Holistic Sparks

Yesterday, an ominous looking parcel arrived for me. I knew what it was.
'What is it?' said Andy.
'My therapist uniform,' I said. 'The all-black-polyester-two-sizes-bigger-than-I-normally-take-and-I'll-cry-if-it-doesn't-fit doo-dah.'
'Try it on, try it on!' said Andy, displaying an up-to-now unrevealed interest in women in uniform.

Well, I did. And it fitted in a stream-lined kind of way. And it crackled. It highlighted my natural inclination to produce static. I feared for my potential clients. Especially the ones with pace makers.

In the packaging was a folder containing money-off offers 'for your next order.'
'What on earth makes them think I will be placing a further order?' I said to Andy. 'I've only got this because I have to wear it for the course practical. I can't be spending the rest of my life walking about sounding like frying bacon and sending sparks hither and thither. God knows what's going to happen when I get in the car to go to Reflexology 3 this evening.'

The car makes me produce static, too. I have to close the door using my hand on the glass of the door window; if I touch the metal, it really hurts and makes me jump which may be hilarious to witness but sets my teeth on edge.

Anyway, I crackled my way to my class, picking up the tutor on the way because she lives close by and her usual lift had forgotten her.
'You look very smart,' she said.
'I feel like a polyester salami,' I crackled.

In class, we learned the routine for diaphragm, solar plexus, head, brain and face. At one point, my foot buddy, Gina, let out a little burpette as I went about my caterpillar walk across her diaphragm zone.
'I think you may have drifted into the digestive system,' said the tutor.

Anyway, two and half hours later, I was feeling like a boil-in-the-bag salami, because of a) polyester's complete inability as a fabric to breathe and b) my body's complete inability to regulate its temperature at the moment. But at least the crackling had eased off. I even risked a trip to the loo, traversing a nylon carpet with no ill consequence, but I think my shoes must have some kind of rubber sole to them, thank the Lord and Clarke's.

I also discovered that using talc when performing reflexology is not a good idea when dressed in black polyester tunic-n-trousers. I think the examining board probably haven't thought this one through very well, not if they expect students to maintain a professional appearance at all times.

My uniform is hanging in the wardrobe waiting for next week. I have attached my membership badges for the FTH and CthA, although I am now worrying that maybe fixing metal to polyester mightn't be a good idea. I could earth myself with some Marigolds and wellies, I suppose. Or, when the course is over, chop up the uniform and use it as a pattern to make myself a nice combination in purple, crackle-proof cotton.

Talking of which, you know the poem 'When I Am Old, I Shall Wear Purple?' Well, I'm beginning to wonder if this poem is wrongly titled. Because I bought a new coat at the weekend, having decided my old winter coat of the past four winters is unlikely to survive another. And this new coat is...purple. And it goes beautifully with my purple hand-bag. And the purple shoes I bought at the beginning of the year.

Oooh-er. P'raps this purple thing is hormone related.P'raps it happens to all women of a certain age. P'raps it should be a case of 'When You Are Old, You WILL Wear Purple - Even Though It Makes You Look Like a Giant Aubergine.'