Her essay, “I’m worried about my neck,” made me laugh out loud, with a snort, which is not ideal when old ladies are already tutting at you for walking and reading in public. She writes, “Every so often I read a book about age, and whoever’s writing it says it’s great to be old. It’s great to be wise and sage and mellow; it’s great to be at the point where you understand just what matters in life. I can’t stand people who say things like this. What can they be thinking? Don’t they have necks?”
Not only is that funny; it’s true. My neck is probably the least of my worries but there’s hardly a picture of me where I haven’t subconsciously hidden it with my hands. All photos since I was 43, which is the age Nora tells me necks go into irreparable decline, look like I’m desperately trying to hold my head on, which could also be true because I can cope with a sag under my chin but the fact I can’t remember any of the million passwords you need these days is something I find much more shameful.
So, I’m not really worried about my neck but I still want to be Nora when I grow up.
She writes about going out with her girlfriends, then immediately chastises herself for not celebrating their full womanhood and talks about how they are all wearing scarves, turtlenecks and mandarin collars. I went out with my girlfriends and noticed that we were all a bit crude and bonkers and more confident in our saggy necks than Nora’s pals. We, however, all compensate for a tendency to be a bit sad by wearing sparkles. It’s a rule of sparkle club.
Before I went out I was reading Nora on purses (or handbags to you and I) and agreed more on the bag issue, so decided to use the pockets I have now insisted all my clothes have. The problem is that you can’t fit a book into a pocket and so I felt a little more anxious and vulnerable than usual. I couldn’t read as I walked up and most unusually I was the first one there. It’s terrifying being Julia-no-mates without a book.
We had reserved a plastic igloo in the back garden of a local guesthouse. I know it sounds strange and if you are reading this in twenty years time you’ll probably wonder what on earth I’m talking about but trust me, it’s a very fashionable way to dine. I was shown through, told I was the first and the lady unzipped the flap for me to go inside. The heat hit me and I panicked that this was not going to be a good place for women of a certain age to eat. I sat at the huge cotton reel, which served as a table and noticed that they still had Christmas decorations up. If only I’d brought my bag and then I’d have had my book. I told Nora that as imaginary friends go, she was already on thin ice.
It wasn’t long before the others arrived and we were laughing so hard that when, by the end of the evening, one of us complained that condensation had dripped from the inside of the plastic onto her chair, as an explanation for her wet bum, none of us were quite sure whether to believe her.
We talked about all the things women of our age discuss, like our children, holidays, work, feeling stressed, hot flushes, housework (why?), ironing tea towels (again, why?), terrariums, condensation and flaps. We discovered that the toilet was in guest bedroom number one and wondered if it would be acceptable to do a number two in number one.
We were quite taken with the igloo, that was saving any other diners from having to listen to our smut. It reminded us of a terrarium. We stuck our fingers in the little holes of the connecting plastic and laughed at the fat fingered who panicked about getting stuck. We wondered where you could get one and once we’d decided it probably wasn’t something you’d get from the centre aisle at Aldi or the middle of Lidl we checked online. £850 seemed reasonable, all we needed now was a pizza chef.
As the outside got cooler and we continued to fill the inside we hot air the condensation started. I’ve never been able to resist writing in condensation. We considered opening the window flaps. Flaps is a funny word. When my sister was little she used to write on the bathroom mirror after her bath. The next person to have a bath would be treated to ghostly writing appearing on the mirror.
“I promise I’ll be good if I can have a dog.”
I’d forgotten that until Nora laughed in my ear, “Sparkle flaps! What will the next people in here think?
You don’t need your dead imaginary friends to laugh at you. My real friends have that covered. The real friends that I have re-named Sparkle Flaps. We could be a band.
The next morning we felt as though we had completed a sit-up challenge.
One of the Flaps hadn’t been able to come out to play but she made up for it the next day at work.
The class had just learnt an African song with some drumming. It was nice. Children in their first year of school can’t sneeze now without it being put on video for their parents to see and so she said, iPad in hand, “Is it alright if I do you from behind?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” I said.
“Why are you laughing?” the children asked.
“She’s funny.”
“But Miss is crying.”
A discussion about happy tears followed while we composed ourselves.
So, I’m not worried about my neck but I am concerned about my Flaps. Innuendo is probably a sin and we should know better.
We did have a wonderful time and we are very efficient. The next meal out was booked and in our diaries before we’d finished coffee.
“Ooh, look at us,” said a Flap, “It’s like a proper meeting, maybe someone should take notes.”
I don’t think they needed to worry.
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