The ugly truth

A grumpy old woman was in the queue before me at the bank last week. She was 70 in the shade. The bank teller turned his computer screen around to prove he wasn’t lying to her. I was his next customer. I smiled sympathetically at him. He took my cheque and looked at his screen. His eyes went a teeny bit wide. “I was about to tell you how good you looked for your age,” he jovially announced, before typing in my account details and checking again. “You still look really good for your age,” he hastily added. Cheers, mate. Thanks for mistaking me for someone born in the 1930s. I renewed my driver’s licence yesterday. It was a similarly uplifting experience. My lord, I looked bad in my photo. The RTA should re-employ the photo elves from Santa’s Magic Cave. That way you could pay them extra to take your photo again and again and again until there’s one that’s not totally depressing. This system of taking a random photo – without even warning you – then handing over the awful finished product just isn’t working for me. I looked soooooo old. I looked sooooooo ugly. I looked like I belonged in the cast of Prisoner, playing Bea on a really bad day. With rattier hair. Three years ago, I had the option of a five-year licence and didn’t take it. What was I thinking? I could have looked 40 until I was 45. Instead I chose to look 60 when I’m 43. I based my decision on some misguided idea that it was good to save 50 bucks. When I got the three-year licence I was appalled – I looked terrible. Now I look at it and see a young goddess. Except it’s got a hole punched in it and is void. Why oh why oh why didn’t I go for the long-licence option when I had the chance?

DIET TRANSGRESSIONS: Peking duck pancakes. I know, I know …

TONIGHT’S MENU: Husband has defrosted some spag bol from the freezer. I will cook again one day. Promise.