W.O.M.A.N., I'll say it again

Struck down once again with one of those vicious little viruses that seem to pervade the air space in this country (you’d think Nato, or at least Eurocontrol, might do something about it), my thoughts have turned of late to my own mortality. There comes a time when you wake up and think: “Christ! Is that the time! It’s past 50 o’clock!” You realize how much there is still left to do, and how little time left to do it in. Is there still enough time left to become a best-selling novelist, an award-winning photographer, a fluent Russian speaker, a flamenco dancer, the next Mrs George Clooney, get back down to a size 12 and get the recipe for gratin dauphinois right? When I am finally laid to rest, the epitaph on my tomb will scream “BUT I HADN’T FINISHED!!”

In the event of being knocked down by a bus or some other unexpected accident befalling me, I would like it to be known that there is only one surgeon allowed to apply the scalpel to my delicate flesh: Dr Anton Meyer, formerly of Holby City, now somewhere in America. I still miss him. Rick Griffin is very good, but he lacks Anton’s hauteur and noblesse. Funny how only French words will do when you’re talking about degrees of arrogance, isn’t it?

The thing about Anton was, he was so … masterful. I do like a man to be in control, contrary to anything Harold may have told you prior to his untimely demise. He may have compared me to Rosa Klebb, Ann Robinson, Golda Meir … however, in reality I am but a helpless damsel, seeking a pair of strong manly arms to swoon into. They would have to be strong manly arms, as I am no flimsy floozy. Men just don’t seem to have the gallantry of yore. I suppose it’s our own fault, feminism and all that. We didn’t realize we were putting out mixed messages, and over-estimated the poor dears’ capacity for reading between the lines. Men are such simple creatures. They need simple, clear instructions, such as “Put it HERE” and “Stop NOW”. We overestimated their capacity for change, and now we are paying the price.

Unreconstructed “old” men still understand their role in the scheme of things. Mowing the lawn, paying in restaurants, having a shed … but in return we must live up to their expectations and behave like laydees. Even if it’s not in our nature. Fake it, girls, fake it. A little girlish giggle here and there at their pathetic idea of a joke will not kill us. Fluttering an eyelash and ignoring the spelling mistakes in their tattoos is a small price to pay. Even watching the odd football match can be suffered for the cause (especially at the end where they all take their shirts off).

And as for our appearance, if we dress like builders, we shouldn’t expect to be treated with kid gloves. Leave the Doc Martens at home, ladies – if you want to be sent flowers, say it with a flowery dress (and matching shoes and handbag).

However, I absolutely draw the line at stockings and suspenders. If that’s the price I have to pay, I’ll drive myself to the hospital thanks.