This morning. I was talking to Debs at the Post Office about what is often referred to as ‘a senior moment’. I was collecting my pension and couldn’t remember which way to put in my card. This was rather alarming, as I have been doing it week after week for years. They used to have a small label with a diagram and the words ‘insert here’ on the machine but they replaced it with a advert for some sort of Post Office savings account and without the crib I was lost.
‘Intimations of what is to come, Debs’ I said, darkly. ‘I hope you are going to be kind to me when I can’t get it in at all.’
Debs, who is big bosomed and likes her vodka, gave a dirty laugh and assured me that she would look out for me and started counting the loot. While she was doing this I noticed a handsome young postman ,who was collecting the sacks of already posted stuff from behind the counter, giving me an amused glance. Nothing flirty unfortunately but at least he’d noticed I was there (some achievement these days it would seem).
Encouraged by the attention, I continued. ‘My daughters have already had a word with me what’s up ahead and how I can avoid embarrassing them.’
‘Did you listen?’ Debs wanted to know. It must be so boring behind that counter all day with only chocolates and musak to shield you from the grumpy customers. I could sense some getting restless behind me.
‘Well, I’ve stopped wearing parrots in my ears,’ I threw the words as a parting shot and off I went about my business. Which was mainly to get some wet fish for my lunch, essential if I don’t want the senior moments to cluster. And there sitting on a waste bin outside the fishmongers was Jojo (not her real name) smoking a fag and gazing into space as always. I always smile at Jojo but never get one in return. I don’t think she’s there once she parts from the mirror. This morning she was a picture in silver lycra jumpsuit and shocking pink strappy sandals that matched exactly the gash of lipstick and a hair adornment that looked as if it had recently decorated a Christmas parcel. I have to say that she lights up the High Street does Jojo. I don’t think she can have daughters. Pity about the can of Special Brew in her hands.
This is clearly the look that Lala is guiding me away from, now that I have reached a certain age. But all is not lost. A wonderful young designer called Fanny Karst is turning out just the sort of things we old hippies would like to grow old in. I’d love to show you a picture of her gorgeous dress with ‘Let’s begin at the End’ printed on the front in big bolshy capitals but I’ve forgotten how to access my ‘photos for blog’ file. Oh dear.