I have an appointment to see my Dermatologist. I love seeing my Dermatologist. I pretend that I must, that he is a Doctor and that I am at serious risk of developing malignant melanoma because of my obsessive sun-bathing in the 80s. I imagine that without my Dermatologist I would have Chronic Blepharospasm and that people would cross the road to avoid me, that without his ministrations my whole face would hang limply from my skull like a burst balloon but really I know that he is an indulgence, that I am indulging myself. Yay!!
My Dermatologisthas has a Clinic in Harley Street.
The Clinic is decorated in softest cream with pink accents. The nurses wear pink jackets and have perfect skin. My Dermatologist drives a silver Jaguar. He wears Bespoke Saville Row Suits and has beautifully manicured hands with hard, bluntly cut pink fingernails. He has a country house in Fowey. His voice is quietly confident and he tells me off a lot.
‘Have you been using your Retinol Cream?’ he asks.
‘Have you been using Sun Block?’
‘I notice you have quite a lot of damage to your chest? Do you spend a lot of time on the water, sailing perhaps?’
I hadn’t realised that water and chest damage went hand in hand. I hadn’t realised that my Dermatologists has so slight a grasp of the kind of life I lead.
‘Your face has dropped quite a bit. Perhaps you should consider Fraxel Laser, maybe a bit of filler.’ he warms to his subject ‘Intense Pulsed Light?’ he suggests.
I love my Dermatologist.
‘Are you going to vote for Boris?’ I ask.
‘Yes I am’ he replies and the moment he says that I know that I shouldn’t and I know that I will.
‘Ken’s done an awful lot for London.’ I say.
‘Ken is corrupt and toxic and for sale to the highest bidder.’ says my Dermatologist.
This is more fun than reading the Daily Mail. this is Evening Standard standard.
I like having Right Wing chats with my Dermatologist. It’s so simple being Right Wing. It’s all... ‘I have this. I want to keep this. You don’t have this and if you can’t get it for yourself, tough.’ Brilliant.
My Dermatologist injects my face. He sticks a needle between my eyes and the skin resists and then pops as the needle slides beneath the skin rendering me entirely expressionless.
Wednesday 30th April 2008
Principle.
I am without principle. The most useful thing about principle, according to Somerset Maugham, is that it can always be sacrificed to expediency. But for me there is no sacrifice. Expediency is King, expediency is all there is. I am intrinsically unprincipalled.
Today I went to the petrol station. I needed to withdraw some money from my bank account to pay for Maisie’s tutor. Maisie’s tutor has to be paid in cash because she doesn’t want to be taxed. ‘
‘This Cash Machine will charge you £1.50 for withdrawing money from your account.’ announced the Cash Machine imperiously ‘Do you want to continue with this transaction?’ it added, more kindly.
The man behind me in the queue was wearing cycling shorts. He had a Go Faster bike helmet on and he leaned over my shoulder and said.
‘Oh, does it charge you for withdrawals? I’d better stick to my principles.’ and with that he leapt onto his Pergeuot Racing Bike and sped away.
Personally I wouldn’t wear cycling shorts on principle. Actually I would rather ride a Raleigh Bicycle because they are British.
I am standing on the forecourt of a Shell Petrol Station. How could I possibly allow myself to be here when I consider the ecological and social vandalism perpetrated by Shell Oil in the Niger Delta? I press the button agreeing to accept a charge of £1.50 and I withdraw my money.
I go to pick up Maisie from Claire and Paul’s house. Claire picked her up from school so she and Billie could have a last play before the move to Stalybridge
Paul pours me a large glass of red wine. The wine is a South African Shiraz and it is spicy, intense and meaty. It has a fine berry nose, it has a weight of minerally, tarry fruit. Luckily, nowadays, it s OK to drink South African wine, it’s a shame it is not a Fair Trade South African though.
Claire is very stressed. A work colleague at Stalybridge has accused her of racist behaviour. Claire said that in fact she hadn’t noticed the stupid woman at all, let alone responded negatively to her skin colour.
Paul is very stressed because his father disinherited him just before he died.
Claire says she dooesn’t believe in inherited wealth on principle.
I am relieved about this, and I say ‘I’ve never inherited a single penny in my whole life.’
Paul waggles his head from side to side sarcastically. He thinks because he has his back to me that I haven’t seen this, but I have.
I decide to defuse the situation.
‘I am going to vote for Boris.’ I say.
I don’t think, in retrospect, that, that was the right thing to say.
I collect Maisie and take her home to her tutor. I pay the tutor in cash so that she doesn’t have to pay tax.
I crack open a bottle of Viognier, it tastes of over ripe apricots and orange blossom, after all, Vichy France is very much a thing of the past.
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