Being Miss Marple

Midsummer by Albert Moore.

Warm isn't it? More like July than May.

I could have done with someone fanning me in the train today.

I went to see The Cult of Beauty at the V&A last week.

I can't remember much about it because I seethed my way round.

The following exchange at the ticket desk is to blame

for my ugly mood.

Me to man at desk.

'Please could I have a £12 ticket?'

(Full price.)

Man looks up.

'Twelve tickets?' he says incredulously.

'Are you mad?' he didn't say, but his face did.

Me.

'No, I just need one £12 ticket please.'

Man looks back at screen.

'Actually - £9,' he says firmly.

(Concessionary price.)

'Oh. OK. Thank you,' I say through a rictus grin.

Because what was I supposed to do?

He clearly knew better than I do, how old I am.

A queue was forming and an argument about my real age

would have been unseemly and ridiculous.

So - I gather that granny chic is all the thing

and I am going to embrace it.

Go with the flow.

Give up the battle.

Roll on 60.

Being Miss Marple is the way forward.

I went shopping and bought this

and this.

 I was going to model it but then I decided

I didn't want you all lining up to agree with the man on the desk.

Clearly the cream isn't working.