Singing the Blues.

The holiday blues. If l could play more than three chords on the guitar without my fingers seizing up into arthritic balls, and if l could sing without seemingly summoning all the male cats in the neighbourhood for a cheeky mating session, then l would be a-strumming and warbling my woes to any unlucky souls who happened to pass my way.

Yet, here l sit in a shorts, a little tanned, salt on my skin, attempting to lift my spirits by learning the dance routine to Lady GaGa's 'Telephone' from You Tube. No, l have not decided on a new career as a backing dancer. I have no spatial awareness, and controlling all my limbs at the same time without causing carnage requires a huge amount of concentration. In truth, the only work l would get would be in village pantomimes where Prince Charming is played by the local boss-eyed, moon-faced, cowpat-wielding idiot. And then only if l wore a donkey costume and sat in a bath of horse shit and baked beans for the entire show.  But l digress. In truth, the tan came from a bottle (Non-sticky and Streak Free? I think not my friend. I have tide marks across my body that resemble some sort of tribal war paint. I fear that exposing my inner thighs, forearms, or feet in public may inadvertently start the Third World War). And l am merely salty from a rather strenuous game of squash. Too much information? I care not. As for La Gaga? When darkness falls l shall turn the music up loud, turn off the lights off, and dance around my kitchen wearing nothing but rubber gloves and a pair of Onion Goggles waving my glow-stick App around like l just don't care. My own version of singing the blues, as it were.

For, from tonight l will not be:

1.) Going to bed in the early hours of the morning after watching back to back episodes of The Only Way is Essex, laughing hilariously at the total ignorance and idiocy of perma-tanned, fake breasted, gleaming toothed residents. While simultaneously wondering what cup size would suit me. Would 40HH be too much? It could only be a bonus on the rugby field. Either as a distraction or as extra padding.

2.) Drinking alcohol as if in training for a member of the AA. I may try and convince myself (and most people around me) that l am attempting a version of Super Size Me with cocktails instead of the Golden Arches, however, the lack of film crew or video equipment usually gives the game away. Apparently the video function on the phone doesn't count. Who knew?

3.) Greatly increasing the likelihood of a hose pipe ban this summer by embracing fully the luxuriousness of non-time restricted baths and showers. A shower to wake up, followed by a bath for a couple of hours whilst l watch a film on the laptop l have precariously balanced on the toilet lid. Dangerous, l know, but l find the threat of electrocution oddly liberating. Then a trip to the gym to play in the jacuzzi, steam room, and another shower. Then, if alcohol has not been consumed, a bath is required to enable one to fall easily into slumber. On the downside, l seem to have developed the puckered skin of an 80 year old seasoned smoker. Not a look that rocks with denim hot pants and bikini tops. There has been a audible sound of retching as l stroll down the street.

4.) Living a WAG lifestyle on a vastly inferior income. You know it is serious when the global institution that is your bank deigns to call you up personally. At 4am. On Easter Sunday. Not to offer you a golden Easter Egg, as you might assume. No. Quote - " Could you tell me the amount of your last purchase and the name of the place it occurred?". " £145 in the Drunken Monkey you say? And your card has not been stolen? Okay, lets set up an appointment with your bank manager". Slightly unnerving, particularly when drinking mojito straight out of a jug.

5.) Waking up sprawled across a duvet on a friend's sofa bed, smiling smugly as l listened to them getting grumpily ready for work, nursing the Sky Plus remote in my hand, poised for that morning's omnibus of LA Ink. Mind you, nor will l be receiving a swift but well aimed kick to the head as l casually demand a mug of tea and slice of buttered toast before they leave the house.

These things will become a distant memory, replaced by the political debate at 6am, walking to and from work, e-mails, meetings, canteen sandwiches and half drunk cups of  instant coffee. I am not sure l can take it.  So, if the news is full of a teacher who insisted on all of her pupils painting themselves orange and performing the 'Telephone' dance on the school field whilst blowing whistles and waving glowsticks, you will know what happened. The blues got the better of me.

They think it's all over.

The view in my full length mirror has just given me a heart tremor the like of which Scrooge must have had when shown his Christmas Future. Attired in a cornflower blue flannelette nightdress, hand knitted rose pink bed jacket, pop socks, and orthopaedic tartan slippers l stared at my 80 year old reflection with a sense of trepidation. The deep-set fear that my Agent Provocateur lace briefs are soon going to be replaced by giant white cotton longjohns lined with three layers of incontinence pads and a pair of plastic pants has set in. Bugger.

Now, logically, this hideous apparition of my aged self is unlikely to become reality for a few years yet. I am only thirty-four this year. I still get asked for ID when buying alcoholic substances, and feel a smug sense of satisfaction when the salesperson recoils in shock at my DOB. My pupils still think l am 24 (oh, the innocence of youth).  I write all of this nonchalantly, as if my age does not bother me in the least. In reality, l am shitting enough proverbial bricks to build a brand new pyramid. I scour my head for hints of grey. I count the lines around my eyes. I attempt the 'pencil test' to see if my breasts and buttocks are still as pert as they once were. Yes, I have suddenly found myself as the target customer for magical creams that fend off wrinkles with swords and bombs laced with secret ingredients that have more 'Oxy's than l ever thought possible, hair colourings that promise to cover those dead follicles with a blanket of fluorescent red, and hydrochloric acid treatments that will eventually peel away all your skin to reveal your baby faced skull underneath. And, yes, I have read 'Bad Science', l do understand that most of these potions are ineffective, but still l find myself stood in the aisle at Boots, wide-eyed and drooling at the seductive promises the packaging offers me. And as l leave with a shamefully clanking bag, l shudder as l try and hide from the truth: l want eternal youth. Or at least the appearance of it.

Inevitably, one has to accept that preventing the ageing process is as impossible as preventing a starved cheetah from tearing a dead carcass limb from limb. No matter how many nights l sleep hanging upside down from my bedrooms door, how much duck tape l use to fold my face back over my ears, or how many layers of acrylic paint l plaster over my skin, those pesky lines will appear whether l like it or not. I can clench my buttock muscles until l have to hobble around as if l have rocks in my knickers; l could string my breasts up around my neck with dental floss; if l bench pressed enough weights to give me the muscles of a steroid munching gym bunny, the collagen in my skin would still leak, unwanted, into the atmosphere. The nights l have spent painstakingly applying whitewash to each and every tooth are essentially worthless, for they will end up replaced by a set of  clacking dentures that will have to be removed after every meal and picked over for scraps. Although, secretly, l am quite looking forward to giving small children nightmares with my falsies by hiding them in their bed. Or in their porridge. 

 

So, as l sit here in my nightie and slippers, pointlessly injecting my forehead with a potent mixture of toilet bleach and bicarbonate of soda (the effervescent qualities pump out those fine lines miraculously), l am forced to accept the fact that slowly, but surely, l will morph into a mad old lady. I will be wrinkled and lined; l will push a trolley laden with cuddly toys and royal paraphernalia around town; l will attempt to lame young people with my walking stick; I will wave my Bus Pass fiercely as elbow my way to the front of bus queues; l will live in a junk filled house that smells vaguely of cat piss and rotten half-eaten ready meals; l will wear low cut leopard print blouses that expose my wrinkled sagging breasts, with pop socks, tartan slippers, fuschia lipstick and blue mascara; and l will consider it my right to stand on street corners and verbally abuse passers-by as l glug milk from a bottle, stolen from a passing milk float. 

But for now, l will cling on to my youth as tightly as possible. And hope that when l start to resemble Barbara Cartland, someone will put me down.

Things l now know.

It has been a while since l last wrote a blog post. It was under another name, in what feels like another life. I shall spare you the gruesome, gut wrenching details, safe to say that the episode in question shall simply be known as 'The Heartbreak'.

A positive event then, and l could ramble on in some life affirming, pump your fist in the air, 'my cancer is cured and l want to make sweet love to every flower l happen upon' type of way. Unfortunately, all that malarkey makes me want to regurgitate my chicken chow mein and form a model of Dante's seventh circle of hell. No, the hours l have spent piecing myself back together are worthy of Humpty Dumpty himself, and have taught me only one thing: basic survival. Therefore, as the Ray Mears of broken hearts, l am about to selflessly share a few tips that may help you through, should you end up in a similar, unfortunate, and unexpected situation.

1.) I am not one for promoting binge drinking as such, but you will need alcohol. In excessive amounts. You will dance into oblivion and sink into a sweet sleep. You will imagine yourself as Grace Kelly amidst adoring suitors. You will be numbed from the heartache and sit on kerb sides stealing strangers' kebabs at 3am. You will rediscover the laughter you thought had been erased from your bank of emotions. It will feel fantastic. But you must be prepared for the feelings of self loathing the next morning, as you peel yourself off a random bathroom floor with one shoe missing completely and the other sailing on a sea of vomit in the toilet bowl, whilst you clutch a cone to your chest on which you have drawn a remarkable (in its abstract qualities) likeness to your ex.

2.) You will need a soundtrack to your pain. You won't be able to listen to any of the music you already own as it will most likely provoke unwanted and rather torturous memories of happier times. So you will find songs that sum up your current emotional state succinctly, listen to them/sing along to them endlessly until someone around you has the sense to misplace the CD and your I-pod in the recycling bin. Under the dead cat and mouldering teabags.

3.) Take up a violent sport. Squash, hockey, rugby, it doesn't matter which. I took up rugby. The reasons are threefold: firstly, the adrenalin and fear of having your body crushed by another human being who is frankly the size and weight of an iron water tank instantly outweigh any other concerns your brain might be occupied with; secondly, the inevitable physical pain of broken bones means that although you are still crying into your breakfast first thing in the morning, it is lessened by the screams of pain you utter as you attempt to scoop soggy Weetabix into your mouth with shattered fingers; and thirdly, the amount of drugs thrust into your arms by the ladies of the NHS to relieve the afore mentioned pain also induce a peaceful sleep, free from the anxiety dreams of attacking your former lover with a dustbin lid and a vacuum cleaner in a quite inappropriate, yet strangely satisfying, manner.

4.) In your vulnerable and tear stained state, it might seems callous to utter the words 'Internet Dating', but l heartily recommend it as therapy. It is a quick fix solution to one's otherwise battered and bruised ego. You can flirt shamelessly via email, and the second party does not need to know that at that precise moment you are sobbing along to 'Mumford and Sons' (or whatever your music choice), wearing your ex's hoodie (still trying to locate his 'smell' in the armpits) and chocolate stained jogging bottoms, sipping lukewarm cup-a-soup as you have lost all will to live like a human being and not as an animal. You are not interested, of course, but  the attention will DO YOU GOOD, as my mother used to say about liver and onions. If you do it well, you may even get a free meal and/or trip to the cinema to boot. Then you can delete the emails and start all over again with a new victim. Mercenary? Most definitely. But curative nonetheless.

5.) My final tip is to throw yourself into an addiction to trash television. There is plenty to choose from: Strictly Come Dancing, X -Factor, One Tree Hill, Desperate Housewives, Glee, Waterloo Road, Skins, This way is Essex, Gossip Girl. The list is endless. You need it. It will rot your brain but the desire to escape the seeming mire of your own life can only be satisfied vicariously through the mewlings of Cheryl Cole and Simon Cowell as they bitch fight about Cher's ability to give blowjobs to the floor staff. If nothing else, it will give you something to distract the supermarket checkout staff with as they insist on commenting on the food in your basket. "Chocolate. Wine. Crisps. Tissues. DVD. Broken Heart is it?".

Indeed it is, my dear, indeed it is.