Iknow that they say that you should try everything once except for country dancing and incest. I have another to add to that list . . . waxing.
The present Mrs Lowe is now in full pre-holiday refurbishment mode, hair has been done, fake tan applied, feet pedicured etc.
This is all fine by me but this year she has decided that I am in some need of cosmetic attention before I inflict my semi-naked body on the poor unsuspecting people of the Mediterranean I have long since accepted that one of the drawbacks of growing older is that you lose hair where you need it most and acquire it in the places you don’t. However, I am now reliably informed a fresh sprouting on my back is not de rigueur and will have to go.
The present Mrs Lowe persuades me that there is a fast and effective way to deal with this problem and disappears into the bathroom only to appear with some innocent looking strips. She tells me to lie face down on the bed. I begin to feel quite excited about this unexplored area of intimacy as she rubs the strips between her palms and then strokes them onto my back. This was followed by possibly the least erotic moment of my life as without warning the offending strip of torture is ripped from my back taking not just the hair but the top layer of my epidermis with it.
As I lie crying into the pillow she harshly tells me that this is only a small part of the offending area and that this whole sadistic procedure must be repeated at least six more times.
By the end I am a red, sore bleeding – yes I did say bleeding – quivering wreck but my back is now, I am told, as smooth as a baby’s bottom. While the present Mrs Lowe did murmur soothing words I couldn’t help but feel that she had thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience. She did try to reassure me that women endure this process in much more sensitive areas with the same stoic approach that they take to childbirth – not that they ever mention that of course.
She then proceeded to say that modern men can also partake in a similar improvement and began to rub another strip in her palms. At this point I moved quicker than I have for many a year, locked myself in the bathroom and refused to come out.
There are some parts of a man’s body just too delicate for such brutal treatment.
I am now adamant that even if I begin to resemble a baboon that my waxing days are over.
Anyone for country dancing? IAM reading new research that says many educated, middleaged left-wingers are in fact conservatives who just cannot admit it.
I am scoffing at such a thought when an offer to become a member of the Institute of Directors lands on my doormat. I think I’d better think it out again.
I have a nice car, nice home, happy family and enjoy a few luxuries. I have moved up – ever so slightly – in the world. But hardly into the kind of income bracket that lifts me out of the ordinary.
And my friends are still the same bunch of ne’er-do-wells that ever they were. So all-in-all I think I am more cheap Cava than champagne socialist.
There is, however, some strange glee from the centre-right in response to this research.
They just love the idea that we are really all as uncaring and selfish as them.
I can hear them saying that at least they are honest about it and not hiding behind some pretend, lefty values that we no longer hold but use as convenient cover.
I admit I don’t say: ‘Come the revolution . . . ’ much these days but hope, amid my cosy lifestyle, that a few principles survive.
