Dickie announced at 6.30am yesterday that he was off to see about a job and would not be back until Friday. He tried to look, earnest, exhausted and the-whole-world-is-weighing-on-my-shoulders (and oh what shoulders!) about it, but he couldn't quite keep the glint out of his eye. I flirted with the idea of being all angsty about the situation, but any neurosis was quickly replaced with one word which rang loud and clear in my mind FREEDOM. I quickly texted Charlotte, the nanny-with-wings, and she agreed to take the kids till 4pm.
Dickie had taken me to get my passport picture taken the day before. He smirked in front of me as the down to earth camera woman, one of those awful 'this is not about how you look, this is for a passport' women, preceded to place me under a neon light and shoot from below. You can imagine the result. Dickie couldn't see what all the fuss was about, but then again, he is the one off on 'a job all night'. I was horrified. I looked middle aged, knackered and kind of pasty. This would never have happened in London. But now with my new found freedom I scoured the internet and found a private photographer in Truro who promised he could rectify the situation and no one would know.
Charles. Mid fifties, wearing sandals, surrounded by lots of buddhas and bean bags, had 'worked in the industry for forty years' greeted me, snapped away and put the still middle aged, knackered pictures into a magic machine which ironed out the wrinkles, bags and so on. Bingo - I looked fantastic. I jumped into my new black gangster rural Land Rover (ooh Dickie has brought me rather a lot of presents recently) and headed for the post office. Looking all smug, smiley and clean I pushed past the farmers wives and travellers and presented my passport application with the new hot hot hot photos. I call it Cornish jealousy, but the check out girl refused to accept my photographs on the ground that I looked too 'pouty' and besides she boomed 'this is an out of date picture, you have to have one that was taken in the last five years'. The travellers giggled. The farmers wives gave a tut and a pitying glare and I was forced to hand over the miserable jaded pictures from the day before. Devastating. For the next 12 years my passport will be a document of shame. Dickie found the whole thing terribly amusing, before his phone was cut off...
Time to hit the shops. It's amazing how in a town like Truro, where there really is very little to buy that you can still spend a fortune. I updated my Wellingtons, brought the boys various books and sought out the only Lancome counter in town - hidden deep in the back of Boots. The chirpy sales girl loaded me up with lots of freebies, but the thing I really wanted - the lush new fruity collection 'guaranteed to make you feel fruity fresh' would not be in Cornwall for three months. Three Months. 'After all' she giggled in a strong Cornish accent 'we don't even have electricity down here'. She explained that it was already in the flagship store Selfridges and then spent the next ten minutes explaining to me -slowly and in great detail, what Selfridges was. I didn't interrupt her.
I headed home for the Cadcove Jubilee committee meeting, and informed the group that I wouldn't be getting involved as I was heading to the Royal Borough for the big event. Apparently this is not the case as I had agreed to organise the children's jubilee activities several weeks ago. Susan Marksfield - head of the committee -has a way of making you do things. 'And where's that hubby of yours?' she asked as I made a swift exit, pretending not to hear.
And where was he indeed? I put the boys to bed and sat down to watch TV. TV that I wanted, no sport, no Nat Geo, no history channel, when the door bell rang. Moll was standing at the door. Pushing her way in saying 'I thought I would come and keep you company as Dickie's away, he said you wouldn't mind'...
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