17 April - Surgery & Facials

I run into a friend have not seen since before Xmas and can't stop staring at her face. It's so different, she looks amazing, she's had something done for sure but we're not grade A and so I can't actually ask if she's had surgery. I mean, I say 'Wow you look amazing' in a very incredulous voice and she chooses to ignore the obvious inferred query and just says she feels well rested lately... Mmmhh, she's an over 50 and doing a bit of a Madonna perhaps ie. denying. No amount of rest erases that many lines.

A little later I have lunch with the consultant surgeon friend who's had a knee operation recently and so was on the receiving end of anaesthetic and he tells me he had just begun to form the thought 'oh so this is what x/y/z anaesthetic feels like...' (which of course he's had administered to his surgerees many times) and he was out before he got half way through the thought. He confirms that anaesthetic is the most dangerous part of any surgery and he's seen it go wrong plenty of times. So, er.. that's my story. I will not ever have anything done because dying of a silly complication is not worth it. Ask Puff Daddy's mother....

14 March - Falling & Oldies

An exchange of emails with A., an old friend (met when we were 8 years old or thereabouts). She writes that her 73 year old mother who in the last two years has developed in the last an equilibrium problem and has already fallen off a bicycle and broke an arm last year and as a result now has a live in carer… has fallen again and now has broken some vertebras and has to be in bed for 3 months. I reply not with some adult sympathy, but reverting back to our 13 year olds language, full of ’f uck, shit, don’t need this, what a crashing bore for you, can’t believe it, they never leave us alone’ type of rant.

We used to have these (mostly as epistolary exchanges as we lived 200 miles apart and the phone was guarded and monitored for expense) in letters that had envelopes totally obliterated by slogans, drawings and photos of David Bowie and Mick Jagger pasted all over them. Our parents then seemed very old to us when in fact they were younger than we’re now. Much. But they were old. They had to tell us off all the time for whatever it is that teenagers do and clearly didn’t understand that Bowie was God.

Some letters were read by them (where does one hide stuff in a family home? My then diary caused mother many sleepless nights, such was the hatred that poured out of it for… just being stuck in a family and not in the desert with Crosby Stills & Nash – and Young) and the fathers were incensed to be referred to as ‘baldie’ (hers) and ‘belly’ (mine). Well that was being kind as hers was not only balding by then, but growing even uglier than he’d ever been (teeth sticking out and a speech that always worried me that he may spit on me as he spoke. Especially when old. No chance of that happening as he died of cancer now ten years ago). Of course what we wanted to say was that we wished our fathers were Marlon Brando and Marlon Brando. We were obsesssed. As it happens, it's with great relief that we're not his daugher, considering the sorry, tragic end of his kids and the fact that he was a bit of a weirdo all things considered.

I went on to say that truly it’s too much to have to worry/look after old people when we haven’t even been to the top of Everest yet and /or want to go live in Bahia California, and it would be much better if we all had lives terminated at 75 max as even if in the minority of those healthy ones not requiring anything much till 95… what was the point? Clearly it was just a jokey railing at the passage of time which will get us too (except that as we have no children, nobody will be stuck with the problem and money is set aside for the hospice). She has not yet replied. Maybe she’s grown up and I haven’t….

Talking of old, which he is at nearly 79 (and past my above mentioned termination threshold), but my father is still vain. The belly has gone largely due to recent illness but he cares about his hair etc. So when I was home recently and he told me he pulls out any white hairs on his eyebrows, I told him he shouldn’t as they never grow back. (is this true? My friend C. says if you pluck one out, 7 grow back in its place – which old wives tale to believe?). I trimmed them anyway, as absolutely hate sticky out 2 inch eyebrow hairs on old men. And then I thought of a solution. I got a brown eyebrow pencil (my sister’s as hers are fine and I don’t need one as me and Brooke Shields in the 80’s were one and the same) and by holding my forefinger under the longish eyebrows, I just coated the white hairs with brown. And voila’. He was suddenly Humphrey Bogart. You’d think a man would tell you you’re mad and not allow you to do this. But he’s my father and he cares about how he looks. I doubt he’ll do it himself, but now he has the tools.

21 January - Stylish wanderings

The trusty slimline trainers I bought in Rio in 2003 have finally fallen apart. They were never meant to last and I’d taken them on at least 2 previous trips thinking of chucking them at the end, but then gave them a reprieve because I was totally attached to them. They walked their infant days in the staggeringly surprising botanical gardens of Rio. Full of orchids in every colour and then there was the forest. And my escort for the day was the young Italian with the velvet eyes and long lashes and the lame ‘r’ that made him so sexy. This time they have tears on the uppers and the soles are coming unglued etc. The reason I’ve kept them this long is also to find their twins. They have no laces so you slip them on easily. They’re white and slightly pointed and v. v. light. But I‘ve looked and looked and they’re a no brand so can’t order them on the net or anything and I have no chance to go to Rio for now. So now they’ve gone. I took them off outside the Hanoi Metropole hotel (a girl can’t go for chocolate fountain afternoons in shoddy shoes) and changed into heels and I put them in a bin from which a hawker quickly retrieved them. Wonder if she’s fix them, add some ribbons, colour them blue and they’ll have a new life.

But I refuse to walk in other trainers so once in HK I buy for £30 a pair of ballerina style Rockports which promise to have the same sole technology as a pair of Nike. Yes, for the first 2 hours they’re ok. No, for a whole day walking they’re not. They’re just not light/bendy enough. So I spend another 30 quid (sales time folks) on another pair of much softer black flat shoes with bendy sole, another American brand, oh how this pains me. But why would you match a black shoe with a brown rubber sole? Why??? Why not make them the same colour, easier on the eye?

They have them in all colours and am tempted by white, red, pistachio green but you know, am not rich yet so I can’t buy the same style in all colours (I once knew a man who did that with his cashmere tops… how I envied him, he ended up giving me a lemon yellow V neck that wasn’t that manly, not even an Italian man would wear it. They wear salmon pink though, it always surprises me. Anyway, these softer shoes are cut in such a way that the edge rubs on my bunions (the only thing I have I common with Posh). Most annoying. This means I still don’t have the perfect pair of walking shoes (yes there are flip flops but only Kate Moss looks good in them and you’re an idiot if you wear them in town.

Having said that, I insist on changing shoes every time there’s a photo opportunity and I carry a spare pair wherever I go on my tourist outing. In fact two this trip as the white corked high heels didn’t go with the blue with orange piping dress for example and so on. Yes folks, this is excessive vanity you may think but… ‘photos are forever’ I keep saying and I will not have a bad holiday snap testament left on computers around the world. It was with some satisfaction that upon seeing all the photos from BF’s previous holidays, that I noticed the ex GF looked pretty ropey in most of hers. ‘She scrubs up’ well he said in her defence when I made a catty comment. And that is true, in a few she’s fine, especially if she’s bothered not to take the same clothes on more than 5 holidays. That seems lazy packing to me. But my motto is not to look good ‘when I scrub up’, but … always… so there. Short heels, nothing too fancy, something that goes with everything, pretty black pointy Kurt Geiger mules and voila’ , instant longer leg and better silhouette. I’m not aiming for fashion shoot, oh, no, though I’ve considered one of those white reflective backdrops, there must be some that can be folded up in my bag. Honestly the amount of good photos ruined by too strong a flash on the face to counteract the fading light or against the sun exposure… A simple screen would fix that, but Toph tells me the GF before the last was obsessive about having her photo taken everywhere and I never ask, he offers, but I don’t want to have him make some unwelcome links between us. Ps. I will also not have a photo taken w/o first applying lipgloss, it’s lovely how it catches the light and illuminates your face in all weather conditions. Oh and a bit of white line inside your lower eye rim. Magic.

12 June - Bush & Bikinis

Am soon going on holiday again, this time to the seaside in the chic Amalfi coast. I’ll be always closely accompanied by the 27 year old g/friend of friend in whose apartment we’re staying. The girl is statuesque, well boobs endowed, has fantastic shiny black hair and though she’s not quite a Monica Bellucci, she’s top totty. Men turn and stare when she’s fully clothed so I can only imagine blokes tripping over their ice-creams on the beach. So you can see my predicament. So, much against my usual behaviour, I’ve decided to go hell for leather in reducing the gap between the dark Jessica Rabbit and me. And don't you mention age and firmness to me.

So it’s the linseed and the vinegar in warm water (colon cleansing), the pink grapefruit before a meal and the dandelion tea afterwards as it's meant to pack a punch in speeding up the metabolism, plus the use of top Italian anti cellulite cream, the two sessions of Powerplate per week, plus one of Bootcamp pilates, plus ad hoc a step class, a spin class and a jog and rowing session and the usual sex and watching what I eat in general – there is no la bouffee’ de croissants chez Lisa and the alcohol intake is not much.

Ok this hardcore regime has not been going for very long but still I see no visible improvement. What is this imperviousness to my efforts? What is wrong with my metabolism? Then again look at Madonna, it takes 4 hours a day everyday to look like her (actually I wouldn’t want her face too much, but the bod is ok, though a bit too pale) and look at me... It’s not that much different. Ok, uh, not if you consider her 28 hours a week (and a slice of toast and jam once a year when she's feeling naughty) and my 5 hours a week (yes I take some days off). So really, I’m just going to have to never walk side by side with JR, and wear vertiginous heels on the beach (if JLo can do it, so can I) and make good use of the cute, short sarongs. After all, you’re only old once. And my stomach is flatter than hers, it's just the legs, the horror, the legs.

The sarong may be extra useful also because the B/F appreciate the bush which am growing just for him. It’s a relief to save the £45 regular waxing budget but I don’t much like the brillo pad appearance. Yes I do know about using conditioner, same as you do for your hair but…it’s not working that well, nor is the oil. Ageing bush hair not being the same as young silky bush hair, am now opening the forum to readers’ suggestions as to what product to use or alternatively, confirmation that blokes don’t notice. It’s not like Toph said anything regarding softness. Yet he’s not adverse to a bit of preening himself if forced. He lets me cut short is underarm hair, as boys get older too and sprout more hair. Whilst I was at it I also shaved off stray ones from his back and sorted out the chest area too. Whilst kissing him of course, an’t keep away from him. He also abhors nose hair (we always wonder when we see blokes who have mothers or girlfriends, why said females are not bothered by this) and though he stops me at the cojones, I usually manage to sort that area out as well. We’re happy monkeys!

But it’s all very well at home, but what will happen when am in bikinis? Will someone else see it and think ‘gross?’ I remember nearly throwing up once sat downhill at a picnic in Primrose Hill from the g/friend of a then famous director. His movie perhaps had not come out quite yet, but the g/friend definitely had the Full Monty that Summer. There was so much dark hair sprouting around her knickers and well, I’d never seen anything like it outside of Spanish porn films. Now that I think about it Brazilians and the like were yet all the rage that year, but surely myself and my girlfriends were a bit more trimmed?

28 April - Zits & Sunspots

The returning period zit is beginning to seriously irritate me. My face was a spot free zone for so many years. Lucky teens were enjoyed with hardly any recourse to the Clerasil, and have been spared since then, bar the odd one appearing once a month. Only, these days the lonely period spot appears and stays for two weeks on average. It then takes a very long time to fade and in fact never really appears to have faded. Add to this the creeping in of sun related brown spots and suddenly I have to worry about my skin. Not ideal as I’ve largely never had to use any concealer and all those laser resurfacing treatments work best on English rose complexions rather than olive skinned ones (have done my research).

13 April - Camden & 50's

We’re in a pub in Camden to meet with some old friends who’ve just emigrated to Portugal and are having one group goodbye. It’s a pub I know I went to a couple of decades ago and its’ since been enlarged and refitted, in fact it’s so huge with the extensive outdoor area as to resemble an adventure playground and has a different feel according to the area you choose to occupy. But what’s extraordinary is the amount of kids in it, very distinctively Camden rather than west London ones. The friends I’m with are 50+ and visibly so, people from a distant Adam & the Ants period, before he was Adam in fact. The combined weight of their gut is sizeable. Actually one or two are trim, but on the whole the dated haircuts and clothes make them look like the old bunch they are. They used to come here in their school days and am sure played snooker (table no longer exist) and did not pay £8 for a burger or indeed if wine was sold here then.

I warn Toph about the perils of 3 pints a night for most nights of the week but there’s no need to do so. He hates guts as much as I do and in fact is very uncharitable about a 30 something friend of the 50 year olds. He thinks she looks like a troll. I feel better now that I know my boy will not be the one to accuse me of being a body fascist. At least my old friends here have up to the minute spec frames. I especially hate it when people don’t update their glasses. I know it’s expensive but they sit on your face, so please change them? And do sort out your teeth? I know even Jeremy Irons clings on to his greeny/grey ones, but … why???? No one said you have to go Tom Cruise’s dazzling shade of white but, just make them look clean?

2 March - Chekhov & Spring

How current is old Chekhov? Am sure you ask yourselves that question on a weekly basis. A lot. That’s why going to see The Seagull (and Uncle Vanya a few weeks ago) even though you read it years ago and saw the play years ago the therefore you don’t think you need to repeat the experience … is actually crucial. You just have to remind yourself that things make sense at different times in your life and what seemed irrelevant then, is now and s on. You take away from them what you need. Toph thinks the play is bleak, granted, and that Konstantin kills himself because he’s a failed writer. I think he kills himself because his mother doesn’t love him and the girl he’s fixated on doesn’t want him. But there you go. I do get the other stuff about these people being ciphers for the larger problems of Russia in those days and so on but… all of that doesn’t matter because at the end, after our furious clapping and self backslapping for bothering to get tickets, the boy says ‘You do look a bit like Kristin Scott Thomas, she’s more drawn than you but the mouth is very similar…’
I mean, a girl could fall off the balcony at such tribute. (La Scott Thomas was also terrific in the role of the vain actress mother, she totally inhabited it which I more that can be said for him from The Office) especially if she identifies with the vain in the above sentence. I was already thinking that it’s a shame it’s not cold enough to warrant me wearing gorgeous Russian style winter coats. Did I ever mention I love Anna Karenina? Didn’t think so.
If you consider that only a few days earlier leafing through supplements he’d leant over to show me the Creole looking girl in the M&S lingerie ads and said ‘She looks like you!’, it’s practically flattery heaven. Now, that one is a good 20 years younger than me, no? Kristin at least not dissimilar in age to me, bit more polished but I don’t benefit from Oscar make up on a daily basis or, come to think of it, ever. Clearly the two don’t look like each other and I don’t look like them, but these compliments are very, very welcome. Going into Spring feeling good! And it’s mutual. I’ve taken pictures of him where I’ve compared him to Clint Eastwood and Brad Pitt who clearly don’t look like each other and/or like him blah blah but isn’t that the whole premise of that movie where Jack Black falls in love with Gwynnie and doesn’t see the fat girl? The look of love indeed.