Julie Hayward’s under the armpit knickers

In a London Starbucks this morning, yes I know I’m being politically incorrect to go there, but their toasted fruit bread is very reasonably priced , I ordered the aforementioned item and was presented with a couple of anaemic looking slices. When I asked to have the bread well toasted, I was told this wasn’t possible due to Health and Safety rules! Has the whole world gone mad – what on earth has Health and Safety got to do with having my toast well done!?

The British generally don’t like to complain and appear on the whole, quiet happy to accept shoddy goods and bad service without a murmur, instead of complaining at the time. I personally have no problem with complaining when I feel the need. I purchased a voucher recently for a hair cut and colour at a Brighton hair salon. I arrived with a grey sprouting hedge and left a couple of hours later with no grey in evidence, but a completely different colour to the one I’d chosen on the colour chart, and looking like I’d had my hair cut with a pair of nail scissors. I contacted the company I had purchased the voucher from and got a full refund. I have a friend that shrivels at the thought of asking for a glass of water in a restaurant, never mind complain so she’s often left feeling unsatisfied and thirsty, as she often can’t face the courage to speak out, unlike yours truly, aka big mouth. 

Whilst queuing in Marks & Sparks recently, waiting to pay for my under the armpit knickers – a sure sign of ageing when one begins to sacrifice style for comfort, (not that I’ve ever been a thong type of a girl), I caught sight of my dad looking back at me, his hair had grown since I had last seen him and he wore a slick of lipstick and an identical dress to mine. It gave me a nasty shock to find out my father was a cross dresser, I’d had no idea, then the realisation dawned on me that it was my own reflection in one of the store’s mirrors. Turning into my mother as I age is one thing, but my father, that’s seriously scary.

I don’t believe it, I’ve just read in the news that Cate Blanchett’s concerned about becoming invisible – please don’t rain on my parade, lady. If she thinks she’s becoming invisible, I’ve never existed!  Believe me, I’m an expert on the subject.

I generally milk my invisibility, for all it’s worth. I recently got into a Royal Academy exhibition because the security guard looked straight through me, and on another occasion I went back for free chocolate samples at Fortnum and Mason again and again and no-one batted an eyelid.  But unfortuantely the times when I would love to be invisible I’m in everyones face – I’ve just literally capulted myself through eight carriages of the Brighton to Victoria train in my search for a toilet that works. I find fast movement – no pun intended – cuts down on the swaying and I managed a fairly smooth trip with only three incidents – getting my fingers entangled in a passenger’s hair, tripping over a suitcase, in the aisle for goodness sake, and half falling into a man’s lap – he seemed unperturbed and carried on reading his newspaper, after I had picked myself up and apologised.   He even gave me a wink, but when he smiled at me – I think it was meant to be a smile, he appeared to be a bit short on the ivories and looked like he was on the wrong side of 70, not that I can afford to be choosy, but even I have to draw the line somewhere.

I’m going to have to work out a better strategy for navigating my passage on trains, as a friend and I are off on a working holiday next June, we’re going to be trolley dollies, or perhaps more strictly speaking trolley oldies, on a steam train. I can barely get myself to and from the loo on a regular train without some mishap unfolding, so I dread to think how I’ll negoitate the aisles with a trolley of afternoon teas.

Oh well, I’ll try most things once, I  just hope that I don’t get sued for injuring hapless passengers with hot pots of British Rail.