I have just been seen naked by the postman. It is entirely possible, that the postman has seen me naked before, as well as the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker.
Every scandal that broke in the home counties concerning my running massage parlours or a brothels, the tabloids would want to interview me, and always naked. Not sure why, but keen to get my story told I would disrobe and have my photos taken whilst they ignored my story and printed one they’d made earlier along with pictures of my chest.
There are right and wrong ways for a lady of a certain age and some notoriety to be viewed nude through frosted glass and I’m cringing with shame. I have inadvertently broken these rules. Lumps of strawberry jam stuck to a tummy, not sucked in, perpendicular hair and a Nokia between the teeth.
Those of you who know me will know I am not an avid follower of fashion, and have my own slightly quirky ideas of how to put together an outfit. Pulling together the best qualities of fabrics used mainly by strippers and the accessories of maiden aunts. None of this explains, or can justify jam, phones and leisure footwear.
30 seconds earlier I had also been wearing pyjama’s and was venturing forth in search of caffeine. I will understand if the reader connects the words, postman, caffeine and pyjamas with early mornings, and a gentle dawn mist rising off the grass. The Royal mail however is not what it was, 10.30 considered prompt, and I am embracing my new career as a writer and starting each day slowly around lunch with 20 Woodbines, espresso and a whisky chaser.
In my quest for a balanced diet, I was balancing 2 pieces of jammy toast on my coffee cup so I could carry them back upstairs one handed whilst sending a text message with the other. Additional crockery would have made this impossible as I was relying on the wholegrain in the Hovis to create a non-slip surface against the rim of the cup. 2 years living in France. I have no fear of drinking coffee around floating bread.
A momentary lack of concentration saw the cup in my hand tilt towards me, and the two sticky slices slide at a frightening speed.
It’s a basic human reaction to try to catch falling toast, but with my hands full, my instant reaction was to thrust my hips and tummy forward and hopefully adhere the sticky conserve to my fluffy PJ’s.
It worked a treat. I am now standing in the kitchen, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, toast stuck to my badly buttoned nightwear and consequently my stomach.
With two small, hopeful but now disappointed dogs looking on I put down the coffee and phone, peeled off the toast, then the pyjamas., Stepping out of them and kicking them to the front of the washing machine. I would need more caffeine before I was ready to tackle the domestic servitude of laundry.
Fairly carefully I removed the more obvious lumps of rayon mix from my breakfast / lunch and congratulated myself on my keepy uppy skills. Having learnt my lesson, I put my phone in my mouth so I could carry coffee and toast in the traditional manner.
Naked, sticky, a mobile between the teeth, hands full, I turn to ascend the stairs. Postie, a foot away, pushes his offerings through the letter box in the glass door.
He stands transfixed. I squeak, remember who I am, straighten my spine, push my chest out and kink a hip to one side, but the damage had been done.
I saw him look me up and down, recognition growing on his face. I tried to smile apologetically past the phone clenched between my lips. But I have been around men long enough to know how they think, how you can turn them off forever with one sad in-discression.
We looked deep onto each other’s eyes through the wobbly pane, and I knew there and then that I had lost a fan. However successful my books or however entertaining I was on telly, this man knew the truth. The Madam Becky fantasy had been murdered for him pitifully by the reality. Even red-blooded postal workers would never ever be able to forgive the fact that in 2010 I, a minor local celebrity, was still using a Nokia 1011.