My Secret Wish List

10 Got off a speeding fine by using feminine charms

11 Have on at least two occasions woken up in a strange bed unable to remember how you got there or with whom

12 Smoked a joint

13 Had sex in a public place

14 Ended a long-term relationship and discovered it was the best thing you ever did

15 Travelled round the world three times

16 Seduced a younger man

17 Told your mother that she could never be mistaken for your sister

18 Had a religious experience

19 Had a surreal experience

20 Spent twenty-four days scared to death you might be pregnant

21 Spent twenty-four hours crying because you weren’t

22 Had sex at work whilst on phone to boss

23 Had sex with boss whilst on phone to partner or mother

Et cetera.

Realise miserably that have lived totally boring, unachieving life, since I haven’t done any of them.

Sneakily rip page out of mag. Good joke to show friends. Then realise that elderly woman next to me is glaring disapprovingly and looks as though she is about to summon frightening headmistress of a receptionist.

Relief is at hand. (There’s an item about that too, but too rude for me to read.) Finally hear my name called.

My doctor looks like a TV presenter—all glowing skin, thick soft hair and a look in her eyes which says oh-God-not-another-dreary-middle-aged-might-have-been-but-wasn’t.

Tell her my HRT has made me put on two stone. Has also failed to inflate boobs, as described in magazines by confident women MPs. Ask if she can explain mystery as to why for every two hairs that were on head I now only have one, whilst disgusting black wire has started growing on chin.

(Jacki says it could be worse—you can at least have extensions on head. She says too that Afro-Caribbean plaits work almost as well as a facelift at pulling skin tight.)

Doctor looks dubious. Starts to ask me about my diet and my sex life. I try to explain both are total non-starters, but she is already on computer providing repeat prescription. Tells me to think about having a holiday.

Go home and start to clean out kitchen cupboards.

Instruction from life-coach—Remove all unnecessary clutter from life.

Find almost-empty bottle of Christmas pudding brandy—shame to waste it…

Busybody Do-Gooding neighbour from three up knocks on open back door just as I am throwing now empty bottle into rubbish box. Am sitting on kitchen floor surrounded by ‘to throw out’ stuff. See from her expression that she has totally misjudged the situation.

Try to tell her that I am simply following the advice of life-coach and discarding unnecessary clutter from my life—also upholding housewifely thrift of late mother-in-law—never throw away food or drink.

Try to assume control of situation and stand up to give self more authority. But brandy much stronger than I thought. Kitchen spins! Floor becomes a Mount Everest-type incline impossible to stand straight on. Cling to sink whilst neighbour asks if I have ever thought of joining AA.

Am so offended that I deliberately pretend not to understand. Just because have thriftily drunk brandy does not make me an alcoholic!

Tell her that Derek has co-opted car, and so guaranteed home start provided by Automobile Association not really applicable. Talking of car reminds me that I had decided to get son’s bike out of garage and use. V. trendy, and will look good on ‘things to achieve’ list. Can see self now, riding fearlessly into town. Will buy a crisp white shirt and some jeans and will look totally together and Oxbridge, my hair gleaming in the sunlight and my skin glowing with health.

Drift into beautiful brandy-induced daydream and can see myself looking sexily academic. Sexy new neighbour will see me and fall instantly and passionately in love!

Only one problem. Seem to remember son’s bike one of those wheelie things. Suddenly also see hideous mental image of myself in blue cycling shorts to match poor cold blue legs and one of those ant-like helmets.

Do-Gooding neighbour is making tea. Says there’s a good drop-in centre for people with problems like mine at the local church, and that the vicar is very modern.

On sudden unexpected impulse ask her if she has ever smoked a joint.

She looks puzzled, and then says she did do a smoked ham two years ago, for her Christmas Eve party, but that her husband thought it tasted too gamey. She could let me have the recipe, though. She keeps them all filed in a book, together with a note of when she made them. Apparently Delia told her to do that.

In daze hear myself earnestly explaining. No, I am talking about drugs. Things one should have done in life. Like having sex in public and taking drugs.

See she is beginning to look quite pale, so solicitously offer her a glass of the cooking sherry at back of cupboard. She tries to refuse, but I insist and pour her a glass. Assure her that sitting on floor is quite comfortable, and safer too, since floor is now at an acute angle.

Half an hour later have finished sherry, and the box of red wine left over from a dinner party. Neighbour is looking quite flushed.

Says she is sorry Derek has left.

Tell her I that am not sorry. That I am looking forward to being independent. (One of my life-coach statements that I am supposed to repeat every day.)

Neighbour confesses that her husband has not turned out to be the man she expected.

‘He has his funny little ways, if you know what I mean,’ she tells me. ‘And I have tried to talk to him about them!’

Forcing my expression into one of good neighbourly sympathy and understanding, I listen, and ask if she’d like to talk about it.

To my shock, neighbour bursts into noisy tears and says she’s sick of bloody talking about it. She wants to do it and it has come to that point where she has no option but to take matters into her own hands!

Even though I’m feeling a bit tipsy, I know immediately that this is not a subject I want to pursue. So quickly and v. cleverly change it, and ask artlessly if anyone has moved into posh house at end of road as yet…

Neighbour’s face immediately takes on worrying expression that reminds me of starving wild animal salivating at sight of fresh meat. Explains that A MAN has moved in ON HIS OWN—well, on his own apart from a v. undesirable and obviously out-for-what-she-can-get young female.

Neighbour explains that she’s v. concerned for new man and feels that someone should warn and protect him. She has noticed from seeing washing hung up on line in back garden that he doesn’t know how to hang out shirts properly, and that the plants on his patio need re-potting. She has decided to go round and offer her services.

Comment that I am surprised she has been able to see into back garden, since totally enclosed by ten-foot-high fence. Neighbour confides in whisper that actually she is able to see into garden from her bathroom window—if she stands in washbasin and cranes neck!

Confess to her that I find her sense of neighbourly concern and responsibility truly awesome.

Neighbour returns compliment by informing me that new man wears ‘modern’ you-know-whats.