What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

I’m paranoid.  I have a tendency to overthink things to the point where things that may happen if I’m particularly unlucky become dead certs.  I’ve lived on Planet Earth for too long to be able just to brush things off with a dismissive ‘it’ll be OK’, particularly when the consequences of it not being OK are potentially catastrophic.

And if anything proves that point, it’s the day when I’d decided to have some Amanda time and got dressed in my finest only to receive a text about an imminent delivery.  It was a good job I received and acted on that text, changing back into my ‘civvies’ because less than 15 minutes after that text arrived, Mrs A returned home unannounced as she felt unwell. 

I was inordinately lucky that day but things can and do go wrong in our world.  I’ve come across more than one person who dressed in their finest figuring that it would be a one in a million chance of being caught in the act learning the hard way that even if the chance is one in a million, it’s the one you need to worry about, not the million.

Being caught in the act by my daughter who has returned home to live with a job that tolerates working from home several days a week has become an occupational hazard for me.  These days, covert CDing at home just doesn’t cut it for me and I need to be out and about.  I can leave sufficient time for her to have successfully caught her train and not reappeared at home because of one of Transport for London’s habitual cancellations before retrieving the stash.  I can get ready upstairs so even if, despite everything, the worst happens and she does reappear, I can shut myself in the bedroom while I remove everything and clean up.  I can check the surroundings before making my way to my car and setting off but what I can’t do is guarantee that she won’t have returned home unannounced while I was out and clap eyes on the strange woman entering our house, wondering who on earth she is before the penny drops a few seconds later.

The first few times, I just thought ‘sod it’ and took the risk but it still played on my mind until I hit on the perfect solution.  A piece of paper caught in the door, perhaps blown there by the wind as I was closing the door and visible from the outside.  As long as it was still there when I got back, I could enter the house safe in the knowledge that I’d be alone.  If it had disappeared, then it would be irrefutable evidence that someone had opened the door and entered.  And it worked like a dream.  And I have to say that I’m rather proud of myself for dreaming that particular strategy up.

Anyway, now having the reassurance that I’ll have early warning of the return of a family member while out on manoeuvres, time to move onto the next pressing issue – the journey itself.  Whilst I’m not averse to using public transport, the lack of radial routes in Greater London usually means the faff of travelling either in or towards Central London and then getting a different train back out.  It’s just easier to take the car.  But a lot more risky.

There are three main occupational hazards when driving – enforcement cameras, accidents and breakdowns – and, unfortunately, our current mayor’s war on drivers makes the probability of the former a lot higher than it really should be.  I’m usually quite a gladiatorial driver myself; every other road user is an idiot who probably never passed a driving test and London traffic is so bad that as soon as a bit of clear road opens up, it needs to be exploited.  But put me in a dress and heels and everything changes.  Speed limits and red lights are to be respected, not least because if I’m photographed by a speed/red light camera, I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do when the photo, along with the notice of intended prosecution, arrives by post a few days later.  And even when there is no risk of being ‘snapped’, I leave plenty of room to slow down, particularly if driving in heels to minimise the risk of hitting the car in front and I brake gently to give the car behind plenty of opportunity to avoid rear ending me.  I’d like to declare that I drive like a real woman when I’m out en femme but the honest truth around here is that many women, particularly young ones, are even more aggressive than their male counterparts so I’ll just leave it at the feeling that the drive is all part of the experience and it’s just nice to be out on the road without experiencing a desire to punish every other driver for their stupidity.

As for breakdowns/punctures, that could get interesting.  I’m a member of the AA (Automobile Association, not Alcoholics Anonymous although I’ve often considered turning to drink after yet another episode of my adult kids (who should be old enough to know better) driving me to distraction) so I could call them out to help a damsel in distress although I’m not sure I really want to see the palpable disappointment on the mechanic’s face when he realises the tarted up blonde isn’t all she appears to be (or, indeed, to have to prove to him that I really am the male named individual on his records).

But even if I manage to arrive at my destination in one piece and know that I have a cast iron strategy for avoiding embarrassment when I get back home, my worries aren’t over.  Stick on nails are a wonderful invention.  Whilst the sticky pads aren’t the easiest things in the world to master, the end result looks fantastic and there are no worries about running out of nail varnish remover or getting every last bit of varnish out of the cracks between nails and fingers.  Just peel them off and save them for reuse.  Of course, the ability to peel them off relies on them still being attached.  Ever since I started degreasing my nails with alcohol before applying the pads, the nails tend to stay attached but my current record is losing four in one outing.  No great shakes as they’re cheap but the burning question after any loss is, of course, where did the errant nail(s) land?  Some end up in my handbag after failing to survive a good rummage for whatever it is that’s made its way to the bottom and others end up in my coat pocket and can be retrieved in both cases.  A few just fall off while I’m out but the ones that come off either in the car or in the house (I have even lost nails within a few minutes of applying them) are a ticking time bomb unless they’re found.  Mrs A would probably guess the owner, given that she knows I indulge in this sort of thing although finding one in the car would almost certainly open a can of worms.  My daughter finding one, on the other hand, would be catastrophic and something I want to avoid at all costs.  So whenever a nail is lost, the car gets a complete cleanout to be on the safe side.  These days, though, I’ve taken to regularly counting them (regularly here meaning every few minutes) so that if one goes astray, I’ve got a reasonable idea of where it came adrift.

I wasn’t as lucky with false eyelashes, though.  They sell glue designed specifically for lashes for a reason – it starts tacky to allow repositioning but then sets to keep them in place.  But it’s not exactly cheap and an internet search suggested ‘Copydex’ (a white rubber based glue) as a great alternative.  I’m sure it is in the right hands (i.e. hands that can get the positioning right first time) but I learned about its shortcomings the hard way a few years ago when I looked in the mirror and realised that only one was still attached.  After a forensic search proved useless, I ended up doing three loads of washing from a pile where I guessed it had fallen and it finally turned up in the third load as a mangled mess still attached to whatever it had fallen on.  From that point on, I dug deep and bought proper glue.

But probably the biggest risk area to me is my handbag.  I like to pack the sort of essentials that a girl needs to look her best – lipstick, hand mirror, tissues, hairbrush and spare nails & sticky pads – but already a problem is on the horizon.  Gravity together with ‘Mandy’s Law’ – whatever it is that you’re looking for will always be in the most inaccessible place at the bottom of the handbag – means that retrieving anything is a major undertaking and almost guarantees that nails will come loose, if not fall off altogether.  At least I have spares!

But the biggest risk is caused not by what is packed in the handbag but what isn’t because it’s been overlooked in the excitement – here I’m particularly thinking about keys and payment card because unlike the other contents, they have to be carried over from my male life.  As someone who normally keeps everything in their pocket so never has to worry whether they have everything they need when leaving the house, occasional use of a handbag is a potential minefield.  In fact, when getting ready for my most recent outing as I write this, I packed all of the ‘essentials’ listed above and even remembered the payment card.  It was only when I was halfway through sticking my nails on that I realised my house & car keys were still in my trouser pocket and, had I not realised then, I would certainly have realised after I closed the front door behind me and burrowed into my handbag to retrieve my car keys.  Fortunately, because the rest of the family is so absent minded, we have a key safe to get back in but it would still require climbing over various bits and pieces in our garage, not something I’d particularly want to attempt in heels.

And just as an aside, make sure that your payment card is either Visa or Mastercard.  My main card in Amex but I’ve had it refused too many times in my regular life to chance it as my only card when out en femme, particularly as I don’t tend to carry cash.  Let’s just say, its refusal by the car park machine when I’m ready to return home would be problematic.

It would be nice to think that I’ve got everything nailed down – an early warning system that the house is occupied, a calm approach to driving, decent lash glue, a regular routine to check that all nails are attached, ensuring that my payment card is likely to be widely accepted and a key safe in case the worst happens.  But there is still one big question unanswered – what exactly will I do if I get back home and the kitchen towel early warning system has been tripped?  It’s all very well knowing that someone is in but what then?  And it’s at this point that clever ‘hacks’ elude me.  I just go for the peace of mind that comes from knowing that there is a holdall with a set of guy clothes and makeup wipes on the back seat so that if things go horribly wrong, I can just go and park somewhere quiet and revert to the guise that is more recognisable to others.  Not to mention, it’s good to know that if the worst happens and I have a puncture, I’m not going to ruin my limited ‘wardrobe’ of girls’ clothes getting down and dirty with the spare wheel, or indeed with the AA man if it comes to that (stop sniggering, you know what I meant!)!

So there you have it.  I’m still pathologically paranoid but at least I now know that if things do fall apart in some shape or form, I will in all probability emerge with my dignity, and more importantly, my ‘little secret’ intact!

-o-O-o-

I’d got this all ready for publication when, on a whim, I decided to us Google to see how could find out when someone has entered the house.  Unsurpringly, a variation of my paper trick was listed alongside other similar ideas grouped together in what it referred to as low tech ‘Bond’ solutions.  I’ve watched all of the Bond films, some several times, but don’t recall our James ever saying ‘stuff the gagetry, Q, I’m going to stick a piece of paper in the door’.  Also, none of the other solutions would be visible from the road.  However, elsewhere in the AI response, it suggested Tapo smart home devices and a bit of research showed that I could get a door sensor and hub for under £30 which was too good not to follow up.  I can now check movements in and out of the house via an app on my phone which tells me, to the exact second, the exact time that our front door was opened and closed.

I would be reasonably happy with that outcome, I think!