DIARY
These are bewildering times for women. New Man (whom I never met) is out and Newish Man is the latest accessory. Not that I have one. Mine could not even be called Worn. He is impeccably Old, although he will occasionally surprise. For two or three evenings he will bring up logs from the cellar (he will not actually light the fire as I am 'quicker' at it). Then, for the next month, he will be riveted by some article on executive desk-tidies in the Amex magazine as I hump past him with the fire- wood. Sometimes, I am startled to find a sinkful of sticky pans gleaming to dry on the Aga. More often, I come down to the debris of a colourful midnight snack. Very occasionally, he will Deal with the Rubbish, but usually his bathroom basket is over- flowing with health miracle phials, diabetic chocolate wrappers, old bath gel and empty flagons of mineral water. And he never hears the daily dawn chorus of dogs baying for breakfast and the great outdoors. For all that, I am not convinced that the conve- nience of Newish Man about the house would outweigh the irritation. Old Man's quiet glow of satisfaction at a boring chore accomplished has me careering to the gin bottle. Better to curse quietly than be grateful eternally.
Confusion upon confusion. Mopping up after a leisurely Sunday lunch, I Switched on The Clothes Show and learnt that I was 'vertically challenged'. If you are Mt 3ins or under, so are you. I feel uneasy at being an object of politically correct sym- pathy and it's too late to sprout another couple of inches. True, I have to stand on a chair to reach the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, but I thought that was because I wasn't tall, and, as I only keep stuff like split peas, lentils, dried beans and some- thing called mung up there (all bought in hot flushes of fibre fanaticism), it has never seemed a pressing social problem. Now, the Fatties are after me, led by those coarsely bullying proselytisers Dawn French and Jo Brand, with plumptious groupie Camille Paglia in their wake. Aesthetically, I have always believed that the best place for a Spare tyre or two is in the back of the boot. The Blubbies were given their own podium ('slot' is too light a word) on The South Bank Show, where there was much 'artistic' Posing, invocations of pagan lust and Rubens, and a strident contempt for men. Even Old Man, not averse to a cuddly armful, looked a bit glum. Fattism is threat- ening to become the latest tyranny and I only hope that the rest of us, the Under Size-16 Challenged', may be left With some small vestige of self-esteem intact. The planet is big enough for all of us, Just about. HELEN OSBORNE Achum gazing out at the sodden shrubbery a couple of weeks ago pro- nounced, Dr Johnson-like, that the country is for the young, when the blood and inspi- ration are high. He argued that when the juices start to run thin, the city is the place to be: better doctors and better transport; stimuli to jolly you up and old friends to soothe. It had been a long, dark, damp win- ter and I wondered if perhaps he was right. But now that nature is popping up again all over the place, there is almost an explosion of happiness and I am convinced he is wrong. Our GP is a non-Nanny wonder. Specialists, as good as any in the land, do not have a West One address, by choice, and their fees are a comparative tonic. As for old friends, instead of a snatched lunch or supper, with luck they come for a relaxed couple of days (I admit there is a ghastly cushion in the guest bedroom embroidered: 'You are leaving on Sunday, aren't you?'). New and, I hope, firm friends have been winkled out from unlikely places. A glance down the West End The- atre Guide no longer sends me panting after an AwayDay, and cinemas have lost their charm since they became No-Go-No- Smoking areas. A friendly Bafta mole keeps us up to date with the latest videos. Books ordered come within days. I wish there were a decent Chinese restaurant, but we can all dream. A wet day in the country is passably less depressing than a wet day in town, and on a warm day London (even the smart bits) smells like our septic tank when a weekend guest has flushed something unsuitable down the loo. No, for once, Dr Johnson was wrong. Banking in a country town has never been the anonymous nightmare it can be in the city. It is much worse. 'Good morning, Mrs Davies. How is Mr Davies? And the dogs? Oh, good. How would you like the cash? Tens?' Suddenly, all eye-contact has vanished. Familiar, once friendly faces are crouched over an alarming new Barclays automaton, pushing buttons and frowning at a screen, invisible to you, as it prints out the most intimate details of your overdraft and heaven knows what else. Drawing out 50 quid has become one of the terrors of the earth. 'I can't authorise this, Mrs Davies.' But I've just paid in a cheque to cover it.' That will take three days to pro- cess. I am sorry, Mrs Davies.' It happened, exactly, to a friend on a market-day morn- ing last week and in hunting-horn tones that silenced all other 'customers'. She fled to her car, looked at her crimson face in the driving mirror and burst into tears. On the fetching cover of my husband's new book there is a discreet plug for Barclays. Faber & Faber should speedily shred it.
0 Id Man makes a monthly pilgrimage to London for luncheon in an inner sanc- tum of his club (well, he enjoys it; harmless, Boy's Own escapism). In this valley, there is a much more exclusive gang named DHSS after the fore-initials of its core members and handy for beating off unwanted intru- sions CI can't deal with that today. I have to go to the DHSS'). We comprise the elegant wife of an accountant who teaches French to Euro-hungry executives; the feminist wife of a part-time vicar (who has just writ- ten a book on the benighted subject of women priests, but her vocabulary would make the Synod blush, sisters); my immedi- ate neighbour, a farmer's widow who does B&B with 'the Best Breakfast in S. Shrops', and myself, flailing wife of self-styled ex- playwright. Not, I think, what Country Liv- ing would imagine a typical social mix in the shires. These monthly meetings are sacrosanct. Fuelled with wine and uncompetitive food, we reel out into the evening fortified against the next four weeks. What on earth do we talk about? Aha. It certainly isn't the church roof.
Ps. to long, dark, damp winter. There is a shortage of floppy-eared rabbits in West Midlands pet shops. A counsellor, consol- ing bereft children on local television, explained: 'It's been so cold, they just cud- dle up. They don't feel like doing anything else.' Now that Nature has finally pulled her socks up, I hope the bunnies will as well.
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