No! I Don’t Need Reading Glasses! (16 page)

Even the sweet peas are out, and the delphiniums. No sign of the wretched Calibans, however. Grrr.

On top of that, it's absolutely boiling and I have finally discarded my vest. Bit late, I know, but I'm pretty funny on the cold front.

Sylvie had asked if I'd go down this weekend to see Archie because she wanted a break, but I've got such mixed feelings. One bit of me is longing to see him, of course, but there is also a fear that he might suddenly get angry about something for no reason. Poor lamb, not his fault, but that thought doesn't make a lot of difference when the person you're with thinks you're a dangerous intruder and attacks you with a poker. Decided to take my knitting so at least I'll be armed with a sharp needle in case of emergency.

It's going rather well, actually, the knitting. I have done half the back – elephants included – but don't get much time, what with all this council stuff and the painting.

The other reason I rather dreaded going down to see Archie was because I felt it was so treacherous, knowing that Sylvie is looking for a home for him to go into behind his back – but it turned out Sylvie had already broached the subject.

We had a very nice supper – I'd brought down the uneaten game stew in a box and we heated it up in the Aga – and I managed to steer the conversation away from the subject of the brooch which he becomes obsessed by whenever I appear, and we were sitting having our coffee in front of the fire in the library, Hardy panting at our feet, when he said, perfectly lucidly, ‘The doctor thinks I've got some kind
of dementia. Rather ghastly, isn't it? I'll probably have to live somewhere else. They say I can't cope.'

Now written like that it might appear he was completely normal. But what was so odd was that he didn't appear to be upset by it at all. It was if an automaton was talking. He seemed to be in a kind of daze.

‘Well, I think it's for the best,' I said, staring intently at my knitting, and trying to make out it was a perfectly ordinary sort of conversation to be pursuing after supper. ‘Because you have been behaving rather strangely, recently.'

‘Have I?' he said, smiling vacantly. ‘Oh dear. I'm sorry.'

There was a silence. Then: ‘Poor Mrs Evans. She's in prison, you know.'

‘Really?' I said. I'd talked to her only hours before, arranging when she was going to take over from me the following day.

‘Yes. She's in prison for stealing that brooch.'

‘Oh, dear,' I said. ‘Well I expect she'll be out soon.'

‘I hope so,' he said. ‘She's coming to make my breakfast tomorrow. I don't know how she gets out of the prison, but they must have some arrangement.'

‘I'm sure they have, darling,' I said, getting up and putting my arms round him. ‘Oh, dear Archie, I do love you, you know.' I felt as if I were saying goodbye to him.

‘And I love you, Philippa,' he said.

He looks the same as he always did – handsome, wonderful blue eyes still crinkling when he smiles; he smells the same – a sort of mixture of outdoorsy weather, earth,
old tweeds and woodsmoke; and he feels the same … strong, reliable, gorgeous.

But he
isn't
the same. Oh dear. Oh dear.

My facelift operation is due all too soon, and I'm getting terribly cold feet about it. It's as if there are two parts of me at war – one part's saying, ‘Don't have it. It'll hurt. You may well die under the anaesthetic. And if you don't die you may look permanently changed and wish you had your old face back. Or perhaps he'll make a mistake and instead of giving you a facelift, chop a great big chunk off your nose.'

The other part says: ‘Relax! Do something for yourself for once! You'll
look
better, and as a result you'll
feel
better. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You haven't bought anything new for about ten years, while everyone else has been splashing out on clothes, shoes, etc. With the money you've saved, surely it's only fair to do something that will have such a beneficial effect on you?'

These two sides rage against each other till sometimes I feel quite dizzy. I so wish Jack and Chrissie were around because I know they'd have some good advice, but I don't want to confide in them when they're in the States because they're too far away and they've got too much on their plate. I know what Jack would say, anyway. He'd say ‘Wait till you get over here and we'll talk about it,' when I really want to get it all over with as soon as possible.

I was in the kitchen making a shopping list when Michelle wandered in looking rather gloomy. At first I thought it was the prospect of having to gulp down another of those Yakults, but she sat down and sighed heavily. She looked as if she hadn't slept.

‘What's the matter?' I said, putting my arm round her shoulder and kissing the top of her head.

‘I seenk Maciej 'e does not love me. I reeng and 'e nevair reply. I send 'im text – nosseenk. Maybe 'e die. Maybe 'e find annuzair woman …'

‘Oh, I'm sure it's fine,' I said cheerfully, not believing it was fine at all. ‘He's probably just busy. You know – men! I was always worrying when I was your age but …' Just as I was running out of platitudes she added, ‘And
respirateur
is 'ow you say,
ca ne marche pas
…'

I was starting to wonder whether she actually
was
taking English lessons on the days she was meant to, she's still so French, when she started making sucking noises. Did she have asthma, I wondered? Finally, I gathered what she was talking about. The vacuum cleaner was bust.

‘I'll get a new one,' I said. ‘It's gone wrong every three months ever since I bought it and I just can't face getting it repaired again.'

I left her staring into her Yakult, and I felt dreadfully sorry for her. How incredibly lucky I am not to have to go
through any of that ‘Will he ring me? Has he got another girlfriend?' rubbish ever again! Sheer torture!

Daily Rant
's headline today: ‘TEACHERS UNDER ATTACK!
Twenty-five Assaults by Under-fives Every Day! “We're breeding a generation of thugs!” says Minister.'

Spent the entire evening panicking over the operation tomorrow. I have packed my little bag – nightie, spare pair of glasses, slippers, prettiest dressing gown, a whole pile of painkillers that I am NOT going to declare to the nurses. With my Nurofen Plus in my case I feel like someone trying to smuggle icons through the customs in Russia. I always remember going to the former USSR with David ages ago and we were taking some Polyfilla for a friend who lived in Moscow because he needed it to fill up the mouse holes in his flat. The customs officer immediately pounced on it thinking it was cocaine and refused to let us take it through. I've always liked the idea of him snorting it up his nose and being unable to breathe as it solidified permanently in his sinuses.

I decided on a P.G. Wodehouse because I don't think any other author will do when you're in hospital. But then I thought it mightn't be a very good idea to take a funny
book because what would happen if I were to laugh so much that I burst my stitches? And anyway, would I ever be able to laugh again? It seemed unlikely. I rang Penny in a panic and she was no use. She just hooted with laughter.

‘Can't wait to see you afterwards!' she snorted. ‘You'll look like someone who's been five rounds with Muhammad Ali. When I come over, I'll bring a notepad and pencil, just in case you can't move your mouth.' And she went into more peals of laughter. ‘God, you're brave! I wouldn't have it done for a million pounds. Good luck!'

Not very reassuring.

Last-minute Skype with the family, because I won't be appearing on camera for a few weeks. I'll have to pretend it's temporarily broken. Or smother it with Vaseline so that they can only see a kind of smear instead of a face.

All seem tip-top though Gene has developed a maddening habit of raising his voice at the end of every sentence. So he says: ‘School's okay now, Granny?' And ‘Mom and Dad are giving me a goldfish for my birthday?'

‘Mom.' Oh dear. Well, at least Jack isn't yet ‘Pop'.

Crack of dawn. Oh Lord. Why am I doing this? I'm waiting for the minicab to take me to the hospital. What if I go to the States and Gene doesn't recognise me? What if the whole family gathers to greet me at the airport and completely ignores me as I pass? Last night I was up till three worrying
myself sick. Actually worrying at three in the morning is nothing new. These days I spend half my day dozing and half my night worrying. Dozing comes particularly after I've eaten something. I can barely swallow a poppadum and have a glass of orange juice in the day without needing a lie-down afterwards. I think it's because when you're older all your blood has to rush to your tummy to digest whatever you've eaten, and can't cope with keeping you awake at the same time. And then, in the middle of the night, you wake up – at least I do – at about 3.15 a.m. – a totally God-awful hour – as if some dreadful Worrying Monster has tapped you on the shoulder and as you open your eyes staring wildly into the dark, it shouts, like a guard yelling at a prisoner: ‘Okay, Marie! It's worrying time!' and then you spend the next hour panicking about the most ridiculous things.

In the end I got up and went downstairs and had a large glass of wine and washed it down with a pill (or is it the other way round), which was a very bad idea because this morning I woke up with a raging thirst which was no good because I'd been told I couldn't have anything to drink at all the morning before the op.

Fell asleep over
Anna K
. Think I'll chuck it. Still haven't got into it, and I'm halfway through. And all the mowing with the men nonsense. What a ghastly man Tolstoy was.

Now I'm in the hospital. I brought my laptop in case I found I had nothing to occupy my mind. Har har. I'm lying on my bed, gasping like one of those cartoon characters you see crawling across the desert hoping for water. It's a horrible little room, like a prison cell, boiling hot, painted magnolia, with a lockable bedside table, windows you can't open, a view over a car park, and a single stool for visitors. Screwed into the wall is a television set on a long stalk. Opposite is what I thought was a cupboard but turns out to be a tiny shower and a loo. Talk about spartan.

And for some reason I've been forced into a hospital nightdress, a humiliating blue affair which does up at the back, so that if you walk down a corridor without your dressing gown on, everyone can see your bottom.

I'm afraid I behaved rather badly just now. I got extremely anxious and then Mr P. came in, still wearing his bow tie under his green overalls, and started drawing blue lines on my face. It was as if he were a portrait painter, but instead of using a canvas to paint on, he was painting my portrait
actually on my face
. As he was about to leave – to go and do more drawing on other ladies' faces I suppose – I suddenly found myself getting furious, saying I wanted to go home and have a drink of water. Just like some tantrummy child at school! I must have seemed absolutely barmy! I suppose I was terrified. Still am really. He looked at me with alarm
as he saw his blue lines smearing all over the place, rushed off and came back with the anaesthetist. I was getting out of bed to start packing my bag.

‘Now, now, now, Mrs Sharp,' he said kindly, putting his arm gently round my shoulders and guiding me back to bed. ‘Just let's talk about this.' I started to rant and sob again. ‘I think you're just very frightened, and lots of people feel like this before an operation, but why don't you have a glass of water' (now he tells me) ‘and let me give you a little injection, and then if you still feel upset, we'll get you a cab to take you home.'

God knows what he put in the injection, but I'm now lying here feeling incredibly sleepy and so relaxed and happy I think I'd like a facelift every day of the year. Wonder if this is what it feels like to be on heroin.

Crikey! I'm just waiting for James to come round and take me home. There's a limit to the number of old reruns of
Antiques Roadshow
a woman can watch without screaming, and my face doesn't contort very comfortably into screaming mode at the moment. I know it sounds cowardly, but I just can't bear to look in the mirror. Like the woman in the waiting room, I've got strange tubes hanging down from the side of my face attached to tiny little bucket things which are filled with blood.

Mr P. came in this morning and said I was doing fine,
but would have to sleep sitting up for the next couple of weeks. Thanks a lot! They never tell you these really important things before they put you under the knife, do they? And he also added that I might find my cheeks rather numb for a few months but that feeling wouldn't last, the feeling of not feeling, that is … another surprising fact that they'd kept from me. But, he added, ‘I took an incredible amount of flesh from the tops of your eyes … I'm really pleased with the job I've done. I think you'll be very pleased, too.'

‘It won't show too much, will it?' I said. Unbelievable. You pay thousands of pounds for a facelift and go through agony, and then you plead with the surgeon to reassure you that no one will notice.

‘No, no one will know,' he said. ‘They'll just think you've had a good holiday.'

Now I come to think of it, it would have been a damn sight cheaper and more relaxing to have had a good holiday instead.

I still feel pretty woozy. James brought me back after one night in hospital – it seemed pointless to spend two nights because it was just another sackful of money down the drain – and he didn't say very much, just looked at me worriedly and asked if I needed anything. We had a cup of tea but then he left and, overcoming my fear and trepidation, I looked in the mirror. Actually I looked dreadful – as if I'd
been beaten up by a gorilla. I'm just covered with bruises. I look rather like a Francis Bacon painting – all purple and red with smears of yellow. True, there are some familiar eyes staring back at me under the swollen lumps of aubergine that appear to have replaced my eyelids, and my teeth appear unchanged, but otherwise even
I
wouldn't recognise myself in the street if I bumped into myself. I'd probably run screaming to the nearest police station.