Pelvic Floor Exercises

I am making a tomato soup. One of those sumptuous ones with a million tomatoes, puree, bit of chilli, touch of mascarpone, basil, splash of wine...the works. I feel as if I deserve it. I've just shlepped round the West End with one of my kids, buying clothes. Said child is at the age of rejecting any of my suggestions on the grounds that even if my taste is impeccable, rebellion is the order of the day. Important at this time to maintain mental distance. Kid picks up horrible t shirt: "Of course!! Whatever you want luv...You get the picture. With mental detachment achieved, it is a not unsuccessful shopping trip - I now need a second mortgage on the house, but Child is equipped for fashion and practicability so it's a win win. But we're both whacked, and both also more than a bit resentful that having deliberately not travelled in the rush hour, we find ourselves in the Unofficial Rush Hour, i.e. the entire day between 9 and 4, when tourists and truants alike take to the tube in their droves. By the time we are back in the 'burbs, we are in need of comforting sustenance. And in this weather, it's soup. And bread. The great thing about making both of these, is that they are, generally speaking, slow and steady procedures. Plenty of time to think. I reflect on the tube ride as I pound my dough, then plait it up and leave it for its second proving. I was reading an article on the tube about how implacable faces are. How little you can tell of what a person is thinking. I'm not too sure about that. I'm close to certain - I would lay my money on it, in fact if I had any left after the shopping spree - that the woman opposite me was doing her pelvic floor exercises. Something about the way she was twitching her hips, ever so slightly, and screwing up her mouth, a lot less slightly. Level one...level two...level THREE. No idea what I'm talking about? Try having a baby. Or nine, in the case of Queen Victoria, which is a less random example than it sounds, as we also know of Queen V that she had a prolapsed uterus, something very common in women who have had quite a few pregnancies. And I'll bet her poor doctor, who was often not allowed to touch her when he examined her, was completely unable to teach her the Elevator Technique. It's an absolute must for women who do not want to be in daily need of Sanpro (or Monthly Care, as Boots so hilariously now calls it) for the rest of their post menopausal lives. This is taught efficiently by GPs, nurses and sex counsellors alike. What they don't tell you, is how to master your facial expression while you are at it. So those GPs who fondly imagine that all their midlife female patients are on the tube quietly getting on with progressing from Floor 2 to Floor 3 unobtrusively while reading The Times, have done them a horrible disservice. It's like that moment in the Karate Kid. No faces!