Pensioners in the Buff

I seem to be in Venice. Or Venice, according to my subconscious. Narrow canals snake between ancient buildings, gondolas drift lazily beneath stone bridges, and every little square is overflowing with tourists wearing matching hats and expressions of expensive disappointment. Somewhere nearby, an accordion is wheezing its way through O Sole Mio for what feels like the nine hundredth time that day, while market traders enthusiastically try to convince people that fridge magnets, miniature glass gondolas and questionable souvenirs are priceless works of art. The trusty binoculars are out again. Full spy mode. I must have followed Alex on his school trip. Not because I’m weird, obviously. Because I’m his mum. There’s a difference. This isn’t stalking; it’s proactive parenting. Remote safeguarding, if you will. I scan the crowds until I spot him weaving through the market with his friends. He’s laughing. The kind of carefree, genuine laughter that makes his shoulders bounce and his head tip back without a care in the world. It warms something deep inside me. He’s okay. He’s actually okay. Thank goodness. For a moment I simply stand there watching him disappear and reappear between the moving sea of people, remembering when he used to wrap his tiny hand around one finger to cross the road. Back then I was his whole world. Every answer, every reassurance, every scraped knee somehow made better simply because Mum was there. Now he’s thirteen. He doesn’t need me in quite the same way anymore. At least… that’s what I tell myself. I’m still looking out for him, though. Even if he doesn’t know it. The market, however, can absolutely sod off. It’s heaving. The air is thick with perfume, sun cream, sweat and whatever fishy delicacy somebody thought would improve with a few hours in the midday sun. Every stall seems to be selling exactly the same collection of overpriced tat. Venetian masks. Glass ornaments. Miniature gondolas. Tiny leaning towers that aren’t even in the bloody right city. Tourists are happily handing over small fortunes for the privilege, as though they’ve stumbled upon buried treasure. Naturally, I lose Alex almost immediately. One moment he’s there. The next he’s been swallowed whole by several hundred sweaty strangers wearing backpacks the size of small wardrobes. Typical. I weave through the crowd, muttering under my breath. “Honestly…” “Keep moving.” “Nobody needs to stop dead in the middle of a walkway.” “If you’re going to admire a tea towel, at least have the decency to shift your arses out of my pathway.” A couple suddenly stop directly in front of me to study a rack of postcards. I sigh so dramatically I’m surprised I don’t throw my back out. I pause. Good grief. I’m starting to sound like somebody’s nan trying to get to the reduced section in Marks & Spencer before the vultures descend. Before I can continue my search, a voice booms from somewhere behind me. “I have something for you!” Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t even turn around. “Not interested.” I pick up my pace. Rookie error: making eye contact with a market trader. That’s how they get you. One minute you’re politely saying no, the next you’re the proud owner of a hand-carved olive wood beaver you neither wanted nor can fit in your suitcase. “No! Seriously… you need this!” Do I? Because experience tells me that anyone shouting those words is either trying to sell me something, recruit me into something, or dramatically improve their own day at the expense of mine. The footsteps get closer. Something flaps noisily behind me. Wonderful. He’s pursuing me. I stop, spin around and fix the man with what I hope is my most intimidating look. “I said I’m not interested.” The poor bloke actually looks offended. Not angry. Deeply wounded. As though I’ve just rejected the deal of a lifetime. Without saying another word, he thrusts something into my hands. A calendar. I glance at the front cover. Pensioners in the Buff. What the actual fuck? I stare at the calendar. Then at him. Then back at the calendar. “How old do you think I am?” He smiles warmly. “You have… mature energy.” “Mature energy?” “Sì.” “I’m thirty-nine!” He shrugs apologetically. “Thirty-nine can still appreciate January… February… and definitely November.” “I can assure you it can’t.” His grin somehow grows even wider. “You definitely want November.” “I definitely don’t.” “You do.” “I really, really don’t.” He folds his arms, clearly settling in for a battle of wills. I sigh the sigh of every perfectly youthful woman who’s accidentally made eye contact with a market trader. “Fine. One page.” I reluctantly flick to January. Eric, a retired gardening enthusiast, is posing in nothing but a pair of green gardening gloves while watering his begonias with all the confidence of a man who’s completely forgotten clothes were ever invented. I study him for a moment. “His arse is a bit saggy for my liking.” The stallholder looks genuinely wounded. “He’s eighty-two.” “I don’t care if he’s a hundred and two.” “Show some respect.” “I’m trying. His wrinkly raisins aren’t making it easy.” He clutches his chest dramatically. “No! Keep going!” Against every instinct I possess, I do. February introduces Geoff, an enthusiastic fisherman who’s also decided trousers are entirely optional. Thankfully, the enormous trout hanging from his rod is strategically covering… well… his own rod. I wince. “Oh, good grief.” I snap the calendar shut and hold it out to him. “I’m done.” He simply opens it again. “No! November!” “I’ve seen enough saggy bits to last me several lifetimes.” “November!” Before I can escape, the page flops open in my hands. Percy. Retired plumber. Entirely, unapologetically nude. One hand grips a bright red plunger. The other rests proudly on his titanium hip replacement. He’s smiling with the confidence of a man who has absolutely nothing left to prove. Or conceal. I stare for what feels like an eternity. “No.” “Molto sexy.” “No.” “Very popular.” “With who?” “My mother.” “I really wish you hadn’t told me that.” He offers the calendar back again. “I make good price.” “I wouldn’t take it if you paid me.” “In fact, I’d pay you to burn it.” His smile finally fades. “You English people…” He shakes his head sadly. “…so rude.” “I’ve politely said no about six times.” “You no appreciate November.” “I appreciated November exactly as much as anyone with functioning eyesight would.” He mutters something under his breath as he wanders back towards his stall. Honestly. He’s like those bloody window vultures all over again. One polite knock at the door and before you know it, they’re sitting at your dining room table, happily drinking the tea you’ve just made them while explaining why your perfectly good windows are apparently ruining your life. Three hours they’d stayed. Long enough to drink us out of Tetley, critique our windows and make themselves thoroughly at home. Then came the grand finale. “Only twenty-two thousand pounds.” I nearly inhaled my own tongue. “For three sodding windows?” “They are premium quality.” “I don’t care if they’ve been handcrafted by angels and dipped in molten gold. Twenty-two grand for three windows is obscene.” “They will last forever.” “So will the debt.” The second they realised we possessed neither hidden wealth nor the slightest desire to remortgage the house for fancy glass, they packed their brochures away with remarkable efficiency. “Thanks for wasting my time.” Likewise, you cheeky fucker. By the time Mr Calendar Man has retreated to his stall, Alex has completely disappeared. For a split second, panic rises in my chest. I scan the crowd again, standing on tiptoes, hoping to catch a glimpse of him between the endless sea of baseball caps and selfie sticks. Then it softens. He’s thirteen now. He’s not a little boy anymore. Sometimes the hardest part of being a parent isn’t teaching your child how to walk. It’s accepting that one day they’ll walk ahead without instinctively looking back to check you’re still following. Perhaps that’s the job all along. To spend years teaching them they can let go… then somehow convincing yourself to do exactly the same. I continue through the market, past stalls piled high with flaky pastries, colourful scarves and glittering glass trinkets, when somebody hollers my name. “Amanda!” I turn around. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. It’s only Kirsty from work. In Venice. Of all the people I could bump into in one of the most romantic cities in the world… What are the odds? “What are you doing here?” I laugh. She looks me up and down. “Christ, you look rough.” I stare at her. “Thanks, Kirst. I’ve missed you too.” “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” “Oh?” “You’re supposed to be at work.” My heart instantly performs its usual dying salmon routine. “What?” “It’s Monday.” She frowns. “No, love. It’s Tuesday.” She checks an imaginary watch. “You’re three hours late.” “I’m absolutely not.” “You absolutely are.” “I’m in Italy.” She shrugs. “Management might struggle with that explanation.” “I’ll send a postcard.” “Management doesn’t seem to think so.” Before I can launch another passionate defence of my innocence, something strange happens inside my mouth. My teeth. They feel… Wrong. Heavy. Too big. As though they’re slowly expanding. I run my tongue over them. Sweet Jesus. They’re enormous. “This can’t…” I mumble. Kirsty tilts her head. “You alright?” I instinctively clap a hand over my mouth. “I’ve got to…” The words come out as little more than a muffled grunt. It feels like somebody has replaced every one of my teeth with a horse’s. Not just one horse, either. The whole bloody stable. I hurry away through the market, desperately trying to keep my lips closed before I accidentally bite a passing tourist. “Amanda!” Another familiar voice. I freeze. Honestly… is the entire depot here? It’s Jamie. One of the managers. What is this? Royal Mail’s annual Mediterranean conference? Did everyone finish their deliveries, fancy a city break and forget to invite me? “You nearly tripped.” He points down towards my feet. I follow his finger. Sweet merciful Christ. What… Are… Those? The most aggressively sensible shoes ever manufactured. Orthopaedic. Thick Velcro straps. A supportive heel. The exact colour of a sticking plaster. The sort of shoes advertised on page thirty-seven of the Chums catalogue alongside compression socks, stairlifts and elasticated waistbands. Comfortable. Practical. Utterly hideous. I recoil in horror. “I would never buy those.” Jamie raises an eyebrow. “They look well broken in.” I stare at him in disbelief. Bastard. He’s right. Worse still… they’re bloody comfortable. I make a beeline down a quiet back alley, away from the crowds, away from the questions and, if I’m lucky, away from Percy and his bloody plunger. I lean against the cool stone wall, trying to steady my breathing. What’s happening to me? First the calendar. Then my teeth. Now the shoes. None of this makes any sense. A shop window catches my eye. I glance towards it absent-mindedly. Then stop. My reflection stares back at me. Only… it isn’t me. Not really. The woman in the glass is unmistakably me, but she’s decades older. “Jesus wept…” I blink at my reflection. “I’m one blue rinse away from being December.” Then I look again. Really look. She’s not old in a way that frightens me. She’s old in the way a favourite book becomes worn at the edges after years of being loved. Old in the way a favourite book becomes worn at the edges after years of being loved. Her hair has turned silver, fine lines fan gently from the corners of her eyes, and her face carries that quiet softness only time seems capable of sculpting. She doesn’t look sad. She doesn’t even look surprised. She just smiles. A warm, knowing smile. The sort that says everything is going to be alright. Somehow, she’s holding the calendar. Open at November. Percy is grinning back from the page. Of course he is. She catches my eye, gives the smallest shrug, then gently closes the calendar and tucks it beneath her arm as though she’d finally decided it was worth keeping after all. Perhaps that’s what this was never really about. Not naked pensioners. Not comedy teeth. Not hideous orthopaedic shoes. Not even Percy and his terrifying plunger. Perhaps time had been trying to catch my attention all along. Not to scare me. Just to remind me that every version of myself is still me. Alex doesn’t need me to hold his hand anymore. But that doesn’t mean I disappear. Maybe it just means I learn to walk beside him instead. Maybe growing older isn’t simply about wrinkles or sensible footwear. Maybe it’s about recognising that every stage of life leaves something behind, while quietly giving us something new in return. I smile back at the woman in the window. For the first time, I don’t see someone old. I see someone who has made it. Then I turn and walk away, leaving Venice, November and Percy exactly where they belong.