Is It Just Me? (13 page)

Anything involving hot jets of water being blasted at you as you stand against a wall in order to improve muscle tone. Under slightly different circumstances, this process would be called ‘War Crimes’.

So, no more spa days for me. My post-hair high street pedicure is as far as I’m willing to go in the name of beauty, thank you very much. And that done, I want to go home. But, I can’t. Not yet. My mind’s now been so addled by the women’s magazines in the salon that I decide to try a little clothes shopping. It can’t be that bad, can it? That’s what a woman taking herself seriously would do – buy a lovely top.

Ah, shopping. Finally, something I understand.

I am not sure you
do
understand.

I do. You meet up with a gang of your nine best friends, you get on the bus to the Newbury Shopping Centre, you roam around for a bit, bumping into other packs of teenage girls, muttering something bitchy under your breath as you pass them, you get a McDonald’s milkshake, and even when you finish it you keep sucking on the straw to make a noise, then you sit down and have some chewing gum. Then one of you might buy some nail varnish, and then you get the bus home. It’s brilliant.

That sounds all very nice, but it doesn’t involve the actual buying of clothes.

Mum does that. She gets them all from C&A, I pretend I hate them; then I wear them anyway.

Well, these days I have to go it alone.

So, I’ll charge into Gap and discover, to my horror, that it’s the sales. The women in the shop are like crazed animals, lions round a rotting zebra, trying to get their hands on a scoop-neck sailor top for £4.99 less than they’d otherwise willingly pay. The noise of coat hangers scraping, the alarming disco honk of the Rihanna track, the gaggle of teenagers throwing pants at one another: I start to sweat. I go to one of those Gap tables, those lovely tidy Gap tables where some tops and jumpers are laid out, size Small at the top, size Extra Large at the bottom. I have to fumble through all the jumpers to find my size and inevitably the neat pile topples like a Jenga tower. There’s now a heap of tops on the floor.

Seriously? Have they seriously not sorted out that system by now?

EXACTLY. No, they haven’t. So, as ever, the shop assistant comes over, furious that we have ruined her display. I am now very hot. And when I get hot, I get angry: ‘WELL, IF YOU’D HUNG UP THE JUMPERS AND NOT INSISTED THEY BE IN THIS INCOMPREHENSIBLE PILED-UP “SYSTEM” WHICH MAKES NO SENSE, YOU WOULDN’T HAVE TO KEEP COMING OVER WHEN SOMEONE WHO NEEDS A LARGE RUINS THE DISPLAY. A LOT OF WOMEN NEED A LARGE, YOU KNOW. SO CAN YOU STOP MAKING IT EASY FOR THE PETITES TO GRAB FROM THE TOP OF THE PILE AND SAUNTER SMUGLY INTO THE DRESSING ROOMS? PUT THEIR SMALLS AT THE BOTTOM FOR A CHANGE OR JUST HANG YOUR CLOTHES UP AND STOP MAKING US FEEL GUILTY FOR RUINING THE TABLE DISPLAYS, SO THAT WE FEEL WE SHOULD TIDY THEM UP OURSELVES. AND THEN WE GET MISTAKEN FOR A SWEATY SHOP ASSISTANT AND SO AS NOT TO MAKE THAT PERSON FEEL STUPID FIND THEM A PAIR OF JEANS IN THEIR SIZE AND END UP DOING A FOUR-HOUR SHIFT. YOUR SYSTEM IS BROKEN, MY YOUNG, PERKY FRIEND.
BROKEN
, I TELL YOU.’ (At which point the pre-teenage, surly shop assistant takes out her iPod headphones and says, ‘What?’)

I leave Gap, having lost half my body weight in perspiration, and wander down the high street. I need to sit somewhere nice and quiet, somewhere a little less . . . teenage. I notice a calm, discreet-looking shop with no one in it. Perfect. It turns out it’s the ever-so-smart underwear shop Rigby & Peller. This is where the Queen gets her bras, apparently (she’s also a Large, she too must struggle with the display tables in Gap). A pleasant lady approaches and asks me if I’d like a bra fitting. Goodness, I’d never had one of those before. Perhaps I
should
get a new bra? Acquire some lingerie. That might put a bit of va-va-voom into the old Hart life. That would be taking myself seriously as a woman. ‘Yes, thank you,’ I say gamely. ‘I
would
like a bra fitting.’

In a place like this, I imagine the fitting will be some kind of discreet, respectful process perhaps involving a blindfold and some velveteen gloves. I’m ushered into a very plush cubicle (plush is one of my very favourite words
– plush
), and a small Spanish lady enters and asks me to remove my bra. Okey-dokey, not very British, but I’ll give it a whirl. I do so, and as I turn around to face the lady, I practically knock her out as I swipe her eye with a nipple.

‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Nipple In Eye! Ha ha,’ I trill in embarrassment. As ever, that approach doesn’t alleviate the mood: she offers a tight smile in return, and stares at my bosoms. Stares. Squints. Tilts her head sideways a bit. Mutters something in Spanish and, after a pause, exhales sharply: ‘Right!’ and leaves.

Why is she leaving? Does she simply not know what to do with me? Will she return with a small band of medical students? I wonder.

Luckily not. She comes back bearing a truly beautiful bra. It turns out that she has what I call ‘magic-boob-eyes’, and can perfectly guess a woman’s bra size without recourse to a tape measure. This shopping trip’s taking a turn for the better.

Then I politely enquire as to the cost of this magnificent bit of kit. The cost:
£89.

£89 FOR A BRA? Good God, you could go InterRailing for a month on that, or buy five ghetto blasters. Ask if it doubles as a sofa-bed or something.

I did. It doesn’t. Goodbye to you, bra. I’m out of here.

The Spanish woman watches me leave. It occurs to me that now I haven’t bought the bra, she’s just been staring at my upper frontal area for absolutely no good reason. If I ever bump into her again at a social occasion, for example, I simply won’t cope. I’ll be bound to cry out, ‘That’s Mrs Nipple In Eye! She’s seen my breasts!’

I leave, exhausted and humiliated. I tramp home, feeling at least ten notches less beautiful than I was when I began my Day of Beauty and Grooming. I am broken.

Is it just me, or isn’t life too short for days like the one I’ve just described? We could abolish the whole beauty regime shooting-match. Wouldn’t it be marvellous to live in a world without the misery it takes to look like a slightly more well-defined version of yourself?

For once, I come armed with a solution to a conundrum. I have some changes to propose. I don’t expect them all to come about at once, but please know that when I am Queen of The World, matters of beauty, styling and self-presentation will be conducted according to (drum roll, please) . . .

THE WONDERFUL LAWS OF MIRANDA-LAND!

Here are the key elements of my manifesto:

So, that’s the plan. MDRC, what do you reckon? Little Miranda, what do you think?

I think it’s absolutely genius. I wish I had my governmental unisex kaftan to wear at the disco tonight. Milly and I are going down to the hall now . . .
^*
screams
^*

What?

One of the bread rolls just fell off my shoulder. Sshh.
^*
tucks it backs in and scuttles off
^*

Good luck. It will be fine, totally fine. (Although it won’t MDRC, it really won’t.)

So, mull it over. Consider the pros and cons of my new system. And feel free to begin the ‘skincare’ regime when you next feel in need of a snack. Because, really, whoever you are – you’ve
got
to start taking yourself seriously as a woman.

N
ow, my lovely chum, I am hoping that you have also availed yourself of a Standard Party Kaftan and are currently swishing proudly about your sitting room in it. If not, please hurry along. I’ve been terribly busy with mine – a fetching gold number, which I’m pairing with a vibrant fuchsia polka-dot clog. Oh, yes. You really
must
join in, because if I’m to be the only one attending functions in such attire, then the whole system’s going to go a tiny bit wonky. In fact, completely wonky, to the point that it will just become a system of ‘Miranda wearing a kaftan, and everyone else pointing and laughing.’

I feel we’ve very much dealt with The Grooming Issue. The externals. The adornments. The frills. So it’s time to get a bit more . . . structural. Bring it all back to the body (if you’ll forgive the slight yoga-teacher vibe). So, if the previous chapter was, say, about decorating; then this one is about architecture.

There’s an awful lot of pressure on bodies these days (not literally: we’re not all being stood on by people or getting trapped under bench-presses – I hope). Our bodies are expected to look a certain way. Or at the very least, most of us wouldn’t mind looking a little bit more like him or her from
Men’s Health
or
Grazia
magazine, and a little bit less like, well, a sackful of ham. I know it’s not just me. I know we’ve all got our ‘thing’ – our body bane. The bit that makes us feel slightly less lovely about ourselves than we otherwise might. Whether we’re one of The Beautiful Ones, The Beautiful One’s Friends, The Ugly Ones or The Normals, we can all feel that there’s something askew. (Another good word, ‘askew’. I find it nigh-on impossible not to follow with ‘Bless You!’ if someone uses ‘askew’ – Bless you! – in conversation. Just call me wacky.)

My ‘thing’ has always been my height: I am 6’ 1” tall. Deep down, it’s never bothered me. But people’s responses have, over the years, been interesting as a lot of the time they find it remarkable. I honestly don’t understand this. To me, being taller-than-average is no more peculiar than having a slightly larger-than-average nose, or rounder-than-average face, or shorter-than-average legs. I don’t tend to give it too much thought. It’s far from fascinating, and hasn’t caused me too much fuss.

Um . . . Actually, I think you’ll find it has caused SOME fuss.
Durh brains.

Remind me?

The other day I was going to the sweet shop with Podge, who wanted to stock up on Wham bars . . .

Podge really should stay away from the sweets . . .

. . .
when a pigeon started flying towards my head. I ducked accordingly, expecting it to swoop on by, but when I stood up again, after a brief moment of wondering where it had gone to, I realised – IT HAD LANDED ON MY HEAD. It clearly thought I was a blooming lamppost. It flapped about and dug its horrible pigeon-claws into my hair. Totally gross. I’ve never screamed so hard in my life. Podge was no help – she just went into the shop to get her Wham bars. So, yes. It has caused us a teeny tiny bit of fuss, thank you.