Forget Prince Charles and his plants... 9 other things that midlifers talk to
Royals are meant to feel ‘other’. That’s the point. But there are moments when they become relatable. Like Prince Charles and his plants. Because we talk to everything, too. Charles, it turns out, doesn’t merely chat to his plants, he ‘instructs’ them.
Is this where we are going wrong? Do we need to be more regal in our interactions with, say, the toaster? ‘Do you know who you’re dealing with? Because this is not good enough.’ Might it work? This is how we tend to address the stuff in our lives…
The phone harangue - ‘Hello, phone. One minute you are a multitasking whizz capable of delivering a podcast, an Instagram scroll and a PPI phone call – the next you are a SHELL, frozen, on a go-slow or on emergency calls only. Is this a cry for help? Is it your multiple personality disorder? Why can’t you just be NORMAL?’
The dishwasher negotiation - ‘What is your problem? What do you need? Do you need salt? Do you need rinse aid? Do you need one of those extortionately expensive deep-cleaning things? Are you feeling OK? Do you need us to wash the dishes first? Because at this point we will get you anything you need…’
The jean plea - ‘Oh, please zip up. Just this once. Go on, lovely denimy creature. No, no, don’t stop at the thigh, don’t be shy, you can do it. OK, we will lie down and wriggle. No, we are not sweating. Or crying. OK, we are, but they are happy tears. Happy these-jeans-may-still-do-up tears.’
The parking incantation - We beg for a space to reveal itself: ‘Come on, parking spot, materialise before us like Jesus in front of the disciples, that’s how much we want you. We will pray to gods, any of them. We will invoke our dead grandmothers or the hammer of Thor if it means finding some berth for the Mini. You drive a hard bargain, parking space, but, OK, we’ll take a 30-minute-max-stay slot.’
The television tirade - We curse you, Sky, because you’ve lost signal again and we can’t find the remote ANYWHERE. We curse you, Netflix, because you can’t remember our password and you keep forgetting what we are watching. We curse and point and curse and point and then we wonder if we’ve been cursed ourselves. ‘Why us? Why tonight? Why? Why?’
The key command - We start off all sing-song. ‘Where are you keys?’ Giggling. It would be so Midult to have put our keys in the fridge, and it’s a jolly game of hide and seek. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ Like Glinda to the Munchkins. Then we start to feel less twinkly, more Jack Nicholson in The Shining, with mad eyes and an axe. ‘WHERE ARE YOU, KEYS?’ (Fifty-seven per cent of the time at the bottom of our bag, 13 per cent in the door, 30 per cent in another coat pocket.)
The eyeliner encouragement - Quietly we cheer our eyeliner along as if it was a surgeon operating in difficult conditions, or one of those Olympic lugers in those scary ice tunnels. ‘You are doing great, take that flick gently, easy on the speed, OK nearly there, steady, steady… Oh.’
The diary diatribe - ‘Hold on. This is totally unacceptable. Who on earth authorised you to book two nights out back to back, on consecutive weeks – and agreed to go to the cinema for a 9.30pm screening, and agreed to a 5k charity run at 8am on Sunday? Plus that meeting is across town at 5pm and dear God, is that a hen weekend in Barcelona? Diary, you’ve gone MAD.’
The pillow talk - ‘Oh,’ we moan with delight at the sight of our bed. We look at our plumped pillows and sigh with satisfaction. ‘We love you, bed, we love you, we love you with all-consuming passion.’ And so we like to whisper it at every opportunity, so you know you are number one, and as we slide into your cool sheets we say, ‘thank you’. And then we lie awake all night, worrying.
I’m Absolutely Fine! A Manual for Imperfect Women, by The Midults, is out now (Cassell, £16.99); themidult.com
