how old do you feel, Jenny?’ Stoney continued, even more bluntly, he felt.
‘About sixty,’ she replied and laughed at her own joke; her kids joined in the merriment although one teenage boy looked embarrassed. The fact was his mum did look sixty, he probably thought.
‘Fair enough,’ Stoney said, mugging at the camera with mock horror. ‘How old do you think others reckon you look?’
Jenny shrugged. This was a tough question, the man decided. ‘You’re damned either way,’ he cautioned the mother of four.
She played it safe. ‘Oh, well, I probably look every one of my years but I reckon if I had a bit more time for myself . . . you know, to take better care of myself, then I could look better for my age.’
‘A diplomatic answer,’ he said to Jenny.
‘What with four kids, and I’m a single mum, my mortgage, working shifts . . . I’ve no time to do much for myself,’ she continued.
He put his head to one side and pulled a face that feigned sympathy. ‘You’re bleating now, Jen; at least before you were trying to be honest.’ He waved a finger at her as he sipped the Scotch. Her skin was dull, her complexion discoloured by age spots and probably too much cheap holiday sun in earlier years on the beach at Majorca. ‘And I think you smoke, don’t you, Jenny?’ he asked, making a soft tut-tuttingnoise. ‘And you had quite bad acne as a teenager, I suspect.’
‘Well, come on,’ Stoney said, oozing energy and enthusiasm, dressed like a teen, looking about twenty-five but probably edging into her late thirties. ‘Why don’t we go and find out what age people really think you look.’
Jenny looked suddenly coy. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
As if she hadn’t responded, Stoney talked over her. ‘And then we’ll Turn Back The Clock for you with the help of our expert team. I promise you kids,’ she said, trying to involve them all of a sudden, ‘you won’t know your mum! What do you think, Melissa?’
Melissa, who looked to be the eldest, shrugged. ‘I like her like she is. She’s Mum.’
That obviously wasn’t the answer Stoney wanted from the teenage girl. ‘I think your mum desperately wants to Turn Back the Clock ,’ she said, leering again at the camera, making sure no one missed how clever she was to be able to keep repeating the program’s title, ‘and we can help her. Come on!’
Another ad break began and he drained his glass, checked his watch. They’d be at least another fifteen to twenty minutes, he imagined, even if the taxi had arrived straight away to pick them up.
Stoney was back, dragging her newest, bestest friend into shops and through the covered mall, leaping at unsuspecting shoppers and thrusting a microphone into their faces.
‘Tell me, sir, how old do you think this woman looks?’
‘Er, fifty-five or so?’ He didn’t know whether to smile or look embarrassed.
‘Thank you, sir. We’re just getting an opinion, thank you. Madam . . . madam, sorry to interruptyour shopping but can you give us just a moment and tell us how old you think Jenny here is?’
‘How old, you say?’
‘Yes. What age does she strike you as being?’
The woman took a moment. ‘Well, obviously I’m no mind reader but I reckon she’s in her mid fifties.’
‘Thank you,’ Stoney said, a smile pasted on her face permanently. She gave Jenny a sympathetic glance and they moved on.
One hundred answers were sought, although mercifully not all were shown . . . only the vaguely amusing ones, such as when a youngster thought Jenny was ‘A hundred and fifty three,’ which won a shriek from both women, and an old man said that he didn’t care how old she was, he’d give her one.
After one more ad break, Stoney was back and commiserating with Jenny. ‘Okay, my love,’ she said, condescendingly, ‘we’ve averaged out the answers we got from one hundred people and the age they’ve put on you is . . . are you ready for this?’ Jenny nodded bleakly. ‘Fifty-seven.’
Jenny
‘About sixty,’ she replied and laughed at her own joke; her kids joined in the merriment although one teenage boy looked embarrassed. The fact was his mum did look sixty, he probably thought.
‘Fair enough,’ Stoney said, mugging at the camera with mock horror. ‘How old do you think others reckon you look?’
Jenny shrugged. This was a tough question, the man decided. ‘You’re damned either way,’ he cautioned the mother of four.
She played it safe. ‘Oh, well, I probably look every one of my years but I reckon if I had a bit more time for myself . . . you know, to take better care of myself, then I could look better for my age.’
‘A diplomatic answer,’ he said to Jenny.
‘What with four kids, and I’m a single mum, my mortgage, working shifts . . . I’ve no time to do much for myself,’ she continued.
He put his head to one side and pulled a face that feigned sympathy. ‘You’re bleating now, Jen; at least before you were trying to be honest.’ He waved a finger at her as he sipped the Scotch. Her skin was dull, her complexion discoloured by age spots and probably too much cheap holiday sun in earlier years on the beach at Majorca. ‘And I think you smoke, don’t you, Jenny?’ he asked, making a soft tut-tuttingnoise. ‘And you had quite bad acne as a teenager, I suspect.’
‘Well, come on,’ Stoney said, oozing energy and enthusiasm, dressed like a teen, looking about twenty-five but probably edging into her late thirties. ‘Why don’t we go and find out what age people really think you look.’
Jenny looked suddenly coy. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
As if she hadn’t responded, Stoney talked over her. ‘And then we’ll Turn Back The Clock for you with the help of our expert team. I promise you kids,’ she said, trying to involve them all of a sudden, ‘you won’t know your mum! What do you think, Melissa?’
Melissa, who looked to be the eldest, shrugged. ‘I like her like she is. She’s Mum.’
That obviously wasn’t the answer Stoney wanted from the teenage girl. ‘I think your mum desperately wants to Turn Back the Clock ,’ she said, leering again at the camera, making sure no one missed how clever she was to be able to keep repeating the program’s title, ‘and we can help her. Come on!’
Another ad break began and he drained his glass, checked his watch. They’d be at least another fifteen to twenty minutes, he imagined, even if the taxi had arrived straight away to pick them up.
Stoney was back, dragging her newest, bestest friend into shops and through the covered mall, leaping at unsuspecting shoppers and thrusting a microphone into their faces.
‘Tell me, sir, how old do you think this woman looks?’
‘Er, fifty-five or so?’ He didn’t know whether to smile or look embarrassed.
‘Thank you, sir. We’re just getting an opinion, thank you. Madam . . . madam, sorry to interruptyour shopping but can you give us just a moment and tell us how old you think Jenny here is?’
‘How old, you say?’
‘Yes. What age does she strike you as being?’
The woman took a moment. ‘Well, obviously I’m no mind reader but I reckon she’s in her mid fifties.’
‘Thank you,’ Stoney said, a smile pasted on her face permanently. She gave Jenny a sympathetic glance and they moved on.
One hundred answers were sought, although mercifully not all were shown . . . only the vaguely amusing ones, such as when a youngster thought Jenny was ‘A hundred and fifty three,’ which won a shriek from both women, and an old man said that he didn’t care how old she was, he’d give her one.
After one more ad break, Stoney was back and commiserating with Jenny. ‘Okay, my love,’ she said, condescendingly, ‘we’ve averaged out the answers we got from one hundred people and the age they’ve put on you is . . . are you ready for this?’ Jenny nodded bleakly. ‘Fifty-seven.’
Jenny
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