Ladylike

It was on account of the fact that Cynthia and Harriet had snored all night, that I became a lady. At 7 a.m., without having had a wink of sleep, I walked out from my bedroom, stepped into my bikini, with the stars and stripes pattern done in orange and green, and sauntered next door to go for a swim at the hotel pool. The gardeners were making a terrible racket for that time of the morning, re-planting the fake palm trees that had been placed around the pool after that Titanic-like storm the other week had blown the originals out to sea.

I minced around in my little outfit so that they could check me out big time and then I did my laps, all graceful. In the locker room, I found Daffodil the belly-dance teacher who was decked out in some lacy tights and stockings and a bra with red satin around it. Maybe that is what I need to impress the guru, I thought. And so at 8.30 in the morning, I waited patiently for George’s Secret to open, gazing at all of the mannequins in wonder. When the store opened, a pretty lady lured me to the changing rooms, and, after measuring me, declared that I was a 34 A. As soon as she turned her back I threw the little card she had written that on in the trash can and marched out to the 36 B section. 34 A? She must be blind. I gathered some leopard print stockings and matching bras, bikinis and knee-high socks and asked if they had any giraffe prints for Cynthia, my pet giraffe. They didn’t. So I got her some goldfish-patterned boxers instead. Then I headed for lunch, just like all ladies do, with my girlfriend Barbara, and I showed off my new finds in the middle of the Chinese restaurant which went down a treat. Then it was time to go to Daffodil’s belly-dance class to learn how to be a goddess, which she taught every week. First we put these shiny things around our waist and then we began to shimmy. She named me Shimmy Charlotte, which was my new belly-dance name. We cavorted around the room for an hour singing I'm a goddess and then I went to show the guru my new clothing. He liked the gold-fish boxer shorts the best and I wondered if Cynthia would fit into the leopard print thongs instead. Giraffe’s surely have narrow bottoms? The next day, I decided I wouldn’t just be a lady but a lady of leisure. And so at 9.30 a.m., I headed to water aerobics, which was reserved for the over 80s at the club. I found Incie, Mincie and Pinkie in riot mode, singing at the top of their voices to drown out the same soundtrack that had been playing at the pool since last summer. We got through all of the Beatles songs and then they told me that the Olympic ceremony had started the night before when I had taken Jim belly-dancing to celebrate my new grown-up self. Once again, I was proven right that there was no need to read a newspaper. And then in the Jacuzzi a girl told me she was writing a book about Whacko Jackson and I told her it was a great idea as I thought maybe that way I could work as an editor now I was no longer a reporter. That night I went to watch Up In The Air, which was about George Clooney playing a man that, like me, had been grounded. It wasn’t ‘cos he was a journalist and there were budget cuts but because he fell in love. And then it was the weekend so I headed to my wake-up dance class with the over 70s. (For that one, I put on my grey wig from the fancy dress store and drew brown lines down my face to look like wrinkles.) We ended each class by dancing in a circle, looking into each other’s eyes and singing All You Need Is Love. I had Cynthia and Harriet to love so I couldn’t agree more.