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SEVEN

“Apply liberally over face and neck and lie back for the most relaxing seven minutes of your life”.  Hmm.  It seems a tall claim for a face-pack to me, but what the hell?  It’s supposed to also make me look “younger and more vibrant as it dries on your skin” and I somehow feel sympathy for it as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror.
“Good luck. You’ve got your work cut out.”  I murmur as I smear the sticky white mess over my face and neck as instructed.
Right.  Done that.  I avoid looking in the mirror as I now resemble something out of Doctor Who and lay back gratefully onto the cushions on the floor.  Seven minutes of relaxation – what could be easier?  After thirty seconds my nose starts to tickle.  Ignore it.  I grit my teeth and try to think of something else but it’s no good – a sneeze is on its way and it’s unstoppable.  After I’ve cleaned off the face pack that has liberally artexed the wall in front of me I settle down again.  Six minutes to go.  Time to start relaxing.
The doorbell rings.  Sitting up, I can see it’s the postman waiting at the door and he may have brought that top I ordered from eBay.  I have to answer the door, despite my unusual appearance.  Eric almost manages to conceal his flinch as I open the door and grab the parcel from him.
“’Ere, love.  I do hope that’s a face pack!” he chuckles as I hastily close the door.  I can’t reply or smile back anyway as the wretched thing has now started to harden and encased my face in something approaching concrete.
Tossing the parcel onto the floor next to me, I throw myself back onto the cushions – four and a half minutes to get relaxed.  I close my eyes just as the phone rings, but I won’t get up and answer it.  Any of my friends will leave a message and I can ring them back.  The only person who will chatter incessantly into the answer phone until I finally give up would be Mum.  It’s Mum.  
Sighing, I lift the receiver “Hi Mum” I mutter through gritted teeth and solid lips.
There’s a pause.  “Is that you, Sarah?  Is there something wrong with your voice?”
“No Mum, I’m fine.  What can I do for you?”
“Why are you talking so quietly – you sound really weird.  Have you been kidnapped?”
Mum’s been reading far too many spy novels recently.
“Of course not, it’s…”
“Oh my God.  You’ve had a stroke!  Auntie Georgie had her first one when she was about your age.  I’m coming straight over.”
My resolve cracks at the same moment as my face pack and I yell “I’m fine!  It’s a damn face pack!” but she’s already hung up.
I sit there despondently asking, not for the first time, why I have to have such a flaky mother, although the irony is not lost on me as the white flakes cascade off my face and into my teacup.  It’s true that Auntie Georgie had her first stroke at 40 but then she had been drinking a bottle of Scotch a day since she was 12.
One minute to go and I’m pacing about the floor fretfully looking at my watch waiting for the time I can wash this muck off my face.  Finally, after much scraping of fingernails to try to remove the rest of the mud-like covering, I pat my face dry on the towel just as the doorbell rings again.

My mother explodes through the door in her customary fashion only to discover I have not had a stroke and there are no armed kidnappers in the flat.  Waltzing into the kitchen to put the kettle on she casually remarks over her shoulder “Are you sure you’re OK, darling?  You do look terribly tense.  You really should learn to relax more.”