In this week's case study, Doctor Sinnick highlights the health issues caused by not looking beautiful enough.
She complained to me that her figure was not, what it used to be - it had gone to pot
Her nose was too long, her face was wrong, her bust was too small and that wasn't all
Her legs were fat and her bottom flat where she always sat, her arms were like sticks and extremely thin, while her middle resembled a wheelie bin
Her eyes were grey, her ears too big, said she felt like an overweight farmyard pig
Her skin was pale, her hair too brown, her forehead wore a permanent frown
She listed demeaning characteristics, provided the facts and many statistics
And her conclusion was just that she felt too plain, so depressed she felt she was going insane,
and said she wanted to start again.
I sighed and looked at this miserable sight, saddened by such a pitiful plight
For in her hand were magazines, glossy pictures of pop idol teens
I said to her: "If you think you're plain then think again. Plain means straightforward and plain speech a human strength.
You worry about being left on the shelf. This, you feel, is your likely fate. And you think you've passed your sell-by date. But at your tender age, you don't fit the bill, of an ageing has-been who's over the hill. And what do you mean by "run of the mill"?
Examine your worth, not the width of your girth.
Value your strengths,
Be true to yourself
Be down to earth,
Look deeper inside yourself
Try to believe in what you can achieve
Try to excel at what you do
No need to emulate something, which appears in photos designed to deceive"
I took from her the magazine, a cheap and nasty publication
I flipped the pages and looked inside - coloured photos, snappy lines, dreamed up by youths with business minds. Slim-line models, white teeth, red lips. Bottle-browned bodies with slender hips
Fleeting smiles as the cameras clicked.
Fashion dress, cool and hip, but weak on intellectual contribution
Short on reason and sensibility, just full of visual stimulation
I glanced up from my fleeting scan, as she sat there with eyes cast down and I said to her, in the kindest way:
"You are, my dear, a classic case, of celebrity cult depression. A sickness of a modern type
That manifests itself by a desperate need to create a false impression."
I looked at her across my specs, wondering what this sort expects by coming in here to seek advice
From someone as gross as I must look - old, decrepit, senile to book - a dowdy specimen of ugly manliness, whose hair was going and looked a mess
So I said to her:
"Do you really want to be like that - a false identity, an empty folly, made up like a plastic dolly
You must pull yourself together, dear. It's what I tell my wife.
Forget about your shapeless form, accept your little faults
For God has made us all so queer It's his small joke upon us folk, so he can sit and leer"
She looked at me, no smile appeared and got up from her seat
She snatched her glossy little mag and went towards the door
Then left me in no little doubt as she turned and spoke as she went out
There were clearly feelings I knew little about. I was left aghast at my obvious failings as a source of wisdom, hope and strength. I didn't understand the importance of cool as an old-fashioned, square and grumpy old fool
"Better I look like a street walking tart
Than look like you - you stupid old .........man"