I’m a mysterious girl. And it figures.

Back in the day, when I was young, I flaunted my figure. My mother always told me to keep “an air of mystery about me”. Needless to say, I always ignored her. I may be imagining all this but I think I had a fairly good figure. For a while, anyway. The legs were a bit short but the heels were always high. Short skirts. Not pelmets but short enough to be sexy. Sleeveless tops and toned arms. In fact, toned brown arms, in the days when I used to go brown and not the strange shade of cerise that now appears to be my natural tone. I never wore the bra and shorts that the young ones do now but I had short enough tops to show off my washboard bronzed stomach. Low cut tops. Not seriously plunging necklines but enough to show a cleavage. Feet exposed in flimsy high sandals.

That was then. Now it’s the hiding game. All my tops are down to my knees to cover my stomach. A prerequisite for buying a top is that it has sleeves to cover the bingo wings. I can no longer allow my arms to wave at people a half an hour after they have gone. I was at a function the other night and a ‘girl’ at the next table had a sleeveless top that exposed very dodgy arms and a second set of boobs on her back. We bitches at our table spent the night talking about her.

Unfortunately, my knees have turned into those of a second row forward. Not that I’d be wearing short skirts at my age anyway. Because of the bunions and corns the shoes have to be sturdy and flat. The stomach will never be bronzed and flat again. It will never be taken out in company again. The neckline has to be high to cover the wrinkles. So in the space of a short few years I’ve developed such an ‘air of mystery’ that I myself hardly know what’s underneath. My mother would be proud.