One may criticise one’s own looks publicly; I’ve done this often. But may one refer to one's “good” looks? It could attract ribaldry.
In 1997 I was 61. That year I skied France’s greatest ski area, The Three Valleys, and here’s my ski pass. Chances are I did my favourite route: alone, up to the head of the Méribel valley, cross over into Val Thorens, ski down, take the cable car to the top of the isolated and conical peak, Cima Caron, ski down and scuttle off to catch one of the last lifts of the day back to Méribel.
But this isn’t about ski-ing. Look again at the face on that pass. I am astonished. Lordy me! Almost handsome, almost pretty. Was that really me?
Which may explain an odd event. I shared a chalet with married couples, friends with each other, from Richmond, near London. All wealthy – the men doctors, the women solicitors (US: attorneys). Educationally I should have been out of my depths but – inevitably – I competed. And when it came to writing a valedictory card for the wonderful chalet girl I was voted the job.
Yes, quite sickening. But there’s more.
On the last day the others were scheduled to leave the chalet before me and I did the washing up. Several women came into the kitchen to – Wow! - kiss goodbye. Dispassionate kisses y'unnerstand, but kisses nevertheless. Good grief! Remember, these were Brits, not ever-kissing Americans. Then two other women, less certain of themselves, came in and waited for me to kiss them. Being a Brit myself I remained aloof and they retreated, visibly hurt. I regret this but I’ve never been a take-the-initiative kisser.
Not me at all.
Very nice looking! What does your say about all this? Did you tell her when it happened?
ReplyDeleteColette: No I didn't tell VR at the time. But by then, following six years in the USA, we'd both become used to a continuous avalanche of social kissing.
DeleteVR doesn't always read my posts and hadn't read this one. I'd told her you'd asked the question and she took quite some time to get through the 300 words; normally she's a very fast reader - how else would she consume 220 books a year? The reading done she sort of growled, "Well I did actually marry you." There's a wealth of meaning in that gnomic reply; perhaps you can figure out some of it
With a pair of round glasses you could easily be mistaken for a young David Hockney in that photo.
ReplyDeleteRachel Phillips: I was at Bradford Grammar School at the same time as David Hockney. Watched him being bullied and noted how he resisted this oafish treatment by joking about it.
ReplyDeleteHowever, I have to say I'm both taller and less fat than he was. We'd never be mistaken for each other, with or without glasses.
I have, as you know, commented once or twice on your blog. This time, when I tried, I was told I didn't have your invitation to contribute. Was it something I wrote?
What a coincidence that I should mention Hockney. I was looking purely objectively at the photo and having just finished watching the A Bigger Splash (1973) the film drama featuring Hockney I was struck by a certain likeness which was probably most prompted by the hair style.
DeleteI have taken my blog back to myself for at least a while and made it entirely private. Nobody has been invited in. It is a wonderful feeling of freedom.