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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.
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