Making Up for Lost Time
I wish this was a deep and meaningful blog about regret and missed opportunity. There is plenty of that, believe me, but I’m not one to blab on in a serious manner. You surely know this by now.
No – this week’s Monday Morning Moment of Murderous Intent was caused by a man who had the audacity to TUT at me for putting on my make-up whilst sitting on the train to work this morning.
Let me first explain. When I say make-up, I mean licking a finger to smooth any potential “Dennis Healy” eyebrow movements, spitting on a by-now defunct mascara to coax one more day’s worth of juice to smear on my eyelashes, and possibly some lippy if its not already been stolen from my make-up bag by the cleptomaniacal girl-child. It is not extensive in any way. I can complete said maquillage in under five minutes. Natural beauty is a blessing (OK, I’m kidding but Paris Hilton says if you think you are pretty then you get prettier. She got a book contract with that which is more than I can say for me, so I’m totally going with it.)
So I got out my teensy tiny little make-up bag on a fairly crowded train this morning and had not even commenced the strange open-mouth gape that inexplicably accompanies putting on mascara before Mr-Tutty-Visible-Nose-Hair peered over the top of his newspaper wall and let rip with his teeth-curling show of disapproval. This from a man wearing paisley and not in an ironic fashion, either.
I saw red. Literally. The tut volume itself had caused me to poke myself in the eye. I perfected the one eyebrow raised lip curl and said sweetly: “Is there a problem?” to said Neanderthal.
“Yes. Why can’t you women do that sort of thing at home.” He harrumphed before un-crossing and re-crossing his legs to reveal my pet hate – comedy socks. They were possibly what sent me over the edge. My Inner Cow raised its head, cleared its throat and began to moo as if it had chronic mastitis in every teat of its udder.
“Well, let me explain.” I began. “Before boarding this 7.15 train today, I drove 20 minutes to the station..”
“Yes, but…” He tried to interject, all blustery bravado and macho indignance. I raised a firm hand to silence him.
“Before that I rose at some ungodly hour to bathe, wash my hair etc. I also unloaded the dishwasher from last night, unloaded the tumble dryer, re-loaded it with more washing, laid out two sets of uniform for my kids, packed one PE kit, fed the fish, made tea for my husband, breakfast for my son, sorted out dinner money, debated the merits of hair up versus hair down on a windy day, picked off chewing gum from the sleeve of my son’s new £45 school blazer and killed three spiders.” I paused for breath.
“But…” He whimpered, pathetically now.
“So forgive me if I didn’t get around to putting some make-up on so as not to offend the general populace while I ran around like a blue-arsed fly.”
“Now hang on….” He pleaded, beginning to unpleasantly sweat up now just to add to his manifold attractions.
“I’m getting off the train now.” I rose with my bag in hand. “But may I suggest that 5 minutes with a hygienic trimmer before YOU leave tomorrow morning wouldn’t go amiss. Caveman!”
And I flounced in absolute hip-sashaying perfection off the train and thankfully didn’t trip over an errant briefcase or wedge my heel in the doorway. Yessss! I wanted to punch the air. Not only did I display balls of steel in the face of extreme provocation, but I didn’t stutter, cry or dry-up mid-speech delivery. I think I may become a motivational speaker if the whole writing thing doesn’t work out.
The euphoria won’t last, I know. The trials of the working day will crush it in its usual fashion, but by God, for that brief moment I was Queen of the World.
And the moral of the story? Don’t mess with me before I’ve got my make-up on.