Vanity is the curse of the moneyed age-ed. Take yours truly.
I have been working with Errol Denton, and of course my acupuncturist, on getting my blood sugar down. I went to see him on March 31st, on April Fools day I embarked on a far from foolish regime.
‘How do you do it?’ people ask with a kind of sneer and intrigued look on their faces.
‘How do you live without booze?’
‘Easy’ I say. booze was something I did when I was young and profligate, or when Olly Smith or Joe Wadsack passed it under my nose on GFL. When you get to 60 a nice cup of camomile tea is about as exciting as it gets.
‘How do you live without meat, fish, eggs, yogurt, butter, bread, potatoes.’
‘Well when you put it like that it does seem a little severe’ I laugh. ‘But when Errol shows you blood cells that contain yeast, candida, cancer, blood all stuck together and ill then cutting out meat full of antibiotics doesn’t seem quite so hard.’
I’m drinking a lot, I’m walking a lot, I’m eating so many greens my colon is turning a very nice shade of sage, and I’m having a series of colonics.
Oh! Be quiet, even Oprah Winfrey did a programme on the state of the standard American colon and let me tell you, just like their health policy, its SADly lacking.
I’m not being evangelical but getting rid of the crap, quite literally, has actually changed my life. I started it in 2007 in San Diego back at the Optimum Health Institute, so its a final continuum of taking responsibility for my own health.
This is where my dreadful vanity comes in. On Saturday I went shopping up the Junction, decided that I needed trousers that weren’t funereal black or country-club-white. Walked up and down Northcott Road, went into TKMax, and ended up in Debenhams looking at Henry Holland’s designs. I took four pairs of trousers, reduced I may add, into the changing room. Stepped into them and to my total surprise I had dropped two dress sizes. My need to clean my Blood has had a wonderful side effect of shifting stubborn pounds, well stones actually. My intention was not to diet. I left the store with four pairs of trousers that I hope arn’t Tagine cooked mutton dressed as mint-dressed lamb.
Yesterday I went to a new hairdresser recommended to me by the delicious actress Kate Hardie.
I decided to dress up for the occasion. I wore a pair of purple and black Henry Holland pants, a little black t-shirt, an old GFL jacket which never did up, a scarf bought from a Chinese shop on Shaftsbury Avenue, with the same print as the trousers, all topped off, or should I say all toed off, by a lovely pair of purple, suede boots.
They have heels, they were remarked on by two women as I walked to the bus stop, they were remarked on by some of the young totty at work. They worked.
I walked two inches taller than normal.
After the show off I went to PIERPOINT in Archer Street, off Windmill Street. Daniel P, is a fine, young man, been at it for years,has chopped the locks of some of our most famous rock and rollers, works with Frank,Stanley and iris, yeah I know, and is as easy to take as an avocado smoothie.
We talked about my ancient neck, my birth all those years ago, my desires. We talked about drinking four litres of green gloop everyday, we talked about my hair, my body, my intentions and then he set about snipping, and shaping, talking and trimming. By 7.00 I had half a head of hair, new shampoo and another appointment on June 22nd.
Jim hung around to see me, kissed me, said he liked it then set off for the cottage.
I spent half the evening trying to take pics of myself on photo booth. Finally managed it at midnight, sent off photos to Bee, Sybil, Dan and put one on Facebook.
Bee said I look like I had a withered eye, everyone else who has seen the pic didn’t comment on the withered eye-ball.
Apparently it makes me look younger and if I want to be glamorous again I can get a hairpiece.
So my new image over excited me. I went to bed with a new book and space since the old git is in East Sussex.
This morning I leapt out of bed. LIAR. This morning I tried to leap out of bed and those flaming purple boots, so much loved 8 paragraphs ago, have completely put my back out. Not only can I not walk tall, I can hardly walk at all. As I write I have a back belt on and a tiny little orange hoodie, the rest of me awaits an outfit that is suitable for a short haired lover near Latchmere pool.
It’ll be flat trainers, dungarees and a huge dollop of humility.
You have a good day and all being well I will be sitting here, minus back belt, this evening…..