The Mirror Crack'd

Having deliberated for some time on the merits of having 'a little help' managing the ageing process, I finally succumbed a week ago. I really should have known better. The last time I tried something new to enhance my features, it was the disturbingly named Brazilian. This is a hair treatment (as opposed to a painful waxing process) that is supposed to provide luscious locks for up to three months without the hassle of a blow dry. The downside - you have to leave it on for three days to allow the treatment to work. Net result: I spent three days as a dead ringer for an Afghan hound.

Treatment day dawns. I have chosen laser which will apparently zap away at my epidermis and, after a short recovery period, provide me with smoother skin. I lie down and am provided with black-out goggles. The treatment begins and I wonder if my sense of smell should have been addressed rather than my sight. The odour assailing my nostrils would have Hannibal Lecter reaching enthusiastically for fava beans and chianti. It is the smell of my burning skin.

The treatment ends, medicated camouflage make-up is applied and I am told to walk around in the cold air for a bit. I wander aimlessly and tentatively head into a store for a browse. The gust of hot air that hits my face knocks me sideways and I retreat rapidly. Although not before espying a couple of dresses that I think would be lovely for the summer. Even in extremis....

Day 1. A fairly uneventful day except for the fact that my skin is now very tight. I am not allowed to remove the make-up and it provides something of a barrier between me and the outside world.

Day 2. I am allowed to remove the make-up, except it doesn't want to come off. I am left with skin that is starting to peel and is now covered with a sort of yellowish tinge. I get on the tube and pray for invisibility. An American woman gets on and proceeds to talk very loudly to her child. No-one can escape the conversation. I look up and catch the eye of a young man next to me. We share a tiny second of mutual "what can you do?" and he then takes in my face, and recoils. I try to provide a reassuring smile however my skin is now so tight that all I can do is bare my teeth. The man recedes further and I hang my head in shame.

Day 3. In an attempt to mitigate the stares I am receiving, I decide to address things head on. I say "Oh, I'm so sorry about my face, I've just had laser". Everyone, bar none, replies "Oh, I hadn't noticed, you look absolutely fine". I become paranoid. I look like an extra from The Mummy and everything thinks I look normal. What on earth did I look like before?

Days 4-5. Panic is setting in. My face is red, sore and peeling. We have a photo-shoot booked at work for our new website photos. They are looking for a new image. I wonder whether this image could include a hat with a veil.

Day 6. Photo-shoot day. Thankfully my skin is virtually back to normal. I walk in and say to the photographer that I am really sorry but I had laser done and so could he possibly do some touching up of my photo to accommodate this. He looks up from his light machine, looks at my face and replies "Oh, I'd have done some work on your photos anyway."

So, that was money well spent then.

No More Home-Work

And so, after much deliberation and far too much naval gazing (both literally and metaphorically) I am returning to the world of proper work. By proper I mean that my commute will involve traveling on public transport rather than a dash up the stairs and my office companions will be human beings and, I am assuming, will not require the afternoon cuddles and tummy rubs requested by my current canine confidante.

I have therefore been spending time looking back over the last 18 months and have concluded that, for the most part, this change will be for the good. Firstly, it will require me to dress in something other than a muddy pair of jeans and boots. The application of make-up will be a necessity rather than an option and furthermore my hair will need more attention than a quick twist into a ponytail. If the last year or so has highlighted anything for me, it is the fact that I may have missed my vocation as a spy. This is not because I possess any specific mental prowess, but simply because the difference between me made up and not is so cataclysmic as to warrant patently horrified looks from friends and neighbours and a frankly unnecessary number of double takes upon seeing me 'au naturel'.

Working from home also seemed to me to have connotations of the sex industry about it. I understand that there are phone lines that can be called whereupon the callee will describe in exact detail what they are or are not wearing and furthermore expand upon how luscious they are. The reality, I believe, is rather more prosaic with the callee likely to be in tracksuit bottoms, flipping through a magazine or even ironing. My experience has not been dissimilar. I have been on the phone, talking to industry leaders and creating an illusion of professionalism and knowledge whereas the reality would have me, normally with my feet up on the table, dressed heat to foot in Juicy lounge-wear and gazing blearily at my screen. With this in mind, it is perhaps not surprising that I did not choose to use Skype for any business calls. The environment is tough enough without destroying the illusion behind my carefully cultivated telephone voice.

I have also been struck by the sheer number of callers one gets if one is at home all day. By callers I sadly do not mean friends dropping round for coffee and cake. No, these are people intent on selling to me. Whilst I have been frustrated at the continual interruptions, the sheer diversity of products on offer has been outstanding. To date, I have been offered fresh fish, a complete teak garden furniture set, an unidentified business proposition in Middlesborough, innumerable dusters and wash cloths, replacement sash windows and, of course, the inevitable approach by Jehovah's Witnesses. It is perhaps a sign that a return to a place of work is much needed when I say that I started to contemplate asking them in to satisfy my growing curiosity in their religion. The only thing holding me back is the recognition of how susceptible I am and thus the fear that I will end up as the subject of a Panorama special report.

Of course there will be things I miss; walks on a summer's day with my canine companion for one and the flexibility offered by being essentially a one-man operation. However, unlike prior jobs when days and years just merged into one, I have at least been savouring every moment of the last couple of years and so I am able to appreciate what I had and look forward to rescuing my heels from the back of the wardrobe.

I gotta feeling?

It is around 5.30pm, I am sitting at my desk and am supposed to be working. My mind, however, has other ideas and keeps drifting off. I have a complete inability to focus and why, because I am trying to work out what my gut feeling is telling me. Despite no end of making lists of pros and cons, I still ultimately rely on that completely unquantifiable sixth sense that lets me know if I am making a good or bad decision. The reason for all of this mental mayhem is that I am in the fortunate position of being offered another job.

All through my life I have trusted to that strange sensation just at the pit of my stomach to guide me; either when meeting new people, sizing up potential boyfriends/employers (there was an unfortunate time period when both categories were filled by the same person), schmoozing potential clients and so on. All the while it has been there, quietly sensing away and on the rare occasions I have ignored it, I have done so with breathtakingly awful consequences.

Of course, there have been occasions when even my gut has made inappropriate choices. For example, a brief but deep love affair with the Catholic faith in my early teens saw me announce my goal to give up all wordly desires and become a nun. For anyone that knows me at all; I could not be less suited to this sort of vocational existence.

So I am here, with my existing job and the offer of a new one and my gut feeling is on mute - or rather it seems to keep changing direction to the point that I am not sure I trust it anymore. I have managed to extract a couple more days of thinking time from the offer firm and yet all I am doing is prolonging this agony of indecision. I found myself watching Graham Norton the other night with Anne Widdecombe as a guest. In her very blunt way she said that we had just one life and we should therefore fill it and take every experience and opportunity thrown at us (I paraphrase but you get the drift). Perhaps it was the few glasses of wine I had had, but I found myself nodding and thinking how right she was. Of course, taking career advice from someone who recently appeared on national television dressed as a canary is perhaps not so wise, but I couldn't help feeling she had a point. So, to stay and really upset the head-hunter who has been recruiting for this role for over a year, not to mention the potential employer and my mate who has been secretly helping maneouvre me into the job. Or to go, and upset some really good colleagues, actually friend, whom I have known for many, many years. Damned if I do, damned if I don't! I think even my gut has given up on this one - I'm on my own!

A Bird with Some Views

Relationships are hard. We all know this. I am harbouring more than a little sense of envy for the lovely and talented Ms Helena Bonham-Carter who, allegedly, lives in a separate, adjoining house to her other half and father of her children. What utter bliss. Think how great it must be to decide that you fancy a night in on the sofa in your pj's, not having to cook and instead eating cereal straight out of the packet. You simply lock the communicating door - perhaps attaching a friendly but firm note expressing your intentions on his side - and then relax. However, such an arrangement is simply not viable for us ordinary mortals. With that in mind, I am going to resort to the humble pen and paper (or keyboard and screen) to express a few views to he who is Mr Bird.

1. The decision made by two or more women to have a night out without the company of men does not automatically make them gay.

2. The unloading of the dish-washer, whilst a sterling and helpful act, is not currently listed as an activity worthy of a medal.

3. Whilst commendable to not want to finish any items in the fridge, leaving two raspberries and a strawberry does not constitute a fruit salad. Likewise leaving an amount of milk that would leave a gnat thirsty.

4. Entertaining is hard work but fun. The next time an event takes place, spend a few moments thinking about how best to help the harassed hostess. This will not include sweeping the garden or cleaning the car. To the latter point, we have yet to host any form of social event in the afore-mentioned vehicle nor has anyone ever made the comment "Well, the food was great, such a fun evening but did you see the state of their car?"

5. There are a limited number of reasons to wake someone from a deep sleep at 5.30am. These include the death of a member of the royal family, the imminent danger of plague and/or terrorist attack or the receipt of a substantial sum of money. These do not include the news that Benty (Darren Bent for those not au fait with the Sunderland football team line-up) is not able to play for England due to sustaining a foot injury.

6. It does not count if you make the bed whilst I am in it - and finally,

7. There is absolutely no such thing as a Washing Fairy.

Drop and Give Me Twenty

My arms hurt, my legs ache, every movement is an agony. After an absence of far too long I have become reacquainted with the medium of exercise and all the muscles in my body are complaining furiously about this turn of events.

Exercise and I have not always been such strangers. For many years religiously, week after week, a very patient personal trainer would arrive at my house carrying a plethora of items all guaranteed to stretch, pummel and push me into fitness. Then I lost my job and, despite having access to a free gym not more than five minutes drive away, my body sank into a depression of cup-cakes, cheese and vats of alcohol.

A few weeks ago a solitary tennis lesson left me on my knees on the court, gasping for breath, and so I reasoned it was time to bite the bullet again. Some research later and I make contact with Paul. Now, Paul is an ex-boxer and that is a large part of why I chose him. There is clearly a latent but hugely aggressive streak in me and boxing allows me to vent my fury at the day. My next-door neighbours, upon first hearing me back "in the ring", sent anxious emails about my husband's state of health. On this occasion I reassured then. However given that the afore-mentioned husband does not believe that women are able to box with any credibility, it may not be long before he does leave the house with a face sporting all the colours of the rainbow.

So to Paul. He is from Liverpool and, not that the two go together, he is evil personified. Comparing him to my last trainer would be akin to comparing Alistair Campbell to George Washington. I should have realised what I was taking on when, after the first session, he spoke about the need to train four times a week as a minimum. When he wasn't there, he expected me to be running, skipping, jumping; he wanted results.

Enjoying a much needed glass of wine one night with my concerned neighbours, I struggled to my feet, wincing with every movement.

"I can't believe it" I moaned. "I hurt so much and I am exhausted. He keeps telling me how he wants 100% from me".

Mrs Neighbour leans forward and shakes her head.

"100%?" She looks aghast. "No, that's not right. You need to keep something back"

"?"

"Never, ever give anyone 100%" She was emphatic on this point. "You tell him you are giving 100% but you deliver 90%. You always keep 10% for yourself"

An interesting point and an excellent dictum to keep in mind for life in general. Actually, I feel sure that part of the effort I expend is in my facial expressions alone as I battle with each new torture Paul inflicts on me.

In fairness, he is a nice, friendly sort of bloke. Indeed, not only is he fit (in both meanings of the word), he is also very chatty and, apparently, quite a good cook. He uses words like "balsamic" and "braised" and we had a very interesting conversation recently over the best cuts of beef to buy. There is just this evil streak in him that forces me to do star jumps when I am least expecting it. Which masochist invited the star-jump? As someone who is not particularly well co-ordinated, I tend to resemble a spider caught at the bottom of a very slippery sided bath, desperately trying to manoeuvre its way out but, despite all limbs flailing, going nowhere.

Notwithstanding all my complaining though, I must admit that five weeks on and I feel so much better. My energy levels are up, I can run twice the distance I could and my body is toned and defined. I actually look forward to each session and find myself pushing on a little further each week.

So evil, yes, but to get the results he has I will grudgingly admit it is a genius sort of evil.

What's so Happy about a Birthday?

Another year older, another year wiser and a sinking realisation that being a grumpy old woman is not a tired television programming format but a reality.

Without doubt my tolerance has decreased in direct proportion to the increase in my age. Considerably worse than this is the growing realisation that whereas before I might have bitten my tongue rather than offend, I now feel it is my right to speak up and speak up loudly.

I thought nothing of leaning out my bedroom window at 3am with a broom handle in hand, rapping it against the flat next door's window in an attempt to silence a rousing chorus of "I come from a land down under". Admittedly I returned to bed sighing, remembering the days long, long ago when it would have been me causing affront to the neighbours and, kudos, having the police arrive on more than one occasion.

I am also on first name terms with not only the foreman of the building site opposite, but also the Chairman of the building firm. What they call me would likely cause offence to even the most hardened of criminals.

I have been torturing Chelsea supporters. Living close to Stamford Bridge means that every match day heralds a stream of dispairing supporters circling the streets trying to park. I have taken to wandering casually over to my car and fiddling with the door handle just to see the look of hope in the eyes of a blue-shirt as he winds down his window and asks:

"You going then, luv?"

And then watching the hope being replaced with disappointment as I smile back:

"No, I'm not, sorry".

Junk mail providers. Despite having a hideous sign on my front door, there are those that persist with their endless pizza offerings and mini-cab numbers. If I am in and one of these makes its way through the letter-box, I have absolutely no compunction about returning it to the deliverer. On one unfortunate occasion my dog, eager to add his contribution, shot down the road after the offending miscreant which resulted in an unpleasant altercation as the chap believed I had set the dog on him on purpose.

Alongside all of this, I find myself doing all the things I swore I would never do. It is absolutely impossible for me to sit down without a small "Ooff" of a sigh being exhaled. I look for pubs and bars where the music is not too loud as I want to hear myself think. Further, anywhere that offers table service is a huge bonus. Last week saw me at a motorway service station on my way down to the West Country. (Due to the volcanic ash cloud my original holiday had been cancelled however I felt very fortunate to be heading away nonetheless. I feel absolutely sure that the Bahamas are hugely over-rated). Waiting in the car, I was called in by my husband to have a look at a couple of chairs he had found. Chairs? WH Smith were offering two collapsable chairs, complete with cup holders, for the bargain price of GBP15.99. Should we buy them? I tried one out.

"Ooff".

Surprisingly comfortable, good quality fabric and practical. A purchase was immediately made. Then reality hit, what had I just done? I slunk back to the car, furious that I had been seduced by substance and practicality. Who was this woman and what had she done with the real me?

So, do I decline into the seemingly inevitable mantle of grouch and sensibility? Do I exchange my 4" inch heels for stout, comfortable lace ups and wear my glasses around my neck? Or do I respond, as I did recently when asked by a friend if I was behaving, by saying "No, certainly not! I plan to grow old as disgracefully as possible!"

I Swear to Tell The Truth, The Whole Truth and Something In-Between

I recently attended a PR course and one of the sessions focused purely on the topic of ethics. Without doubt, much can be said about ethics whether in relation to the PR industry or any other, however the subject matter prompted me to think further about the concept of truth.

As children we are all taught to tell the truth. We are made all too aware of the awful consequences of telling a lie - whether one looks at Pinocchio or at the shepherd boy who continually cried "wolf". If we dared to tell a lie, we had to live with the permanent fear of being found out. Truth was, without doubt, the best option.

According to legend, America's first president, George Washington, was reputed to have destroyed his father's cherry tree when trying out his newly acquired hatchet. When asked by his father if he knew who had caused the damage, the young Washington responded, "I can't tell a lie, Pa; you know I can't tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet." He was rewarded with seeing his father's pleasure at him telling the truth, apparently fully compensating for the massacred cherry tree.

In our young eyes, the truth is black or white. However, as we progress into adulthood, the matter becomes distorted; there are shades and grades of what constitutes the truth. I feel sure that we are all guilty of some of the following:

"Yes, you have seen this outfit/these shoes before. I bought them ages ago and they've been in the back of my cupboard since then."

"I am not quite sure what time I got in but it was definitely well before midnight."

"I really didn't have that much to drink. I am sure the prawns/chicken/peas were off and I've got food poisoning".

"Of course I love you", or even "Well, I don't love you anymore, either."

These are some of the standard so-called 'white' lies (the distortion begins) that roll off our tongue with consummate ease. Do we even realise that we are being untruthful? Logically, our minds tell us the required course of action is clear. We are trying to extricate ourselves from a potentially tricky situation and so feel justified in bending the facts to suit.

When we see a good friend we haven't seen for a while and they are looking terrible, we would not countenance telling them what we think. That would be cruel beyond measure. We might ask how they are, and if the response did not provide a clue to their change, we tell them how well they are looking. Thus, another 'white' lie, but surely entirely justifiable. Maybe only a low-grade fib?

The distortion continues. This time not by bending the facts, but omitting them altogether.

Actual statement: "I had a lovely time last night. I saw X, Y and Z and we had drinks at the pub followed by supper.

Actual occurrence: "I had a lovely time last night. I saw X, Y and Z, and then bumped into R, my ex from a few years ago whom I know you are quite jealous of. We had a really nice chat as we hadn't seen each other for ages, and I really enjoyed seeing him/her again. And then I went to have supper with with X,Y and Z."

If there really is no residual feeling between you and the ex, and it is purely an exercise in not hurting someone unnecessarily, then surely the omission is excusable? Moving up on the lie grade scale certainly, but still not that serious, surely.

Progressing somewhat further up that scale, how do we judge the Clinton/Lewinsky situation? Bill Clinton manipulated his truth. For him, 'sexual relations' meant the act of sex itself; it excluded any of the associated foreplay and fun and games. His definition of the truth enabled him to stand up in front of the world, hand on heart and declare fervently: "I did not have sexual relations with that woman." Given that the details of what he actually did get up to were plastered over every available form of media, it is perhaps debatable whether his approach was the right one. Personally I thought Clinton was a superb statesman, and for all his faults I was able to forgive him - which does not reflect well on me as, with that acceptance, I did not condemn his lie, but condoned it.

Then we reach the zenith of the scale. Who can forget the stark headlines stating that Iraq had biological and chemical weapons that could be prepared for attack against Britain in just 45 minutes? As it transpired, information released by the Government had been misinterpreted by a number of newspapers. When it became obvious that there had been a misunderstanding, did the Government correct the newspapers' interpretation? No. Did they lie when they did this? No, they just did not contradict the erroneous information being quoted. When questioned on this point, Jack Straw's response was along the lines of, "Government ministers don't have time to go around correcting every inaccuracy that appears in the papers." On a point of national security, with the lives of British troops being put on the line? I believe we are off the lie grade scale now.

I realise that it is unlikely that I will ever be in the position of manipulating the truth to such as an extent as to put lives at risk. But I am, perhaps, a little concerned that with my verbal twists and turns, when I say what I think is the easiest thing to say or when I omit what I should be saying, am I not potentially at the top of a very slippery slope?


This article first appeared on www.hereisthecity.com on 9th March 2010.