Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Sunday, 7 June 2015
See Bath and die
As soon as I hit 50, I started getting adverts for Saga holidays, car insurance, and life cover for the elderly. 'Why pay for the reckless behaviour of boy-racers?' was the logic which I fell for when actually taking out their car insurance.
Before I hit 50, we went to visit a friend who worked in a travel agency, thinking she might sort us out with a suitable and suitably cheap holiday somewhere nice and warm. When she said that Bodrum was the sort of place that young people liked to go to, we weren't quick enough to understand that this was a coded message meaning, 'It's a shit-hole full of red-faced Brits who get pissed by 10.00am and spend all day urinating in the streets until sundown, when they spend all night getting pissed and listening to the Flintstones theme from the recently released film and trying to drown their new brides in the swimming pool (this actually happened).
Look at that troupe of geriatrics shuffling along outside. What is it that they all have in common, do you think? Maybe I am being too harsh. It could be that they all share a common interest/obsession in/with Jane Austen.
I really must have another go at reading Jane Austen. I had a friend years ago, who couldn't understand why I liked J.S. Bach. All he could think of when listening to it was women in crinoline dresses, which is the same sort of image I get after the first line of any Jane Austen book.
That's the trouble with period pieces. If you don't like the period, then you are doomed from the start.
Jane Austen was born into the worst possible period for bad fashion and social niceties - the sort of niceties which completely ignore any events which are taking place below a certain level of the social strata. It's the primness which I cannot abide.
I used to have a woman friend who should have been born into the Jane Austen era. She was - and probably still is - about 6' 2" tall, but stooped to try and make herself look smaller. She spoke in a tiny voice which was not her own - I know this because if she ever laughed spontaneously, she had a boom to her which many men would have envied. If she could have worn crinoline without looking even madder than she already did, she would have.
I could not stop myself from turning into a coarse, uncouth yob whenever I was around her. I had to compensate, or so I felt. I'm blaming her.