Sunday, 6 June 2010

Wardrobe Essentials & The Perils of Flirting

My toes have suddenly gone all funny. Like Mum's - white wrinkly slugs attached to my feet. They're repulsive. I didn't realise that was due to age - just thought it was a peculiarity specific to my mother. Now I'll have to stop wearing sandals - is there no end to the parts of your body you have to keep covered once you pass a certain unpleasant birthday?    

No showing the tops of your arms or any leg above the knee, not to mention the baggy knees themselves. No wrinkly necks, no ageing hands and, now, no toes as well.

I might as well become a Muslim and wear a burka, as at least that would cover everything in one go. If you used all the cover-ups the magazines suggest, you'd look a right twit. Gloves; an artfully-draped scarf or huge necklace; a long skirt (with opaque tights); long sleeves segueing neatly into the afore-mentioned gloves. Bloody hell - soon it'll be a hat to obscure the bald patch or a balaclava to cover the incipient beard.

And soon wearing trousers will be out, too, as Mum says that, one day when you're least expecting it, your arse suddenly slips sideways and becomes flat and wide. I might as well just go to bed and stay there.

This is all the more bothersome as Johnny is emailing me more often these days. He says talking to me "puts a smile on his face" and that even his staff have commented on his change of mood. I suppose any distraction from the oil spill would be welcome, but it's flattering all the same.

I do wish he wouldn't keep referring to that business behind the Science block, though. I still can't remember what it was, but says he had to take his watch off because it was getting in the way. God knows what he means, but I bet it'll be embarrassing.

I really must find my diary for that year, although what's the point in flirting with someone when you'd have to keep everything covered if you ever met and took things further? That's probably why people stay married - to avoid the horror of having to disrobe in front of someone who isn't inured to disintegration via familiarity. Those who can't afford a personal trainer and plastic surgery, anyway.

Now I'm even more suspicious of Max's half-hearted attempts to get fit

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