According to Wikipedia: “Mrs Brady - Old Lady is a character in Viz who depicts a stereotypical image of an elderly woman. She is forgetful, unattentive, bigoted and constantly talking about her ailments while also referring to her youth and how life was so much better back then. Furthermore she is rude and spiteful.”
Well, that sounds about right! I almost lost a £20 note the other day by putting it down and forgetting it; I mislaid my second favourite black jumper and foraged for it for 40 minutes like a maniac; I constantly go on about allergies; I rant about “the worst rain in 1,000 years” (or whatever it is) and “driving through a pond on the M1” and my friends usually tell me I’m rude.
As for referring frequently to “lost youth”... ah, hark ye, I remember the days when I used to go out to parties all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (well, sort of) – and most conspicuously without the need to stash a pack of extra-strength Nurofen in my handbag. Failure to include the Nurofen can be a serious cause of anxiety and stress these days. Furthermore, the Nurofen is accompanied by a pack of antihistamines (non-drowsy ones, purrlease), in case the host owns a dog, cat or multiple animals that might induce sneezing, itchy eyes and/or an unwanted wheezing fit. Generally, at least two Nurofen will be applied before I depart with a killer hangover that I most certainly didn’t get when I was 23.
Then there’s the tendency to whine and gripe about all manner of things: from refuse collection and practices at the local amenity tip to woes concerning Sky boxes and my Kombi van not fitting into NCP car parks. I almost wrote a blog about this thrilling topic last week before thinking better of it: I couldn’t think of anything more exciting at the time. Well, I pay road tax and my van isn’t a gas-guzzler so it’s not fair that I can’t park easily like other road-users because the ‘powers that be’ who designate car parks think it is a builder’s van or some form of minibus. Vans are evil. Evil, evil vans. Ban them all right now! See... I’m a prime candidate for writing letters to the local paper from “angry of Poohaven”, as well as writing my other 'Letting off Steam' blog for the aforementioned publication. Argh!
There’s also the fixation on condiments. My female partner-in-crime and I visited Shoreham Airport on Saturday afternoon. We thought we’d show my little boys some light aircraft (are we plane spotters in the making?) but this plan was scuppered because (a) it was dark and (b) the cafe / viewing area had closed for a private function. So the two 30-something ladies ventured into the gift shop where we ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ about various jars containing hand-made mustard and piccalilli before legging it out of there squealing that we are “getting old”.
And, that’s not all: there’s the icing on the cake! At my folks’ house the other week, I found a stripy jumper knitted back in my student days, when I clearly had time on my hands, and I actually found myself wondering what it would be like to do some knitting. Argh! The rot has to stop.
Whatever next? Bath chairs? Those trolleys-on-wheels old ladies use to push their shopping about? Mind you: I don’t need a wheelie trolley because I’ve got a Maclaren infant stroller at hand (yes, a model that chops off fingers if you’re stupid enough to let your little ones put their hands inside the hinge while you’re folding it)... but will it soon be swapped for a handy Zimmer frame?
I’m half convinced that the Mrs Brady affliction is caused by some form of Seasonal Affective Disorder. According to good old Wiki and its expert sources: “...some people experience a serious mood change when the seasons change. They may sleep too much, have little energy, and crave sweets and starchy foods.” Yes, that’s yours truly these days, for sure. Upon encountering “the nights are setting in” mode where it goes dark at 4pm, I transform into a comatose old granny who falls asleep six nights out of seven with the children at 9pm (yes, very SAD indeed) and arises mid morning with an urge to scoff chocolate and carbs. Argh!! Not only am I turning into a whining old dear but I’m set to be an enormous whining old dear soon as well.
It has to stop.
There’s a need to put on the corset and venture out to some party nights before American-tan support stockings, candlewick bedspreads, anti-DVT products, the Damart catalogue and perfume with a hint of lavender start looking ever so attractive. Invitations and babysitting offers on a postcard, please! Before it’s too late.