Thank heavens spring is arriving. Because as well as all the usual improvements – daffodils and crocuses popping up, frogs carrying on in the pond, and the return of the dandelions (our tortoise’s favourite snack) – it means the end of one little winter hazard: the dripping nose. And the older we get, the worse it seems to be. I notice, particularly on chilly dog-walkies, that some of my chums have it. What am I to do? Tell them? Not tell? Does it matter? Do I have it? Would they tell me if I did?
I told one last week, and she whipped out her tissue and remedied it. I shan’t say who, in case they’re not pleased by the publicity, but this seems to be the age when these small bodily malfunctions proliferate and show up, and we need get a grip on them, with a little help from our friends. Well I do.
Probably because of the cold, I have been creeping about like a tortoise, with my shoulders round my ears, wondering why I have a stiff neck and headaches. Luckily, a chum pointed it out, and now I stand up straight as a ramrod, headache-free. And looking in the mirror yesterday, I noticed a large whisker on my chin, suddenly illuminated by a shaft of spring sunlight. Erk. Why had no one told me? Usually the daughter watches me like a hawk for such things, but she’s been away, so it flourished. You have to be a daughter or a very close friend to dare comment. I’ve spotted acquaintances with whiskers in the past, and I didn’t dare tell. Did they know? Did they care? Would they have been grateful to be told? Or given me a smack?
Fortunately, Rosemary dares tell. She pointed out a whisker yesterday and has often boldly criticised my hair. “You have a bald spot,” she says. Or, “Why haven’t you brushed the back?” Because I couldn’t see it. But now I know, thanks to her. So if you see me walking by with a stoop, tangle, whisker or drip, please do tell. That’s what I want. I think.
