Florence Red

The Pumpernickel is a crafty old devil she sneakily lulled me into a false sense of security.

It started with little compliments; “What nice teeth you have, you always look so smart, you’re quite strong for a little girl, I’m so glad you’re here as some of the others aren’t so competent.” However, these sounds of sweetness (possibly to be interpreted as sarcasm) have been followed by: a threat to bite me, attempted hair pulling, two poorly aimed slaps at my wrist and my favourite, Lady Pumpernickel trying to stomp on my toes with her walker as a I walked alongside her up the corridor. Today she was dozing in her easy chair, but as I walked passed she managed to skop me one in the shin, I turned gave her a withering look, but before I could reprimand her she apologised profusely and gave me a nice-as-pie smile.

I’m wearing my hair down today which could be the cause of the abuse. “Who does your hair?” her Ladyship enquired. I smiled up in beatific silence and continued ironing. “And more to the point,” she added, “When will they actually be doing it?”

She might have a point my hair is running a little wild as present, due to a lack of combing, the fact that last year’s red is growing out in a Lassie-ish hue, and my diagonal fringe is finally growing out of my D.I.Y kitchen scissors trim. But I have to restrain myself from venturing near the hairdresser as I’ve learnt my lesson from the last time I had my haircut following a horrific care stint. I went in with long blonde locks and walked out with fire-engine red, blunt cut fringe, shaggy bob in the style of Florence Welch (good on a rock star, a little startling on me.) I had assured my poor husband that I was only getting a trim (he gets a little worried when I get near the hairdresser, I think he fears I’ll lop all my hair off, get fat and morph into a stereotype of middle-aged marriage.) Husband met me in the street, took one look at my hair and had to stomp off up an extinct volcano for an hour before we could talk about it.

Not content with obsessing about my hair, in between pad changes, I find myself having fashion fantasies featuring yours truly modelling silk blouses, high-waisted trousers and boiled wool cardigans with those funny leatherette buttons. Is it possible I’m suffering from over exposure to the British Upper Classes? Or am I suffering some sort of post-traumatic geriatric stress?