It may have something to do with being excessively premenstrual and if you do not believe I can be excessively premenstrual then speak to my husband. This, providing he is still alive, of course, and I have not throttled him. Anyway, this may have something to do with why I am blogging about diets. Because, the absolute worst time to be on a diet is a few days before your period. I am at that point now and my desire for something sweet is so overwhelming that this morning I almost strangled the milkman when he said he did not have any orange juice on his cart. What once seemed a sweet caring smile on the face of Rosemary Conley, now rather resembles the devil incarnate. In fact if dear Rosemary should pop her head round my front door I am likely to punch her lights out.
I first started dieting in earnest about five years ago. I was then, and hold your breath, almost thirteen stone. I never saw myself as thirteen stone of course. I was one of those fat people with anorexia in reverse. I never saw myself as fat.
I progressed from Marks and Spencer to Evans in a flash and thought absolutely nothing of it. Evans have much nicer clothes, I remember telling myself. In much the same way I progressed from a size 16 to a size 24 and still thought nothing of it. I consumed a curry, a pot of ice cream two bags of toffee popcorn and chocolate on a Friday night without a seconds thought. God, I was happy in those days! I mean who wouldn’t be happy eating whatever they like. Don’t you just hate the likes of Elizabeth Hurley who claim they watch what they eat but basically eat what they like, without gaining weight as they have some kind of special metabolism? Doesn’t it just make you want to throw up into your ‘Primark’ handbag? Or those other celebs such as Gwyneth, who kick box, do aerobics and Pilates and of course we must not forget the tantric sex. Okay, maybe it isn’t Gwyneth, but hey let her sue me. After all a celeb is a celeb after all. Don’t they just make you want to have a ‘Hello’ magazine burning party? All those, ‘You can look like’’ articles. Yes, I am sure we could easily look like them. All we need is a personal trainer, our own personal make up assistant, at least a million in the bank, a housekeeper, a full time nanny, a cook and five holidays a year on Branson’s yacht. Indeed, I feel quite convinced that after two months of that, along with the tantric sex of course, we must not forget that. I am certain, totally convinced in fact that I would look and feel twenty years younger and would probably have to trade Andrew in for a younger model. As it is at the moment, I rely on Boots protect and perfect, for keeping me young and rather think a twenty year old stud may not give me the time of day. Such is the price of obscurity.
So, it was in sheer contentment that I moved into our lovely little village and our lovely little cottage five years ago only to be asked by three of the villagers.
‘When is the baby due?’
Mortified and embarrassed. In my case hugely mortified, I decided to diet. No, I lie. It was after a lovely elderly gentleman offered me a seat on the train. He must have been all of eighty and I must have looked all of eight months pregnant! My stepdaughter was marrying in Egypt so I chose that occasion to aim for a slimmer me. I chose weight watchers at home. In a year I lost three stone and became a size 14. Andrew was delighted and there lies my problem. In a word, Andrew, whose favourite quote is.
‘No one likes a fat person.’
You heard right. He doesn’t use the quote. ‘I love you just the way you are.’
Oh no! Those types of quotes are only heard in ‘Bridget Jones’ films and certainly not in real life, at least not real life in this house. Correct me if I am wrong. On second thoughts, don’t correct me. I really couldn’t face another divorce.
This time around I am only a few pounds overweight. Easier to shift I thought. How wrong could I be? It is sheer torture. I sent for Rosemary Conley at home. When my parcel arrived I became quite excited. I assure you those initial feelings have well and truly gone down the drain with the mincemeat’s excess fat. Her magic measure has been agitatedly thrown to the back of a drawer and her measuring cups are scowled upon every morning. The one thing that is still lovingly stroked is the pot of Rosemary Conley firming cream. The only thing I seem to have lost is my sense of humour and on occasions my temper. I managed to break one pair of weighing scales and spend endless hours staring at my naked body in the bathroom mirror trying to see where the weight has come off. My jaw hurts from chomping on raw carrot and I am beginning to crave more than a drop of honey in my yogurt to satisfy my sweet tooth. But I persevere. After several weeks of this I try on the pair of trousers that have been so resistant the past few months. I hold my breath and pull them on. I grasp the button hole and pull them across. Guess what? They still don’t blooming fit! How can this be? After weeks of starvation and glugging down litres of water, not to mention humongous amounts of peeing, how can no weight have been lost? Is this some kind of cruel joke? But hold on…
‘You’ve lost weight, I can see it,’ says Andrew.
Well, that is good enough for me.
Ooh, must run, I have ‘Hello’ on the phone. My secret, you ask. I don’t really have one. I don’t need to watch my weight. Why? Because Andrew does it for me.
Sex
Treading on a penis
On Saturday I strolled into the Ann Summers shop in Oxford. Yes, I really did. I remember bumping into a bespectacled woman while browsing the vibrator section.
Don’t worry I am not going to go into a detailed description of the assortment of vibrators on sale. But the difference of ages in the women who were there was interesting. The youngest must have been 18 and the oldest (not me) had to have been the bespectacled woman, all of sixty, if not more. Of course, it is not the first time I have been into Ann Summers and thinking about it on the way home it reminded me of my first innocent Ann Summers party and the disastrous second one.
My first Ann Summers party was many years ago when the whole Ann Summers thing was something you whispered and giggled about. I went along with some trepidation. I had never even seen a vibrator and was quite nervous at the thought of ever even doing so. But, amazingly enough not even a glimmer of a vibrator was in sight. The whole party was about sexy lingerie. I came home feeling quite proud of the fact that I had attended an Ann Summers party and come home unscathed. When any of the women I worked with mentioned Ann Summers in hushed tones, I would say proudly, ‘Oh, I’ve been to an Ann Summers party and quite enjoyed it.’ So, when a few years later I was invited to another one and my friend’s-very innocent- eighteen-year-old daughter asked if she could come too, I said yes. After all, there would only be sexy lingerie there, I thought. Never presume in life, trust me on this one. We entered and the first things to greet us were little wound up penises running around the lounge floor. Somehow, my instinct told me this was not going to be anywhere near as similar as my previous experience. I looked to my friend who was very cleverly pretending not to notice the little penises, while I made concerted efforts not to step on them. The thought of a mangled penis, even made of plastic can make one squirm slightly. Glasses of wine were offered and boy did I need one having just spotted the various assortments of sex toys on the table. My sole aim now was to try and
prevent any discomfort for my companion. I quickly realized this party had very little interest in lingerie unless you included pink fluffy handcuffs in that category. After being advised by my straight-laced friend that perhaps I should not be drinking considering I was driving us both home later, I shelved the wine. I waited with bated breath for what was to come next when the hostess asked us for quiet. After a brief introduction, she went on to tell us that we would now play ‘pass the parcel’ in an attempt to get to know each other and some of the Ann Summers goods. My heart sank. I smiled at my friend who shifted in her seat.
‘Ready girls?’
I wanted to scream no, and frantically tried to think of excuses to leave quickly. I could suddenly develop severe diarrhoea but the music started to blare and so began the passing of the parcel. Oh, horror of horrors. The first unwrapping produced the largest vibrator I had ever seen in fact I am sure my eyes watered at the sight. In case we needed a closer look it was passed around as the game continued. The music stopped and the parcel landed in my companions lap. I held my breath. In an instant she had thrown it into mine. Everyone began clapping for me to open it. Ah, at last some nice lingerie, a lovely black frilly bra. I read the forfeit. Oh, great. I had to stand up, clutch my breasts (such as they were) and sing ‘I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts’.
Strangely enough I was more embarrassed about singing out of tune than anything else. My friend looked relieved. Finally the game over, we had more fun with the walking penises and more vibrators were passed around until I became punch drunk on vibrators. Of course by this time a fair bit of wine had been consumed and some of the women began sharing their sex secrets. I discreetly moved the eighteen year old to a safer area. Others were crying into their wine and vibrators about how their husband’s didn’t care about their needs, while I tried to work out how to buy something without my friend knowing what it was. Then we had the fashion show where the lingerie came into its own. We were all encouraged to try on something and share. Sharing is bonding it seems. I sensed my friend was not keen to bond. I squeezed myself into a maid’s outfit much to her look of disgust. I was beginning to enjoy myself now even without the wine. But from her face I could see it was time to go. I raced through the book with her eyes on me and finally after handing in my order, I made some excuse and we left. We were silent in the car until we reached her house and as she climbed out I hesitantly asked.
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘I just think it best if mum does not know.’ was her reply.
Driving home I remember thinking prim little madam! Finally I got home and my husband said,
‘Had a good time?’
‘Yes I trod on a penis, it was great fun.’
Now, thank goodness I don’t have to attend Ann Summers parties I can just stroll into the shop in Oxford and not have to worry about playing pass the parcel or being given disapproving looks. Wonderful
Life as a cleaner
Haven’t we all done jobs we hated just to pay the bills. Have you not had days when the bank balance was so low that debating whether to sell your body became less of a debate and more a matter of ‘is it up to it?’ Mine I am ashamed to say never was up to it and a life on the streets is something I will never be able to blog about but I can blog the next best thing. I became a cleaner. Oh yes, a cleaner and proud of it and not just any cleaner either. This job had great perks. I could work alone, get paid cash in hand and do more than one job in a day. As time went on I built up my clientele. This was all by word of mouth I am proud to say. Many had their kinky little cleaning obsessions. One did not care if the whole house was filthy as long as the shower door shone. Another was obsessive about cobwebs but her loos were far from whiter than white. I won’t even go into what colour they were but my time spent on the shower door meant there was little time for much else. I don’t mean just cleaning shower door. I had to wash, clean and then polish shower door and with special shower polish.
My week began with my first visit to an elderly lady whom I cleaned for every day. At least the idea was that I would clean every day but most of my time was spent putting her to bed with a calming cup of camomile tea after a heated row with her husband and attempt to prevent her having a heart attach of which she was prone. They were then both in their seventies. Or I would help her choose an outfit for a dinner she was attending that evening. Very little housework happened there. I would leave her and move onto the dreaded yuppie couple. This one had been working out fine. I would let myself in, clean and leave, until one day the husband came home early and my two hours were spent trying to squeeze by him or fight him off in the bedrooms using his children’s soft toys as weapons and pray his wife would not walk in and blame it all one me. I eventually had to give that one up or sleep with the boss (very unappealing). Tuesdays I would clean a weekend home, which was barely ever lived in, and full of spiders and webs and lots of other horrid creepy things. I was always paid weeks in advance and usually removed the cobwebs and spiders as that took most of my time. I hated that job as I hate spiders but take the money and run is my motto and even faster than the spiders if you can. During this time I discovered ironing at home as another way to make some extra money. Again I built up my regulars, some more weird than the next. One would bring all his washing, including underpants and socks. He was very particular about how his underpants were ironed and folded. This I always found very odd as they were faded and had holes in the Y fronts where holes shouldn’t be. He would collect a few days later and stand on my doorstep with a bowl of coins. I felt guilty taking his money but after twenty minutes we managed to get the amount needed although I could barely climb the stairs so weighed down was I with his coins. Often he brought his clothes so damp they stank to high heaven. Then there was my favourite. Well, he would be wouldn’t he seeing as he paid me a fortune by the hour? The first time I went I was a little nervous. He had already advised me he was a naturalist but I figured that meant he walked around naked when alone or with like-minded people of which, I hasten to add I was not. My husband (dum) thought it would be fine as his idea of a naturalist was someone who was into nature, green peace, plants and so on. I did not enlighten him. I would not make anyone suffer my naked body against their will. My first visit was great. He kept on a dressing gown and we chatted as I cleaned. I can do this I thought. The next visit the dressing gown disappeared. Now, I cannot tell you how hard it is not to look at something when you are determined not to. As much as I tried to focus on Henry the Hoover my eyes did wander to my clients John Thomas. I did try, I really did. But I had to look. Oh, dear, I remember thinking he has a lot of tattoo’s. Four visits later and I am cleaning around a naked man like it is the most normal thing in the world, oh god am I really revealing this? I even sat with him to sort out his ebay account, and yes he was naked and no nothing ever happened. I went once a fortnight on a Saturday and sometimes did his ironing. Then I progressed to working for an agency for a short time and this was a real eye opener. Now I did not work alone but had a partner. These were not homes; basically they were shit holes with toilets that stank. The cleaning rules here were, basically, hold your nose, stand back and spray bleach. Toilet done. Lounge was basically throw out the bottles, straighten the furniture and spray with fresh air fragrance and get out as fast as possible. A bit like robbing a bank really, in, do the job and out. The money was good so it was hard to say no. The Kitchen, no I wont even go there, you really will prefer me not to go there.
Eventually I had so many jobs I was racing from one to the other and had so many keys I looked like a jailer. But it was good fun. I played music I liked, worked for myself and had no one bossing me about. But eventually one comes down to earth and husband says having a cleaner for a wife is not cool. I get that. I had my fun!
LYNDA RENHAM 
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