Mirror, mirror, turn your face to the wall. I do not want to walk past you again this week and see my grandmother.
I’ve had one of those windows of time where everyone I’ve met, seen or read about in the papers is stunningly glamorous, while I look like something the cat sicked up, sort of pale yellow and watery looking.
My week started with an invitation to an e-book launch party. Not only has Zero Jones written and published his first novel in the time it’s taken me to think about mine, he looks the part. Flamboyant in a black and white striped suit and a red bowler hat, he held court while bright young acolytes swirled around him.
The occasion took place in our local Metro-deco cafe, into which tumbled a garden of eccentric and beautiful young men and women dressed in a mixture of tight bodices, tattoos, cloaks and hats with veils. Blues, greens, purples and reds vied with each other for attention. The photos were sent to me. Each one was filled with glitter and sparkle except the one of me. It was a ‘camel’ top, plain but smart when I put it on. It transformed itself into a beige blanket huddled around a bit of a tummy. My hair was windswept mouse and my eyes had disappeared into a chubby, lump of raw dough as I grinned, oblivious, at the camera.
On Wednesday I tripped up to London to meet a friend in The British Library for coffee. Her hair is beautifully coiffeured. She wore a classic Jaegar sweater, black tailored trousers and set the ensemble off with a sky blue silk scarf which reflected her eyes and lit her flawless complexion. Around her neck , she wore a long string of pearls aka Vita Sackville-West. I caught sight of us passing the glass case featuring Jane Austen’s portable writing desk. My friend looked the epitome of English womanhood, wafting through the book gallery, head held high looking like a modern version of Maggie Smith in ‘Downton Abby’. A wrapped up grey paper bag trotted behind, like Mole following Ratty across a field.
At the weekend, the family and I went on a long-planned for visit to the country home of my son’s godfather. It was a relaxed and jolly occasion. A superb afternoon, eating pork pies, cheesey wosits and quaffing wine. At the end, someone suggested a photo to commemorate the occasion. Why not…what a good idea. A lovely memory. Click went the digital camera which was passed round. There we all were in a smiling line, except there we all weren’t. I had disappeared. In my place was June Whitfield’s character from the TV programme ‘Ab Fab’, small, surburban, neatly dressed and boring.
I’ve got to do something about this before I melt into the wallpaper forever. The pressure is on because next week I meet fashion designer Zandra Rhodes. Nobody would ever miss Zandra. She’d be the first person you saw in any photograph. Bright pink hair, masses of make-up, jangling bracelets and necklaces and fabulous over-the-top exotic printed clothes.
Am I a mouse or a giraffe? A dandelion or a sunflower? Will you turn to stare at me or trip over me? This feels like a turning point in my life. Am I brave enough to stand out? Will I put a purple streak in my hair,wear bright red stockings and a multi-coloured jacket with a sparkly brooch? Am I old enough not to care about the distinction between ageing gracefully or disgracefully? The time has come to throw away my cloak of invisibility and shout in people’s faces – here I am, warts and all, orange zebra prints, diamante and topshop gold a-jingle.
Alternatively I can keep the mirrors in my flat with their faces to the wall and never have another photograph taken again.
