Angels with balls by Trevor Plumbly
Why can’t a woman be more like a man?
Such was Rex Harrison’s query in the musical ‘My Fair Lady’. In those days the lyric had a bit of matey logic about it: blokes were blokes and women were expected to know, and even enjoy, the place allotted to them by the male of the species.
Fortunately, due to a lot of resistance from the ladies and a bit more enlightened thinking from the intelligent males, most of that rubbish has all but disappeared. Women, I’ve found, are generally pleasanter creatures; being less combative than the male, they rarely start wars and generally treat social debate as a pleasure rather than an invitation to an intellectual slug-fest.
Escapist that I am, I have avoided lawyers and doctors for many years; I have the theory that one rarely visits them for good news, but needs must and all that. First-up was the legal stuff. Our new lawyer was a no-nonsense woman who, after the pleasantries, got straight to business. We explained our needs: a Will, Power of Attorney and a review of the Family Trust. Without the benefit of a single Latin word, she outlined the solutions, a time frame and details of her fee structure. Suddenly, what we’d been dumping in the too hard box for years has been achieved in a few days. After a bad fall (we blindies do that), Pam suggested I consult her doctor. This gentle lady (not PC but it’s the best description), convinced me that I was her most important patient and went on to prove it by spending 20 minutes on her day off to check my well-being. The specialist she referred me to was another member of the no-nonsense club, explaining the problems step by step in a way we could both understand and went on to help us through the convoluted process as quickly as she could network.
Plumbly and Hyde
Having already confessed to escapism, I might as well admit to having a self-induced dual-personality. It’s been a pretty stressful few months for us, but I’ve offset that by manipulating my image. The trick is to look as if you are coping bravely. People tend to shy away from obvious pain, but they love a stoic; faced with my grin and bear it facade, they mutter all sorts of nice things about me. On home turf however, it’s a different story. Things that aren’t in their accustomed place are part of a major conspiracy to bugger up my day, obstacles left in my path get greeted with muttered oaths or enunciated curses depending on their injury potential and, due to the recent fall, a persistent chorus of groans of pain. The principal audience of this verbal bleating bears it with the same uncomplaining patience she’s shown towards me for the forty-five years of our married life. So, going back to ‘Why can’t a woman be more like a man?’ let’s thank God women are not like men, Mr Harrison. Consider, please, Donald Trump; who wants any woman to be more like him?