Mid-Life Crisis

by T. Jessop

  Tuesday 10th April 2014

  Terry’s 43rd birthday.

  In contrast to yesterday I have been up early with boundless energy and so decided to spring clean. Actually, ‘decided’ is not accurate: it’s a primal urge. So out came the old music, up went the volume, and the madness began. The house is sparkling and I’m £3.72 richer after delving in the creases of the sofa, ha ha, finders rights. Not a stone unturned, not a curtain unwashed. Nan always says the state of your curtains tells the outside the state of the inside of your home. I do all this around six times a year, so why is it called spring clean? Then again, I am anal, lol. xx

  Chloe has flown out to Los Angeles to see Jeni and Jaki, Julie’s in Greece, Joe and the others are all at Flannigan’s for Terry’s birthday,

  I dare him to come home and puke anywhere in my lovely clean house.

  Wednesday 11th April 2014

  I must have looked in the bathroom mirror a hundred times, yet this morning I ‘really looked’. I was shocked, I won’t lie. When the hell did I start collecting wrinkles? Stab in the dark here, but I’m thinking it was probably before I got fucking glasses, whenever that was. First thought, ‘Who the hell is that old bird?’Like a classic horror movie when someone stands in front of the mirror and standing behind them appears the face from hell. Second issue: only one face in the mirror and it was mine. What the hell happened? Last time I looked I was doing OK. When was that? Shit, 1985.

  Back from shops armed with face creams.

  Friday 13th April 2014

  Margaret’s 67th birthday.

  Yesterday was dull; well, except for the new conifer man.

  We’re taking Joe’s parents for lunch today for his mum’s birthday, accompanied by the brothers and their wives. Chris has rung me four times already and it’s only ten o’clock: the girls are travelling back from their dad’s today and Mum has stupidly reminded her it’s again Friday 13th. Notice Mum’s switched her mobile off: how convenient, luv. Marie is picking them up from the airport. Their dad used to get a limo to do it but too many questions got asked in Chris’s street. Girls’ night tonight. Julie’s still in Greece, so thankfully Tina will be there otherwise I’d be stuck with Abigail, Penny and Chris all sharing the one brain cell.

  Saturday 14th April 2014

  Aunt Shirley 55th birthday.

  Aunt Shirley has moved back over here from Australia, staying with Mum at the moment, and as it’s her birthday, me, Mum and Chris all had lunch and went shopping with her. Had a great afternoon then somewhere between six and seven I had a mental breakdown.

  As it seems the ‘so not true I’m having a MLC’ has once more robbed me of my dignity, when this evening I flounced into the front room stating in a firm almost aggressive voice, ‘I need to go clubbing, I need to dance and sing’, with a pointed finger in Joe’s face, ‘Don’t bother trying to stop me!’ followed with, ‘I’ve selflessly given my life to you, so understand, shut up and put up, luv.’ Was doing OK until he slipped in, ‘You already do, you’ve never given up your girls’ nights out.’ In desperation I did what any self-respecting woman who had just made a complete arse of herself would do, and yelled, ‘Yeah, well, as long as we’re clear on that!’Then stormed out. It took all my resolve not to run back in and punch him when I heard him snickering.

  Note to self: Must fix connection between brain and mouth.

  Secondly: WTF?

  Monday 16th April 2014

  Academic Tutor Day9am.

  Just got back from Academic Tutor Day. Nice to see teachers have finally got trendier, they don’t call it Parents Evening any more. Is that because it’s held during the day now, or because a lot of kids only have one parent? Like the modernisation of the name the teachers definitely appeared younger and trendier, the kids seem to have a real rapport with them which seems to have the knock-on effect of the pupils interacting with them on friendly terms and a willingness to work hard in lessons. Not like in my day: Sirs wore baggy cord trousers, cotton shirt, blazer and brogues, all un-ironed and never matching; for Miss it was flowing skirts or frock with a misshapen cardigan, hideous shoes, and in summer she would wear men’s sandals. I remember how shocked we were when they told us their real ages: most were in their thirties but they all looked around fifty.

  10.05 on the dot and here she was, Chris. Oh, how she hasn’t been barred from the surgery I do not know. She tells me she had a stabbing pain in her boob since yesterday, she’d been shopping, bought herself a large seeded crusty loaf, filled it with cheese, did some ironing. All was well, then the pain began. She glanced down her top and saw black dots around her nipple, and having read somewhere that if the nipple changes appearance you should seek medical examination immediately, this morning on further examination the doctor with a flick of a nail removed three poppy seeds that had fallen from her sandwich the day before. Mate, hope he don’t think we’re all like her.

  Tuesday 17th April 2014

  Tina and Terry’s anniversary. They’re going to dinner and to see Les Miserable’s. My les miserable will be home around five, lol.

  One thing that really pisses me off: I and many I know have always owned dogs and never leave poop when we go out. I’ve even been known to go home and get bucket of water and disinfectant when Mutley had a dose of trots. Many of these culprits think that walking the dog around of the edge of the local playing field till it craps is OK, and in the same breath moan when their kids play on the same field and come home with it on their clothes.

  Wednesday 18th April 2014

  Joe’s fed up that every time he pulls up to the drive Mrs Davis is spying on him from behind the drapes, lol. We’re all quick to have a pop about these people, but curtain shufflers are better than guard dogs: definitely have less burglaries in your street if you have one.

  Chloe’s home safe and sound from Los Angeles.

  Thursday 19th April 2014

  Doctors blood test 9am.

  Got thrush!

  Nasty. You only have to have this pleasure once and that’s enough for any mere mortal. Called Elizabeth; she thought I’d rescued a songbird. Songbird? More like fucking termites. I’m not keen on medicines and the like, I would rather suffer than pump my body full of chemicals, but at the first inkling of thrush last night I rushed so fast to the bathroom to my stash of fungal cream I had smoke coming off my heels. There are two reasons any person would have a stash.(1)If you’ve had thrush before, then no explanation required.(2)Less trips to the chemist where you encounter the woman that works the counter who really gets up your nose: ‘Have you had thrush before?’‒ patronising tone ‒‘If you’ve had thrush more than twice in a year, you should consult a doctor. ‘You’ll need a doctor if you don’t hand over that box, luv. Good God, unless they’re selling adult scratch mitts or a coconut doormat So’s I can sit and wiggle on it, I’ll take my chances with the pessary, thank you.

  Elizabeth, not grasping the conversation whilst talking to me on the phone, made the mistake of texting Julie, wanting to know what the chemist has got to do with a bird. Julie bluntly replied that thrush is a fungal infection of the Minge, lol. I can’t believe Liz has never experienced it, let alone never heard of it. She wanted to know what signs she should look for.

  Hmm, it begins with the first itch (the lone termite) and with it comes an angel on your left shoulder, on your right comes Satan, good versus evil. Calmly and sensibly the voice of reason tells you, ‘Don’t scratch, you’ll only make it worse, you’ll be sorry.’ While Satan whispers, ‘Go on, one little scratch, think of the relief. ‘By now you’ll be struggling, seeking some relief. You think, ‘Go for a wee.’ Arhh, the stingy flow of water, soothing, but oh! Drip dry or wipe? Even your angel of conscience knows that drip drying could bring more problems, so with an inner smugness Satan pipes up with a compromise, ‘Don’t wipe, just dab. ‘Every bloody time you’ll fall for it. Within seconds of the toilet paper touching your crotch
you release the colony of termites and have rubbed so hard the tissue is now the consistency of talc and your Minge looks like a cocoa bean, or as Julie once said, ‘Your nets are showing through the drapes.’

  On the plus side thrush is the best deterrent for amorous advances from hubby: don’t bother with the ‘I’ve got a headache’, just tell him you think you’ve got thrush and he’ll turn over so fast he’ll leave a vapour trail. Unless he’s never experienced this delight, then humour him and I guarantee the memory will imbed itself in his libido for all eternity. Elizabeth’s response not a shock: ‘You really are quite disgusting.’

  Blood test done.

  Good Friday tomorrow so we’re off to the caravan for the day.

  Positives: Fungal cream packed.

  Saturday 21st April 2014

  Were babysitting tonight so we thought it would be a good idea to let the kids burn off some energy at the park, so we stopped off at the shop to buy stuff to feed the squirrels. When I was reading the writing on the packet of monkey nuts I laughed to see, ‘May contain traces of nuts’! I should bloody hope so. Saying that, there are some who aint too clued up. Joe’s sister, on accepting an invitation to dinner, was offered trifle with a nutty topping and politely explained to her host that she is allergic to nuts so would decline the dessert. She was offered the alternative, a slice of coconut cake, again offer was declined. Immediately the host, after pondering what she could offer as a substitute, declared, ‘Ooh, what about an almond slice?’Der the clue is in the title, people. Why on earth would anyone with this dangerous allergy ever consider eating out? However, this may explain why when they do, and have informed the restaurant manager they can’t have nuts, they still end up leaving the establishment in an ambulance.

  Gotta go shopping for BBQ tomorrow and add finishing touches for the Easter Egg Hunt.

  Monday 23rd April 2014

  Yesterdays BBQ and Easter Egg Hunt was good fun. Charles, bless him, was dragged around holding Daisy’s basket as she rummaged and stole eggs from the boys’ baskets when they weren’t looking. Julie was more competitive than the kids and wrestled with Connor twice for the same egg. Rhianne managed to gather two eggs as she was afraid of everything from snails to leaves. Was overjoyed when Chloe and Paul turned up. Whole day was excellent, only one child sick through chocolate overdose, several bruises and Terry chipped a tooth wheelbarrow racing. Still, what did he expect with Joe holding his legs, lol? Got off light, if you ask me. Chloe and Paul left about eleven this morning and have headed off for her mum’s, then home. I’ve put the house and garden back in order, haven’t cleaned the BBQ: think I’ll leave that for Joe. He’s got football later; don’t blame him for going on a bank holiday, the only thing that’ll be on TV is one of the many James Bond films. So with the telly well and truly off I shall enjoy the peace.

  Tuesday 24th April 2014

  Last night’s peace was interrupted, as a delicate matter has arisen. Elizabeth informed us all (via Facebook) that dear Arthur has been for a fitting for a toupee, and as her oldest and dearest friends she is relying on us to be understanding. Julie begged Liz to say she was lying as she was in fear of wetting her drawers. I would like to say me and Chloe were more supportive but we caved in long before Julie.

  Note to self: Look up the meaning of ‘friend’.

  Apparently it’s the done thing amongst the partners, they all have one, and Arthur has had the subtle suggestion to follow suit. Poor Arthur is just typically bald ‒ hair round the sides, nowt on top ‒ it’s never bothered him, he never stood out from the crowd because he was bald. According to Elizabeth he may be viewed that he may be past his time. How shallow? I told her if he gets a rug, he is gonna draw attention to himself alright, mostly bad. I pass bald men in the street without giving them a second glance, but one dodgy brush-over or a syrup and I’m on it in a flash. I told her to set the shavers on 2, run it over his head: it’ll not only knock years off him, at the same time giving him a rugged edge over his colleagues, more importantly it will ensure he’s not ridiculed or stared at.

  Chloe mentioned that it’s rumoured that men with wigs are usually sad, immature individuals. This the words of a professional therapist, not Chloe stooping to the lowest form of friend. That’s Julie’s job. xx

  So professional opinion describes these men as lecherous, believing that women who stare back at their leering faces do so because they find them and their hair irresistible. Quite sad, really: should we be mocking them? Yes we should, if this is about virility: ‘I am man, hear me roar. ‘Why, then, is it only middle-aged-plus doing it? Surely the younger balding guy would be too? The thing with toupees is they are placed on the head, blending in with nothing. They appear to come in limited colours: red, brown, salt ‘n pepper. Never seen a black one, that shade seems to come in aerosol form which they spray over the patch and hope they don’t sweat. It would help if these blokes actually went for the closest match to their own hair colour, but it’s always red on grey, grey on brown, or salt ‘n pepper on either.

  Reminds me of the time me and Chloe were in the bakers having coffee when a customer approached the counter (obvious rug balanced on nupper) and the assistant asked if he’d like a saucer of milk. The look of bewilderment on his face had me in hysterics: he didn’t have a clue. But I guess you have to be oblivious to go out like that.

  Wednesday 25th April 2014

  Hairdresser 5pm.

  The last conversation I wanted was about hair loss. Still reflecting on Elizabeth’s dilemma, I wanna know how these men introduce the hair piece for the first time. Do they call a family conference? If so, how come nobody stopped them? Or do they just come down to dinner one evening wearing it, and the family is so stunned they pretend not to have noticed they have road kill on their head? I love Dad dearly, but I can tell you either myself or Chris would have torn the critter from his head, pissing ourselves with laughter, and told him to get a grip. He’d never have got as far as the front door, let alone the street. Begs another question: are the women married to these men looking for revenge? They must be vindictive; I, like many loving wives, wouldn’t let my man out in a creased shirt let alone looking like a twat!

  Note to self: Ring and tell Arthur wig wearing has to be one of the highest forms of embarrassment you can reap onto the ones you love: don’t do it.

  Thursday 26th April 2014

  Chloe arrives London.

  Elizabeth arrives London.

  Girl’s night here.

  Julie saw Tessie in BHS lingerie department on Tuesday, sizing up the thongs. Julie, being the perfect 10, cannot fathom why on earth big women would wear one. Clarifying that: ‘big’ as in 34-plus. Julie reckons the reason we women wear thongs is for either sexual reasons (Julie’s mindset) or the obvious: making your arse look good in trousers, no knicker lines and emphasises of the cheeks, lol. Not meaning to sound rotten (she blatantly was)said if you have a really big rear end:

  (1) you don’t wanna draw attention to it,

  (2) it’s not going to make your arse seem better-shaped in clothes.

  Elizabeth has confessed to never owning one as they seem a bit unhygienic. Julie subtle as ever ‒ not ‒ narked, ‘Bet the Embryo does.’ Elizabeth, out of character, retorted with, ‘I’m sure the only reason you wear any drawers at all is for the purpose of keeping your ankles warm.’ Ooh!

  Jules, mate, credit where it’s due: you got proper owned, lol. xx

  Off to the shack tomorrow.

  Saturday 28th April 2014

  Within ten minutes of arriving at ‘the shack’ last night, another interesting point was raised! Following the thong debate, several glasses of wine and an apology from Elizabeth and Julie, we got onto push-up bras DD-plus! Why on earth would a woman with enormous breasts want to push them up? For the ones with small boobs, pushing them up would be OK, but the bras push them together as well, giving the illusion of having just one boob sitting i
n the middle of your chest, known in our circles as ‘mono tit’.

  Round Two of digs came as Julie stated, ‘That’s cos small-boobed women forget the vital ingredient, chicken fillets.’ Carefully explaining to Liz in a clear and audible tone ‒ making Liz look like a right div ‒ that you don’t eat them but stuff them in your bra. Unimpressed, Liz reckoned that to be more unhygienic than wearing underwear in butt crease. Julie was again stunned that she then had to explain they’re not real chicken, but silicon. Which begged the question from all of us: where has Elizabeth been for the last 20 years? Elizabeth eventually caught up and made an interesting comment, that surely if a guy is drawn to your boobs and he ends up back at your place, wouldn’t he be disappointed when he discovers half the goods stayed in the bra? All eyes fell on Julie. The font of all slut wisdom said, ‘Nah, I should think by the time he discovers the truth he’ll be gagging for it and won’t give a toss.’ Not so sure that this would apply to the guy who has pulled with the large trouser bulge which is actually rolled-up socks. Elizabeth tried to claw back some dignity for her serious lack of intelligence, playing the delayed jet-lag card. If only, bless her. Have a feeling the reason Elizabeth was so touchy about the topics is cos she herself is a bant (big arse, no tits), lol.

  Medical emergency last night: after we all left the shack, Julie met up with her casual flame, things got a bit heated and rushed, leading to poor Jeremy snagging his collar in his flies. Julie reckons she’s never seen the colour drain from a face so fast.