Crisis? What midlife crisis?

By Iain MacIver

Published:

A TRIP to the big city last week opened my eyes to the possibility that either I am losing it big style or I may just be having the time of my life.

Scurrying out of Glasgow Airport, my exit was blocked by a pouting blonde. With immaculate hair, skin, eyes, lips, neck and everything else down from there, this perma-tanned, leggy lovely wanted to interest me in a credit card which would give me 0% on balance transfers for, oh, yonks and yonks.

Twittering on about secure shopping, APRs and card protection, she mentioned something about her late husband. Late husband? Oh no, I thought. Poor thing, on her own. Struggling to feed her skinny brats, she parades bravely round each painful day in a blue suit pushing unwanted cards just to pay her bills.

Behind those perfect, rounded lips and the sparkling teeth was a poor, hardworking mother with a shattered heart, I decided.

For some reason, I asked if I could withdraw cash worldwide. Not that I expect to get much farther than the sun-soaked resort of Sauchiehall for the autumnal sojourn to BHS, M&S and so on. That is when the Buying of the Pants takes place. I stand there, at the top of an escalator, dreaming of cold lager, while Herself tuts loudly about how much Y-fronts (XL) have gone up since we did this last year.

Perma-tan Girl was giving me the spiel. Yes, I could use this fantastic card in Utah, Ulan Bator or even Ullapool.

In fact, as I fantasised at all these exotic places – Ullapool is actually quite nice for three days each August – she said that she and her fiance used that same card during a lovefest in Hawaii only weeks before.

Fiance, no less. She has a rich fancy man already. Huh. And there was me thinking she deserved my sympathy.

I was all set to sign up for a credit card I did not want to help someone who didn’t need my help.

I don’t usually fall for the patter of these slick salespeople who are all teeth and big smiles – except, maybe, for Stewart in the Lewis Crofters. It’s not that long since I went into that emporium for a packet of nails and came out with a shedload – literally. He flogged me a shed.

Still, having two sheds is OK; it gives me a choice of places in which to sulk.

So how do you know you are having a midlife crisis? I’ve read about that sort of thing in the magazines that Ken Macdonald leaves lying about in the Bayhead Dental Clinic for men who know nothing about that sort of thing. I must have secretly wanted to run away with Perma-tan and have her babies. It was a secret, all right; I hadn’t actually realised it myself.

It’s all about hormones and trying new things, those magazines say.

Offered a berth on this week’s yacht expedition to Rockall, I said yes. Then came to me a vision of a magnificent mermaid brushing her silky locks, perched atop the rock beckoning me slowly, slowly, slowly.

It was the exciting combination of that lingering smile, like Sally Magnusson’s at the end of Reporting Scotland, and that long, silver, glistening tail – like an ungutted haddock on Ronnie Scott’s slab. Wow.

Unfortunately, I confided about my mounting anticipation to Herself. Now I am not allowed to go. I haven't worked out what she thinks could happen.

Last week, she was nipping me about the extending list of jobs she wants done. I need to be nagged, otherwise nothing gets done. I don't tell her that, obviously. I merely responded that her constant nagging was such that if her older sister, Joey, a remarkably well-preserved bun-vendor over Plasterfield way, was in the market for a toyboy, I would consider helping her out. Well, you have to say something to keep their interest. It certainly stopped Herself in mid-nag, though.

On Saturday afternoon, Josephine popped in for afternoon tea. Then Herself announced, between mouthfuls of cream crackers, that I had expressed an earnest desire to be her big sister’s little plaything. The more-experienced woman batted not one eyelid. Her portals were henceforth open unto me, she declared, as I writhed in crimson embarrassment.

She imposed only one condition for taking me off her wee sister's hands: I have to get rid of my wee tickler. No, not that. My goatee. Small price to pay, I thought. Now where's that razor?

If the womenfolk are not exactly fighting over me yet, I have a feeling it won’t be long till that happens. I think I could get used to this midlife crisis.

It's going very well so far.