My lips have lost weight. I’m not kidding. They’re getting thinner. Not from sanctimonious disapproval but from over-exercise. The amount of chortling and chatting I’ve done since London’s lockdown eased is marathon-level. I may need to put a little sweat band on my upper lip.
Because the main thing we’ve learnt during Lockdown is how much we need people. Psychologists are calling it Vitamin S – the injection of social interaction humans need on a daily basis.
B.C. (Before Covid) I would normally be overdosing on the stuff. Yep, before the pandemic my social life was one fabulous, fun-filled whirl of book launches, concerts, opening nights and cocktail parties with banter being lobbed back and forth in the Wimbledon of wit. No night was complete unless I was swinging from a chandelier with a toy boy between my teeth. So, my Vitamin S withdrawal symptoms during the last year have been brutal.
Every time I opened my diary, I’d get severe snow blindness from staring at those endless empty, white pages. I needed a St Bernard’s dog to come rescue me from the arctic wastelands of Social Siberia with that whiskey barrel around its neck. I became so boring that even my imaginary friend ran off to play with someone more interesting.
At least in Australia there’s been some semblance of normality. But Sco Mo’s flight caps have left me marooned in Britain where lockdowns have been long and strict. Basically you weren’t allowed out of your house except to attend your own wake. Or to food shop, dressed in your bio-hazard survival suit.
I became so conversationally deprived that when I’d run into even the most vague acquaintance by the frozen peas, I’d greet him like a long lost lover. My enthusiasm was such that the poor, bewildered bloke would then presume that I’d like him to be my lover right now – which often got um, awkward. What these flirtatious fellas didn’t understand is that I was just suffering from C.C.D. – Chronic Conversation Deficiency.
With Britain coming out of hibernation, even dreary, know-all blokes, the type who put the bore into Bordeaux, I’m suddenly finding totally fascinating. Why? Because it’s just so lovely to chat to an actual human, in the flesh instead of peering up nostrils on zoom or trying to decipher muffled comments through the mandatory face masks which give new meaning to ‘veiled comments.’
As we come blinking out into the sunlight, some people are reluctant to take their Vitamin S booster jab. Agoraphobia has set in. Not me though. I’ve welded sequinned stilettos to my tootsies and a tiara to my cranium.
From last Monday, Brits can meet six people indoors. All through the long dark winter we could only meet up with one person outside. Dressed as if on the Shackleton expedition to the Pole, I’d trudge round parks with a girlfriend. Lips novocained from the cold, all we could do was listen to our breasts chattering. The wind factor was so bad one day, I broke a nipple. Attempting to sit down, I cracked my jeans. Taking a gulp of air to sing “Freeze a Jolly Good Fellow” to a pal, the fog was so thick, I chipped a tooth. Trying to dine alfresco in gale force winds also made eating a challenge. “Catch of the day” came to refer to the food that blew off your plate and had to be chased into the hydrangeas.
When this is all over, I fully intend to be hospitalised from hospitality, hugging and kissing pals until my arms fall off.
After the horrors of the Spanish flu, the world celebrated with the fun-filled Roaring 20’s. So, that’s what I’m looking forward to – the Roaring 20’s, mark 2. After a year of doom and gloom, fun and frivolity are just what the doctor ordered. Humans are social creatures who thrive together. So here’s hoping, post pandemic, we’ll all be a little kinder to each other.
In short, when the world wakes up from our medically induced coma, if you bump into a beaming woman, hyperventilating with excitement as she homes in for a hug before whisking you off for an impromptu party, don’t panic. It’s only me, dosing up on Vitamin S.
Here I am celebrating day one of liberation with gal pals, Sandi Toksvig, Debbie Tosvig and human rights lawyer, Helena Kennedy. I’ve had that tiara welded to my cranium all week.
One thing for sure, we will never take life for granted again.
So, how have you found your re-entry into the world of fun and frivolity? Easy or hard? Stimulating or exhausting? I’d love to know.
Cheers for now, Kathy xx
What do women really want in bed? Breakfast. Oh, and a good book. If you’re looking for a funny, frivolous yet feisty new read, do slip between my covers. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Here’s a selection of scribblings in which I peel down to my emotional underwear – a psychological striptease that occasionally reveals all.
I think women are each other’s human Wonderbras – uplifting, supportive and making each other look bigger and better.
If he wants breakfast, tell him to sleep in the kitchen.
Men think monogamy is something you make dining tables out of.
Many marriages break up for religious reasons – he thinks he’s a god and she doesn’t.
Love prepares you for marriage the way needlepoint prepares you for round-the-world solo yachting.
Boys will be boys, and so will a load of middle-aged boys who should know better.
Ladies who lynch.
No wife ever shot a husband while he was vacuuming.
I think therefore I’m divorced.
All husbands think they’re Gods. If only their wives weren’t atheists.
Happy wife = happy life.
I couldn’t ask for a better husband… as much as I’d bloody well like to.
Statistically, 100% of divorces begin with marriage.
Marriage is nature’s way of promoting masturbation.
Marriage is a fun-packed, frivolous activity – only occasionally resulting in death.
It’ll be an amicable split. You’ll both get 50 % of the acrimony.
A new invention is required. The monogamous husband. Patent Pending.
How Do I Hate Thee? Let me Count the Ways.
My wedding vows didn’t say To Love, Hoover and Obey.
I’m Having my period so can therefore legally kill you.
You are going to enjoy this marriage, even if I have to divorce you to do so.
A happy marriage is like an orgasm – many of them are faked.
All this emphasis on women faking orgasms, but what about men faking foreplay?
Why do men like intelligent women? Because opposites attract.
Why don’t women tell jokes? Because we marry them.
What does a woman really want in bed? Breakfast.
For women, life is full of lies – I mean doctors maintain that wrinkles don’t hurt.
Legal aid cuts prove that the Tories believe a person is innocent until proven destitute.
Sexist men are so stupid it makes you want to take the ‘men’ out of Mensa.
If a man ever tells you that women fall at his feet – it’s only because he gets them drunk first.
A woman must always fight back. Never just lie back and think of Canberra.
The best cure for menopause is the toy boy diet. A case of having Your Beefcake and Eating It Too.
I don’t fake orgasms. I’m faking being six foot one and seven stone.
Trophy wives tarnish quickly and then get left on the shelf.
Lawyers work 24/7. The partners of lawyers suffer from a bad case of subpoena envy.
Most shrinks should book an appointment with themselves.
The question on the minds of most women is – why doesn’t chocolate go straight to your boobs?
Don’t fall for a man’s puppy dog look… Just get him wormed.
It’s been so long since a man has touched me, not even medical science will want my body.
My top tip for keeping your youth? Lock him in the pool house.