A True Story About A Missing Limb

The other day I was over at my friend J's house. I was showing her the lovely colour  of my nail polish, and suddenly she reeled back in horror.

"What IS that?" she cried.

Now, I understand the colour wasn't necessarily to everyone's taste, but I really didn't think it was that bad. It was a subtle pale pink; perhaps one could accuse me of being too conservative, but it was certainly not worthy of sheer disgust.

"It's my fingernail!" I answered, a little hurt.

"No! Not your nail!" she screeched. "Your finger! What's on your FINGER?"

"Um... my wedding ring?" I asked. Now, my wedding ring is really very nice. It's classic and restrained and extremely shiny as I recently cleaned it with my toothbrush. There was no way J could have a problem with my wedding ring.

"NO!" she said, and she was positively wincing. "That... that.... WHAT IS THAT?"

And finally I got it. She was pointing to my Bum Finger.

The Real Life Bum Finger

Now, J has known me for nearly fourteen years. She has spent hundreds, if not thousands, of hours with me. Could it be possible she never noticed my physical deformity?

"It's my Bum Finger!" I told her. "Have you seriously never seen it before?"

She shook her head. I was astonished.

Later that night I was lying in bed thinking. And then I remembered a time, long, long ago, when I suddenly noticed a friend's serious deformity three months after meeting him.

I was sixteen years old, and I had just completed filming the television mini-series I starred in. The shoot was over, and  I had been sent a cast and crew photo in the mail to keep for posterity.

I took out the photo and looked at it. And as my eye wandered over the faces of the people I had lived with on location, and worked with, and eaten with, I glimpsed something that made me jump.

One of the crew - a cheery bloke called Bill - was missing his right arm.

Oh. My. GOD. I was shocked. How could I not have noticed it? I had been around Bill every single day for twelve weeks and I had never noticed he was short one limb. He had only a stump where his arm should have been.

It rocked me to the core.

For years I wondered how I could possibly have missed something so obvious. For years. Until finally, one day, I took my photo album out, and lingered over that picture one more time.

And it hit me. Bill's right arm had been there all along. It was in shadow. I'd fallen for a trick of the light.

I felt like a total fool.

Still, being with J made me feel somewhat better. Because J managed to miss a real life Bum Finger. So I guess that makes us just about even.*

*okay, so I'm way stupider. I'm clutching at straws here, people

Sponsor A Fingernail In Need

I know this will not come as a surprise to any of you, because of course you've all read my recent memoir, The Little Book of Anxiety. But for those of you who enjoy a recap, let me state for the record: I bite my nails. This is, arguably, my deepest shame, alongside not being able to locate Algeria on a map, eating Nutella with my hands, and trying to seduce Elliot Perlman at a writer's festival (although the only shameful part of the latter was the fact that I failed quite spectacularly).

Not my nails. But soon will be!

It pains me deeply that I have not managed to kick my nail biting habit in the forty three years I've been on earth. Even assuming that I didn't start biting my nails until I had teeth, that's still around forty two years I've had my fingers in my mouth. And at least 40% of the time those fingers don't even have Nutella on them, so there's really no excuse at all.

As I wrote in my Little Book, I have managed to overcome my embarrassing habit by getting acrylic nails. Sadly, however, I have also managed to bite off said acrylic nails at least eight times in the past two years. I have now reached the point where I am too ashamed to venture into the nail salon yet again to have them replaced as I can no longer bear the pitying looks.

So... I have made a resolution. I am going to grow my own, calcium-based nails, for real, this time. But for this, I need your help. I cannot do it alone. (I know this because I have failed about five times a year for the past forty three years.)

How can you help? Well, I have a unique and thrilling idea. (Trust me, you'll be thrilled.) I am calling on ten of you to Sponsor a Nail and encourage me on my quest. And let me tell you - Sponsoring a Nail is an incredible privilege. What do you get? I'm glad you ask! Sponsoring a Nail gives you naming rights - yes, naming rights! - over one of my nails. And that's not all! I will also keep you updated with information about your nail's progress, including how it is growing and whether I've been tempted to nibble it. But wait - there's more! Because when a suitable length is reached, and I get my real nails painted for the first time, you determine the colour of your particular nail.

Can you believe it?

So how do you win one of these ten fabulous nails??? To apply to Sponsor a Nail, please comment below, including the name you would choose for my nail, and which nail you would like to sponsor. (Obviously you would all prefer to sponsor my Bum Finger nail, but please bear in mind there is only one of those.)

My kids and I will choose the ten winners, and announce them on this blog when the competition closes. (The competition will close when I have decided I have enough entries. It's my competition, after all.)

So thank you all very much for your support, and I look forward to receiving your entries.

Marie Claire - My Campaign Speech (with a twist..)

Yesterday, I had the great honour of being nominated as a candidate for Marie Claire magazine's next Cover Girl. I was thrilled, and my delight wasn't in the least bit compromised by the fact that the nomination came from myself.

Many of you will be aware of the controversy surrounding Marie Claire's current cover girl, ex-Miss Universe Jennifer Hawkins. Ms Hawkins' naked body, untouched by photoshop, supposedly represented a more realistic and positive body image for women everywhere.

Well, Jen is gorgeous and I'm happy to feast my eyes on her. Still, Blind Freddy can see that this supermodel represents realistic womanhood about as accurately as a mooseburger represents a vegan stir fry.

I, on the other hand, am utterly realistic, if for no other reason than I have never won a Miss Universe contest (though, to be fair, I have never actually entered one, and it's entirely possible I would win if I did, given freakishly weak competition, poor lighting, and an inebriated judging panel).

Most importantly, though, I will certainly promote positive body image for anyone who lays eyes on my naked form. There's the caesar scar. The floppy tummy. The floppy boobs. The varicose veins. The chicken pox scars from when I couldn't resist the urge to see what happens when the scab comes off (and for those who don't know, it's way cool. Definitely worth permanent disfiguration).

Then there's my head. The sticky-out left ear. The un-botoxed wrinkles. The occasional pimple (which seems totally unfair - I mean, pimples and wrinkles at the same time?). And then, as the final showpiece, the Bum Finger - the digit torn off in an accident only to end up reattached and looking just like a bottom. Any woman with a normal body - no, any woman with a normal hand - will just love herself in comparison.

So yes, put me on the cover of Marie Claire and women will look at me and feel better about themselves. Momentarily. But then they'll go out and see someone young and beautiful and perfectly formed, and feel crap again. Or they'll turn on the TV and see a large, fairly ordinary looking Australian celebrity chef and feel even better. Or they'll turn on the TV and see a largish but sexy-as-hell British celebrity chef and want to stick their heads in the oven.

You see, the reality, my beautiful friends, is that there will always be people more and less attractive than you, just as there will always be people fatter and thinner, richer and poorer, and more and less intelligent. No-one - not any of these women, and not any magazine - can make you feel unworthy about your appearance except for yourself. I accept myself - with my Sticky-Out Ear, Bum Finger, scars and flop - and you - with all your overweight, flab, imperfections and unique beauty - deserve to accept yourself too.

So thank you all for your support in my campaign. It's actually not so important whether I make it onto the cover or not. But if I can encourage any of you to allow yourselves to feel comfortable with yourselves for a while, then I know I've achieved my goal.

By Popular Demand...

Since joining twitter, I have been inundated with requests to start a blog (using 'inundated with requests' in the sense of 'suggested by a couple of kind people who could sense my low self esteem over the internet').
This was, as you can imagine, a tremendous ego boost to me. Rarely in my day to day life do I get such validation of my worth (using 'such' in the case of 'well, any, really'). The men in my family are, after all, not ones for bestowing unnecessary praise. The closest my husband will get to telling me I look nice is when I ask 'Do I look nice?' and he responds in the affirmative (usually with his eyes still on 'Mad Men'). It's not that he doesn't think I look nice, it's just that he doesn't quite get why he should tell me. It's like reminding me that I have two ears, or a full set of teeth, or that freakish scar on my left ring finger that makes it look like a bum. In his mind, I should know he knows that by now, right?
My son, on the other hand, is less about withholding praise and more about offering constructive criticism. From the time he was four or five he would offer such advice as 'Mum, perhaps you would like to put on a bra?' (more than a little demoralising considering that, most of the time, I was wearing a bra). He also offers helpful cooking suggestions, for example, "This burger is disgusting, Mum. You need to try to make it taste more like McDonald's. Then maybe I'd eat it."
Of course, to be fair, I still have my girls to help me feel good about myself. Little Boo at only 18 months of age isn't a great deal of help, having learnt 'Bad Mummy' (and it's counterparts 'Shit Mummy' and 'Bum Mummy' from her brother), but she does fling herself at me with a scream of joy after a short separation, which is very rewarding indeed. (Sadly, when her father is around, I may as well be a piece of wall, but we can't have too much positive reinforcement).
And her sister is full of praise for me, assuring me I'm beautiful, wonderful and The Best Mummy In The World on a daily basis. Thing is, though, Pinkela tells EVERYONE they're beautiful, wonderful, and The Best Mummy/ Friend/ Teacher/ Grandparent/ McDonad's cashier in the world, so it's not quite as rare and special as it might sound. But better than Bum Mummy, nonetheless.
So thank you to all who have encouraged me to begin blogging, and I hope to reward your faith in me.
Oh, and for those desperate to see, here's a pic of the bum finger. Bum Mummy indeed.