Mammaries and memories

Recently the Daily Mail had 5 notable woman journalists write a letter to their own bodies. You'd think they'd have had more sense. Only one had anything pleasant to say to hers, so sounded somewhat smug. The others were hypercritical,the worst being Liz Jones,of course. She just extended her ever-present references to anorexia and self-loathing to one of those apologies that you just know isn't going to make any difference to the behaviour.
I was reminded of Victoria Wood's account of reading a magazine article encouraging her to look at herself naked and admire her positive features. She ended up repeating'You have Latin O'level' over and over again. I have Latin O'level too and three sisters-I have no need to look at mesel in the nip;I have been informed of my figure flaws years ago and the years must surely only have honed them. At any rate, there's nothing to be gained by pointing out your shortcomings;it bores or irritates people and makes them think about things they hadn't noticed. Particularly men, who are much much more tolerant than I was ever led to believe. It seems you need to be really quite deformed not to be fancied by several of them. That extremely reliable volume Heat magazine surveyed men's opinions of women's looks a couple of weeks ago. The majority disliked fake tan, hair extensions and breast implants but most excitingly, about of third of those surveyed didn't know what cellulite was. No-one must tell them, is that clear?
I might need to write a letter to my mother though,looking back at puberty.I may not have been as well-developped as Barbara Blaikie, who held bra-viewings in the toilets at breaktime in P.7 but I believe I was the last girl in my class in secondary school to get a bra. I wrote a whole diary about it, 1977-8. There was apparently nothing else important going on in my life, unless you count attempting to be promoted from the hockey Under-14 B's. In the end, I hung about for about two hours while me ma was ironing,finally blurting out a grunted demand for a 30AA. The longed-for item was white with fuchsia stars on it. We were always on about fuchsia in those days;I think because our houses were decorated almost entirely in brown.(It's not that long since my mum was forced to stop saying 'nigger brown', by the way.)This bra had hardly any elastic and therefore was deeply uncomfortable. Naturally I thought this was the reality and well worth the pain of going about like Judy Garland when they bandaged down her bosoms for The Wizard Of Oz.
I had friends with less innocent parents, who had Given Them A Book About The Facts Of Life,which I thought wonderfully enlightened, nearly bohemian, in fact. In those days you didn't say 'period' out loud. The attitude was similar to Homer Simpson's suspicious inquiry;'Is this some kinda underwear thing?' I told my mum stoutly that I knew 'everything' about sex,was believed, and turned to Graeme Cowden and his pilfered Ladybird book on Where we Came From, with the before- and after- puberty drawings in its inside covers. The rest I learned in time-honoured fashion by hearing jokes and pretending to get them, then doing 'research' with entirely unqualified people such as my best-friend-who-had-found-a-dirty-magazine-in-the-woods. Chesty Morgan was a long way from her 30 AA days, quite made you nostalgic for your vest.
I still am. Bras have turned out to be very over-rated. And we are all wearing the wrong size. This may be due to not remembering to do what the really posh bra-fitter ladies make you do, which is bend forwards and try to get your bosoms to fall into the cups as if someone was doing a Heimlich manuevre on you. Also no-one knows how to do that sum which tells you your cup size. Or it may be the hormonal hinterland we inhabit which leads you to spend more time deciding on a Twirl over a Lion Bar than you do on working out if you need a 'balcony' or a 'plunge'. Actually if it weren't for the chocolate, many of us might just plunge off the nearest balcony.

Miss Jean Brod-I?

I have never been what you could call popular but I must say I have enjoyed a small and colourful following, over the years. When I announced I was leaving my first teaching job in Kent, a little girl put her head in her hands and howled. She had never said one word to me the whole time in class but sent many postcards thereafter, trying to obtain a phone number. I doubt she was a lezzer, mind you, she's probably an octomom or some such by now, although being gay might be a help there. You would only have the energy to put on dungarees and maintain a crew cut.
I have to say I performed similar histrionics in sixth form,the result of a tremendous crush on our French Assistant,an exotic and bohemian individual with corkscrew curls and harem pants, whose name I can no longer remember.Imagine-when my grief at her departure moved Mr. Hooks to bring me to his office and be nice to me for several minutes. Not in a Notes On A Scandal way, you understand,just a slight twinkling over his bifocals. Pity my French teacher was so self-involved, he was known to have what he called 'snifters' of sherry in his office; I am sure that would have calmed me down nicely. The sangria I'd had at the French Assistant's party led to a prolonged lie down during the festivities in my extremely twee polka-dot top and Pedal Pushers. I'm surprised I wasn't taken for a Burlesque artist.
My most devoted follower,never to be rivalled, belonged to the er,less macho class of fella,along the lines of the ardent male fans of Cher or Barbra (but not Madonna as I think she is just a big millie and I intend to explain the syndrome at a later date). He was one of two boys in a small class whose favourite argument always centred around the Spice Girls,then at the height of their fame. My attempts to sweep through the door like one of the 'mistresses' in Mallory Towers would be ignored as Gareth again tried to convince Esther that Posh really could sing and had a lovely smile. Rank ordering the Spice Girls was their favourite pastime and Posh was always at the top for Gareth;he knew she was misunderstood.
Next best, he loved Coronation Street and enjoyed an encyclopaedic knowledge of its cast and characters, obtained from many happy hours watching old videos at his Granny's. In our Christmas Quiz, he was able to triumph as he was the only person in the entire school who knew stuff like Percy Sugden had died of a heart attack in the Snug of the Rover's Return in 1986.
This thirst for information was subverted somewhat as Gareth and Esther briefly embarked on a life of crime, nicking a couple of French Resource Packs, in a botched attempt to emulate me and my colleague, whom they greatly admired as linguists,as well as women,I think you'll find. The two of them were suspected then 'interviewed' by our then Head of Senior School, a gifted interrogator whose questioning techniques wouldn't have been out of place among the Borgias, had they tolerated poorly- suppressed laughter. Confession was reached; they'd had a baffling hoke through the worksheets, learned no new French,would you believe,panicked then dumped everything in a High Street bin, from which nothing was ever recovered. We laughed so much in the fog of smoke in the Maths Store,I can't remember if we made them pay for replacements. I do miss those days-we used to take the kids' fags and have them after school-you just had to reach into the top drawer of the filing cabinet for ten Embassy Regal.
Gareth wasn't a bad interrogator himself, as it transpired,as he found out a good deal about my family and my inclinations,so to speak. He learned names and committed habits to memory. All too evident when we were all on the boat to France. I woke up on the carpet of the ship's cafe-worn out ,caring for others,dontcha know, to find Gareth positioned faithfully at my feet like Greyfriar's Bobby. He then intoned;'Right, Mr Bell, she'll want the toilet then a coffee and after that, I'm taking her to that shop to get a present for wee Josh, ok? See you in twenty.'
I really should have married him.