The Canteen Mystery
Cool Living
Definitely not Brahms
Throwaway Lines
My Grandfather
Trimming a Eucalypt
Rivers I have known
Friday 13th
Night Visitor
Plain Song
My new career
Daisy - a love sonnet
Wetland Survival
...yes, it's in the eye...
Fear of Forests
Cup Day Chat
Winds of Change
Hating the Wind

List of 2008 stories

My new career

That lady who gave a talk at the home had the right idea when she suggested we imagine we were applying for a job. She even gave us a list of ideas of work she thought would interest us. I am trying to make up my mind now.

One job I would definitely never do and that should be obvious. I will never be a model. Well, look at me! I am far too old and the dread 90 is sneaking up on me, but even when I was younger it was not suitable to parade myself in front of people. I am quite sure my Quaker parents would not approve at all. Of course, if I could turn the clock back a long way it could be a different story.

I have not made much progress with this homework as I have spent hours hunting through old family photographs to see how I looked when I was younger. Sometimes I was pleasantly surprised at what I saw, even though at 16 I looked more like a 12-year-old. Not at all resembling the teenage models of today.

Then there was the swagger as they strut down the runway. I am sure I could do that with a bit of practice. I took off my slippers and tried on a pair of my best shoes but they didn't give the right effect. Where are those high-heeled ones I have hung onto for the grandchildren to play with? Once I found them I progressed quite well until I landed most inelegantly on the carpet.

I rested on the floor for 10 minutes until the arthritic pain eased, before wriggling over to the sofa. I chose the one with a nice solid arms, and levered myself into a sitting position then up onto the seat. I decided I had better not worry about my new career for another day.

But I wasn't finished. Another day arrived and I was sure some models only did head and shoulders work. I made my way to the bathroom, with help from my walking stick, and dug out my meagre collection of cosmetics and began my transformation. A heavy application of foundation covered some wrinkles, as did the addition of a few coats of powder. A blank face stared back at me from the mirror and I realised that what was missing were eyelashes and brows. A hunt produced some very solidly dry mascara that, by the addition of a little spit, became usable so I proceeded to apply it.

My arms were getting tired by then so I am afraid my brows were looking slightly cockeyed and the eyelashes on one eye were running with tears because, inadvertently, I had stuck the mascara brush into it. That, I think has convinced me I will never get or pursue the dream of the job as a model.

Top| 2008 stories | Writers Home