‘You no longer look like that.’ It’s always the bad review you hold on to, chew over. Never the raves, the compliments. My confidence has been severely knocked of late, not helped by the fact I had to take a selfie (no make-up, ‘no filters!’) for an upcoming feature about how Harvard boffins could gauge my biological age by examining my face.
I never take selfies or look in a mirror. I always sit to one side during Zoom meetings, even with my therapist, to avoid watching myself. But I was forced to glance at this new selfie in order to send it, and I was shocked. I look like a tortoise. I comfort myself with the thought my phone still just about recognises me, but still: I have teeny hammocks each side of my mouth that only disappear if I smile, which isn’t likely at this point. I have reached the stage when women tend to go one of two ways: they give up, wearing long, floral dresses and ballet flats with mad, greying hair, purchasing cushions to kneel on for weeding. Or they double down, thinking, ‘Well, Joan Collins still looks amazing!’
I haven’t quite decided which path to take. My idol is Ali MacGraw, who slots somewhere in the middle of the two extremes. She was filmed earlier this year striding out in a black trouser suit in New York, silver hair scraped up in a topknot, looking every inch her age – 86 – but also confident and fabulous. It’s the bone structure, I think, plus knowing she was once adored by Steve McQueen, which would buoy anyone. I’m certain she does yoga, as she’s so upright, but I’m afraid I must report my first yoga lesson at the country house hotel did not go well.
I was the only woman in black leggings; everyone else was in jazzy, colourful Lycra. When did that happen? There was no wall of mirrors, thank goodness, but I was hampered by being unable to hear the instructor, as I was hiding near the back. Ever since
I suffered from Ménières disease a few years ago, I’ve been too scared to lie flat (at the time I said to David 1.0, ‘I can only have sex sitting up’, which didn’t have the desired effect of putting him off), so I placed my bunched-up coat at one end of the rubber mat; unfortunately, the pockets were full of Teddy’s cocktail sausages, which made me worry the women would think the smell was emanating from me during the lunge. I ‘performed’ each movement a vital few seconds behind everyone else, meaning I felt like Lance Corporal Jones in Dad’s Army. A lot of time was wasted breathing. I felt like a deckchair, my thin limbs the wooden bits, my stomach the hammocky seat part.
I had my phone next to me, the screen showing Mini Puppy on camera. She’s so old now (17) that I fear she will collapse at any moment. Unfortunately, during our winding-down session, all three dogs started barking (I had forgotten to mute the sound), making everyone jump, and tut.
I decided to contact David 1.0 for two reasons. One, he knew me when I was in my early 20s, before I became a deck chair. And two, I’d just watched an episode of Chef’s Table on Netflix (I have no idea why, as an anorexic vegan, I love cookery shows; I’m like a nun watching porn), featuring Alain Passard and his plant-based restaurant in Paris called Arpège. The name sounded familiar. Turns out I had booked it for my ill-fated mini break with David 1.0 when we had stayed at the Plaza Athénée. Ill-fated, as he lost the gold-plated Dunhill lighter I’d given him, blaming me for making him hurry for our taxi. David had proposed in Kong (where Carrie had lunch with the Russian’s ex-wife in Sex And The City), knocking over the water on the table next door when he knelt to present me with a ring that cost less than a room-service espresso.
Despite my due diligence, my calling to confirm, Arpège gave us a table in the basement. I hate tables in basements. Anyway, I quickly unblock him and send him an email: ‘Remember, we had dinner here?’ and a link to the programme.
Ooh. He has just replied…
JONES MOANS… WHAT LIZ LOATHES THIS WEEK
- People who say, ‘Picky bits’. Even M&S has a sign saying, ‘Home of the picky bits.’
- The comments beneath the Sarah Vine memoir extracts (it’s compulsive reading, btw), saying, ‘Is she the new Liz Jones?’ No, I’m Liz Jones!
- Desperate for my window seats delivery, I was thwarted by the young woman who said, ‘I don’t work Mondays as I have to look after my daughter.’ I don’t care! That’s your problem!
