My horoscope said engaging in a little whimsy will do me good. It’s a sign: spend less time in the Nativity Room - where all laundry related business is contained, with 57 varieties of sports kit, made do and mend supplies, arts and crafts materials, the room of a thousand unfinished projects, and every other piece of homeless crap ever invented. Despite the extraordinary amount of time I'm in there, I know the likes of Mrs Beeton would have kittens if they saw the state of it.
Instead of hours failing with a needle and my forty-eye-tus, I ordered an Ancient Greek costume off t’net. A costume that is, not a threaded needle, although I can see the market potential for the sale of pre-threaded needles. Except as can so often be the way with purchases off t’net – a Roman one arrived. To my mind they’re pretty similar, both being white and all, but the little-un can read. And she read, very loudly and very clearly, repeatedly: ‘Roman’, ‘Roman’, ‘RO- MAN costume’, in the tone of voice usually reserved for the company of half-deaf-half-dead-half-silly old folks. I wasn’t about to give in with the needle-threading as I’m after a little whimsy afterall, so I resorted to my tried and tested trick for handling unbecoming behaviour in little-uns: I ignored it.
As my arms are no longer long enough to cope with the growing short sightedness, I realise the first flush of youth is now just a distant memory and flushes of another variety loom large on the horizon. So I invested in some reading glasses. They’re great… for reading, but otherwise disappointing as they smell of middle-agedness.
I needed a change so off to the hairdressers I went(remembering to go the long way round to avoid that salon that gave me that haircut that screamed so loudly of being so very way past the yoof-style-stakes-post – think Delia Smith in her pudding-bowl hey day). Feeling more bold than old, I asked for something different. It looked alright when it had been primped and preened, and dried and waxed and teased. By the following morning it looked like I’d hacked at it myself in some sort of emo statement, perhaps in sympathy with our poor demented dog. It’s short. It’s sharp. Yet not a hint of Delia in sight.
Can’t wait for the next bit of whimsy.