Carol Clewlow - Not Married, Not Bothered

‘No you won’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought I’d mentioned it. I fully intend to murder you.’

For the record I have made no provision for my retirement, my only plan being a note in my diary to steal a supermarket trolley and put it by, this because I expect there to be a run on them from the several million or so old sixties swingers who, when we all come finally of age, will start moving, pensionless, around the country, probably in marauding gangs, our progress charted each night just before the news using those little triangular symbols rather like the ones for rain, and sleet and snow, which will be slapped onto the weather chart then as now by one of those eternally smiling, highly irritating young women clearly enjoying flaunting her fingernails.

From all this you will deduce that my economic position can best be described as precarious, a major reason why the news that Archie had been invited to the party fell like a dead hand on my heart.

‘Oh God. Not Archie.’

Cassie raised an eyebrow in that elder sister way she has, denoting disapproval. ‘Of course. Why not?’ There was an edge of irritation in her voice. ‘Really. I don’t know. What is it with you and Archie?’

Precisely how Archie got his squillions is a mystery to me, but then high finance has never been my chosen subject. All I know is (I have chosen not to know more) he was involved in some dot com company selling pet food, or perfume, or toys or something on-line. When it went public he became a zillionaire along with everyone else including the tea lady. Not, you understand, that I am remotely jealous. Something I constantly have to make clear to my mother.

‘See … see …’ she said the day the news broke on the financial pages. (‘ See …’, such a small and insignificant word and yet so pregnant with meaning.) Just in case I should fail to appreciate every last nuance of her wrath, she thundered a pan down on the stove top.

My mother is unable to mention Archie’s name these days without adding the rider, ‘He’s worth a fortune now. You know that, don’t you?’ And of course I do know it. I know it very well and it doesn’t improve my temper, so that to save face I have to come back with a lofty little rejoinder.

‘Really, it’s of no conceivable interest to me, Mother.’ Which is totally untrue because in my heart of hearts I’m as mad as hell, in fact possibly even more pissed off than my mother. Something Danny understands perfectly.

‘I mean, the least you can expect from an ex-lover is that he’ll have the decency to remain an abject failure.’

‘It’s not like you’re asking for skid row or anything.’

‘He doesn’t have to be in the gutter.’

‘Just respectably hard up.’

‘Decently overdrawn.’

‘But not, definitely not, a fucking dot com millionaire, darling.’

Despite all the above, Fergie remained firmly unashamed of his decision to invite Archie to the party.

‘Never thought he’d accept, if you want to know the truth of it.’ He smiled amiably, clutching a pint of his beloved Butcombe to his chest. ‘I mean, these days it’s practically impossible to get him off that island of his.’

‘Of his. His? ’ My mood was getting decidedly nasty. ‘You’ll be telling me next he owns the bloody thing.’

‘No, of course not. He’s just got a villa there, that’s all.’

‘Oh, a villa. Excuse me .’

‘Well, probably it’s not really a villa.’ He was backtracking now and I knew it. ‘Probably it’s just a house. A very small house. Really no more than an apartment.’

‘Bollocks. It’s a villa. You know it’s a villa. And I bet it’s got its own pool.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Yes you would. You’ll have seen pictures of it.’

‘OK. Yes. It’s got a swimming pool.’

‘And I suppose the whole thing is surrounded by olive groves.’

‘I believe I saw olive groves, yes.’

‘And I’ll warrant it’s set on the side of a hill overlooking the bay.’

‘It’s true. You can see the sea.’

‘And, no doubt, just for good measure, it has one of the terraces where you can sit out in the evening with a glass of wine in your hand and smell the bougainvillaea.’ I positively spat the ‘b’ out at him.

‘Well …’

‘And it’ll be furnished with antiques – wooden chests and expensive rugs and brass incense lamps, the sort of stuff you see in House and Garden .’ And since I was spitting blood by now I thought I might as well end with a flourish. ‘And for sure there’ll be a fucking maid who comes in every day so you don’t have to lift a finger.’

‘Ah, now there you’re wrong.’

Fergie had found something to take issue with. A relieved smile flooded across his face. ‘There’s definitely not a fucking maid.’

His head bent to mine as his voice became distinctly gossipy and conspiratorial. ‘Matter of fact he was quite open about that last time we spoke. Said things were a bit thin in that department.’

*For the record, I’ve never set foot in a Holy Communion service, this mainly thanks to my mother who neglected to send me to confirmation classes. I do, however, have a bicycle. It’s a Rock Hopper. Twenty-four gears, chrome alloy frame. A thousand quid’s worth of off-road riding.

‘Look … you want it, you don’t want it. What?’ – Lennie, like Autolycus. A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles … Again, more (oh so much more) of Lennie later.

*An interesting point is that single men generally do not possess this supportive ‘Greek chorus’, something reflected in the grim reality of the mortality figures. According to Department of Health statistics, single men living alone after the age of forty-five, particularly those single second time round, post divorce or separation, are twice as likely to die prematurely as single women in the same situation. They’re also more likely to succumb to a whole range of ‘quality of life’ illnesses – rheumatism and diabetes that sort of thing – allegedly because their evenings are more likely to be spent playing the couch potato, washing down a takeaway curry with beer, this as opposed to the spinsta, who’s probably out with friends at the gym or an exercise class, returning home to share low-fat lasagne and a pot of yoghurt.

‘How awful…’ This from Magda with a shudder. Magda won’t do any sort of exercise that requires special equipment or clothing. She does yoga (of course), some special variety known only to herself and some swami halfway up the Himalayas.

†Some late news re cats and spinsters. According to some new research, a cat can make a woman more sexy and attractive, this thanks to a parasite that can leap from little Tigger on to humans, causing a condition called Toxoplasma gondii . This condition, which may be infecting up to half the population, is good news or bad, depending on whether you’re male or female, i.e., whereas females who catch it may well begin to suffer from the sex kitten effect, men become more scruffy and grumpy. Apparently, in the most serious cases Toxoplasma gondii has been known to lead to entire personality changes – depression, antisocial behaviour, but most interesting of all schizophrenia, the last of which, it seems to me, could have serious implications for Magda. She has, after all, four cats, so there’s every chance she has, in fact, contracted Toxoplasma gondii and is now suffering from schizophrenia. This would explain her decision to marry herself.

It may seem trite, it may seem like something straight off the self-help shelves, it may even, in its own way, appear radically revisionist in these dangerous Me-generation times. But still I believe it’s worth taking a Count Your Blessings approach to Life, focusing on the plus points rather than the minuses. In this vein, think, oh, think, oh lucky spinster, more to the point, thank your lucky stars.