Miracle Cure

I’ve been so worried of late. So much to do, so little time. Nowhere to live, nowhere to hide.

No matter, I’ve found the solution. Botox. A glass and a half full of botox injected into my brow and no one would guess I’ve a care in the world. It’s more addictive than chocolate. And less fattening. And the children think Mummy is less cross. Magic.

The tiny needle-wielding Doctor talks with energy about his range of miracle skin cures. I yearn for them all. Whilst I would guess he’s the same age as me, on the Doctor's brow there is not a wrinkle to be seen. I think he practices what he preaches, but I could be wrong. Last week when I visited the Temple of Dermatology he told me that Caucasians are more animated than Asians and talk with more expression. I think that was his way of explaining kindly why I have so many more wrinkles. Or of denying that he’s had more botox.

They’re all at it. The Plastic Surgeon who sewed up my daughter’s head has a red velvet cushion on his desk. It is embroidered in gold with the words “Botox saved my marriage”. He too is smooth and unlined. I want to ask him about it but I fear five more minutes in his consulting room may double the bill.

When I go with my daughter to have her stitches removed, the trauma of the day she was sewn up is still too fresh in her mind and she refuses to climb on the operating table. In the end she relents only if I agree to lie with her. We snuggle up, my arm stretched out above my head to prevent me from falling off the narrow bed. I become aware that someone is stroking my hand. I look up and realise the Plastic Surgeon has taken hold of my paw in the mistaken belief he is comforting my daughter. I wonder if I should say something or pull away. Before I can he notices his mistake and is flustered with embarrassment. Even the botox can’t hide his discomfort. I laugh, but only to myself (fewer lines) and briefly wonder if I can use this little episode to sting him for a free shot of my favourite drug.