“All right Mr DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up”

“Why don’t you let them do anything to you? I’m meant to be the ancient stick in the mud,” Mum says as we sit in film make-up.
The professional make-up person sweeps a raspberry eyeshadow over Mum’s lids.
“You’ve made me look almost human, dear,” Mum says. “This is the bit I was really looking forward to.”
Sipping my coffee, I gaze at my own hastily applied slap. Inexpert flicks of liner on my upper lids, smudged around my lower lids.
“Don’t like people touching my face,” I mumble, clasping my handbag to my stomach which hurts.
“You should take this opportunity to let the nice young ladies teach you something,” Mum says. “What’s that blusher, dear?”
“It’s the shimmer brick. They’re baked in an oven,” the make-up artist says. There are three make-up girls and they’re all so light, bright and sparkling. My face is already starting to complain about the feel of make-up on it at this time of the morning, 9am.
As you may remember, I refused to let Mum stay at the flat last night. “I’m not running the Bates Motel – can’t have my elderly mother creeping around,” I said. This morning there was terrible traffic on the M1. Mum missed the taxi from the flat. Proceedings were slowed, everyone was inconvenienced and it was All My Fault.
And then eventually we’re ready and we’re on camera and if you want to know what we talked about – it’s going to be Massive – watch this space for updates…

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