The Tesco Lady on Goodge Street

If I’m ever feeling blue, to make myself feel better, I go to the Tesco on Goodge St to get IDed. I’m not *always* IDed, but I have found that if I wear my trainers and a Pac a Mac and ask for some Cutters Choice, generally someone several years my junior will want to see some identifying tender. Awesome. Last time, though, as I threw back my hood in delight, the woman changed her mind. That’s right. On seeing my Tuesday morning face she rejected my proffered driving license; I was clearly 47. And I should have been spending my time rubbing Vaseline into my fine lines to avoid them becoming the gaping crevices currently and clearly chopping through my face.

What. A. Bitch.

I bought my wares and limped out, my self-esteem knocking around my knees and walked immediately to Boots, ‘every little helps’ ringing in my ear. Something little was not going to help me. I bought three different eye treatments: something for fine lines; something for dark circles and something for the truly visually fucked that can’t be far off Polyfilla. If I don’t look like I’m seventeen in a fortnight’s time I will be irritated.

I’ve adjusted my diet, too, and ate eight of my five a day yesterday – nine if wine counts. I think you’ll agree it does. And then there’s the exercise. I’m enjoying that – running in particular. The only thing I really can’t abide is crunches because sitting up over and over again as a form of exercise cannot be in any way serious.

The point is, and God knows, I need one, if I am fit and healthy and if the Polyfilla works then I will no longer seek reassurance from the lady in Tesco which, frankly, is a little bit embarrassing now I come to write it down.

As you were people. There’s nothing to see here.

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