into the bathroom with a flourish of my arm and just stop myself making a trumpet-call sound. It transpires that he wants to build a majestic bathroom with cupboards and so forth, completely free, if I will allow him to have it photographed for publicity and for his brochure. My only cost will be paint when it is finished. This is fantastic. I agree, and wildly say I donât even need to approve the sketches. He shakes my hand fervently and capers about saying what perfect proportions the bathroom has. After he has gone I begin to regret having relinquished any control, but cannot think of a way to unsay it without seeming rude and untrusting.
April 23rd
Lie about groaning for most of the morning due to hangover. This was caused by an evening alone with a bottle of wine and a mirror. Not a good combination. At eleven p.m. Kris Kristofferson and I were alone together and he was reminding me that:
Freedomâs just another word for nothing left to lose, And nothing ainât worth nothing if itâs free.
Copious weeping on my part as I faced the terrible drunken truth: I am doomed never to be attractive toanyone and will never find a fling, let alone a boyfriend, again. I am old and mouldy now and have missed my chances. At midnight I was juggling the household accounts and failing to find funds with which to go to health farm and/or buy cashmere cardigans. At twelve-fifteen I noticed that the wine was finished and the fire was out, and took myself to bed to sleep off self-pity.
The children have ice cream and Rice Krispies for breakfast because I am enfeebled and there is no milk. Not my day for the school run, so thrust them into another motherâs car with scarcely a kiss and retreat to the security of the Aga rail. Dump The Beauty back in her cot as soon as decently possible after breakfast, where she wails loudly and causes my head to whirl and bounce horribly. The hangover retreats but not the cause of it, as I can see only too clearly in the bathroom mirror when I finally decide to brush my teeth. Distracted from detailed survey of my skinâs dry rot and subsidence by the doorbell. It is the postman, with a fat pile of letters, probably all bills. He could easily have put them through the letter box, but has chosen to summon me and is now smiling fondly, as if at his favourite football team, at my droopy nightie and crimson toenails.
âYouâre late,â I snarl.
A mistake, giving him the opportunity to reply, âBut you arenât up anyway, are you?â He winks, then turns back to his van and drives off whistling and revving theengine. This is all very trying and sends me huffing and muttering back to my room. I am not at all cheered by the postmanâs interest in me. I do not wish to have a Jack Nicholson/Jessica Lange empathy with him. I nestle back against the pillows for further wallowing and watch
Teletubbies.
An excellent programme. The Tubbies are all skipping about singing, âTelescope, telescopeâ.
They give me the boost I need. I telephone Mo Loamâs Temple to Beauty in London and book myself an appointment. The earliest available one is in six monthsâ time, and an hour with the high priestess slapping unguents onto my face will cost £120. I put the telephone down with that shaky, nauseous guilt feeling that comes with wanton extravagance. Feel sick for a while before realising that it will cost the same as half an hour with my lawyer. Plainly a bargain.
April 26th
Spring pours in through every window on a tide of blossom-scented air. One of the hens, Custard, or perhaps Flustered, has hatched three chicks and they bowl about after her, tiny blobs of apricot cotton wool beneath the apple blossom. The Beauty is very taken with them, and makes her way towards the orchard any timeshe is not under close surveillance. Her new shuffle, on her bottom with rowing action from her legs, is speedy, and I am constantly having to leave the telephone dangling
April 23rd
Lie about groaning for most of the morning due to hangover. This was caused by an evening alone with a bottle of wine and a mirror. Not a good combination. At eleven p.m. Kris Kristofferson and I were alone together and he was reminding me that:
Freedomâs just another word for nothing left to lose, And nothing ainât worth nothing if itâs free.
Copious weeping on my part as I faced the terrible drunken truth: I am doomed never to be attractive toanyone and will never find a fling, let alone a boyfriend, again. I am old and mouldy now and have missed my chances. At midnight I was juggling the household accounts and failing to find funds with which to go to health farm and/or buy cashmere cardigans. At twelve-fifteen I noticed that the wine was finished and the fire was out, and took myself to bed to sleep off self-pity.
The children have ice cream and Rice Krispies for breakfast because I am enfeebled and there is no milk. Not my day for the school run, so thrust them into another motherâs car with scarcely a kiss and retreat to the security of the Aga rail. Dump The Beauty back in her cot as soon as decently possible after breakfast, where she wails loudly and causes my head to whirl and bounce horribly. The hangover retreats but not the cause of it, as I can see only too clearly in the bathroom mirror when I finally decide to brush my teeth. Distracted from detailed survey of my skinâs dry rot and subsidence by the doorbell. It is the postman, with a fat pile of letters, probably all bills. He could easily have put them through the letter box, but has chosen to summon me and is now smiling fondly, as if at his favourite football team, at my droopy nightie and crimson toenails.
âYouâre late,â I snarl.
A mistake, giving him the opportunity to reply, âBut you arenât up anyway, are you?â He winks, then turns back to his van and drives off whistling and revving theengine. This is all very trying and sends me huffing and muttering back to my room. I am not at all cheered by the postmanâs interest in me. I do not wish to have a Jack Nicholson/Jessica Lange empathy with him. I nestle back against the pillows for further wallowing and watch
Teletubbies.
An excellent programme. The Tubbies are all skipping about singing, âTelescope, telescopeâ.
They give me the boost I need. I telephone Mo Loamâs Temple to Beauty in London and book myself an appointment. The earliest available one is in six monthsâ time, and an hour with the high priestess slapping unguents onto my face will cost £120. I put the telephone down with that shaky, nauseous guilt feeling that comes with wanton extravagance. Feel sick for a while before realising that it will cost the same as half an hour with my lawyer. Plainly a bargain.
April 26th
Spring pours in through every window on a tide of blossom-scented air. One of the hens, Custard, or perhaps Flustered, has hatched three chicks and they bowl about after her, tiny blobs of apricot cotton wool beneath the apple blossom. The Beauty is very taken with them, and makes her way towards the orchard any timeshe is not under close surveillance. Her new shuffle, on her bottom with rowing action from her legs, is speedy, and I am constantly having to leave the telephone dangling