WHILE you’re about the Sisyphean toil of body enhancement in order to stave off old age, be warned; you can’t do anything about improving your hands, unless you want to have little claws just like a monkey. Oh, and I think there may be a bit of a problem with the knees, although I know a doyen of smartness who did have these lifted. I think they’ve replaced her hips, which are now her shoulders. As a matter of fact everything about her is elevated, starting with her forehead and ending with her toes and she looks bloody good if you really think about it.
There’s just a small glitch; you can’t really understand what she’s saying when she opens her mouth; her mouth opens and closes, but she may as well be talking from the deep end of a swimming pool. Consensus is that her voice box has been lifted from her throat and is gathered up like a small ponytail on the top of her head. Oh, and her hair has fallen out, so she wears a wig, which is sometimes on backwards.
We saw her dining with a similarly reconstructed friend at a posh and private club recently; the average age of those in the dining room was about 150, so it was a bit like visiting Madame Tussauds, only more scary.
The woman whose voice box is a ponytail is a model of decorum and good old- fashioned ways. She has a gentleman walker who minces along at her side, being meticulous in his chivalry, constantly doing little hops around her so he is always in the position of being nearest the roadside and thus able to protect her from bolting horses and carriages whose wooden wheels keep falling off and ploughing into pedestrians.
Her husband, now late, was a teetotaller. Those were the days when women followed men’s examples, not having yet fallen into the habit of harassing them, so, in order not to be considered recalcitrant, she hid bottles in the garden and popped out of the house every now and then to top herself up. Old habits die hard and you can still see her most evenings, even when it’s raining cats and proverbial dogs, watering the plants, and every now and then ducking down into the ferns, ostensibly to save a wayward slug from drowning.
Some people are madly averse to the very idea of private clubs, considering them anachronistic and comprising those who, in their late 70s, still refer to their parents as mummy and daddy, who would be turning in their graves at all the new- fangled changes in the world.
But I love private clubs; they make you feel, just for one brief minute, vastly smart.
But back to the body unbeautiful. This is the latest bulletin. The pearly whites are now in the spotlight and teeth transplants are all the go. It all began in America and we all know how the Americans like their teeth; the whiter and bigger, the better. Just like a mouth full of tombstones. What a ripper.
fraserj@ theaustralian. com. au