Don’t nurse sickly men – it only makes them worse!
THERE comes a moment when you just have to admit that you’re not very good at something – and the fact is I’m a terrible nurse. Or so I’m told by my boyfriend, David, who has done something to his back. See. Even the way I describe his plight betrays a lack of true sympathy or understanding.
My words in no way convey the complexity – or gravity – of his situation: the way that the pain moves mystifyingly from one spot to another; how it makes getting out of bed in the morning an act of courage; the heroic status he should be accorded for having battled his way into the office last week.
Obviously, I have taken all these things on board but somehow I can’t make the leap into being the person he wants me to be. On a good morning, I will remember to enquire first thing how his back is behaving but while he replies in great detail, I will find my mind wandering on to other matters I find infinitely more interesting – like whether the cat needs feeding.
His many sentences that currently start with the question “Could you just…” spark a knee-jerk irritation that I know a compassionate nurse would never allow. ‘Could you just bend down and pick up my phone. Could you just make me a cup of tea? Could you just run downstairs and fetch my laptop?’ While I try to smooth my face into a kindly and willing expression, I am aware that instead a look of utter exasperation seems to have taken hold.
P a r a d o x i c a l l y, I d o n ’t remotely mind tending my son – chicken soup, hotwater bottles, lemon barley water are all instantly at the ready. Even though I’m sure that by being so Mother Teresa in my care of him I am only encouraging the exact behaviour I and many women find infuriating in men – wimpishness when it comes to being a bit off-colour.
That’s why we don’t go in for indulgent nursing – we suspect it will only prolong the indisposition.
Should the sad time come when I really will have to look after David, it’s clear that I’ll need to massively up my game on the caring front. But for now a strained smile and a ‘Why don’t you just take a Nurofen?’ will have to do.
Sentenced to death by his so- called pals
THE words of murdered 17-yearold Nedim Bilgin’s father – ‘ He was my baby boy. But some of his friends were terrible’ – will resonate with many of us, parents or otherwise. Yes, nature and nurture play their part but who we choose as friends is just as great a determinator of the life we live, and tragically in this case, die.
The magic of Dior’s mini masterpieces
LAST week, the highly publicised Christian Dior: Designer of Dreams exhibition opened at the V&A. The galleries of exquisite haute couture ballgowns provide much needed escapism from the grey days of winter and the nightmare of trying to make any sense of our squabbling politicians. I visited with my mother who, as a 20-year-old cub reporter for the Daily Express, was amazingly at the design- er’s first, now legendary, New Look show in 1947. She must have been the only person among the hordes of V&A visitors who had experienced the seismic impact of that collection first-hand.
She came to the New Look show – staged in an elegant Parisian townhouse – from British post-war austerity, when fabric shortages, clothing coupons and an emphasis on make-do-and-mend had dominated for so many years.
The extravagance of Dior’s sweeping skirts, sumptuous fabrics, and pure, indulgent beauty – combined with a new silhouette emphasising the body’s curves – was far more than a fashion trend. It offered a vision of a whole world of new possibilities. ‘Truly mindblowing,’ as Mum put it.
So for Mum, the V&A exhibition provoked memories of the few Dior creations she was able to get her hands on. These were cut- price sample dresses – or sometimes one -off outfits that had been ordered by women whose lovers bankrolled their wardrobe, but then ‘ when those louses went back to their spouses’, couldn’t pay the bill.
I, on the other hand, was transfixed by the minuscule proportions of those early Diors. During the time I edited Vogue, the thinness of young models was a hardy perennial in the press. I often used to think that the subject was brought up so regularly simply as an excuse to run a catwalk picture of a girl wearing as few clothes as possible.
But even the skinniest models nowadays are heffalumps compared to the models and many of the clients who wore Dior in the 1950s. One of the highlights of the V& A exhibition is the beautiful ballgown he created for Princess Margaret to wear for her 21st birthday party. It has an unbelievably tiny, 17in waist. Much smaller than anything any contemporary designer would dare conjure up.
Oh, do wrap up this M&S biryani barny
SURELY the cultural appropriation debate has reached a tipping point with the ridiculous call-out of M&S for selling a vegan biryani wrap. It may not be remotely authentic but it’s hardly plundering a civilisation’s heritage. What next? An outcry about Peking Duck?
A fine tribute to my murdered friend
A PRIVATE War, the film of the life and death of my close friend, f o r e i gn c o r r e s pondent Marie Colvin, who was murdered in Syria, is released this week.
Rosamund Pike gives a wonderful performance capturing so much of Marie, but even so, the fact that the film had to be made is unbearably distressing.
How wonderful then that the Syrian government has just been fined £230 million in a landmark case ‘for the targeted murder of an American citizen whose work was not only important but vital to our understanding of war zones and wars generally’.
It won’t return Marie, with her loud chuckle, her love of fine linens and beautiful china, her pearl necklace and unswerving friendship, but it might help save the lives of some others who bring back tales from the front line.
Cold, hard reality of losing my builder
JOSEPH, our Hungarian builder, is returning home. We are going to miss him. How many British builders would have turned up to hack down an old garden shed last week with the temperature at minus 3C and with snow on the ground? I guess I’ll be finding out soon…