I thought a hobby would make me more interesting. I was wrong

Like all working mums, I was always way too busy for hobbies. But now that my kids have fledged, I have time to take up a little something. It’s what women my age do, right? But what hobby to adopt?

A bohemian friend suggested art classes, but I’m a terrible drawer. I can’t even draw my curtains: the sun wakes me up every morning peeping through a chink. But I tagged along with her and, well, one look at the male model and I felt my creative juices stirring: the semi-clad stud reclining on the chaise lounge was Greek god gorgeous. When the art instructor asked what medium I wanted to explore – crayons, pastels, oils – I suggested tracing paper. I also expressed a desperate desire to sketch this chiselled male model in the nude but the teacher insisted I keep my clothes on.

Two hours later, I was pretty pleased with my pictorial effort. But my arty chum had other ideas. “Why don’t you donate your artwork to a charity?” she suggested. “Perhaps the Blind Society.”

So I downed drawing pencils and went back to the drawing board. My retired pals think my lack of gardening abilities is a growing concern and that it’s time to improve my lot – literally. But all I’ve ever sown are wild oats – whole plantations.

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My idea of a “walk on the wild side” is not strolling around herbaceous borders but swinging off a nightclub chandelier. The only “weeding” I do is weeding out party poopers from guest lists. Flowers are simply those things I send to friends whose birthdays I’ve forgotten. My local florist helps me select the price range of each bouquet by saying, “Okay, exactly how bad is it this time?”

Even though the only dirty thing about me is my mind, I did try plunging my hands into the soil. But after a day of toiling, trowel in hand, my back ached, my bum numbed and I was in fear of being arrested for GBH after slapping myself senseless swatting bugs. I was so grumpy, my boyfriend facetiously suggested I plant snapdragons. Still, I might have persevered if I hadn’t then pulled up
a worm. Yes, I’ve dated quite a few, but that wasn’t nearly as revolting as finding one squirming, slimily, through my recoiling fingers. And, of course, if I can’t grow flowers I can’t arrange them, so there’s another potential pastime scrapped.

“Why don’t you donate your artwork to a charity?” she suggested. “Perhaps the Blind Society.”

I was running out of ideas, so one of my sisters enrolled me in her rock choir. Singing appealed, mainly because, like most females, I spent my teens warbling ABBA hits into a hairbrush. But I now know that the true definition of a choir is 40 or so people who think the other 39 can’t sing.