Real life | 24 January 2013

Sitting opposite me in an elegant restaurant, my male friend looked deep into my eyes and said three little words. And with those three little words, he changed my world for ever.

‘You need Swarfega.’

‘Swuh…swuh…’ I said, feeling a lump forming in my throat and my whole identity crumbling.

‘Swarfega. You know, the heavy-duty hand-cleaner in the red and green tubs. You can buy it on the internet.’

I looked down at my hands. But they weren’t there. Someone had put the hands of Albert Steptoe on the ends of my arms instead. ‘Oh my god! Where have my hands gone?’ I gasped.

The waitress came and topped up my water glass but she needn’t have bothered. I stuffed my grimy, weather-beaten, puffy, wrinkled hands under the table, never to emerge again.

How did this happen? When did I become so indelibly ingrained with dirt and muck that I could no longer get it off in a normal Jo Malone lime, basil and mandarin scented bath? When did I start needing industrial grease remover for garage mechanics and farm workers? In truth, I know exactly when. It was the end of October. That was when I began the process of doing winter as the owner of three horses, including one who has retired and so lives out in a field.

The builder boyfriend has a further two horses. That makes five horses. Even I can see that five horses is an insane number of horses. Well, six, if you count the horse that’s turned out in a field with mine, which I’m feeding every day because her owner doesn’t bother.

So, six horses to think about, basically. I lie in bed at night with my chest aching thinking, ‘Six horses! Six horses!’ I can’t sleep, obviously.