THE FLABBY DIAPHRAGM

Wednesday 9 May 2012

175lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.30 a.m. Emergency! Back has gone. I mean, not actually gone, in sense of still having shoulders attached to bottom. But was just checking Twitter for followers then slammed laptop shut, tossing head dismissively and saying, ‘Pah!’ and whole of left upper back suddenly went into spasm. Is like I didn’t notice I had a back before and now it is complete agony and what am I going to do?

11 a.m. Just back from osteopath. Osteopath said it is not fault of Twitter but due to years of lifting children and I should try bending from the legs instead of the back – i.e. squat like an African tribal woman, which seems a bit ungainly, though not to insult the gracefulness of African tribal women who are of course very graceful.

She asked if I had any other symptoms and I said, ‘Acid.’ She poked around my stomach exclaiming, ‘Gosh! This is the flabbiest diaphragm I’ve ever felt.’

Turns out, because of my age, my entire middle section has refused to go back like it was and all my intestines are flobbering about, uncontained. No wonder they are hanging over my black sweatpants like porridge.

‘What shall I do?’

‘You’ll have to start working that stomach,’ she said. ‘And you’ll have to lose some of the fat. There’s a very good new obesity clinic at St Catherine’s Hospital.’

‘OBESITY CLINIIIIIIIIIIC?’ I said indignantly, jumping up from the bed and putting my clothes back on. ‘I might have a bit of baby fat, but I’m not obese!’

‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You’re not obese. It’s just very effective if you want to lose weight properly. It’s very hard when you’ve got little ones.’

‘I know,’ I gabbled. ‘It’s all very well knowing what you’re supposed to be eating, but if you’re surrounded by leftover fish fingers and chips at five o’clock every night, and then eat them and have your own dinner later . . .’

‘Exactly, the clinic puts you on meal replacement so there isn’t any argument,’ said the osteopath. ‘You just don’t put anything else into your mouth.’

Not sure what Tom, Jude and Talitha would say about that one, harrumph harrumph.

Left in huff, then had sudden urge to go back in and say, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

9.15 p.m. Got home and surveyed self aghast in mirror. Am starting to look like a heron. My legs and arms have stayed the same, but my whole upper body is like a large bird with a big roll of fat round the middle that, when clothed, looks like it should be served up at Christmas with cranberry jelly and gravy; when unclothed, as though it’s been cooking all night in a pot in a box full of straw in Scotland, and is about to be served up for an extended family’s post‑Hogmanay breakfast. Talitha is right. The secret is to alter the automatic fat positioning of (unacceptable outdated phrase approaching) Middle Age.

Thursday 10 May 2012

174lb, Twitter followers 0.

10 a.m. Just spoke to Obesity Clinic. Encouragingly, there was some doubt over whether I was actually obese enough to be accepted! Found self, for first time in life, lying about weight to make it heavier than it actually is.

10.10 a.m. Am going to completely transform my body into a lean muscular thing with tight band of muscle round the middle, holding in the intestines.

10.15 a.m. Just reflexively put remains of kids’ breakfast into mouth.

Thursday 17 May 2012

175lb, Twitter followers 0.

9.45 a.m. On point of Obesity Clinic departure. Feel have got to lowest ebb ever. Will be like one of those people you see in medical news reports looking ashamed of themselves, having their blood pressure taken in hospital gowns while a trim, streamlined reporter talks in front of them in stern, concerned tones, about the ‘Obesity Epidemic’.

10 p.m. Obesity Clinic was FANTASTIC. After initial awkwardness of having to repeat ‘The Obesity Clinic’ increasingly loudly to the receptionist, eventually reached the clinic, to see a man who was so large he was actually wheeling his fat on a trolley in front of him. He seemed to be being hit on by an only slightly less large woman who was saying to him in a seductive voice, ‘Were you Childhood Obese?’

People were looking at me, with the sort of admiration I hadn’t felt since I was twenty‑two and running round in a psychedelic shirt tied up in a knot revealing my flat midriff. Realized they must think I was one of the clinic’s success stories nearing the end of my ‘programme’. Felt unaccustomed, leaping sense of self‑confidence. Realized this was wrong, and disrespectful to fellow patients.

Also, the very fact of seeing fat as a separate body attachment being wheeled on a trolley started to make me see fat as an actual thing. Realize, in the past, have seen fat as some totally unreasonable, random act of nature rather than a direct product of things‑put‑in‑mouth.

‘Name,’ said the man on reception, who, worryingly, was very fat himself. Surely the people who work at the clinic ought to have got this one down by now?

The whole thing was medical and complex: blood tests, ECGs and consultations. Once we got over the moment of awkwardness when they tried to put me down on the form as a ‘geriatric mother’ it all went absolutely swimmingly. Seems like the whole thing of weighing yourself is not the point. The point is to drop dress sizes. And people who are very, very fat – say fifty or a hundred pounds overweight – can lose a lot – like twelve pounds of fat in one week! And that is actual fat. But if you’re just trying to lose 10, 15 per cent of your body weight, anything more than a couple of pounds isn’t losing fat, it’s (darkly) other things.

You see, crucially, is not about weight but the percentage of fat to muscle. If you just go on a crash diet, and do not lift weights, you end up losing your muscles, which are heavier than your fat. So you weigh less, but are more fat. Or something. Anyway, upshot is: am supposed to go to gym.

My diet is going to be just protein chocolate puddings and protein chocolate bars, then a small portion of protein and vegetables in the evenings, so I mustn’t put anything in my mouth which isn’t those things. (Apart from penises – why did mind think such a thought? Chance would be a fine thing, though after today it is suddenly looking like that might be a possibility.)

MAKEOVER!

Thursday 24 May 2012

179lb (huh), pounds lost 0, Twitter followers 0, protein chocolate bars consumed 28, chocolate protein puddings consumed 37, number of meals replaced by protein chocolate bars or puddings 0, average number of calories per day eaten combining normal food with protein products 4,798.

Just went to Obesity Clinic for first week’s progress weigh‑in.

‘Bridget,’ said the nurse, ‘you’re supposed to replace the meals with the protein products, not eat them as well.’

Looked sulkily at the chart then blurted out, ‘Will you follow me on Twitter?’

‘I am not,’ she said, ‘on Twitter. Now, next week, forget about Twitter and just eat the products. Nothing else. OK?’

9.15 p.m. Children are asleep. Oh God, I’m so lonely, Twitter follower‑less, fat, hungry and sick of effing obesity products. Hate this time of day when children are asleep. Should be relaxing and fun instead of just lonely. Right. Am not going to wallow in it. In next three months am going to:

* Lose 75lb

* Gain 75 Twitter followers

* Write 75 pages of screenplay

* Learn to operate television

* Find friend with children same age who lives nearby so whole evening is fun instead of chaos followed by grated‑cheese stuffing‑fest

Yes! That is what I need. Is not natural for children to be isolated in individual houses with one or two adults focusing far too much attention on their happiness, scared to let them play in the street for fear of paedophiles. Sure there must have been paedophiles when we were growing up, but mass‑media‑induced fear of paedophiles has changed the whole face of parenting. Need other parents to spontaneously talk and drink wine with while children play, so whole thing would be like extended Italian family having dinner under a tree. For as the saying goes, ‘It takes a whole village to raise a child.’

Also, to get a celebrity ready for the red carpet.

Actually, there is a nice woman I have seen opposite who seems to have children – though ‘nice’ is perhaps the wrong word. She is wildly bohemian, with mane of black hair topped off with things that would be more at home in a garden centre or pet shop than on a head. Whole thing might look strange were it not for her equally outlandish dark bohemian beauty. Have seen her along with other people coming and going: children, teenagers – nannies? mannies? lovers? – a ruggedly handsome man who may be a husband, or a visiting artist, and, from time to time, a baby. Maybe she has kids the same age?

Feeling more jolly now. Tomorrow will be better.

Thursday 31 May 2012

175lb

Yayy! Have lost 4lbs since last week! Am back to weight at start of diet. Though nurse says loss is not really fat but ‘other things’. Also says I need to start e.g. cycling instead of sitting on my arse all day.

Thursday 7 June 2012

171lb

10 a.m. Have embraced the bike‑borrowing scheme of our eccentric (i.e. sensible) mayor, Boris Johnson – bought Boris Bike key, and borrowed Boris Bike and everything! Suddenly feel part of cool bicycling London: whole world of carefree young people eschewing cars and being lean and green! Am going to cycle to Obesity Clinic.

10.30 a.m. Just returned, traumatized from bike ride. Completely terrifying. Kept feeling had forgotten to put seat belt on, and getting off whenever a car came. Maybe will go on canal towpath.

11.30 a.m. Just back from canal ride on bike. Went really well until someone threw an egg at me from a bridge. Or maybe it was a bird which went into sudden early labour. Will clean off egg, not do Boris Bikes any more and go to Obesity Clinic on bus. At least will be alive and clean when sitting on arse instead of dead and covered in egg.

Thursday 14 June 2012

167lb!

Keep repeatedly taking off clothes and getting on scales, then taking off watch, bracelet, etc. and staring delightedly at dial. Just makes me want to do diet more.

Wednesday 20 June 2012

1 p.m. Have just been to gym – which is good, though hideous, obviously. Also what is the law which says that when changing room is empty except for one other person, their locker will always be the one directly above yours?

Now am going to got back on Twitter and find people.

1.30 p.m.

<@DalaiLama Just as a snake sheds its skin, so we must shed our past again and again.>

You see? The Dalai Lama and I are one cyber‑mind. I am shedding my fat like a snake.

Wednesday 27 June 2012

9.30 a.m. Have started my Hedda Gabbler screenplay. Is really very relevant because it is about a girl living in Norway – which I am going to translate to Queen’s Park – who decides ‘her dancing days are over’ and nobody lovely is going to actually marry her, so goes for someone boring – like grabbing the last seat when the music stops in musical chairs. Maybe I will also make her lose loads of weight and get millions of Twitter followers.

10 a.m. Maybe not. Twitter followers 0.

Thursday 28 June 2012

159lb, pounds lost 16!

OMG. Have lost 16 lbs! The strange thing is, where hundreds and hundreds of diets over the years have failed or lasted five days, this one is actually . . .

. . . working! It is something about going every week and being weighed and having my fat‑to‑muscle ratio measured, and knowing I can’t cheat and tell myself am on the Hay Diet when I want a baked potato and the Weightwatchers diet when I want a Mars bar. Also just found I can fit into dress I had before I was pregnant (though admittedly tent‑shaped) and that has whipped me into a frenzy of optimism.

Thursday 12 July 2012

155lb, pounds lost 20, pages of screenplay written 10, Twitter followers 0.

9.15 p.m. Oh God, I’m so lonely. Right. Am going to really get going on Twitter.

9.20 p.m. Dalai Lama has 2 million followers and yet he follows no one. That is right. A god cannot follow others. Wonder if he actually tweets himself or does he get his assistant to do it?

9.30 p.m. Complete meltdown. Lady Gaga has 33 million followers! Why am I even bothering? Twitter is giant popularity contest which I am doomed to be the worst at.

9.35 p.m. Just texted Tom explaining that Lady Gaga has 33 million followers and I have zero followers.

9.40 p.m. <You’re supposed to follow people. Otherwise how are they supposed to know you’re on Twitter?>

<But the Dalai Lama follows no one.>

<You’re not a god or Lady Gaga, dear. You have to be proactive. Follow me: @TomKat37.>

10 p.m. @TomKat37 has 878 followers. How did he manage that?

Friday 13 July 2012

10.15 p.m. I’ve got a follower! You see. People are starting to notice my style.

10.16 p.m. Oh. <@TomKat37 You see? You’ve got a follower. Now keep going.>

Is just Tom.

Tuesday 17 July 2012

152lb. Twitter followers 1.

Noon. Glorious and historic day. Just went shopping to H&M and asked the assistant to bring me a 16 and she looked at me as if I was mad and said, ‘You need a 14.’

I scoffed, ‘I’ll never fit into a 14,’ and she brought it, and it fitted. I am a 14!

And I have a follower! Am practically viral.

Thursday 26 July 2012

149lb, pages of screenplay 25, Twitter followers 1.

Yayy! Have broken through 150lb glass floor (though may have been through standing on one leg and slightly leaning on washbasin).

Also am on total screenwriting roll. Have decided to call my screenplay The Leaves in His Hair , which is Hedda’s most famous line in Hedda Gabbler . Even though it is only famous because nobody understands what she means.

Monday 30 July 2012

148lb, Twitter followers 50,001.

9.15 p.m. I’ve got another follower! But a weird follower. It’s a follower with 50,000 followers.

9.35 p.m. What is it? It’s just sort of hovering there like a spaceship, watching silently. Feel I ought to fire on it or something.

9.40 p.m. It’s called XTC Communications.

10 p.m. Just tweeted whole weird‑follower scenario to Tom, who tweeted back.

<@TomKat37 @JoneseyBJ It’s a spambot, baby. It’s just marketing.>

10.30 p.m. Tee hee. Just replied:

<@JoneseyBJ @TomKat37 I already have a spambot. You should have seen it today in the harsh rays of the early morning sun.>

Tuesday 31 July 2012

Twitter followers 50,001.

2 p.m. FIFTY THOUSAND AND ONE FOLLOWERS. Feeling fabulous! Just bought lip plumper! It feels a bit funny but actually seems to work.

3 p.m. Wonder if put lip plumper on hands will get fat fingers?

Wednesday 1 August 2012

Twitter followers 1 again.

7 a.m. Humph. Spambot has just, like, gone, taking its 50,000 bloody followers with it. Gaah! Kids are awake.

9.15 p.m. Will just check Twitter.

9.20 p.m. Tom has ‘retweeted’ my spambot tweet and seven followers have come.

9.50 p.m. What should I do now, though? Should I greet them? Welcome them?

9.51 p.m. Follow them?

10 p.m. Paralyzed into silence by social‑media embarrassment. Maybe will not do Twitter any more.

Thursday 2 August 2012

142lb, pounds lost 33, muscles grown 5% (whatever that means).

1 p.m. Giddily euphoric! Just went to Obesity Clinic and nurse says I am now ahead of target and model patient. Then went to H&M again to check size and am a 12.

Am thin and not a heron! Am Uma Thurman! Am Jemima Khan!

2 p.m. Just nipped into Marks & Spencer to purchase celebratory chocolate mousse cake and have eaten whole thing like a polar bear taking great swipes out with his paw.

Friday 3 August 2012

145lb (emergency).

10 a.m. Chocolate mousse cake has, I swear, moved directly from my mouth to my stomach and is just sitting there, under my skin, like the foil bag inside a cheap wine‑box. Must abandon screenplay, career, etc. and go to gym.

Noon. Am never going to gym again. Am never going to lose the weight, never and don’t bloody well care. Was consumed with rage whilst lying on front with bum in air failing to lift weight bar with ankles. Looked round to see everyone contorted ludicrously in machines like Hieronymous Bosch painting.

Why are bodies so difficult to manage? Why? ‘Oh, oh, look at me, I’m a body, I’m going to splurge fat unless you, like, STARVE yourself and go to undignified TORTURE CENTRES and don’t eat anything nice or get drunk.’ Hate diet. Is all fault of SOCIETY. Am just going to be old and fat and eat whatever I like and NEVER HAVE SEX AGAIN and WHEEL MY FAT AROUND ON A TROLLEY.

Sunday 5 August 2012

Weight (unknown, daren’t look).

11 p.m. Have today consumed the following things.

*2 ‘Healthy Start’ (i.e. 482 calories each) muffins

*Full English breakfast with sausages, scrambled egg, bacon, tomatoes and fried bread

*Pizza Express pizza

*Banana split

*2 packets of Rolos

*Half a Marks & Spencer chocolate cheesecake (actually, if am honest, whole of a Marks & Spencer cheesecake)

*2 glasses Chardonnay

*2 packets cheese and onion crisps

*1 bag grated cheese

*1 12‑inch jelly ‘snake’ purchased at the Odeon cinema

*1 bag popcorn (large)

*1 hot dog (large)

*Remains of 2 hot dogs (large)

HARHARBLOODY HAR. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, society!

Thursday 9 August 2012

152lb, weight gained since last week: 10lbs (though maybe chocolate cheesecake is still intact in stomach?)

2 p.m. Could hardly bring self to go to Obesity Clinic as was so ashamed.

Nurse took one look at scales, marched me into the doctor, and then made me go into the Group Therapy room, where everyone else talked about their ‘eating relapses’. Actually it was great. Mine was definitely the best and everyone seemed deeply impressed.

9.15 p.m. In spite of – or perhaps proving – nurse’s lecture (‘it takes three days to create a habit and three weeks to break it’), just want to eat cake and cheese again, and go back next week and impress everyone even more.

9.30 p.m. Just called Tom, grated cheese falling out of my mouth, and explained the whole thing.

‘Nooo! Don’t start trying to out‑relapse obese people!’ he said. ‘What about Twitter? Have you followed your followers? Follow Talitha.’

9.45 p.m. Tom just tweeted me Talitha’s Twitter address.

9.50 p.m. @Talithaluckybitch has 146,000 followers. Hate Talitha. Hate Twitter. Feel like eating cheese again, or Talitha.

9.52 p.m. Just tweeted Tom: <@JoneseyBJ @TomKat37 Talitha has 146,000 followers.>

<@TomKat37 @JoneseyBJ Don’t worry dear, they’re mostly people she’s slept with or been married to.>

10.00 p.m. Talitha tweeted back.

<@Talithaluckybitch @TomKat37 @JoneseyBJ Darling it’s really TERRIBLY vulgar to display the green‑eyed monster on Twitter.>

Friday 10 August 2012

Twitter followers 75, then 102, then 57, then probably none, by now.

7.15 a.m. 75 followers have mysteriously, silently appeared overnight.

9.15 p.m. 102 now. Feel overwhelmed by responsibility: like am leader of a cult and they will all jump into a lake or something if I tell them to. Maybe will have glass of wine.

9.30 pm. Must clearly show leadership and address followers.

<@JoneseyBJ Welcome followers. I am thy leader. Ye art most welcome to my cult.>

<@JoneseyBJ But please do not do anything weird like jump into a lake, even if I suggest it, as may be drunk.>

9.45 p.m <@JoneseyBJ Gaah! 41 one of ye followers have drained away as suddenly as ye first appeared.>

<@JoneseyBJ Comest thou back!>

Thursday 16 August 2012

137lb, pages of screenplay written 45, Twitter followers 97.

4.30 p.m. Twitter followers have surged back and multiplied, rather like Pinocchio’s broomstick. Is clearly sign or portent. Weight is coming off again, have finished Act Two of screenplay, well sort of, and just had sighting of bohemian neighbour.

Was trying to park car. This is impossible in our street as is narrow, curved and cars park on both sides. Had just reversed in and out of space fourteen times, then resorted to Braille Parking, i.e. forcing car into space by bumping cars in front and behind. Braille Parking is fine in our street because everyone does it, then every so often a delivery lorry charges through, scraping everyone, someone takes its number and we all get our dents done on the insurance.

‘Mummeee!’ said Billy. ‘There’s someone in the car you bumped.’

The bohemian neighbour was sitting in the front seat, yelling at the kids in the back. I knew we were kindred spirits. She climbed out of the car, followed by her two dark, wild‑looking children. They looked the same age as Billy and Mabel: older boy, younger girl! Then the bohemian neighbour looked at her bumper, grinned at me, and disappeared into her house.

We have initiated contact! We are on the friendship road! As long as she does not behave like the spambot.

Thursday 23 August 2012

135lb, pounds lost 40 (unbelievable), dress sizes dropped 3.

Historic and joyful day. Have not got fat anything. Obesity Clinic says have now got down to healthy weight and should go on ‘Maintenance’ and losing more weight is only for aesthetic reasons and not because they think I need it!

And to prove it, I just went to H&M again and I am a 10!

I have written half of screenplay and at least ascertained that have neighbour with children the same age, I have 79 twitter followers and am part of hooked‑in generation of social‑media people, and I AM A SIZE 10. You see! Maybe am not completely rubbish.

Monday 27 August 2012

Acts of screenplay written 2.25, Twitter followers 87.

Mabel is so funny. She was sitting staring ahead in an eerie manner.

‘What are you doing?’ said Billy, brown eyes looking at her intently, slightly amused. Mark Darcy. Mark Darcy recreated in child form.

‘Havin’ a starin’ competition,’ said Mabel.

‘Who with?’

‘De chair?’ said Mabel, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Billy and me started giggling, then suddenly he stopped and looked at me: ‘You’re laughing again, Mummy?’

SMUG MARRIED HELL

Saturday 1 September 2012

135lb, positive thoughts 0, romantic prospects 0.

10 p.m. Giant step backwards. Just back from Magda and Jeremy’s annual joint‑birthday drinks. Was late because it had taken me twenty minutes to do up my zip, despite the time I had spent in yoga attempting to interlink my hands behind my shoulder blades and trying not to fart.

On the doorstep the memories surged up again: the years when I would stand there with Mark, with his hand on my back; the year I’d just found out I was pregnant with Billy and we were going to tell them all; the year when we took Mabel all wrapped up in her little car seat. It was so lovely going to things with Mark. I never worried about what I was wearing because he’d watch me try everything on before we left and help me choose, and tell me I didn’t look fat and do all the zips. He always had something kind and funny to say if I did something stupid, was always batting off any jellyfishing remarks (the kind that suddenly zap you as if from nowhere in the middle of a conversational warm sea).

I could hear the music and laughter inside. Fought the urge to run off. But then the door opened and Jeremy was there.

I saw Jeremy feeling what I was feeling: the yawning gap beside me. Where was Mark, his old friend?

‘Ah, there you are! Excellent,’ said Jeremy, blustering over the pain, as he had consistently done since the moment it happened. That’s public school for you. ‘Come in, come in. Great! How are the children? Growing up?’

‘No,’ I said rebelliously. ‘They are stunted by grief and will be midgets for the rest of their lives.’

Jeremy has clearly never read any Zen books and doesn’t know about just being there, and letting the other person be there, just as they are. But for a split second, he stopped the bluster and we just were there as we were, which was: extremely sad about the same thing. Then he coughed and started again as if nothing had happened.

‘Come on! Voddy and tonic? Let’s take your coat. You’re looking very trim!’

He ushered me into the familiar sitting room and Magda waved cheerily from the drinks table. Magda, who I met at Bangor University, is actually my oldest friend. I looked around at all the faces I’d known since my early twenties, once the original Sloane Rangers, older now. All the couples who seemed to get married like a line of falling dominoes when they were thirty‑one, still together: Cosmo and Woney, Pony and Hugo, Johnny and Mufti. And there was the same sense I’d had for all that time – of being a duck out of water, unable to join in what they were talking about because I was at a different stage of life, even though I was the same age. It was as though there had been a seismic timeshift and my life was happening years behind theirs, in the wrong way.

‘Oh, Bridget! Jolly good to see you. Goodness, you’ve lost weight. How are you?’

Then there was the sudden flash in the eyes, the remembering of the whole widowhood thing: ‘How ARE the children? How are they doing?’

Not so Cosmo, Woney’s husband, a successful, confident‑though‑egg‑shaped fund manager, who came charging up like a blunderbuss.

‘So! Bridget! Still on your own? You’re looking very chipper. When are we going to get you married off again?’

‘Cosmo!’ said Magda indignantly. ‘Zip it.’

One advantage of widowhood is that – unlike being single in your thirties, which, because it is ostensibly all your own fault, allows Smug Marrieds to say anything they like – it does usually introduce some element of tact. Unless, of course, you’re Cosmo.

‘Well, it’s been long enough now, hasn’t it?’ he crashed on. ‘Can’t carry on wearing widow’s weeds for ever.’

‘Yes, but the trouble is–’

Woney joined in. ‘It’s very hard for middle‑aged women who find themselves single.’

‘Please don’t say “middle‑aged”,’ I purred, trying to imitate Talitha.

‘. . . I mean, look at Binko Carruthers. He’s no oil painting. But the second Rosemary left him he was inundated with women! Inundated! Throwing themselves at him.’

‘Hurling themselves,’ said Hugo enthusiastically. ‘Dinners, theatre tickets. Life of Riley.’

‘Yes, but they’re all “of a Certain Age”, aren’t they?’ said Johnny.

Grrr. ‘Of a Certain Age’ is even worse than ‘middle‑aged’ with its patronizing, only‑ever‑applied‑to‑women insinuations.

‘Meaning?’ said Woney.

‘Well, you know,’ Cosmo was bludgeoning on. ‘Chap gets a new lease of life, he’s going to go for something younger, isn’t he? Plump and fecund and–’

Caught the quick flash of pain in Woney’s eyes. Woney, not an advocate of the Talitha school of branding, has allowed the fat‑positioning of middle age freely to position itself all over her back and beneath her bra: her skin, falling exhausted into the folds of her experience, unpolished by facials, peels or light‑reflecting make‑up bases. She has let her once long and shiny dark hair go grey, and cut it short, which only serves to emphasize the disappearance of the jawline (which as Talitha says, can be quickly glossed over with some well‑cut, face‑framing layers), and has gone for a Zara version of the structured black frock and high ruffled collar favoured by Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey .

I sense Woney has done this, or rather not done any ‘rebranding’, presumably not out of ‘feminism’ as such, but partly out of an old‑fashioned British sense of personal honesty; partly because she can’t be arsed; partly out of self‑belief and confidence; partly because she doesn’t define herself by how she looks or her sexuality; and, perhaps, mainly because she feels herself loved unconditionally for who she is: albeit by Cosmo who, in spite of his spherical physique, yellow teeth, hairless scalp and unbridled eyebrows, clearly feels he would be unconditionally loved by any woman lucky enough to have him.

But for a second, at that flash of pain in Woney’s eyes, I felt a surge of sympathy, until she went on . . .

‘What I mean is that for a single man of Bridget’s age, it’s a total buyer’s market. No one’s knocking at Bridget’s door, are they? If she was a middle‑aged man, with her own house and income and two helpless children, she’d be inundated by people wanting to take care of her. But look at her.’

Cosmo looked me up and down. ‘Well, yes, we ought to get her fixed up,’ he said. ‘But I just don’t know who would, you know, at a certain age . . .’

‘Right,’ I burst out. ‘I’ve had enough of this! What do you mean, “middle‑aged”? In Jane Austen’s day we’d all be dead by now. We’re going to live to be a hundred. It’s not the middle of our lives. Oh. Yes. Well, actually it is the middle. Come to think of it. But the point is, the whole expression “middle‑aged” conjures up a certain look.’ I panicked, glancing at Woney, feeling myself plunging helplessly into a deepening hole. ‘. . . a certain, a certain, past‑it‑ness, non‑viability. It doesn’t have to be like that. I mean, why are you assuming I don’t have a boyfriend, just because I don’t blab on about it? I mean, maybe I do have boyfriends!’

They were all staring at me, slavering almost.

‘Do you?’ said Cosmo.

‘Do you have boyfriends?’ said Woney, as if she were saying, ‘Do you sleep with a spaceman?’

‘Yes,’ I lied smoothly, about the admittedly imaginary boyfriends.

‘Well, where are they, then?’ said Cosmo. ‘Why don’t we ever see them?’

‘I wouldn’t want to bring them here because they’d think you were all too old, set in your ways and rude,’ I was about to blurt out. But I didn’t because, ironically enough, as for the last twenty years or more, I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

So instead I used the immensely skilful social manoeuvre I’ve been employing for the last two decades and said, ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

Sat down on the loo seat, saying, ‘OK. It’s OK.’ Put some more lip plumper on, and headed back down. Magda was on her way to the kitchen, holding – symbolically enough – an empty sausage plate.

‘Don’t listen to bloody Cosmo and Woney,’ she said. ‘They’re just in a frightful state because Max has gone off to university. Cosmo’s on the verge of retiring, so they’re going to be staring at each other across their Conran Shop 70s‑style table for the next thirty years.’

‘Thanks, Mag.’

‘It’s always so nice when things go badly for other people. Especially when they’ve just been rude to you.’

Magda has never stopped being kind.

‘Now, Bridget,’ she said. ‘Don’t listen to that lot. But you do have to start moving on, as a woman. You have to find someone. You can’t carry on feeling like this. I’ve known you for a long time. You can do it.’

10.25 p.m. Can I? Can’t see any way out of feeling like this. Not at this moment. You see, things being good has nothing to do with how you feel outside, it is all to do with how you are inside. Oooh, goody! Telephone! Maybe . . . a suitor?

10.30 p.m. ‘Oh, hello, darling’ – my mother. ‘I’m just ringing quickly to see what we’re doing about Christmas, because Una doesn’t want her cranio‑facial at the spa because she’s had her hair done, and it’s in fifteen minutes – though why she had her hair bouffed when she’s got a cranio‑facial and Aqua‑Zumba in the morning I have no idea.’

I blinked confusedly, trying to make sense of what she was talking about. Ever since Mum and Auntie Una moved into St Oswald’s House, the phone calls have been the same. St Oswald’s House is an upscale retirement community near Kettering, only we are not allowed to call it a ‘retirement community’.

The not‑a‑retirement community is built around a grand Victorian mansion, almost a stately home. As described on the website, it has a lake, grounds which ‘boast a variety of rare wildlife’ (i.e. squirrels), ‘BRASSERIE 120’ (the bar/bistro), ‘CRAVINGS’ (the more formal restaurant) and ‘CHATS’ (the coffee bar), plus function rooms (for meetings: not toilets), ‘guest suites’ for visiting families, a collection of ‘superbly appointed’ houses and bungalows, and, crucially, ‘an Italianate garden designed by Russell Page in 1934’.

On top of this lot there is ‘VIVA’, the fitness facility – with pool, spa, gym, beauty salon and hairdresser, and fitness classes – the source of most of the trouble.

‘Bridget? Are you still there? You’re not wallowing in it, are you?’

‘Yes! No!’ I said, attempting the bright, positive tones of someone who is not wallowing in anything.

‘Bridget. You’re wallowing. I can tell from your voice.’

Grrr. I know Mum did go through a dark time after Dad died. The lung cancer took him in six months from diagnosis to funeral. The only positive thing was that Dad did get to hold newborn Billy in his arms, just before he died. It was really hard for Mum when Una still had Geoffrey. Una and Geoffrey had been Mum and Dad’s best friends for fifty‑five years and, as they never tired of telling me, had known me since I was running round the lawn with no clothes on. But after Geoffrey’s heart attack there was no holding Mum and Una back. If they feel it now, Mum about Dad, or Una about Geoffrey, they rarely show it. There’s something about that wartime generation which gives them the capacity to just cheerfully soldier on. Maybe something to do with the powdered eggs and whale‑meat fritters.

‘You don’t want to mope around when you’re widowed, darling. You want to have fun! Why don’t you come over and jump in the sauna with Una and me?’

It was kindly meant, but what did she imagine I was going to do? Run out of the house, abandon the children, drive for an hour and a half, rip off my clothes, have my hair bouffed, then ‘jump in the sauna’?

‘So! Christmas! Una and I were wondering, are you going to come to us or . . .’

(Have you noticed how when people are giving you two options, the second one is always the one they want you to do?)

‘. . . Well, the thing is, darling, there’s the St Oswald’s cruise this year! And we wondered if you might like to come? With the children of course! It’s to the Canaries, but it’s not all old people, you know. There are some very “with‑it” places they visit.’

‘Right, right, a cruise, great,’ I said, suddenly thinking that if the Obesity Clinic had made me feel thin, maybe an over‑seventies cruise might make me feel young.

Mind, however, now also contained image of me chasing Mabel along a cruise‑liner deck through a morass of bouffed hairdos and electric wheelchairs.

‘You’ll be perfectly at home, because it’s actually for over‑fifties,’ Mum added, unknowingly putting the kibosh on the plan in a microsecond.

‘Well, actually, we think we might have plans here! You’re welcome to join us, of course, but it’ll be chaos, and if the other option is a cruise in hot weather, then–’

‘Oh, no, darling. We don’t want to leave you at Christmas. Una and I would love to come to you! It’d be super having Christmas with the little ones, it’s such a hard time for us both.’

Gaaah! How could I possibly handle Mum, Una and the kids, with no help as Chloe was going on a t’ai chi retreat to Goa with Graham? Did not want it to end up like last year, with me trying to stop my heart from breaking into pieces at doing Santa without Mark and sobbing behind the kitchen counter, whilst Mum and Una squabbled over lumps in the gravy and commented on my parenting and housekeeping, as if, rather than inviting them for Christmas, I had called them in as Systems Analysts.

‘Let me think about it,’ I said.

‘Well, the thing is, darling, we have to reserve the berths by tomorrow.’

‘Go ahead and book it for just you, Mum. Honestly, because I haven’t worked out–’

‘Well, you can cancel with fourteen days’ notice,’ she said.

‘OK, then,’ I said. ‘OK.’

Great, an over‑fifties cruise for Christmas. Everything looks so dark and gloomy.

11 p.m. Was still wearing my prescription sunglasses. That’s better.

Maybe I have just been like a wave building momentum and now I have crashed and another will come along soon! For as it says in Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus , women are like waves and men are like rubber bands which ping away to their caves and come back.

Except mine didn’t come back.

11.15 p.m. Look, stoppit. For, as it says on the Dalai Lama’s Twitter: <@DalaiLama We cannot avoid pain, we cannot avoid loss. Contentment comes from the ease and flexibility with which we move through change.>

Maybe will go to yoga and become more flexible.

Or maybe will go out with friends and get plastered.

A PLAN

Sunday 2 September 2012

Alcohol units 5 (but hard to tell with mojitos – maybe 500?).

‘It’s time,’ said Tom, settling into his fourth mojito in Quo Vadis. ‘We’re taking her to the Stronghold.’

The Stronghold has recently become a regular part of Tom’s micro‑universe. Run by a client from his therapy practice, it is an illegal American‑style speakeasy in Hoxton.

‘It’s like being in an incredibly well‑directed music video,’ Tom enthused, eyes shining. ‘There’s every age group: young and old, black and white, gay and straight. Gwyneth’s been seen there! And it’s a “pop‑up”.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Talitha. ‘How many minutes till the edginess of “pop‑up” anything has popped down?’

‘Anyway,’ said Jude. ‘Who bothers to meet people in real life any more?’

‘But Jude, there are actual live people there. And Americana bands, and sofas – you can talk and dance, and make out with people.’

‘Why would you do all that before you’ve found out in one click whether they’re divorced or separated‑with‑kids, like bungee jumping more than going to the movies, know how to spell, know not to use the expression “lol” or “special lady” without irony, and whether they think the world would be a better place if people with low IQs were not allowed to reproduce?’

‘Well, at least you’ll know they’re not a photograph from fifteen years ago,’ said Tom.

‘We’re going,’ said Talitha.

Upshot is, we are off to the Stronghold in Hoxton on Thursday.

Wednesday 5 September 2012

Acts of screenplay written 2.5, attempts to find babysitter 5, babysitters found 0.

9.15 p.m. Disaster. Forgot to ask Chloe about babysitting tomorrow, and she is going to watch Graham compete in the South of England t’ai chi semi‑final.

‘I’d love to help, Bridget, but t’ai chi means an enormous amount to Graham. I can definitely do the school run on Friday morning, though, so you can sleep in.’

What am I going to do?

Cannot ask Tom as he is coming to the Stronghold, ditto Jude and Talitha, plus Talitha does not do children since she says she has done that and only uses hers if she needs a walker for charity auctions.

9.30 p.m. Just called Mum.

‘Oh, darling, I’d love to but it’s the Viva Supper tomorrow! We’re doing Ham in Coca‑Cola. Everyone is doing things in Coca‑Cola now!’

Am slumped at kitchen table, trying not to think about everyone doing things in Coca‑Cola in the Viva spa. It’s SO UNFAIR. Am trying my best to rediscover myself as a woman but now am up shit creek without a . . . Oh! What about Daniel?

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 968