Yis have all been very touchy about the fifteen. It has aroused more annoyance than anything else I have written so far. People keep tackling me about it, looking wounded. It really must be a national treasure. We are all very attached to the tray bake-even men who insist on doing things women don't understand, like putting chocolate in the fridge and liking kebabs. I was out walking with a good cross section of males the other day and you should have seen them falling upon the Malteser Squares and Millionaire's Shortbread during the coffee break, it was like the Women's Institute with P.M.T.
We were on the Lagan towpath and it was jam packed, let me tell you, with rowers, cyclists, canoeists and runners. The runners were extremely cheeky, coming up behind a person and saying things like 'Pick a side' rather than 'Excuse me'. I felt like retorting 'Pick the stones out of yer bake when I knock you to the ground' but I was trying to impress my new walking friends by pretending to be tolerant. I don't hold with running and not purely because the beauticians tell me pityingly that I have 'high colour'. Runners always look strained, wrinkled and miserable; a combination of the horrid exertion of it all and having had to dress themselves in those unspeakably unflattering skintight leggings with the lizardy markings. And do not get me started on wetsuits. Women were standing about having chats, quite unconcerned at having donned some rubber tubing, which contrives to squash your bosoms and yet bag in a triangular manner at the crotch so you look like Sindy without her pants.
May I also add that I took my business elsewhere as it were, from Spin Class at my gym purely because of the cycling shorts, the whooping that went on when people hit their endorphin high and the impish little man-lady who kept insisting that we each could be 'Number One'. That figure only interests me if it indicates my position in a queue to get Lancome samples. So I repaired to something called Zumba; oversubscribed Caribbean dancing,which leads participants to become all overcome by their own sexiness and actually high-five each other at the end of each track. Some nights, it's all I can do not to pretend I don't recognise high-fiveing and just smack people. I'm extremely popular at the gym, I am sure you can imagine.
My mother has just been round, complaining about having been set upon by The Brick's daughter's dog , which she described as wrinkly and 'all the one colour' which is a terrible affliction in her book. (She says Charles Dance is 'all the one colour' -skin, hair, eyes and sadly I can see what she means. The dog's colour in this case turned out to be 'taupe', she pronounced indignantly, then it was clear to me she was referring to a Wiemaraner, which cheered up my monday. It's always worth dwelling on some of her unique opinions when one is in need of a good laugh. She suspects that Michael J. Fox and Jodie Foster are the same person ; 'You never see them together,' she mutters, darkly. She said the same about Michael and LaToya Jackson and I was worryingly close to believing this until LaToya made that unmistakeable appearance at Michael's funeral in her, er, Fedora. When Mum wants to indicate Kate Winslet, she goes; 'You know that mouth I hate?' and she still thinks it was an awful pity about Rock Hudson and Montgomery Clift.
I will be as close to a Fifteen this weekend as I ever intend to get by having lunch at Jamie Oliver's similarly named restaurant as it was no doubt called after thon bun -a closely guarded secret until now. Or is it that fifteen reformed hallions cook yer tea? I will report.
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