The much-loved author, who died last week, wrote for the Guardian for more than 30 years. Here are edited extracts from some of her most memorable columns
- The day I offered myself up as ‘dessert’ – Michele Hanson’s final column
- Teenagers, ageing and tortoise sex – Michele Hanson was so full of mischief and wisdom
24 February 1997
Harsh new world
Apparently, the children are under great stress nowadays and no wonder. The world is going down the drain and they must go with it. Here we are, plagued by Third World Debt, pollution, corruption, festering mountains of nuclear waste, rampaging new disease, poisoned hamburgers and Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals. No wonder today’s youth seem rather wild.
26 May 1997
I should have danced all night
It is difficult to leave an elderly mother alone at night. I long to rush out into the night and go dancing. But where can I go for a dance at my age? Last year, we tried Seventies Night at the Camden Palace. We arrived at 9pm but the place was empty. We danced alone. Then we tried again, to a big band in Brixton. Whole families, even grandmas and babies, were all there, all jumping about, but the decibels were still a problem. I stuffed tissue into my ears, but it went too far and I couldn’t retrieve it. Escort had to take me home and remove it by torchlight with pointy medical tweezers, which rather spoiled our evening.
23 June 1997
The way of all flesh
Fat pulped over her knicker elastic, dividing each side of her bottom into two. What used to be visible panty-line was now glaring panty-gorge, rather like a motorway cutting through a mountain range of blubber. Olivia sat down on her ghastly bottom and wept.
She is not alone. Though relatively thin, I, too, feel tragic in fitting rooms. It has come as a dreadful shock to both of us to find our flesh hanging rather than rippling. It seems rather sudden. One minute we can wear shorts, the next it’s jellabas only. For a few days, we blamed ourselves.
28 August 2000
Wild at heart
Rosemary and I are off to an Over Fifties Festival. Promises of wine tasting and line dancing have tempted us. But as we follow the little black arrows pointing to Over Fifties, Over Fifties, Over Fifties, I begin to feel rather glum. We are trooping along with all the other old people, which means that we are old as well. I didn’t think I minded, but I do. I should have brought my mother as a cover. Then I could have pretended it was all for her benefit. I would have been the young person shoving the old, infirm one about in a wheelchair, but this time I am here on my own account. Horrid.
July 29 2002
A deluge of beastliness
What a world! Fielding and I are close to despair. Poor Fielding was tapping away at his email, expecting some pleasant messages, when up popped “Amazing Anal Tight Holes”. It gave him a bit of a turn. In his youth, Fielding used to grow rather overheated looking at his mother’s knitting-pattern book, so the modern welter of in-your-face sex/porn/filth on his telly makes him feel quite ill. “You know when you’ve just been sick and you go all cold and prickly. I tend to steer clear,” says he.
5 June 2007
I bath once a week – if I have to
Some sensible news at last. Childcare experts are now advising parents not to bath their children every day. They ought to wash their hands, faces, necks and bottoms daily, but three baths a week is quite enough. I still think that’s overdoing it a bit. I bath once a week, sometimes twice, if I absolutely have to, and sometimes, with a bit of luck, I do not bath for 10 days. I play with the filthy dogs and I have no deodorant. My gas bill is minimal.
The Daughter, who baths and showers a squillion times a week, with oils, gels, scrubs, mousses and foams, is fairly horrified by all this. But I don’t think I stink. Daughter would never allow it. She regularly inspects when visiting, keeping a sharp lookout for nasty bodily defects, especially when we are out and about: spinach on the teeth, ill-fitting brassiere, grubby glasses, hairy legs. And, most importantly, she is on permanent whisker watch. We may be on our way to some glamorous venue, when a new whisker will glint in the sun and Daughter, who is very hands-on in emergencies, will rip it from my chin and save us from public humiliation.
17 April 2009
Not your average beauty pageant
In 1972, in a converted jigsaw factory in Hackney, east London, the sculptor Andrew Logan held his first Alternative Miss World party. I entered as Miss Ruislip. Why not? It wasn’t serious. Logan had always loved giving parties, but this was the best ever, with a miniature indoor pond, a catwalk and judges, and being a contestant was a tremendously liberating experience. If you have felt like an ungainly, long-nosed, pin-headed weirdo for most of your life, as I did, then entering a beauty competition is something of a breakthrough. Suddenly, in my horrid daywear overalls, knee bandage and grim giant swimming knickers, I felt fabulously confident and glamorous. I pulled my pink rubber gloves on and off, swirled my mop stylishly, pranced up and down the catwalk and won second place. I was, for a few magical moments, queen of all fluffies. Better still, no one was jealous. Any gender, with any background, of any age, or any species can win. This first Alternative Miss World must have been the jolliest, most imaginative, ridiculous, daring and non-competitive competition ever.
2 December 2016
Becoming single at 62
On 1 April, 11 years ago, I looked into my spare room to check that it really was empty. Yes, it was. My partner of 12 years had finally gone. This was a situation I had feared for most of my life: being single, being one of those pathetic creatures – a spinster, unlovable, who cannot sustain a relationship, who turns to dogs because no one else would have her. Perhaps that’s why this separation had been such a long time coming. We’d been mouldering along for years, not really liking each other much.
It took a few months of nagging, but eventually that room was empty, and instead of feeling scared, I felt great. Free, free at last, like a rat let out of its trap. I could do what I liked, when I liked. I could choose my own favourite plants for the garden, background music, wattage of light bulbs, which parties or films to go to, or whether the dog could sleep on the bed. I’d forgotten how lovely it is to make my own mind up about anything and everything. Any friend could visit at any time. A life full of conversations dawned, rather than dronings and lecturettes.
Then I finished a history degree, moved house, and wrote a book: “all by myself”. Which is what I used to say, my mother told me, when I was about three, and she was interfering. Because I could manage quite well on my own. And I still can, thank you very much.
22 February 2017
Living to 90 and beyond? No thanks
Worrying news for people in developed countries who will be born in 2030. A new study suggests their life expectancy will exceed 90. I dread to think what next year’s estimate will be, because life in your 90s is not always much fun. My mother lived to 98. It was difficult and frustrating for her from 90 to 95, losing her independence, and hellish after her stroke in her mid-90s – by which time she was longing to die, often begging me and the hospital consultants to finish her off. “We can’t help you with that, I’m afraid,” said one consultant, and I had to look the other way and have a little cry.
In the UK, our health and social care setups are going down the pan already. What state are they going to be in after 2030? I imagine 70- and 80-year-old children tottering around caring for their ancient parents. Unless they’re still working, because who can afford to be retired for 25-30 years? I am frightened of death, but becoming almost more frightened of living to a very old age in this country. But perhaps I won’t have to. There are always caveats to these reports: climate change, natural disasters, new and uncontrollable diseases or gigantic wars may wipe out millions of us. I don’t like to sound too dismal, but I no longer know which is the worse option. Read more....