You just wouldn't believe it...

There is no arguing that my time with PantyHead has resulted in bouts of frenzied comfort eating (cue 4 Kit Kats in one sitting) and uncontrollable expulsions of expletives under my breath (to the point where I wondered if I might have undiagnosed Tourette’s Syndrome). Generally I don’t feel that we are kindred spirits or even of the same planet, but last night I felt terribly sad for her:

We were getting ready for bed (my favourite time of day – sing “ding-dong the witch is in bed”) and the old harridan had removed her panty headwear and was administering a comb-over to what remains of her wispy hair. While staring wistfully into her dressing table mirror she remarked,

“You wouldn’t believe looking at me now that I used to go to all those dances. I had such beautiful clothes from Harrods. You just wouldn’t believe it.”

Looking over her shoulder at this diminutive balding gorgon before me I couldn’t for the life of me picture a young follicular-rich PantyHead, but the terrible pang of her disbelief was tangible if only for that moment; until she turned from her reflection with a sigh and the confidence was broken and we were back to our master servant roles. Still I tucked her up in bed with a little more care than usual (technically I helped her sit in her armchair, remember she sleeps upright – strangely vampiric) and said what my great-grandmother always said to me, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.” PantyHead smiled dumbly back at me.

As I was backing out of the room the Husband phoned. I immediately launched into my sorry tale and we agreed that neither of us could imagine looking at our 90 year old selves in a mirror; marvelling at where the time had gone and at the people we had been.

Frankly, I find it completely petrifying the thought of staring at an old bald ogress in a mirror and realising that she’s me. So today I’m being a little kinder to PantyHead even when she complains that her steak is too tough, the ice-cream has been scooped wrong, the glasses are in the wrong cupboard, this doesn’t look like exactly 143 grams of plaice and 5 liquid ounces of white wine…

…Oh, sod it I preferred the comfort eating and compulsive utterance of obscenities.