No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (11 page)

She sat me down, took notes, and told me it was the Year of the Tiger and that the Chinese spring started the following day and it was a very auspicious time to have a facelift and that June was the wellspring of energy, vitality and rebirth. Or something.

‘I know you don't believe me,' she said, ‘but this is going to be a great year for you! Now, let's get going with those needles!'

She was quite right, I didn't believe her, but it was still nice to be told something jolly and optimistic, and by such a very charming person.

Vishna led me into a small room with a massage table. I heard the whining, groaning sound of whale music which I instantly asked her to turn off. There is nothing more unrelaxing, in my experience, than the moaning sound of whales in the background. And what are they saying to each
other, anyway? ‘Get some more plankton while you're out, dear.' ‘Watch out for harpoons!' Suddenly remembered the 1p I owe the local shop.
Must
pay it.

She switched off the whales, turned down the lights, and got going.

‘Now, this is the one to rid you of those indecisive demons!' she declared, sticking a needle into my calf. ‘And this will get your joints moving so smoothly … now, one just here …' (I winced as she put one in my lip) ‘That's the one to jump-start you, it's a very good sign that you gave a little jerk there, shows you're springing to life …'

Once she'd finished pushing pins into me – I felt like a hedgehog – she put her hands on my head and started droning, ‘Now we are into
gathering, enjoying
and
loving
… and there's a golden liquid coming all the way from your feet to your head, and back down again, in a circle, the circle of life … and down to your toes …' She moved to my feet … ‘Rooted in the ground, your feet are growing roots, to suck in the energy from Mother Earth, which resonates with all the planets …' (here she rang a bell) ‘… and the vibrations will resonate with the you, the inner you, the real Marie, inside, even inside the deep inside of you, expanding like a flower petal, opening its leaves for a rebirth, and the bursting forth of all those talents you have of … of … er … of … um … art … creation … gyrating … and pushing forth green shoots in the very camaraderie of all the spirits …' I could hardly keep a straight face. Then she started rubbing various brass bowls that made the most
frightful whining noises and before I knew where I was it was all over and she charged me sixty quid.

Admittedly, I felt pretty relaxed after it all, but thought, to be quite frank, that I could have done it all myself just by slipping into bed and lying there and staring at the ceiling.

Still, I did feel more positive about having a facelift.

James is finally coming over this afternoon to install Skype, now the Broadband is sorted. I've now discovered
exactly
what this modern wonder is. It's amazing that you can stick a mini-camera you on your computer and then you can speak to another person for free on the other side of the world, and you can see them and they can see you. All sounds rather exciting to me. Though I think I'll need a stiff drink before it's installed. Whenever anyone comes and fiddles with my computer I get so anxious I've been known to burst into tears, even when they're putting in some simple antivirus program. I'm always so scared the whole thing will blow up, or that all my computer stuff will just dissolve, leaving me with a blank screen and the words ‘Ha! Ha! V-worm strikes again' – or whatever viruses are called.

Anyway, it's sweet of James to come round to do the Skype stuff because I am hopeless with computers. But I do also realise there is something to be said for Getting a Man In, when it comes to these kinds of jobs, and Paying Him. When a friend does a practical favour for you, particularly a bloke,
you have to dance around admiringly all the time, gasping about how brilliant they are, and saying ‘Wow! Aren't you a total genius! I wish I were half as clever as you!' That's the deal. And you also have to listen to them moaning about the state of whatever it is they're looking at before they start. It's like going to a new dentist.

I remember the last time I went to a new dentist, ten years ago, and he took one look inside my mouth and shook his head. ‘Where on earth did you last get your teeth done?' he said. ‘Uzbekistan? Was he qualified?'

‘Uuuuugggh,' I explained. There was nothing else I could say. But it was very annoying. Particularly as every new dentist always says it about the work done by the previous one.

Yes, I was right about the dentist analogy. When we'd gone upstairs to my little office, negotiating our way around Gene's camp bed, which I hadn't yet folded away, I first had to listen to James tut-tutting about my computer's desktop.

‘Why have you got this here?' he said, staring at some mysterious icon in the shape of a small red cross that I'd never properly examined.

‘Oh, I don't know.' I said. ‘It just arrived.'

‘Well, I don't like it. Let's get rid of it.'

This took about ten minutes with me just standing and goggling, while James fiddled about with my keyboard like
a surgeon peering into a brain on which he was about to perform an intricate operation, and making that rather irritating noise that people make these days when they're pretending to think, which goes ‘Te te te te …'

Then, ‘That shouldn't be a short cut,' he muttered, fiddling about with more things. ‘And you know it would be much easier if you …'

‘I'm sure it would,' I said hastily. ‘But I like it the way I've got it. Please don't do too much tinkering! I'll never be able to work it again!'

Shaking his head he put in the Skype disk and started umming and aaahing and te-te-te-ing and typing and tapping and waiting while the computer hummed away thinking about things.

‘Is this Windows XP?' he said. Anyone who looks at my computer always asks that. I've got no idea what Windows XP is.

‘I've no idea,' I said, feebly.

‘Whatever it is, it's very slow,' said James. ‘How many gigabytes have you got left?'

‘I don't know, James,' I said, my heart thumping with anxiety. ‘Don't ask me questions like that. They terrify me.' Then I added, slimily, ‘I'm just not as clever as you when it comes to computers,' and he gave a gratified and superior smile.

‘You know it would make life a lot easier if you got an app for your photographs,' he added.

I said nothing, just stood there white with fear, my hands
gripping the arms of my chair like someone who's been told their pilot is about to attempt a crash-landing. I had a vague idea what he was talking about, but on hearing the very word ‘app' I find myself starting to quake with anxiety.

Finally, the whole thing was sorted and he said that when he got home he'd ring me up and we could talk on Skype.

Before he went, he kissed me and hugged me, saying: ‘Now don't forget about the portrait! I really do want you to sit for me, my darling!'

Oh God, the Residents' Meeting is only just over. What a relief. I'd managed to dragoon Father Emmanuel into coming, and Marion and Tim were there, she wearing a Laura Ashley dress that she must have bought in the sixties, and he having thoroughly let himself go, roly-poly paunch and all. They live in the past, those two, and are a very good advertisement for staying single when you're older. Then there were me and Penny, and, amazingly, Sheila the Dealer. She arrived wearing green carpet slippers, with, as per, a fag on the go.

‘You don't mind me 'avin' a fag?' she said, as she shuffled in. I'm afraid to say she smelt, a mixture of old chip-fat and general filth. ‘All this rubbish abar it. My nan lived to 103 and she smoked 60 a day all her life. And she drank like a fuckin' fish. Load of fuckin' rubbish, you ask me.'

Once the meeting got going over the kitchen table, she expanded on the idea that a hotel might be built at the end of the road.

‘'Oo in their right mind would pay to stay 'ere, anyway?' she said. ‘Full of nig-nogs and all them men wiv dishcloths on their 'eads. Filthy streets, all this noise …'

Penny and I didn't know where to put ourselves. I blushed deep red and felt my heart beating, but oddly Father Emmanuel – who comes from Antigua – didn't seem to have heard a word. He was just smiling gently to himself at the end of the table.

But when it came to having his say, it appeared he didn't really know why we were all gathered there anyway.

‘Surely a hotel is splendid news?' he said. ‘And, our good Lord knows, we all need good news! There will be no denying that in these parts!' He hitched himself up into preaching mode, wagging a finger at each and every one of us as he scanned the table with glittering eyes. ‘First and foremost,' he intoned, ‘it will raise the tone of the neighbourhood. That is my first submission. And my second submission is to say … what is a tree?
Many
will say, and they will have a point, that there are too many trees in these parts. Who amongst us can say that a tree is good? A tree, like a man, may be good or bad. Here, I say to you, there are too many trees. Who can say why the Council will not cut them down? I have been trying to get them to cut down a bad tree outside my church and they refuse. It spills leaves into my drains every autumn, I am thinking of cutting it down myself. Let
us look at these plans with the advantages in mind, not only the disadvantages.'

Sheila the Dealer soon put him right about all that. She leant over the table and stuck her face into his. ‘Why d'ya fink we're here you big … you big …' she seemed lost for words. ‘We're here because none of us, not one of us rahnd this table,
want
the fuckin' hotel and because
we
want to keep the fuckin' trees. And pardon my French, Vicar.'

I don't think anyone had ever spoken to the good Father like that before. From what I can hear floating over the garden wall from the consecrated former garage, he spends every Sunday railing at his congregation and telling them that they're all Miserable Sinners destined for Hell, and I suspect they all happily believe every word he says, and bow and scrape when he's around, so he must have been very taken aback at being shouted at. But within a few minutes he realised what the party line was and had come round to our point of view.

Marion tried to smooth things over. ‘Everyone's allowed their own perspective,' she said. She's such a sweet old hippie.

I felt like saying ‘No, they're not,' but kept my mouth shut.

‘What we need,' said Penny, ‘is a tree expert. Someone who can tell us why those trees are essential to the environment and, hopefully, that they house a rare species of bat. Anyone here know a good tree man?'

David (my ex) used to work in local planning, so as he's coming up next week I said I thought I could ask him for
advice, but, then, most surprisingly, Sheila the Dealer piped up again. ‘My nephew,' she said. ‘'E worked for Wandsworth Council in the parks department. 'E knows all abar ashes, oaks, leaves, branches, ask 'im. 'E'll come round for nuffink. 'E owes me one.' Here she gave an enormous dirty wink, and all our minds boggled at what exact favour Sheila could have done her nephew that he was so malleable.

Marion said she'd contact him, and even though I was meant to be chairing the meeting, Sheila rounded if off herself.

‘Any uvver business?' she yelled. ‘Fought not. Well, I'll be orf, then. If they fink they can build an 'otel 'ere wiv old Sheila to deal wiv they've got another fink comin'. Cheers for the cuppa, love.' And off she went, fag on the go, drizzling ash all over the carpet. At that moment I felt a wave of affection and admiration for her. Like my Polish neighbour, she's tough as old boots. A survivor.

Father Emmanuel hung about a bit and asked if I'd be coming to his church this Sunday and I said that unfortunately I was going away this weekend and every weekend until I died, as far as I could see, which meant Sundays were completely out. I have no desire to be told I'm going to Hell. And then he shuffled out, disappointed. He can screech at his congregation all he likes from his wretched pulpit, he's never going to convince me I'm going anywhere after I'm dead – not heaven, hell, or anywhere in between.

Getting the washing out of the machine this morning I discovered I'd thrown my dry-cleaning pile in with it. A Vivienne Westwood jersey I'd bought for four pounds in a charity shop was completely ruined, and a blue linen dress has come out looking like an old dishrag.

Then I remembered I hadn't paid back that 1p. Nipped out to the shop with it, but it was closed. Damn and blast.

This evening I felt really sick and everything seemed to be whirling around. I couldn't even see properly. When Penny rang I told her I was certain I was about to have a stroke. Or perhaps I'd had one and was actually making no sense at all.

She asked about my balance, and what I'd eaten, and said she'd come over right away and drive me to A and E. Despite being reluctant to go anywhere near a hospital (
thanks, Rant
) I staggered to the car, everything a grey blur, and when I got into the passenger seat, Penny got out the map to find how to get to the hospital but couldn't read it, however far she held it out. So she handed it to me.

‘I'll get my reading glasses,' I said, fumbling in my bag. But I couldn't find them. Only my ordinary ones.

‘Are you sure you're not wearing them?' said Penny, as
she started up the engine. She was right. And the moment I took them off and put on my ordinary ones, all my symptoms promptly vanished. I felt such an idiot that I had to wait till we got to the first traffic light to pluck up courage to tell her.

‘I'm afraid it's my glasses,' I said, in rather a small voice. ‘I've been wearing my reading glasses all day. That's why I feel sick. I'm not ill after all.'