The Frogs on the Tiling

Once upon a time I was very entertained by "transformation" scenes in popular films. It was fun to believe that streetwalkers could be transformed into elegant ladies, dowdy schoolgirls into princesses, and tough-talking cops into beauty queens over the course of a day at a beauty salon, plus new clothing. 

Sadly, I have never found that beauty services plus new clothing transformed me into someone better, unless there is a particular virtue in having less money. In terms of physical appearance, what really does--or did--the trick is sleep, sharply curtailed calorific intake, a job involving much walking, and going to gyms up to 10 times a week. 

When I lived that way, I worked at a Canadian passport office and, still possessing the arrogance of youth, marvelled at the difference between older women who had clearly given up fighting the ravages of time and older women who seemed determined to fight them to the grave. "Older" meant over 40. And I was in a unique position to know exactly how old every woman was, as it was written on her passport application and printed on her birth certificate. 

Having worked hard to become athletic and slim, I was very much on the side of the Over-40s fighting time. And after I reached 40 myself I was among their number until 2017 when I was going so often to visit my husband at the hospital that I bought a bus pass. The bus pass photo showed an exhausted, worried middle-aged woman, a most-unfashionable kerchief tired around her mad hair. She looked terrible, like an Over-40 who had given up the fight. 

"Who cares?" I thought. "So be it." 

What I did not know when I was a slim 20-something is that you don't get the face and figure you deserve after 40. You get the ones handed to you by life. If you are blessed with good genes and good luck, you can appear youthful for decades. If, however, you are walloped with illness, family illness, unexpected deaths, financial disasters, political unrest, emotional betrayals, fire, flood, and goodness knows what else, it shows up in your appearance. Nowadays when I see an obese old woman on the street, I try to picture the slender teenager she probably once was and wonder what life did to her. 

Sometimes you can actually feel years of life taken from your body. This definitely happened to me in 2018 when I came back to the Historical House after an unpleasant social call and discovered the priceless, irreplaceable, never-to-be-touched-without-gloves contents of the museum collection set out on the front lawn. 

Benedict Ambrose and I had been more-or-less guarding that collection with our lives, so I thought immediately that B.A. could be, despite months of the NHS's hard work, dead. However, he suddenly became visible, breaking away from the huddle of people and precious furniture, coming towards me wearing a hard hat, and calling, "I'm all right. It's all right!"

It wasn't, really. The worst thing that can happen to an old house is fire. But the second worst--which had happened--is flood. The fire retardant sprinkler system had malfunctioned while we were both away from home. Almost all my clothes (right under one of the sprinkler heads) were destroyed, but it always seemed churlish to mention that (let alone demand redress) given the damage to the national treasure. And, of course, we were suddenly homeless. 

Catalogue of Alarums and Excursion:

Amoris Laetitia, the brain tumour, the Deluge, homelessness, brain tumour again, experimental radiotherapy, finding a mortgage, buying a flat, double-taxation (now resolved), COVID lockdown, B.A.'s subsequent voluntary redundancy, Traditionis Custodes, spinal tumours, more experimental radiotherapy, Fiducia Supplicans and, slowly yet unexpectedly, B.A.'s inability to walk unaided. 

No, I do not think a day at the beauty salon and a Rodeo Drive shopping excursion would suffice to soothe the ravages of time.  

You will be surprised to read that the intent of this post was to think in print about renovating the bathroom. The opening sentence was going to be something like "I have lost the desire to renovate myself, and now I desire only to renovate the bathroom." Bathroom renovations, I am assured by the internet, are naturally difficult, stressful, and involve many decisions. Mistakes are costly. And, sadly, in our case renovations are absolutely necessary, as B.A. can't climb over the side of the bathtub without risking his neck. Thus, it too gets added to the list of alarms and excursions. 

I veer between wanting to cut a hole in the side of the bathtub (and covering the edges with rubber trim), which would cost £30, and wanting the local bathroom designer to build us a spa, which would cost £15,000+. (American readers: this is not a request for funding! One of the most wonderful things about Americans is your overflowing generosity, but we both have jobs and are not on our uppers yet.) The good news is that home repairs done under the duress of a physical disability are sales-tax free. The bad news is that my preferred approach to life improvement is to remove things and habits that cost money, not buy new ones. 

However, I will have to lump it because B.A. doesn't like the hole-in-the-side-of-the-bathtub plan, and I have long since wearied of the frogs on the tiling.