Now where were we. The curtains arrive next week. Wayne the
gardener has finally installed the rose garden. I suspect Mr S and
Calvin are dozing in front of the fire up in the mountains (lucky
things!), and I'm having a shoulder-pad day in the big city.
Shoulder pad days are when I have to go out in public, usually with
lots of other women in shoulder pads, and we engage in a lot of mutual
reinforcement.
Officially, it's called networking. Alas, the older I get, the
more resentful I get at having to chat up perfect strangers, on the
off-chance that I might be able to help their career some day.
I already know enough people. If I never met another soul, I'd be
perfectly happy, but today I have to spend time buffing up my corporate
credentials in public.
I'm doing this to support one of the young women I coach. There's
about ten of them now - bright, young, super-talented, energetic - they
really enrich my life, but at the end of a week with them, I'm in
desperate need of a lie-down. For these young women, of course,
networking is very important, and I can't expect them to do something
I'm not prepared to do myself, so although I'm not normally in town on
a Friday, here I am - a reluctant starter on the rubber chicken circuit.
Today one of my coaching clients is hosting an awards lunch, and I'm
going to cheer her on, but I'm secretly counting down the minutes until
I can decently bolt for the railway station, and escape to the
mountains.
Two hours on a train in luxurious solitude - what bliss. I read
mostly. Today I'm re-reading Murray Bail's Eucalyptus, because I
could never figure out the ending. I did ask Murray once what it
meant, and he replied in his best mock- psychiatrist's voice "What do
you think it means?" Perhaps iteration will bring enlightenment.
I'm getting ahead of myself. First I have to get through
lunch. One after another the category winners teeter up on stage,
wearing the most improbable stilettos, and appearing to have an average
age of about 12.
I think stilettos are the modern-day equivalent of foot-binding, and
I'm mean enough to snigger when one of the finalists gets her heel
stuck on the stage, and has to be lifted out bodily by a grown-up.
They all make speeches which rely heavily on words like "inspiration",
and "belief" and "dreams", and I think "You go, girl". And
I mean it - literally. I'd really like them to go - home, so that
I can, too.
The winner is the person who made the longest speech when she won her
category, so I'm hopeful she will have run out of things to say when
she comes back on stage. No such luck. While she thanks everyone
from her nana to her two-year old, I'm doing mental calculations about
whether I can still make the 3.25PM. The one good thing about
always wearing flatties is that I can at least break into a trot under
duress. Hurray, she's finished, and I've got a hot date with
Murray.
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Change of Life 
