into their birdy brains. I am thinking of my claw-like twist-sticks feet curled around the cold twig of the branch. I am flicking, fleeting random thought of tree, bird, branch, twig, claw, bird, sky, fly, twig, tree, bird, branch, sky.

Of course I have no language. Not in the way that humans have it. For all I know the bird word for ‘tree’ is ‘Kaaah’ but of course they have no concept of language at all, only the black and white reality of tree, sky, earth; and the moment which is always Now.

No past. No future. They live in the moment.

All 10 birds – suddenly, almost as one – take to the air. Uncurl those cold feet from cold bark and take flight into the cold sky. No chatter about when or where. Just unfurl and fly knowing all will follow. A time to perch. A time to fly. Always living in the Now.

I am sad watching the dark birds wheeling in the sky.

I am wishing I could also live in the Now. Forget the past. Not worry about the future. Just stretch out. Step off. And fly.

It pays to get down on your knees and beg

I've been made redundant three times in my life. Never a nice thing. First time it happened at an ad agency, me and my team mate knew it was on the cards for us. But we kept on going in to work. Gritting our teeth. Brassing it out.
First they stopped giving us briefs (our work). Then they took away our office and put a new team in there.
We had to sit on a desk in the 'video library' (a corridor with shelves in it).
We still dutifully kept going in. Papering the (video cassette) walls with ads. A bit ashamed at how far we had fallen from grace. But we had to keep going in, even though 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 did into pieces. Meaningless pieces. Confusion. Mis-direction.
Worse. We had lost faith in ourselves.
After months and weeks of daily pain and humiliation, the CD came down (nervous; quite nice man really; dead now -- died in a strange way, using self-asphyxiation sex technique that went wrong .. anyway, I digress); he stood in our 'doorway' (video library corridor entrance) and mumbled shamefacedly, "Let's call this your last week then."
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 threw my head into my hands and screeched "NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" Then I play-actingly sobbed, "No, No Nooo", wretchedly and pathetically. I started rambling, using an over-acting cockney kid voice, "But I got bills to pay Mister -- a cat to feed and fings ... " I think I got down on my knees, but i definitely implored him with open arms and begged him for mercy. I remember saying (in my fake cockney 'Dodger' voice) "Avent we always done our best for you? We've worked our fingers to the bone for you -- we 'ave!!" And i showed him my fingers (which were bony back then).
He walked backwards out of the room.
Me and D (my partner) looked at each other, smirked and sighed heavily as we began to pack up our bits and pieces. 5 minutes later, Mr CD-Shameface hovers back around our 'doorway'.
"OK OK" he says. "I've got you another 2 weeks."
Me and D didn't know whether to laugh with relief of 2 weeks more in warm, safe agency environment ... or cry with the knowledge of dragging ourselves through more continued invisibilized torture.
Maybe I should have changed careers and gone to RADA?

Voodoo Coat

Never under-estimate the power of a new coat.

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 and a new perfume can lift your spirits as the year turns.
Since I bought the New Coat I have resolved:
1. To stop drinking every day
2. To eat more healthy food again
3. To lose AT LEAST 2 stone for my health and my children's sake
4. To start walking or running 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 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 lady who worked on its silver accoutrements, binding spells into its shining lining, singing strange words in a low voice to an ancient tune and breathing ritual positivity into its fur-lined hood.
It was in the Sale at House of Fraser down from £250 to £175.
Bargain.

Apple Bobbing Hell

I was press-ganged into helping run a stall at the Infant's School Autumn fete this weekend. I was not keen, having done similar stints before, and having worked all the previous weekend on my own business and pulled two late-nighters midweek to finish up work. However, I find it quite hard to say 'no' to the mummies.
I would not say I am a weak person. Or particularly impressionable. As I enter the playground at pick-up time, a mummy will ask "Are you helping out at the Autumn Fete on Saturday?", and I will truthfully say 'No', and give full reasons why not.
But then something strange happens to me. The mummy will volunteer me to help run a stall and I can't make my lips say 'No'. Even though I have a better case not to volunteer than the mostly non-working women around me. (By the way, this all comes after having to provide a bottle of booze for the tombola (in return for 'Mufti Day' at school), a NEW toy for the Toy Tombola for feck's sake (in return for 'Mufti Day') and then a plate of home-made cakes for Mufti Day (snort -- 'home-made' by the good people at Waitrose bakery). I mean what do they want next, Blood for Mufti???
The idea then is, you waste your precious family time at a weekend running a stall, and then you can pay to win all your donated goods back. See?
Well, anyway, I couldn't say 'No' -- and when the mummy mentioned we were in the 'Halloween Theme' room and could dress up as witches I thought well, at least that might be a laugh. And it was Apple Bobbing. What could be stressful about that?
Come Saturday and I pull on my black and red stripey tights, do full face witchy make-up with blood red lips, long black Morticia Addams wig and huge pointy black hat, layers of black cloaky clothes, and off I go to have good community fun.
What a mistake a pointy hat and wig are in a hot, overcrowded classroom full of Freyas, Ellas, Caspers, Harrys and Hannahs.
First off the organiser (in chic sexy witch hat) rushes over to explain there are Health & Safety issues with Apple Bobbing.
1. NO CHILD may take part without a parent present to agree to the risks
2. We were handed a slip of paper with a Pediatrician's Emergency Number on it
Right. Before we could even get to grips with the dangers of death we had been given, the floodgates opened and a rush of spoiled grabby (but well-spoken) children swarmed in. I was in charge of stamping their tickets to show they had paid and played.
Try that when they are already heading towards the tank of water whislt you are holding onto your witches hat and wig and gabbling frantically "Have you got your mummy or daddy with you?"
THEN, while your back is turned, pushy mums and toddlers are over at your cauldron of prizes and fecking acting as if this is Lucky Dip -- just putting their hands in and helping themselves.
So you grab your hat and cloak and run back to the table to explain about the apple bobbing, the stamping, the queueing, the safety issues. Who designed the stamping areas so far apart from the bobbing area?? The children don't care or want to know about paying, or the issues of drowning in a lungful of snotty apple water. They are just going right up and putting their heads in the tank.
But then your helper (who is sensibly dressed, just wearing a comfy velvet hat) says "Have you stamped their tickets???" You grimly hold onto your wig as you bend over and try to stamp the soggy fiddly bits of paper thinking "Who's bloody stupid idea was this?"
BUT there is no time for that, because a constant stream (literally) of children is flowing from tank to table and prize cauldron and some of them just want to put their heads under water to get wet, which is fine, but trying to impose order on the chaos is mind numbingly, spirit crushingly awful.
Pushy mummies shove their 'cute' be-curled youngsters at you and say "He doesn't want to do Apple Bobbing. Can you just give him a prize?"
Er, no. ??? What sort of planet are these people living on? How fair would it be if I pushed to the front of the Hoop-La and said "My Simeon/Thomas/Grace doesn't want to throw a hoop. can she just have the prize?" !!!
I looked at my watch, thinking at least I was only down to do one hour on the stall. Barely 10 minutes had gone by.
The towels we had laid out were dripping wet. The prizes were mysteriously disappearing, faster then I could give out. My head was hot and itchy under the stupid wig and hat -- why on earth did I think this would be a 'laugh'?
As always, the 'relief' team arrived 5 minutes late (and let me tell you , those 5 minutes are like 5 hours in the Halloween Room) and then prettily faff about in their gorgeous silver pixy hats watching you hot and stressed as you heave towels, stamp limp bits of paper, try and give out prizes (WHERE DID THEY ALL GO???) and supervise the HSE rules on children who couldn't give a TOSS if their 'mummy or daddy' was there -- they just want to jump in with the apples for Christ sake!
At last, after wasting another 10 precious hot agonising minutes, the relief team say smilingly, 'I think I've got how it works' and I am FREE to go.
i tear off my hat and wig and go in search of a drink. Saying "Is your mummy or daddy with you?" 1,000 times gives you something of a thirst.
By the time I had drunk my own body weight in watery squash and tea there were no toys left on the tombola, no bottles left on the bottle tombola, and nothing much left except for me and my throbbing head and stupid outfit.

Redundant old me

Well it has finally happened. The agency I work for is closing its doors at the end of the month and this old hack is heading back into the big wide world to compete with younger and lovelier writers for the scant amount of work that exists out there.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself really. People all over the country are losing their jobs and it looks like things are going to get worse. At least I don't have the worry of childcare costs and school fees like some of my colleagues. But eeeeh pet, it does make you think.

There are many positive thing about being older. Confidence for a start - by this I mean confidence in your own abilities at being able to grasp and embrace the complications of a brief and creating copy that hits the mark running. Every writer I know has encountered blank page syndrome. Those are the days when all you can do is to sit there, staring at your computer screen with jumble of words going around in your head and not one making any sense. As you get older, facing up to the blank page becomes part of the writing process - you know enough to get up, walk away and come back again. My trick is to go to the loo. the minute I'm sat there with my nicks around my ankles, ideas start to flood into my head. The trick is to get back to my desk asap before I forget - so down the office I march, muttering the words over and over, which inevitably leads to some kind colleague asking if I'm alright. At that point, every thought leaves me - so I try to keep my head down and my thoughts intact until my fingers are tapping the keyboard.

Perhaps now I'm being made redundant, and will be working from home for at least some of the time, I should just sit on the loo all day.

Here's a question for all you crones out there. Do I put my age on my cv or portfolio? Or should I just slap on an extra layer of polyfilla and smile bravely as I shake the hand of the creative director young enough to be my grandson or daughter? It's a dilemma!

My miserable menses!

Honestly, one of the worst things about ageing is the fact that almost overnight your body stops being a trusted friend and morphs into some weird, unreliable enemy bent on catching you unawares. Take my periods (please, take them now!) Having not had one for three months I was beginning to come to terms with the menopause and onset of true cronedom, and amazingly, even beginning to welcome the freedom! But last night the flaming floodgates opened in the wee small hours and it's like I'm having a year's worth all at once.

My poor, poor other half. He went to bed innocent as a lamb and woke up like a lamb led to slaughter, covered head to toe in my blood! (drenched I tell you DRENCHED). He threw back the duvet and sat up in complete shock as he saw the carnage, thinking he'd severed an artery or something! He really thought it was him bleeding for a moment and all hell broke loose as he leapt from the bed screaming, only to uncover the real cause of the outpour, much to my shame and utter humiliation. It was like Nightmare on Elm Street meets the Chainsaw Massacre, and on our new white bed linen too. HOW does he put up with me? Not only that, today is our anniversary - what a present - brown clots sticking to him and all!

I apologise for the gory picture, but one of the reasons Bags and I keep coming back to blog on The Crone is that we feel the need to share our pain with other crones, and to warn younger women of what lies ahead. Hah! You younger women may laugh as you unwrap your 'light flow' tampons. It'll never happen to me, you may think as you mark a cross in your diary and plan your holiday around your periods. But let me tell you. I was once like you. My menses were as reliable as clockwork and as light as a drizzle. Now I'm sitting here with my legs crossed wearing tena-lady and an industrial-size tampon and hoping for the best!

We need money to paper over these cracks!

Crone 1 is planning a romantic dinner for two.
Is she excited? A little. But she is more worried that her S/O (Significant Other) will gaze at her over the table and see a washed out old hag. She's paranoid about another spate of thinning hair - despite spending a King's ransom on Perfectil. Now she begins to think about highlights -- they could, perchance, help mask out the fluorescent white skin beneath? But everything costs money! And Crone 1 is in imminent danger of losing her job.
Is she fretting about the mortgage? Worrying about being able to support her two sons through their further education? A bit. BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY she is anxious that she may not be able to afford those oh-so essential highlights. And the sexy acrylic 'French manicure' nails, so crucial to her continued happiness. What will she do when she can't buy her trusty add-ons -- the absolute necessities that detract from the all too grim reality of aging beauty? I agree with her when she says that the men who make us redundant have a LOT to answer for.
Crone 2 (me) is out of work too
It's tragic! Shallow, but very, very tragic. My hair is having a bit of a renaissance right now, cos i had it cut off short THE WEAK FECKLESS BASTARD, but i know it is a temporary reprieve as it is thinning on top and the back.
It's one of my main reasons for losing weight: I could just about bear to look in the mirror and be old AND fat, but the idea of looking in the mirror and seeing a Les Dawson woman with a comb-over -- FAT and BALD and OLD -- is one too many things to overcome.
People may scorn us for our vanity, but they know not how much it costs to maintain a face and figure -- money, time, effort, pain, indignity, horror, humiliation, learning Vietnamese insults (and that's just at the nail salon).
One of the first things that crossed my mind when i was made redundant was not 'How I am going to pay the 'real' bills?', but 'How many more trips to my top hair salon for a cut 'n' colour could i afford?' Closely followed by, 'How many packs of No.7 Beauty Serum?' and 'How many pedicures?' ... 'How much Parisil Facial Home Wax?'
Men just don't understand: they can take away our crappy jobs, but we will fight to the end for our right to stay beautiful.
Crone 1 reminisces ...
So true! I cannot imagine having to ask S/O for money to cover fripperish sounding yet absolutely necessary necessities such as nail infills/pedicures/hair highlights,lowlights + artful layering to hide bald patches/unwanted hair removal from other parts/Perfectil/industrial strength wrinkle filler/leave-on-overnight (although you're not supposed to) collagen face mask/super extra super-super max absorbency I didn't think I HAD this much blood tampons/miracle under foundation dewy virgin look cream/magic over dewy virgin look cream foundation with extra fish scales for added luminescence/anti-age spot hand cream etc etc etc let alone the BOTOX!
I am so high maintenance these days. I remember when I thought washing my face with Camay soap was the height of sophisticated opulence, and I could get away with a slick of tinted moisturiser and a fingertip full of Miner's moss green eyeshadow. Not now though.
My make-up bag alone could sink a battleship. : (
We need money and we need it NOW
I can't even give my S/O oral sex, lest he run his fingers through my carefully arranged thinning hair and finds a bald patch ... then I would be paranoid as he closes his eyes -- wondering what/who he is fantasizing about, in order to close out the un-erotic vision of Deputy Dawg (balding) going down on him ...

Boning gets my vote

It's not all doom and gloom being an ageing crone. Saturday was wonderful. I spent it at Goodwood Revival, celebrating a friend's 50th birthday, and I made an incredible discovery. Boning.

Dressing up for big girls

At the request of the birthday girl, the dress code of the day was vintage, and a few weeks earlier we'd hot-footed it out of Godalming and headed up to Holloway. Not to the women's prison I must quickly add, but to the utterly delightful homage to the 50s that is Vivienne's of Holloway. What a shop! It's chock to the brim with peplum skirts, petticoats and all things glam. We were like kids in a sweetie shop, with our eyes on stalks at all the gaudy glad rags. The assistants are all kitted out in it too, with bee-stung lips, not a hair out of place and every little detail done to a 't'.

Bones of contentment

Rugby tackling each other out of the way to get to the best things first, we quickly hit the rails, grabbing as much as we could, to the amusement of the girls. "You need to get measured first", one of them politely pointed out. "Our sizes aren't the same as the high street."

Just as well we did, because my uber-slim size 10 friend is actually a curvy size 14 in a Vivienne, and I measure up to an absolutely voluptuous size 18! It's worth getting over the shock quickly though, because the dresses are absolutely divine and completely built for curves. The secret? Inbuilt boning!

I love it! I stepped out of the changing room in a red and white polka dot number, and looked into the mirror. Suddenly, in front of my eyes I acquired a waist - something last seen around Christmas 1989 before I got pregnant with my first son. My bust was lifted from its usual place (somewhere around where my waist used to be) to the new and heady heights of my chest - where it stayed, proud and pointing, like a throwback to those Playtex cross your heart bra ads my bothers used to swoon over. My stomach disappeared, and when I looked behind me, so had my derierre! I stood there at the mirror for what seemed like hours, dumbstruck at the transformation. My friend was equally entranced at her reflection. If we'd had the money we'd have bought the whole shop right there and then!

Back to the 50s for me!

So off we went to Goodwood, and while we were there I discovered more and more 50s glamour. Stalls that were jam-packed with little vintage fur jackets, elbow length gloves and pillbox hats. Curvacious silk dresses, and rack after rack of frilly, frou-frou! Lots of people had made a wonderful effort and dressed up for the day, and the glamour of their hair and clothing added a real sense of occasion. Good manners seemed to be 'de rigour' too - everyone we met was polite and charming.

So, at my vintage age of 50 I've decided that the 50's are my thing. Red lippy, lacquer, the lot. I'm embracing boning. And I'm making no bones about it!

A beautiful moment

I had a Beautiful Moment yesterday.
I was in House of Fraser trying on clothes. I was spending hundreds of pounds on myself, for the good of my new business. Oh yes. I wasn't enjoying looking at this season's shoes, boots, jackets and dresses. No no no. I HAD to you see. I HAD to smarten up, on orders from the MD/CEO (my husband).
We are going out to meet clients face to face, and I have not updated my 'smart' look for 8 years as I have been employed. So, everything smart I have has wing collars and fat lapels and smells faintly of cardboard packing. Well, not all of it. But enough that it matters to The Boss. So he gave me the brief to go out, spend money and attempt a new look for me which is to 'Look smart, look professional, look business-like ... but look creative.'
Oh dear.
So ... I began by being easy on myself, tried on a few 'safe' items and got a lovely zip neck jumper (black naturally) from Jaegar and some posh other knitwear ... then I started trying on smart business dresses and jackets. I was fitting in them. FITTING. I am so used to high street chains where a size 14 skimps on fabric and may as well be a size 8 for all it bears to the reality of the average woman's curves but here, here, amongst the lofty sales girls and snooty floorwalkers I was actually finding clothes I could slip into, and look good in. I was so pleased I was fitting into a size smaller, looking and feeling slinkier and better than I have for years that I actually began to enjoy myself (a little).
So ... 3 items in the HoF bag!!! I was on a roll.
By now I was feeling braver, getting the buzz of a retail rabbit. I started to edge into the more exclusive areas -- Hugo Boss, DKNY, Episode ... a beautiful doe-eyed shop asssistant approached me as my bumbling size 14 fingers handled a £180 blouse and she said "These come in 6 colours ... and go up to size TWELVE" .
Was it me or was I being measured critically from afar? Perhaps a warning light had come on under her cash desk (or maybe a silent 'FAT FAT FAT' alarm?) and she had quickly (well, as quickly as a size 0 shop assistant can move and still look calm, possessed and cool) intercepted me before i stretched or be-greased her precious fabrics. I moved swiftly on.
Then. Then I found the most gorgeous dress. The colour was the bluey purple that I love, the cut was post-industrial so retained that edgy ex-punk look I love ... and it was belted so it showed off my best bits whilst disguising others. Well I scrabbled through the rack frantically looking at the sizes 0, 8, 10, ... 16 ... 8? ... 10 ... 16 ... ... oh. (An aside: isn't it bloody annoying when you find something you like and the fashion fascists only make it available in a size 8-12? Like they don't want their clothes associated with a fat ass.)
So, knowing I have what is kindly termed a 'curvylicious booty' (i.e. fat arse, plump thighs and well defined hips) I thought I would give the size 16 a go. I knew it would gape and bag at the top, but the colour was so good, the style was so nice. As soon as my hand lifted the hanger the SA (sales assistant) popped up from nowhere (a bit like in Mr Benn). Attractive, groomed, dark eyed, raven haired and with a sultry Spanish accent that could melt chocolate over chouros.
"Allo, can I elp you?" I mumbled about trying the dress on and she showed me the dressing room.
Now, being a bit fed up by now (and yes, I admit, lazy) with changing my clothes and taking long boots off, jeans off etc. I decided to be practical and keep the boots on, roll down the jeans below my knee and simply try the dress on like that.
Sorted
Well, of course the size 16 was far too big. Pity I thought, as I surveyed the colour. I could imagine this would look good. There I was in my rolled down jean-over-boot, exposing chubby knee, with £100 worth of baggy couture over the top, but I called out to MM that 'Shame it was too big'. Well, Spanish SA (unknown to me) was sweetly waiting outside and said 'Let's 'av a look' (not cockney: remember she has a beautiful rich Spanish accent). Argghhhh! 'No No .... it's alright' I spluttered, but too late she had got her foot in the changing room door and there I was, exposed in my stupid lazy changing attire. But ... would you believe she actually gasped. And not at my half on state of dress.
"But Madam!" She exhorted, 'Zat size is far too BEEG for you!" ... "But zee colour, it is beautiful on you! It is YOU." I mumbled about it was a shame she had no size to fit me and she (amazingly) said "Ah but you are TINY! I will get you zee sise 10 ..." Before I could stop her she was gone.
I moaned aloud to MM "I'll never get in a size 10! It won't even go round one leg! She mustn't be looking at me properly ..."
Well, I tried on the 10 just to prove a point to SA. BUT amazingly, it DID button up. I mean, I looked a bit like a blue sausage in it, but if you'd ever told me I could even dream of trying on a size 10 again, I would have choked on my onion bhajee.
So, SA is still saying 'You must 'ave it! You MUST! It is made for you!! It suit your eyes, your hair, your colouring .. I order it for you now ... See? I am going to order for you and you get it." OK, I think. And I ask SA to order me a size 14.
Her beautifully groomed eyebrows once more shoot up into her coiffured hair "Oh noh noh NOH! Zat iss too BEEG for madam. I get you sise 12 ..."
I could have been her best friend forever at this point, but I remembered it was me who was going to wear this dress, not her. My maturity kicked in (damn it) and I said politely, no, I preferred to wear a size 14. "Oh ... if madam is sure? but zis size is too BEEG you can change if you like ..?" I was definitely falling in love with her.
You have beautiful eyes
As I was paying at the cash desk she said once more "I sink ziss is a lovely colour on you ... you have zee most beautiful eyes. Zee dress just brings zem out. It is beautiful. Beautiful."
Falling in love
And that, my dear Crones, is what I call a Beautiful Moment. Shopping that becomes a real pleasure and an ego-trip, instead of a dreaded hot sweaty dismissal of your fatness and decrepitude.
Thank you Spanish SA in House of Fraser. Thank you. xxx You have made a middle-aged overweight woman very happy.

The wailing wall

Hi Botox,

Arghghghghggghhhh i wish i was in a spa with a rich husband paying for me to look beautiful. I've had some photos taken of me for our new updated website. Honestly there were 200 of me to choose from and in every one i had crinkly saggy baggy eyes or that horrible soft old woman's chin/cheeks or my hair looked see-thru etc. etc. it was so depressing ... :(( when i was younger every photo of me was lovely and now i look like an old sad old old woman.

Seriously, I may have to seriously look into that eye bag and hooded eye surgery I was thinking about (not to have them put ON, have them take OFF) it is so depressing :((

On a hopeful note, I am being weighed later. I hope to have lost at least 2lbs as I've been ultra good this week (apart from last night where I drank too much wine and ate a bag of Walkers Baked crisps)!! wish me luck.

Bags xxxxx

----------------------

Oh Bags,

I know what you mean about photos - as you know I've had the horrendous job of hunting some old ones out for my birthday - and I now have to go through the hellish torture of seeing them projected on the wall in the bar at the Borough Hall. I've chosen mine carefully, and veered towards anything under thirty with good lighting. But Gill has been emailing people willy nilly asking them to send her any pics they have of me. I am praying to god that she won't have included the utterly hideous one of me about two stone overweight and bra-less, wearing a clingy red spotty dress and looking like jabba the hut. I want to cry every time I see that one. But I know that to my utter shame it will be there, along with other just as sick-making evidence of my misshapen mass.

When you book in for your deputy dawg op, please book me in too for a full face and body lift. OMG I saw the most horrible thing the other day and I apologise in advance, but you are the only person I can ever share this with. I was sitting naked at my dressing table and turned round to grab something, legs akimbo. I caught sight of my Fann-ann tut full on in the mirror - OMG it has gone all saggy, crinkly and GREY - grey skin I mean not even hair! The lips (sorry this is so graphic) resemble a clam - kind of frilly but not in a nice way. Overall it looks (and I kid you not) like an elephants arse! How can Ben bear to even go near it?! I am turning into a shambling gargantuan monstrosity of a woman with an overblown blimp of a body...this is what life does to us crones. This is where I am heading fast. I don't know whether to laugh or throw myself off Beachy Head.

xxxxx

--------------

oh Botox
oh oh oh
oh
It's like living death this growing old lark.
I feel like our faces and bodies are literally sagging and crumbling away while we are still moving about -- a bit like living a half-life, or a pair of old zombies.
you have hit the nail on the fanny head too, about how the bits you love and men find most precious decay along with us.
My right breast was always my best and my most favourite breast - full, ripe, pert, bigger than the left by a fair bit, lovely nipple placement, perky and sexy. Now it seems to be shrinking back into its skin leaving a deflated bag behind topped with a wrinkled sunken-in nipp. My left boob is now the bigger of the shrunken two. I hate it when i am lying in bed (bra-less) and my man goes to feel my ex-best tit and he gets a strange handful of baggy flappage instead of a rounded beautiful breast.
:((

The years the years.
There's only one thing for it. live fast, and die young (well, before we are really decrepit).
Bags
xxxxx

Return to sender

I've just spend a precious lunch-hour returning the results of yet another fruitless, disappointing round of internet shopping to its rightful owner (ie some 14 year-old stick thin, swan necked antelope, who can actually get away with a polo necked funnel sweater dress). You'd think I'd know better by now - but dammit I get caught every time, seduced by artfully-posed imagery and carefully crafted lies into thinking I can still pack my lard-arse into a pencil skirt, or get away with a sleeveless top.

I never learn. How many times have I started off fully resolved to buy nothing but black/empire line/neck to knee coverage, only to be totally mind-washed by endless pages of alluring, figure skimming temptation?

How many times must yet another red-faced, over-burdoned delivery man blindly transverse the well worn route from his van to my front door, his poor old face obscured by mounds of heaving plastic bags containing my latest forays into fashion? How much longer can my partner stand to walk innocently into our bedroom, only to find me stuck, helpless, halfway up an unforgiving lycra body stocking, or trying to stuff mounds of fat inside a pair of hipster jeans.

I really don't know why I give hipsters the time of day anyway. They have to be the most uncomfortable, unflattering jeans ever invented - suitable only for washboard stomached waifs of skeletal proportions. But jeggings! Now you're talking. How my sad old heart soared when this made in heavenly combo of stretchy denim and waist elastication appeared on the fashion scene. Off I rushed to Next to buy up as many size 14 long as I could get my greedy little paws on. But even jeggings have changed. The first, pioneering jeggings, had a lovely comfy waistband that sat right across the belly button and suctioned securely to the roll of fat where they'd been positioned, mercifully encasing muffin tops and superfluous chicken skin. Now though, they all seem to have surrendered to the follies of fashion and have dropped below naval, unable to capture the wayward bits and pieces the blight the life of crones. Out it all hangs, like two bags of granulated sugar covered in chamois leather, wobbling away over your waistband for all and sundry to point and snigger at. No matter how determinedly you tug them they refuse to move upwards until the sudden ping of perishing elastic announces that you've gone a tug too far.

I have no excuses when it comes to choosing clothes. I KNOW both my shape and my colour - cool winter and soft curves - having undergone two long and informative (if a tad painful) sessions with the lovely, patient and thankfully, tactful Fiona – a body image and colour expert for House of Colour.

It was my friend Gill's idea. Gill is an avid shopper. Always on the search for the perfect cardi/dress/bag/coat/shoes. Never flagging, always searching. She's the only woman I know who can start at 9am and, 5 minutes to closing time, has the gall and the energy to head for the changing rooms with most of the store's fashion stock slung over her shoulder.

Shopping with Gill is tantamount to running a half marathon and she never, ever tires of it. Anyway, Gill decided that it would make life a lot easier if we all knew our colours and our shapes. 'It would simplify things', she said. 'Make shopping more straightforward and a lot quicker'.

By 'we', I should tell you, I mean Gill, myself and my friend Lis. The three of us have known each other for years and we've seen each other through a maelstrom of husbands, lovers and career changes, washed down with lots of gin. We are great friends but we are also very different. Lis hates shopping as much as Gill loves it and is proud of the fact that most of her purchases are made in charity shops. Me, I'm somewhere in the middle, but I have embraced internet shopping with an almost manic obsession - how I love having the fashion world at my fingertips - if only I could get choose the right things!

So, having invested in a colour analysis day (the ultimate birthday gift to one another!) and chosen the lovely Fiona as our trusted guru, we all set off for a new world of discovery at her apartment in Primrose Hill, on a crisp Saturday morning last November.

My first mistake was to go out the night before with the girls from work. One too many bottles of Pinot Grigio later and I was placed in a taxi and sent firmly to my bed. Needless to say I woke the next day with a pounding headache, bloodshot eyes, skin so dehydrated I could pinch it and it still hadn't moved twenty minutes later, and a lovely grayish green complexion.

Too ill to even consider putting on make-up, I dragged myself onto the train, berating myself and trying not to be sick all the way to London. Lis and Gill on the other hand had been sensible and gone to bed early. Thus they were bright eyed and far too perky for that time in the morning, which only made me feel worse. By the time we got to Fiona's I was distinctly wobbly (head as well as body) and only just managed to teeter down her very steep steps to the basement room where she sees her clients.

Then came the realisation that this colour analysis lark is not a five minute exercise and that part of the process involved a close-up scrutiny from Fiona - a lady so polite, composed and utterly well-groomed that I doubt she's ever turned up for any meeting reeking of last night's alcohol and the colour of rancid pond water - which thankfully is not part of the House of Colour's spectrum wheel! I hastily shoved a polo in my gob and vowed never to drink again. Anyway, to cut a long story short, after being draped with various coloured pieces of silk for over an hour, and having my face shape closely analysed (turns out I'm not a gamine pixie face, but more of a lusty round-faced milkmaid, with double chins to boot!) the 'winter' pronouncement was made.

The good news is that I can officially wear black - winter is the only colour that can apparently. Yes! Yes! You cannot imagine how happy this made me feel. I had been in mortal fear of being told I couldn't do black, and having to abandon 99% of my wardrobe in favour of girly pinks and pastels. But no - Fiona saved me. I can wear black, white, and all the bright jewel colours, but no yellows browns or golds. What's more, Lis turned out to be a mellow autumn with no noir allowed, so all of her monochromes were bestowed to me, plus lots of silver jewellery! Gill turned out to be summer much to her surprise and slight annoyance (you try finding the right shade of raspberry), but she never wears black anyway.

So now we knew our colours, we booked in for another session to get the official verdict on our shapes.

I vowed not to be hung over on shape day as I really wanted to get the most out of it. I stayed over at Lis's the night before and managed not to be too seduced by the wine, so I was raring to go the next day. But what do you wear to a shape day? Fiona had told us to arrive in an outfit we felt was flattering, and bring a selection of items - some we loved and some we hated. Yet despite hours of internet shopping, resulting in two overflowing wardrobes and a jam-packed chest of drawers I could find nothing I truly felt good in. Lots of things I hated though!

Bearing in mind my official winter colouring, as decreed by Fiona, I decided to enjoy my shape day experience in a black stretchy mini skirt, low cut black top and voluminous drapey cardi/coat thing in guess what - black. I finished off the 'not quite a nun' look with a startling (and I thought rather dashing) splash of magenta-coloured tights and matching platform shoes. To tether everything in place, and give me a what turned out to be false sense of slimness, I struggled once again into my old faithful Trinny and Susannah sausage thong-thing, which as ever groaned against the overwhelming might of my midriff bulge. I thought I looked okay actually - I was fully made up in all the colours Fiona had suggested for me, and my newly coloured hair resembled a raven's glossy wing. Down the steps to Fiona's basement studio I trotted once again, little imagining the horrors that lay ahead.

The first horror was the shock on Fiona's face when she saw me. As I teetered in on my stacked soles and tottered to a seat I caught her looking me up and down with a kind of Miss Jean Brodie expression of distaste. I could almost see what she was thinking (something along the lines of what the hell have we got here, or what am I supposed to do with that?) but she managed to compose herself and arrange her face into something resembling a smile.

The next horror was the realisation that I had to strip off and stand in my underwear in front of Fiona, Lis and Gill. We all had to do this. But Lis and Gill are both very slim whereas I am very not. Plus, they had thought ahead and were wearing pretty, new, and suitable underwear. I was encased in sweaty, straining elastic with what looked like an old musty cheese wire separating my dimpled bum cheeks. And my bra! Not thinking things through, I'd packed my boulders into a well past its sell-by date Wonder bra, which was so old that the underwiring was at breaking point. The wire was in fact beginning to make a break for freedom and poking through the seams into my skin, like little devil's teeth. I hadn't brought a slip - mainly because I don't actually possess one. So I really did have nowhere to hide!

I felt I had no option but to warn Fiona about what lay ahead, so I took her to one side and whispered my apology. Then I had to strip off my outer layers and stand there, displaying my saggy egg on legs body for all to see! Its the first time I've ever seen Lis and Gill stunned into silence, with the sort of expressions that tell you they are trying to find something nice to say and failing miserably. But I have to say, respect to Fiona, she is a true professional and a woman of stamina. Once the nervous flutter had died down, she only visibly winced once or twice when she had to actually touch my skin with her tape measure.

So what shape am I? Not the shape I want to be that's for sure. I wanted to be an Audrey Hepburn, all gamine and girly. It turns out I am more of an Ena Sharples - as solid and bulky as a lump of Northern lard. The sort of woman that wears whale-bone stays in her corset and likes a pint of stout. Nothign wrong with that of course, and you can't help what you're born with I suppose, so I'd better start enjoying (or at least coming to terms with) what nature gave me.

Fiona's careful measuring confirmed what I already knew. That I have been blessed with a shorter than average neck - I have a sort of bulldog-ish, solid lump of a neck that can't wear polo's or chokers, and only gets worse with age. This means that I can never be a graceful ballroom dancer. I remember when Letitia Dean did Strictly Come Dancing a couple of years ago. The judges just went on and on about her not having a neck, so she'd never be able to look good as a dancer no matter how great her moves were. She was really upset, and so am I.

From neck (or should I say lack of neck) we moved down to body. Fiona had a lovely chart with lots of different shapes on it - I hankered after the long, lean lines of the rectangle, or the womanly curves of the hourglass, but the box she ticked for me was a kind of roundish oval. Apparently my bust is bigger than my hips so I have to be careful to balance them, or risk looking too top heavy. On reflection I think I am turning into my nana. She had a bust so big and shelf-like that you could balance a cup of tea on it. Also, I have no waist to speak of - my torso just goes up and down in a kind of triangular way, which explains why the hipsters don't do it for me. I am seriously considering investing in a whale bone corset, and in the meantime am awaiting a delivery of a shocking fuschia Gok Wan half-corset which no doubt will swiftly be re-packaged and returned to its shelf in the stock room thirty seconds after I receive it.

There was one bit of good news though - my legs are longer than average. In fact there was an audible intake of breath when this unlikely discovery was announced. Gill immediately demanded a re-measure, as my legs were almost as long as hers, and she's at least two inches taller than me. But it turned out to be true. Ha! At last, something to feel good about.

So, that's me - no neck, round body and long legs. In other words, I am beginning to resemble a wine goblet, which I think is very apt considering how many I've drunk out of over the years! My face is round and my body is a soft curve. And this means I am a nightmare to dress.

I can't do round necks as this makes my short neck look even shorter. I can't do shift dresses or anything too boxy or straight up and down as this makes me look like a stout, plump tube. I can't do above the knee skirts as they make me look too top heavy - I also can't do skinny jeans for the same reason. I can't do smocks as my big bust turns them into tents. I can't do double breasted jackets and I can't do shirts. I can't, in fact, do any of the clothes I actually own.

So, back to the drawing board and back to the internet. But this time I'm determined to restrict myself to ordering only shapes that I can actually officially do - which boils down to v-neck and empire line. With it narrowed down to that level, surely even I must be able to find something?I swear if I can't I'll return myself to sender.

Invisible, I feel like I'm.....who said that?

So I'm 50. How the feck did that happen? Feels like just the blink of a cataract since I was a young, carefree slip of a thing who thought nothing of slinking into a full length spandex unitard and dancing the night away at Camden Palace. Aaaah, those were the days when I could turn heads for all the right reasons and didn't even realise I was doing it. Now, it seems that overnight I've become invisible. I walked past a group of workman at lunchtime and they didn't even look up, never mind give me a cheery wolf whistle. I used to get all feminist and disgruntled about being whistled at. But now the only backward glance or sharp intake of breath I inspire is from the strange trolly stacker at Waitrose, when I dare to leave my empty trolly in the bay nearest to my car instead of pushing it back to the entrance.

One of the birthday presents I got from my long-suffering partner was a book about life after 50. You know the sort of thing, a wry, humorous peek at the decrepit side of life - usually written by someone who hasn't reached that stage yet so still has a sense of humour. And there I was - on the cover! I wish I was kidding, but the cartoon on the cover was too near the truth to be funny. A lumpy, bumpy woman with a whiskery chin, wearing rollers and clutching a mug of cocoa about to climb the stairs to Bedfordshire at the ripe old time of 8pm. OMG! how uncanny! In the past 12 months I have started taking a mug of cocoa up to bed with me...and wearing curlers (but only in the morning, as I can't stand sleeping in them) and these days I start yawning at around 7.45pm. I haven't quite got the whiskery chin yet, but I do have a strangely wiry tusk of hair that keeps emerging the side of my mouth. No matter how many times I pluck it out it grows back again, thicker and wirier than ever. And, I've noticed that I have to remove my lady-tash more often these days. What's next? Sucking nana sweets in front of Cash In The Attic? Swapping my high heels for a nice comfy big slipper? Fancying David Dickinson?

NO. I refuse to give in and act my age. I plan to grow old disgracefully and annoyingly, wearing skirts that are too short and tops that are too low, despite the ever-spreading cellulite and the newly discovered horror of crinkly cleavage. Ahhh how I mourn the steady loss of my once plump and bouncy bosoms - my skin seems to be morphing into some kind of badly fitting, faux leather cushion cover. Not only is it changing texture - think horny-scale lizard. It is also separating itself from my body and is beginning to hang in handy folds that could soon cover another whole person. Perhaps I could sell it, or make something with it like a handbag or nice pair of boots.

Actually, its not all bad. I have recently made a new and exciting scientific discovery - that a whole new person is growing out of my back! It's true. with the right kind of elasticated top and a bit of manipulation I can now fashion a fairly decent handful of back boobs that look far more pert and smooth than the ones hanging out front. My back is smoother too - not a saggy stretch mark or bit of chicken flesh in sight. And best of all, no downwards smiling belly button - If only I could swivel my head round and learn to walk backwards, I'd be sorted.

As I keep reminding myself. Things are bad, but they are only going to get worse. So stop whinging and enjoy. Now's the time to do all those things you never dared to when you were younger.

With this in mind, I celebrated my half century as I mean to go on. In a field, at a festival, breathing in other people's marijuana and drinking warm cider. I can recommend it, but only if you choose your festival wisely. Crones should on no account go anywhere near the heady, thrusting youthfulness of Leeds, Reading or horror of horrors, V. Even GuilFest, our nearest local thing to a proper concert, is to be treated with caution. Go by all means, but be careful. Avoid the mosh-pits (and on day three the arm-pits). And do not on any account camp unless you enjoy being woken up at 5am by a young man relieving himself down the side of your tent.

Be cautious, but never worry dear crones, there are plenty of festivals where age is no barrier to enjoyment - as long as you can still bend low enough to get through a tent flap. And talking of tents, make sure you pitch yours as near to the toilets as your sense of smell allows. As every crone knows, life has to be planned around toilet trips and there's nothing worse than a two mile track across a muddy field every half hour, especially in the dark. A friend of mine just stands there in front of her tent and wees on her wellies. I used to think she was a wild and wanton free spirit, but these days I'm not sure she even realises she's doing it.

I've always wanted to be in a rock band. So abandoning all hope of ever performing with one, I decided to latch myself onto one like some sad old, wreck of a wannabe groupie. Amazingly, this works wonders for your self esteem. Here's my tip. Pick your band - usually the ones who open the show are the best because they'll be a) almost certainly be past it, so you can pretend you were once a backing singer with them and they'll believe you (a surefire way of getting 'in' with them), and b) have never quite made it so they'll be grateful for any attention. Buy them a few ciders, then find out where they are camping and just rock up at around 4am when they are stoned out of their minds and playing Spanish Civil War songs on their mandolins. If you wear enough black eyeliner and cover any spare bits of flesh in old net and silver bangles you'll look like a wanton rock goddess through the mists of their cider and spliff-induced haze. Then, just knock the nearest wife/girlfriend/child to the ground, grab their deckchair and you're all set. Your rock chick status will only flounder when your partner and two friends turn up looking for you, clutching a nice mug of cocoa, pack of Tena-lady and your comfy big slipper.

Unhealthy exercise

Something struck me very hard yesterday evening as I made one of my rare and extremely futile visits to the gym - and no, it wasn't the twang of an over-stretched sports bra. (Who engineers these demonic little bits of lycra and have they ever tried a) getting into one and b) getting out of one! Honestly - it takes me a full gym session just to capture everything, lassoo it into place and get my nipples properly aligned. Then, 60 trussed up and sweaty minutes later I'm meant to get the damn thing off. Inevitably, the sheer joy of being released from its burden means it inevitably rolls up into an excrutiatingly tight band of hot elastic that clamps itself just above my boobs - too high to reach at the back and too tight to peel off the the front. There I stand in full view of all the taught, slim Godalming gym goddesses, bent over double, bosoms akimbo, trying to inch it over my shoulders. Oooh, the indignity of it all.)

No, what struck me very hard was the realisation that I have been coming to the gym for at least four years now and yet have not managed to shed a single pound. I blame it on my gym-buddy (GB). We're both around the same age - well actually she's a few years younger than me. And we're both around the same size, ie around a stone bigger than we'd like to be. We're also both of the same mind - that the gym is a necessary evil and we'd both much rather be nattering over a bottle of Pinot. Still, twice a week (unless one of us can conjour up a believable excuse for not going) we meet at Fitness First (which should be re-named Wallet First) and go through the same old routine of cross-trainer, sit-ups and weights. We've thought about doing the classes - but one look through the steamed up studio mirror at all the lithe leggy beauties going through their advanced aerobics routine is enough to put off any crone. We did go through a lame attempt at Dancercise around 2006, but the fight to get into the back row nearly finished us off, let alone trying to keep up with the reverse box step! And as for the grapevine - the memory of getting carried away and hitting the studio wall full smack will haunt me for the rest of my days. We've also thought about getting a personal trainer, but honestly I've seen them in action and they are sadists!

So the same old route it is, and 45 perspiration-laden minutes later we're both puce and puffed out, in need of a lie-down and a piece of cake. But amazingly, a quick spray of Impulse later and we're off, weaving our way through the muscle-bound macho hunks trying to outdo each other on the power plate (and that's only the women) and making a heroic break for freedom and the comforting plink plink fizz of a double G&T in the bar downstairs. There we sit, bemoaning our big bellies and debating the merits and pitfalls of liposuction.

My GB is totally against lipo, or any form of surgical intervention. I however am seriously considering it. "Think of the pain", says she. "They cut you, stick a tube in then have to really pummel you to break down the fat." "Think of the risks." she adds "What if it all goes wrong - what if they take too much from one place and you end up lop-sided?"

She's right of course, but all I can think of is that wonderful moment when I look in the changing room mirror and see my size 10-12 self looking back at me, in the tightest, skimpiest dress I can get away with. And, I assure myself, if I look good in my gym clothes I'm far more likely to go to the gym!

I Dye:You Die!

While I'm here, I'd like to rant about home hair dye. When I was a maid we thought nothing of going down to Woollies or Boots and picking a pack of hair dye off the shelf, plopping it on our hair and gambling with the results. What fun!
Some results were hilarious (I remember creating a particularly vivid citrus orange when I put Belle Blonde peroxide over Belle Color black) but the point is we just went ahead and did it.
Now in my Crone-age, I have of course forsworn the home hair dye in honour of superior salon techniques (and prices). However, as I was recently ousted from my job I thought I might give a home dyeing another go. The money isn't coming in at the moment, but the silver grey is certainly still coming out.
DYE CAN MAKE YOU DIE. FACT.
I couldn't believe all the warnings and frightening capital letter instructions in bold and underlined on the pack. Too scary. How do Clairol et al make money out of these things when it looks like you are gambling with death when you apply Chocolate Cherry to your tresses??? The inner leaflet was even worse. It ordered me (on pain of death) to do a patch test behind my ear 48 hours before even thinking about dyeing my hair. Oooh err.
I did as I was instructed and waited. Then, in true paranoid Crone style, I asked MM to see if it had gone 'red, itchy or swollen' 10 minutes after applying. "Hmmm, looks REALLY red," he said. I started getting panicky. CHOCOLATE CHERRY WAS GOING TO KILL ME!!!
i went back upstairs. Re-read leaflet: "If you notice ANY shortness of breath GET IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ADVICE". I began to get a tightness, a hitch in my throat. The stingy itchyness behind my ear ... ARRRRRRGGGHHHHHHHH of course I rushed to the bathroom to wash the fuckin stuff off -- what a complete worry Crone I am, especially as MM then said "Well, it's ALWAYS red behind your ear." What a waste of £9.45 too. You can't even get your money back.
Why can't things be simple like they used to be? All I want is 100% grey coverage and a natural looking sheen, at home, in under 10 minutes.
Looks like this Crone is going to have to fork out £45 to go back to the salon after all.

Holiday Crone

I have just come back from Bodenville-by-the-Sea http://www.sandsresort.co.uk/index.html where every child is called Molly, Milly, Simeon, Casper, Rufus, Obi-wan Kinobe etc. and the mummies are like little tiny bundles of brown twigs wrapped in cloth (I heard you can get two mums for a lb at Sands!!!).
Crones can swim here
Once you get past the reverse-snobbery it's actually a very nice place to stay, for a Crone. The swimming pool is small and not busy; the twig mums never seem to swim (perhaps they are frightened of being sucked up the drainy thing?) so you are free to enjoy looking your best amongst the plumper mums and unfit dads. Luxury!
Walking on the beach, thinking like a bitch
For the full "Look at me, I am Kate Moss" effect, I heartily recommend taking a walk down to Porth Beach. Spend some time amongst the middle-class yummy mummies by all means, but for maximum Crone satisfaction park your towel near the cheap end, where you can wallow in the thought that you may be old and a bit saggy at the seams these days, but at least you Had It All when you were in your 20s.
Sigh contentedly as another frighteningly tattooed Trace or Sarn clumps past you in the tiniest string bikini to go and pee in the sea. Stretch out sexily as you compete with amazing Back Tits that look like they could fill a 44D bra. Smile smugly into your book as the fuckwit couple who were throwing chips to the seagulls are suddenly attacked by a fleet of the aggressive bird bastards.
And when the bursts of abrupt laugh start getting to you, like the rat-a-tat-tat of a Sten gun in the trenches, and you feel your children have had enough second-hand smoke for the day, wend your way slowly back up the cliff top to the smug coolness of Bodenville for an overpriced cocktail or three.
The Crone has returned refreshed, re-invigorated and ready for anything.

Arse on film (2 minutes later)

So ... after reading Botox's voluble praise of the latest maxi-dress craze, I took myself off to my local town to try out this magical transformation for myself.
So swishy, so skimmy on the hanger -- just as she described!!! And when I tried a few styles on ... WOW! I was amazed! All that denial, all those depressing Fat Club visits, all those running sessions (yes, at 44 I have started to run and my God does it pay to go out early. Around 6.30am is best. Before anyone can see you. Before anyone younger, fitter and more toned and honed can clock you for the old banger that you are and brush past you with a sidelong sneer and a flash of NIKE trainers which seem to say "Eat my dust fucker! Get back to GMTV and Cash in the Attic, why don't you?" But I will not be brow-beaten into giving in.
Shortly
So, back in the running shop, the super-fit South African shop assistant had looked me up and down before pronouncing lip-curlingly, 'You? You are going to start running???" He barely suppressed a smug grin as I hotly and fatly tried to ease off my high-heeled sling-backs in order to try on a pair of running shoes. "Strange choice of shoe to come out in", he smirked.
What the feck does he know about being a 44 year old 5ft 1 tubby middle-aged woman???? We can't all get away with flatties mate, some of us are short and need all the extra leg-length we can get in order to keep from rolling along, weeble-like, along the high street.
Dwarf feet
Anyway, to add to my shame, the Fit Smiling Man (FSM) brings out a pair of KID's trainers ... so my size 3 feet are not allowed to be stylish OR fit at the same time. Obviously. Well, I am a bit of an ex-goth so the idea of SILVER metallic trainers with PURPLE piping and unattractive swooshes and swatches REALLY does not appeal to me at all. But he hasn't finished with me yet, Oh no no no. Next thing I know I have been taken to the Running Treadmill in THE MIDDLE OF THE FECKIN SHOP (afterwards to be referred to as The Belt of Shame). In broad daylight. Under bright lights. Amongst superfit tanned laughing people. He asks me to step on, wearing my child's size flashing neon trainers, and ... run.
Run away from the running shop!
Now I know this may sound weird, seeing as 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 him and My Man (MM) suddenly leaves me absolutely petrified. I can feel the sweat beading on my brow before we even start. So the FSM asks me cheerily to 'hop on' (bloody sadist -- he must get REAL kick out of this side of his job) and he starts the machine at what he calls a 'slow pace'. Fuckinell. I thought I was going to go off the back Norman Wisdom style. So he is fiddling with buttons and a bloody special CAMERA for feck's sake (in order to track my running style apparently) and all the time I am aware I am running and panting and heaving and sweating and my huge boulder-like buttocks are bouncing and pounding after me like 2 mad outsize potatoes jumping up and down inside a denim sack. In broad daylight. In a high street shop.
Then the FSM says "I'll just pop it up a pace" (He IS definitely a sadist or perhaps a Jumping potato voyeur ...?) BUT all those thoughts have to be ignored, because now I am really having to exert myself. To run. Not just like a quick skitter for the tube or bus, or a quick jog after a toddler at the beach; a real proper run for my body's first time in about 30 years. My body is in shock but I am pounding on. All the time FSM is saying "Just a minute more ... just one minute more". (Is he fondling himself through those sky-blue nylon trackies???) Then he puts it up ANOTHER notch and I'm sure he is getting off on this. At last he slows down the treadmill to a walking pace and it grinds to a halt and I feel hot, dishevelled and humiliated.
Arse on film (2 minutes later)
THEN i have to stand there, in the shop, whilst he analyzes my 'running technique' . Snort. i didn't know I could run until today, let alone have a 'technique'. I am panting with effort after what to him is probably equivalent to a walk round Sainsbury's. Embarrassing as this is, watching my chubby legs FILMED FROM BEHIND he then takes me through my posture, muscles and 'pronation' to diagnose how shit and unfit I am. Ha ha. But he is non-plussed. He keeps saying "It's really unusual ... and you've never run before? Very rare to see this etc. etc" It turns out I am one of the world's 10% with a natural running technique. Totally! So that wiped the smile off his tanned fit face and he was bemused and amazed which was almost worth all the pain.)
Longest parenthesis EVER
Anyway, I digress. So to get back to the fact that yes, all those running sessions have started to pay off. (By the way, I DID manage to find black Nike running trousers, black top and black socks, but had to settle for WHITE sports bra and hideous purple/silver trainers. So uncool.) So I tried on three Maxi dresses and all of them looked great! Figure skimming and sexy and i WANTED them all badly but of course settled for the black one as Botox so wisely recommends. Only thing is, the maxi-dress is 5ft 10 and I am only 5ft 1 ... so rather than playing gothic princesses, my lovely dress is currently with the brilliant Eastern-European tailors in town. I'm hoping a few inches off the bottom doesn't take away any of its glory.

Why camping is not for Crones

The house-warming cum birthday party invitation sounded lovely - 'come and celebrate Kathy's 40th, Gwillam's 21st and Bronwen's 18th' it said, and come and see our gorgeous new but very old house in the heart of leafy Suffolk. One slight downside - the gorgeous new (to them) but old (as in 17th century) house is slowly but lovingly being restored by the invitation senders, Kathy and Tom, and as most of the rooms are still uninhabitable we'd have to camp in the garden.

I can do that, I thought, as I laid out aforementioned new maxi dress, cropped denim jacket and silver Fitflops ('get a work out as you walk') on the bed. Have you tried Fitflops? I mean tried wearing them, as opposed to just saying 'Fitflops' which is in itself a bit of a challenge. They really do give your bum and legs a bit of a going over. How they do this is all rather scientific - or yet another big advertising con and as I work in advertising I'd better not say that - but in layman's terms, they are slanted so they make you stand up straight, and quite heavy too, so after a few steps it feels like you have a brick tied to each foot. But once you get used to them they are actually very cushiony and comfortable, so even if your bum doesn't suddenly spring back into it's rightful position somewhere above the back of your kneecaps as opposed to below (still waiting for this to happen), or your thighs do not instantly become able to crack a walnut with no effort at all (also still waiting for this to happen), you can congratulate yourself on money well spent because they a) look nice b) feel nice too and c) make you appear to be 'on trend'.

So anyway, I packed up my party gear along with all the obligatory paraphernalia we crones cannot be without - full make-up kit icl day cream, night cream, the pot of beauty serum that looks like sperm/mirror/tweezers/wash bag/hairbrush/toothbrush/contact lenses/contact lens cleaner/reading glasses/second pair of reading glasses just in case I put the first pair down and cannot find them/spare contact lenses just in case I put them in the wrong lens case as I did when I shared a room with my friend Gill - unfortunately I put my lenses into her lenses case thinking it was mine, which meant my -7.5 lenses merged together with hers (-1.5) into a big myopic blob of plastic and we both ended up flailing blindly about the next day. Luckily she had one of her eyes lasered years ago (I never did ask her why she only had one done - maybe to halve the risk in case it all went horribly wrong) so at least she was partially sighted. However she failed to see the positive side (probably due to being half blind). So ever since then I have taken a spare pair of lenses wherever I go. Getting back to the list, I also packed tampons because they are also something I can never now leave the house without. My periods were once so utterly boring in their regularity that I could time them to the second every month. Today it's a very different story - I can have weeks, nay months, of nothing followed by a flood of epic proportions resembling a glacial lake outburst. The worst though, is what I call my 'dry' period - where for days I can feel as if a claw is literally dragging itself around my insides and occasionally thumping my spine really hard for good measure - only to result in a dry, scanty specking of chocolate coloured gunge. Sorry to be so graphic, but it's a sad reminder that my once fertile womb is literally drying up and withering away, taking with it any semblance of femininity or youth. So, add to the tampons at least 6 pairs of knickers just in case aforesaid flood happens, and we're ready.

My packing done, I joined lovely Ben who had manfully thought of and packed what we really needed - ie tent, groundsheet, blow up mattress, bedding etc etc. I threw in my lot (big fat suitcase of just in case necessities) along with picnic hamper, good selection of wine and cider, plus corkscrew, and off we headed up the M25.

Four hours and many traffic jams later we arrived and joined the other happy campers pitching tents in Kathy and Tom's garden. I helped Ben pick out a suitable site, ie near enough to loo but far enough away from family with 2 noisy children and dogs.

This is getting quite long, so I will fast-track you through the party - which was wonderful and included highlights of a private concert by the local brass band/impromptu karaoke using silver spoons as microphones/Ben dancing with his head in the inglenook fireplace as he was too tall and the beamed ceilings were too low to dance anywhere else/delicious raspberry macaroons. There were some lows too, it has to be said - the swift disappearance of anyone under the age of 40 upstairs into the loft (teen lair) followed by the faint smell of whacky baccy (what happened to sharing?)/the loud family's snappy dogs pooing right next to our tent/the loud family's snappy dogs catching and almost killing an unsuspecting free-ranging chicken that strayed into the tent area/the woman who made the delicious raspberry macaroons getting very drunk and telling everyone she'd once shagged Tom, the host. But hey, it all makes for a good party.

So, 1am and time for bed. This is when I remembered why crones shouldn't camp. Firstly, it was pitch black and as the loud family's children were now sleeping soundly we were under strict instructions not to make any noise/light any lights. The loo had been occupied for so long by the same person (male) that I abandoned all hope and any desire of ever getting in there. Ben was already in bed - how easy it is for men - they just wee in the bushes and they're done. I on the other hand had to find my wash-bag and retrieve everything I needed to efficiently remove dance induced sweat/make-up/contact lenses, then successfully find water/have wee/stash my jewellery/clothes/Fitflops before retiring gracefully to bed. Stupidly, and no doubt because I had drunk far too much red wine, I took out my contact lenses before finding my glasses. Now almost totally blind, and unable to call to Ben for help because of no noise rule, I was left to feel haplessly for my make-up remover. Thinking I'd found the right bottle, it I smeared it all over my face, only to quickly realise it was in fact lemon-scented shower gel. My skin itching horribly, I grabbed blindly at what looked like a bottle of water and threw it into my face, where the sudden fizz and additional lemon aroma confirmed it was in fact lemonade - now dripping from my hair as well as my face. There was nothing more for it, I just rubbed it in and, being unable to find a anything resembling a towel, used the bottom of my new maxi-dress to clean it off. As I did so, I had the vague thought that if my skin was dewy soft the next morning I could market the shower gel/lemonade combo...

And so to bed, after a 5 minute bent-over wriggle out of the maxi-dress to remove it, I finally crawled in beside the gently snoring Ben to sleep - or so I thought.

I hate mosquito's/midges or any flying and biting insect - but they love me. And our tent was full of them. The trouble is, I react really badly. One little bite results in a red, itchy bump that quickly turns into a lozenge size blister, followed by a black, saucer-size bruise. On holiday in Turkey one year I made the mistake of eating marmite and applying lemon balm instead of my usual industrial-strength insect repellent. The next day I was covered from head to foot in bites. As I walked the village streets, people turned their heads in amazement to see the extraordinary exploding woman - whose giant blisters were popping with every step. I spent the next two weeks covered in calamine lotion and clothed from head to toe, being disowned by my two embarrassed sons.

So, what to do? With nothing to spray at them, I had to resign myself to the fact that my blood was tonight's dinner menu. So I cocooned myself under the covers and tried to sleep. That's when I discovered that I needed the loo.

You crones know what it's like. In the past I'd have just ignored the full-ish bladder feeling, knowing my uber-tight muscles could control any leakage until morning. Not now though. I can't trust my pelvic floor any more. Having once never let me down, now it lets everything down whenever it feels like it. I've reached the sad stage in my life when everything has to be planned around the loo, and whenI have to go, I really have to go.

So, out of the covers I crawled and struggled manfully back into my now soggy but lemony smelling dress. Off I blindly went, picking my way over the dog poo, wine corks and tent pegs and headed to the relative safety and quietness of the house. Or so I thought. I can only imagine what I must have looked like to the twenty or so teenagers now huddled in the dining room - a half-blind, dishevelled old biddy resplendent with shower gel/lemonade/make-up smeared face and dress, feeling her way to the loo. Luckily I couldn't see their faces, and for once thanked the fact that I am so horribly short-sighted. But I did hear the initial gasp, followed by a deadly silence and a few stifled giggles as I stumbled past. And that, dear readers, is why we crones should only stay 5 star.

First Rule of Fat Club: we never talk about Fat Club

Arrgghhh the torture of condescending continues at Fat Club, yet I cannot argue with the results.

I normally dress down in my lightest, flightiest scraps of muslin that weigh lighter than a feather for weigh-in day. Always remember to remove watch. Take off all rings and jewellery (they must add up to about a 1lb I reckon) and take a final purging toilet trip. Then you are ready for weigh-in.

Last week I had to be weighed with all my glam stuff on as i was ready for my 'big' night out after being redunded; I reckon the extra pound of caked-on make up didn't help my results. That, plus my thick elephant skin elastic pants which must weigh in at 2lbs alone.

It's sad and sweaty at Fat Club. It smells sad and fat and sweaty as soon as you go in to the Room. My spirit dips. I overhear the talk of Fatties denying themselves their small pleasures as I queue for the ritual of register and weighing.

Fat Club can be a little depressing actually, precisely because everyone is FAT. i mean, i don't want to be a member of a club for 5 years and still be that fat. And if it IS so successful, why is everyone still so fat??? These things occur to me as I queue and wait and weight and watch everyone wearing the same M&S 'smock' tops thinking they are hiding their gunt and beachball ass under the tent-like folds. Let me tell you, it ain't workin.

To paraphrase a famous quote "I don't want to be in a Fat Club that would have me as a member."

When you are feeling lonely ...

I have found this always works!

Whenever i am lonely, whenever i want My Man (MM) to walk into a room to share my company, all i have to do is:

a) be unrolling thick elastic pants off my vacuum-packed stomach and getting them stuck over my arse so i am grunting and kind of hopping about in a really unwieldy sweaty fat girl fashion
b) examining my cellulite buttocks and thighs in a brightly lit room where there is no escape
c) let out a bit of 'wind' that hangs around like it's stuck to my clothes/hair/life forever
d) be inserting a tampon/panty liner whilst awkwardly astride a dressing room stool, for maximum triple mirror reflective embarrassment.

i also have a random prong of hair protruding from the nipple. which has to be plucked. That's always worth yanking off when I need a man in the room to watch me.
And today he caught me with a pair of nail scissors stuck up my nasal cavity whilst trimming my nose bush.

I am coming to the conclusion that beauty is a very ugly business indeed.

The return of the maxi dress

I just felt I had to say a big Crone thank you to whichever young, thrusting fashion designer is behind the return of the maxi dress. Not the super slinky show off every lump and bump numbers mind you - they are to be avoided at all costs. I actually had the audacity to try one on the other day - it looked lovely and sleek on the hanger, tempting me with its shimmery, skimmery fabric - try me, try me it cried....I fancy a bloody good laugh!

Even with the obligatory Trinny and Susannah big knicks (I've done Gok, I've done Spanx and yet I always return to the painful, yet somehow comforting familiarity of the nude sausage-like tubing with the cheek chafing thong) my wobbly womanly bits could not be contained. I suppose it stands to reason; there's only so much flab you can squash into what's basically a tube of reinforced elastic, before it makes a bid for freedom. And, like a tube of toothpaste with an irritating little hole in it, mine comes out top and bottom. I end up with an impressive pair of man boobs and two cushion like, blobby protrudements (not sure that is even a word!) like a codpiece halfway down each hip. Then there's the sad, saggy old-lady skin under my arms. It literally appeared overnight the day I reached 49 and refuses to budge. It looks particularly fetching if I forget to shave my armpits - a bit like Desperate Dan's stubbly chin hanging there complete with dimple. Well, needless to say the divine, slinky t-shirt maxi looked like a sack of old spuds on me and was swiftly handed back to the stick-thin 20 something shop assistant. I can still see her pitying smirk now.

No, I'm not talking t-shirt maxis - save them for the waif-like Godalming wives you see drifting around Catwalk, or anyone under 22. I'm talking goddess - gorgeous Grecian maxis with elasticated bodices and lovely folds of comforting jersey or heavyweight brushed nylon that skim across your lumps and cellulite and caress your varicose veins. Mind you they are hard to find - often a skimpier, floatier and less forgiving version can catch you off-guard - and avoid large, swirling patterns at all costs - you'll get too much attention for all the wrong reasons.

I made that sorry mistake recently at a music festival when far too much cider lulled me into believing I truly was a waif-like, boho rock-chick. Off I trolled, on the look out for a lovely dress to match my lovely new (deluded) self-awareness, and there it was - a silky, slippery, multi-coloured vision of freedom and hippy-chic. No sooner had I fingered the tantalising silkiness of the fabric and the irresistible allure of the price tag - "£29 quid to you love and I'll give you a discount if you buy two" - than I was writhing in the sweaty changing room (v.small zip-up tent) stripping off my black t-shirt and jeans with drunken abandon and flailing as much of myself as humanly possible into the dress.

"Oh, you look great", said the blind salesman with forked tongue as I stared at myself in the magic mirror - and I really thought I did. Off I went, £29 poorer and non-the-bloody-wiser, to buy the obligatory black cowboy hat to go with obligatory floaty dress. I thought I looked the business, the bees-knees in fact as I re-joined my friends and boogied away to Level 42. I'd even turned a few heads as I floated back through the crowds. Unfortunately I soon found out why, when best man-friend Rick stuck his hand into the gaping hole where the seams of my new dress had come apart and prodded the mound of blubber escaping from the aforesaid trin and sus sausage-knickers, kind of spoiled the moment somehow. Luckily, the sun was sinking along with my self-esteem, and it wasn't long before the soothing cover of darkness hid my flubbery shame. But honestly. The next day when I tried on my dress again I could have cried - blancmange does not even begin to describe it. I looked like one of those frothy, crinoline toilet paper covers beloved of great-grandmothers who love to crochet. Into the wardrobe drawer of shame went the dress, only ever to emerge again when a) no-one is at home b) I feel ultra-fat and need a cover-up c) it's fancy dress and the theme is fat gypsies.

But TODAY I found the one. She is divine. Firstly she is black (we Crones should always wear this, the colour of our hair dye and our moods). Secondly she is empire line - oh how I spurned empire line for many a younger year, only now to embrace it's gentle, forgiving folds. And thirdly she is of really thick, non clingy fabric within inbuilt structuring that contains even my boulder-like bosoms. I am in love with my maxi and I don't mind admitting it.

Another day, another new wrinkle!

OMG! Things on the sex side have taken a bit of a downwards turn lately, so in the hope of sparking some passion I shaved my you know what this morning. Thought I'd make myself uber-tantalising by shedding the badger like grey and white pubic hairs that seem to have sprouted from thigh to navel, so I spent 20 minutes in the shower with a blunt Venus Vibrance. Imagine my utter horror when I discovered a huge wrinkle on my newly bald Mary-anne! It's like a downturned mouth frowning back at me in the mirror. What with the gunt and overhanging chicken wattle skin I even put myself off. No wonder he keeps feigning tiredness and work-related depression!

Don't look back, look angry!

As I plummet towards the unavoidable depths of my 50th birthday I've had to drag out some photos showing me at various ages - apparently they are going to be projected scary-size across the walls of the party venue (why? - do I really want to be reminded of those line free days?). Found my partner gazing lovingly at them - we've been together for 18 months so he's only known me in my crone years. "Oh," he said. "You used to be so beautiful." Used to be. USED TO BE! Is this really what it's come to? I would have cried, but black mascara'd crows feet look so unfetching.

Why is it that when we're young we don't even notice our smooth peachy skin, lustrous hair, cellulite-free limbs? Is it only when they are gone that we appreciate their loveliness? If I met my old self now I'd kick me really hard for not enjoying myself more!!

Hair Rescue

hey -- just had a thought! if i go and wash my hair off the Gulf of Mexico i could mop up the BP oil spill in one go.

Hair today. Gone tomorrow.

Hah. i am obsessed with the hair not only dropping off my head but changing direction to push out through my chin.

i would have a luxuriant 'great-aunt' moustache if not for La Parise home waxing technique i have mastered over the past decade. so depressing. everytime i fish another huge clot of hair out of the plug hole where it is blocking the drain i have 2 simple thoughts:
1. How like The Grudge this is (Japanese horror/ghost film where loads of long black hair is caught in the bath)
2. HAIR YOU STUPID THING! GET OFF THE FUCKIN FLOOR AND GET BACK ON MY FUCKEN HEAD WHERE YOU BELONG.
i am also getting runners crow face for fecks sake. the moment i start concentrating on my ass and stomach by exercising outdoors, my face decides to wrinkle up like a tan leather bag.
you just can't win at our age.

The Beginning of the End. Or the End of our Beginning?

every day I wake up and something else has changed/appeared/fallen off/drooped/puckered/gone grey.

I am now developing those smoker lines around my mouth and for fecks sake I've never even bloody smoked!

I wish I fecking had cos I'd still have the lines but might not be as fat! is it too late to start now?

I've always fancied one of those Bet Lynch glam ciggie holders.