CINDERELLAS ON A SATURDAY NIGHT

Saturday evenings used to be the high point of our week before we were visited upon by this blight. We slogged it out from Monday to Friday and at the end of it, we threw on our glad rags and went out on a spree with our friends, this other couple. We’d been doing this on a regular basis for the last ten years or so. Call it a luxury or an indulgence…but after a certain age when your children have spread their wings and gone to roost elsewhere…you’ve earned it…somewhat like the ads for expensive creams that say…BECAUSE YOU’RE WORTH IT! The four of us wining and dining on Saturday nights became a ritual hammered out in stone. On good days we chatted and sauntered to our night spot under a night sky sprinkled with stars and on rainy days, when there were drum rolls of thunder and the heavens cracked open, we braved it, huddling under our big black umbrellas…squishing our way along the narrow streets of the old port of Chania… to the warm embrace of a Saturday night haunt.

I would call dining out… an artistic expression… when one’s other self, the alter ego, the ` other I’, comes out to play… not the Jekyll and Hyde kind… but more the Cinderella kind… toiling in the cinders and then magically transforming into Cinderella in the golden carriage and glass slippers. For me, there was the weekday self…the` I ‘ that kept my nose close to the grindstone…endless hours in the classroom…then walking out, trailing smells of children, particularly of teenagers in sweaty clothes and unwashed trainers. I left all that behind when I retired and then began… to exude the scent of food. I had more time on my hands so I cooked more elaborate dishes… throwing in more ingredients… watching them splutter in hot oil…chucking in chicken bones into a huge pot to bubble down to a thick stock… to add complexity and depth to my dishes. Then I found there were whiffs of garlic and onions on my clothes and sniffs of curry in my hair as I dashed out of the house to the greengrocer’s. It was also the self that bore traces of manual labour… dirt under my nails or nail varnish chipped off after pottering around and digging in the garden.

But come Saturday evening, I would slip into this illusionary self. It was a ritual to be savoured. I emerged from the bathroom in a warm cloud of steam, smelling of… Body Shop. I felt like one of those pampered women in glossy magazines. I had all the time in the world. I would start with my curly mop, training it to fall in waves into the coiffured style of film stars of yesteryears… Alas, I could somehow never carry that one off…..the very essence of my chaotic personality battled against it. Then I would sense the clock ticking loudly in my ears when I heard Yiannis ascending the stairs to nip into the bathroom for a quick shower. I’d quickly settle for an untidy but interesting bob and go into the well practised steps of applying my make up…..particularly my lipstick, a dripping red.

But before Yiannis could  step out of the shower, I would fling the cupboard doors open and hurriedly pull his clothes off the hangers and throw them on the bed….. an ensemble that would keep him quiet and give me the space to finger the silk skirt that would cling to my legs, a fine cashmere top with a bit of décolletage…..just a nuance of sophisticated suggestiveness….. Then he comes dripping into the room, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the parquet floor and towel tied around his widening girth, ready to boom off that dreaded question…..` WHAT SHALL I WEAR? ‘….. because he claims he’s colour blind…..artfully suggesting that I risk being seen with a man garbed in mismatched colours…Phew!… as if it wasn’t enough that I buy all his clothes because he refuses to shop for himself, insisting he’s got all the clothes he needs…..pointing to the cupboard on the landing, where his clothes of the 80’s hang. There is always the hidden threat that if I didn’t manage his wardrobe, he would suck in his tummy and squeeze into his 80’s clothes, finger tips pushed into the front pockets, trying to look cool and blasé  and uttering something like…` Hey look! They still fit me!’ Whenever I complain to his mother about it, trying to plant the blame on her… for spoiling him…she smiles at me indulgently, arching one eyebrow and saying what she always says…` Yes, but he’s such a good boy. ‘ Seen in that context… I suppose I’ll just go on being the` good boy’s’ personal fashion stylist and shopper.

Then it’s my turn to get dressed. I step into the clothes I had tried on, on Friday, to buy me more time on Saturday, but somehow they look different and feel different…the silk skirt a little too cold against the skin for winter…the cashmere top a little too ticklish…Oh what the hell… I’ll just stick to my tried and tested clothes. After all, we’re going to a different place…different waiters and hopefully different diners. My friend claims she has the same problem as me…trying on a dozen clothes and deciding on the same ones. What really matters, I convince myself, is a pair of striking earrings and glossy red lipstick. Just armed with those two accessories…I could face whatever challenges the world throws at me. Then I hear him bellowing out …` Are you ready? We’re late as it is! ‘ I say nothing but descend the stairs coolly…and he mutters…` I don’t know why it takes you so long.’… My friend tells me that her husband gets into the car and calls her on her mobile while she’s trying out one last outfit in a panic.

We walk into the dimly lit restaurant and our ears pick up the strains of Careless Whisper…the saxophone mellow and soulful drawing us into the embrace of this magical world of dining out…where the stage is set for us to glide into our other self. Chania, is a small town and there are only a certain number of smart dining places… we run into the same people and they run into us but we all appear transformed, attired in our alter egos… vivacious and even glamorous, throwing our heads back and laughing … women with a spray of perfume, a bit of sparkle and lace and clicking heels and men in smart crisp shirts. My friend and I run down the wine list, pointing with our lacquered nails. The waiter bearing a charming smile, bends towards us with a touch of obsequiousness…just how we like it…and suggests some excellent wines and we nod our heads knowingly. Throughout this delightful ceremonious toing and froing of wine and food, the two spouses, the bright boys, thrash out all global issues and border confrontations and resolve them while world leaders are still at an impasse. My friend and I, however, sip our wine, comment on its bouquet, slip delectable morsels into our mouths and run the gamut of intellectual pursuits and come down to our favourite ones…she… about the different kinds of sourdough she has stored in glass jars, which double up as kitchen décor and…I… the study of lipsticks … their shades and textures… and the cherry on the pie… how we don’t have any clothes to wear in a cupboard full of clothes.

Our Saturday night escapades are on hold now until this blight blows over and hopefully we can pick up from where we left off…and step into our glass slippers once again.

Till next Friday then… and stay well.