ME AND CINDY CRAWFORD

SCIENTISTS think they can now tell, by examining our genes while we're in the womb, whether or not we have been programmed to be heterosexual or homosexual.
I was trying to think of something profound to say about this when my eye fell on the latest edition of Hello magazine, which I read all the time in newsagents' shops. One day I hope to be rich enough to take out a subscription. I've been programmed since shortly after birth to follow the lives of film stars and such, thanks to the occupations of my various aunts and uncles, who worked in cinemas all their lives.
Anyway, my eye fell on photographs of Cindy Crawford, from Hollywood. She was filmed coming out of a grocery store. That in itself was fascinating. I can never get over the fact that sometimes these people lead lives as normal as yours or mine. She had a brown paper bag of goods in her arms. I wish the journalist involved had taken note of what she had purchased. And told us if she often or always or sometimes did her own shopping. I wondered whether she cooked her own dinner, and if so what did she eat. And why didn't she, with her loadsamoney, have a staff to cater for her every whim?
Mainly, though, I didn't bother reading the text. My eyes feasted on the sheer casual beauty of the woman. She was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and light blue cut-off jeans. They were what you might call really short shorts. The seams on the legs had been slashed right up to where the legs joined the torso. Her legs were absolutely and totally and perfectly beautiful.
They were long, tanned and lean. They practically glistened with good health. Her bare feet were clad only in expensive brown mocassins. The ankles were sharp and graceful. The woman's appearance was stunning. There is no other word for it. She was stunning, stunning, stunning. It was a pleasure to look at her. Then I had a wee look at myself. I was wearing similarly casual clothes and I looked like shit. Shit, shit, shit. Compared to Cindy Crawford, anyway. There is nothing that can be done about this. No amount of genetic engineering can help people like me or my children's children's children should I decide to defy odds, statistics, genetic programming, natural inclination, habit, custom and practice and decide to have a baby before my next birthday when I shall be fifty years old.
Some people were born short. Me, Charlie Haughey and Napoleon, to name three at random. This does not mean that we should never hang around newsagents' shops for fear of developing an inferiority complex. Short people just have to learn to make the best of what they've got. On the whole, I've had a reasonable life and expect it to get even more reasonable as maturity puts the final touch to natural charisma. (Self-love is a mercy.)
It could have been even better, though. There were a few occasions back there when a little real knowledge, nerve and maybe a few more shillings would have helped matters no end. Plus a different social attitude when I was growing up. I speak, frankly, of matters sexual.
Had I known then what I know now - but I didn't. Luckily, I'm a fast learner. Actually, that's not true. If I were not happy enough at present, I'd have a perfect right to be mad, bad and bitter about how various forces conspired to thwart my sexual development.
That applies to everybody, of course. We get born with all the right equipment and somebody tries to stunt our growth. Gay, straight or bisexual, look around and there will be some oaf with a rulebook saying you've got to behave differently.
The day will come when it doesn't matter what genes we are born with; when a baby will come into the world and people will say: "Be whichever you want to be. Walk on the other side of the road once in a while. Enjoy."
Nevertheless, if I ever do meet the actress Cindy Crawford, I'll have extra pleasure in saying: "Break a leg, sister."