I remember a friend who was married to a food writer complaining that since magazines shoot their December issue months ahead, they had already had four Christmases in their house, and it was still only August. I’m suffering for a small case of premature publication myself as because my book is out in February, I’m doing some articles for magazines that are going to press now but which won’t hit the newsstand until next year.
Compared to some of our authors here at Pedantic, however, I’m certainly not gobbling up the column inches like crisps at an office party. So, I was really excited when a magazine I’ve worked for occasionally in the past, got in touch and said they wanted me to write something to tie in with a plug for my book, but there was a catch.
‘You have to be a certain age, and I’m sure you’re not,’ said the editor.
She was being kind. I am. ‘So what do you want me to write about?’ I asked, thinking, so what if I'm old - dosh and a by-line is a win-win situation.
Her reply pinged back: ‘We’re asking some couples to review various sex manuals and write a short piece on how it worked out, and we want you to do the one that recommends not having sex as a means of boosting libido.’
Oh.
Why do you have to be over 49 to do that?
‘And we’ll need a picture of you and your husband.’
Well, this raises (or not as the case may be) a few problems. Though I am, unfortunately, old enough to pass the old crone test, a little hitch would be that I don’t, strictly speaking, have a husband any more since he left home six months ago.
And, though this might go some way to explaining how this sorry state of affairs came to pass, correct me if I’m wrong, but how is not having sex as a means of improving your sex life any different from the normal not having sex because you can’t be bothered?
So I had to decline. But not before laughing heartily at the idea of my very sober academic ex-husband agreeing to have his picture taken for an article about sex manuals. It was almost worth begging him to come back, just to see the expression on his face when I suggested it. Forget saving your marriage, it seemed like an almost perfect way to guarantee a divorce.
‘Well then, what about dating?’ suggested the editor, seamlessly, ‘ February is also the Valentine issue and we’re doing something on blind dates, would you write about that?’
Hackery, thy name is Marion, I agreed immediately and article written, I was summoned for a few days later for a photo shoot.
‘What dress size do you wear?’ asked the editor. I whispered the answer down the phone hoping that my colleagues at Pedantic Press thought it was the age of my teenage daughter who had miraculously become several years younger. I then realised that when I couldn’t fit into any of the clothes I was going to feel really stupid. And Fletzish. But would it matter? It would probably only be a snap. The Times photographer took two shots of my face in my garden and it was over. The Guardian had a sub-editor with a camera in a cupboard. And the last time I had a big byline picture taken I was standing next to a man in a pink suit wearing eyeliner and mascara and lipstick, all of which he had applied himself before leaving the house. Believe me, I could have grown antlers and nobody would have noticed me.
So off I went to a studio in North London to be met by the Picture Editor, a photographer, her assistant, a hair and make-up person, a stylist, a rack of clothes, a row of shoes, lunch, polenta cake and a small child in a turban waving a palm frond – oh well, okay then – a wind machine.
Three hours later I was transformed from office drudge to drag queen at an S&M club, with a row of large bulldog clips clipped to my person (apparently they are used to people minimizing their size and always provide larger clothes) and smiling like I was on day release from the asylum.
Ah the glamorous world of print journalism.
Thank goodness for Photoshop.
