WHEN I AM WELL
When I am well, I shall wear cowboy boots and long, floaty dresses, with chunky sweaters layered over the top when the autumn chill blows in.
I’ll team these with cotton — or maybe even cashmere — tights, because nylons give you fishy fanny, and as for stockings? One word: cellulite.
Of course, I’ll wear jeans too — loose, boot-cut Levi’s 501s or Farrah Fawcett flares, with T-shirts or embroidered peasant blouses. I picture a cape as well — something wide and soft and luxe that I can toss over my shoulder with panache, to keep my neck warm when the cold wind blows.
By the time I am well, my hair will be incredibly long. I’ll wear it in a messy up-do to keep it off my neck, which I try not to feel bad about, because even saggy necks are beautiful.
Say it.
Believe it.
Oh, fuck it. Saggy necks kind of suck.
Anyway, I’ll take my floaty, cosy, saggy-necked-yet-beautiful — and most importantly, very healthy — self to art exhibitions wearing bright red lipstick, where I shall smile knowingly at the work exhibited, or quizzically tilt my head while nonchalantly teasing a glass of champagne.
I’ll go to bookstores too, trundling my nifty little polka-dotted trolley, because books are heavy and I can never resist buying far too many. I’ll buy novels and cookbooks and — ooh! — books on home décor and gardens.
And when I get home, my husband will look through them, pick one up and say,
“But don’t you already have this book about cottage gardens?”
And I’ll reply, possibly a little testily,
“I’ll have you know that this is Arabellah Gherkin-Devine’s new book on cottage gardens,”
and flounce past him into the living room where I’ll light a fire and curl up with my glossy stash and a mug of tea.
Of course, I’ll then be struck with all sorts of wild ideas, and dream of swapping our minimalist, Scandi kitchen for seaside cosy-clutter chic, complete with duck-blue Aga.
I’ll want to trade all the ecru curtains for something with a little more oomph, and wallpaper the bedrooms, and — mais bien sûr! — dig up a good part of the garden to create a pond-slash-natural swimming pool.
Because how dreamy would that be to swim in?
When I am well, I shall have a gentle-mannered Cavalier King Charles, soft as butter, who will gaze at me with golden googly eyes, certain I’m the most beautiful woman in the universe, even as I pluck whiskers from my chin. Together we’ll go for gentle walks down country lanes, picking wildflowers and talking to the cows.
When I am well, my husband and I will once more become spontaneous.
We’ll go to restaurants with friends.
Attend parties, where I’ll no longer simply gaze longingly at those scrumptious grazing tables, wishing there was something for me.
We’ll take trips to Venice and Copenhagen, to Amsterdam and Rome.
We’ll go to the theatre, to concerts, and to the cinema.
When I am well, I might wear cowboy boots, and loose, floaty dresses, and get funky at exhibitions and bookshops and do all the rest of that wild and wacky jazz.
But most importantly —
When I am well,
I shall begin
To live again.