THERE is something about January that always makes me sluggish, tired and jet-lagged. Until last Thursday, I had been sleeping all day and staying up all night. For some bizarre reason, I was on New Zealand time. I know this because I was able to talk on the phone to my friends on the other side of the world during their lunch break.
The feeling of jet lag was extremely odd as I hadn't left Glasgow since early December. That trip itself was hardly a worldwide expedition – I only went through to Edinburgh to perform some comedy.
Maybe crossing the M8 at 60mph can induce som
e strange form of time- travelling exhaustion.
But, somewhere along the way, I turned into a sleepy slob. Since Hogmanay, I had been sitting in my pyjamas without a hint of make-up and I hadn't taken a shower in days. I smelled a bit like Arbroath.
I had been adventurous enough to take trips to the local shops, albeit in my pink cat pyjamas and wearing no bra. My only concession to vanity was to wrap up my saggy body in a big coat.
I am glad I didn't get hit by a car or become involved in any other type of accident that required stripping me. Impersonating the smelly cat lady was not a good image.
My local friendly shopkeeper, Ali, looked slightly worried when I shuffled in.
My unruly, curly hair had been slowly developing dreadlocks and there was a distinct, shocking white "Mallen streak" creeping across the crown of my head. I had a full-on moustache sneaking in. I looked like Tom Selleck's twin sister.
I had been sporting what most women like to call "winter legs" – a reference to some hairy undergrowth – but what I like to describe as my "Tommy Sheridan shrubbery".
Waxing, shaving and plucking became inevitable. It costs me about £30 a month to remotely resemble a female.
The shop was full of students back from the festive holidays and even they eyed me pitifully.
"Are you OK, Janey?" Ali asked.
"Yes, I'm fine," I snapped back. "Do you think I look ill?"
"You look like you have just come out of a hostage situation," he laughed and pointed out that his disposable razors were on special offer. I bought three packets.
I think the problem stemmed from the fact that I was soon going to be 47 years old. And now I am.
I became 47 yesterday and this particular birthday freaks me out.
My mammy died at this age and somewhere in my deep, tortured psyche, I am convinced the end is nigh. I know that's really irrational, but I can't shake it off.
I suppose I keep picturing my mammy at my age and, back then, she really was an old woman. She had no teeth and her wrinkly skin is forever stuck indelibly in my mind's eye. Her life was over at 47. Maybe my life is over and I too am destined to die soon.
My mother's mother died at 38; the women in my family don't live long.
"Your mum died in suspicious circumstances in the River Clyde," my daughter, Ashley, said, trying to soothe my fears. "That is not an inherited illness. You don't have a violent boyfriend who is trying to kill you, do you?"
I know she is right and I am being stupid. So I have decided to get my grungy life into perspective.
The January blues have now been banished and, at the very least, my new bra provides the right support. Knee-length boobs are not what the hip girls are wearing.
I booked myself into the hairdresser's last Thursday and had my roots done for my Cardiff comedy gigs.
It took some deep delving into my irrational fears to realise that the past does not equal the future and I am not the woman my mother was.
Women born in the 1930s inner-city slums of Glasgow were born to accept that life is a series of tragic events.
No-one but Hollywood starlets could expect to look wrinkle-free in their middle age and, as soon as the children grew up, your job as a woman was done back then.
I want much more.
I am 47 years old now and still alive. That, in my family, is a bonus. And this afternoon I am off to Prague to celebrate my birthday in style.
All human life is here in A&E – even comicsI HAD cause to be in the Western Infirmary's accident and emergency unit in Glasgow recently.
A huge fat teenager in his best sports wear (maybe he was in training for the forthcoming Commonwealth Games, in the running-with-a-knife event?) came in behind me.
He let rip a foul tirade of abuse at the wee woman on reception.
Three seconds later, five policemen came out and hustled him to the door.
"My da' is f*****g dying!" he yelled.
Just then, the double doors banged open and there stood an old man with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
He had bare, mottled legs and was wearing a dirty old towelling robe and jangling enough gold bracelets to justify being Glasgow's oldest white rapper. "Son," he spoke quietly, "give yer da' a light for his fag and stop annoying the polis."
And people pay to see comedy …
The full article contains 910 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
