Much of my time and energy is devoted to helping others who find themselves staring down the barrel of life's shotgun and wondering whether to pull the trigger. I do it because I care about the people who write to me and have a genuine concern for their future happiness. I've talked a lot about death on the radio and on television and I think this has prompted several people to label me a 'professional widow'. But nothing could be farther from the truth. To me, a professional widow is someone who enjoys wallowing in misery and her own self-pity, sitting like some listless, lachrymose hippopotamus in a fetid mire of despondency. But I'm not an unhappy hippo, I'm a vibrant, joyous woman; my future is one of infinite possibilities. It's not me that has the problem; it's the perception of others that needs to change.

A couple of years ago my work on the Merrywidow website led me to get an invitation invited to attend The Woman of the Year Awards. The Savoy Hotel was host to over seven hundred women of note from all over the country and from all walks of life. I have to admit that I did feel like a bit of an impostor, but I wasn't about to turn down the opportunity to spend the day mingling with the great and the good. The women fell into two main categories, 'the worthies', who'd been recognised for their good works on behalf of others, and a whole host of celebrities and media types, otherwise known as the 'we are not worthies'. I did pluck up the courage to speak to Esther Rantzen, because I worked with her on 'That's Life' when I first started out in television, and thought it would be polite to say hello. Working on 'That's Life' generally involved either following Esther around the streets of some dreary midland town, and filming her asking people if they could pick up a mushroom with chopsticks, or hiding in a stripy red and white G.P.O tent and secretly filming embarrassed brow-beaten 'That's Life' reporters jumping out on unsuspecting members of the general public and trying to get them to sing along to some cheesy song, for an item called, 'Get Britain Singing'.

Anyhow, I did pluck up the courage to wander up and introduce myself to saint Esther. I didn't expect her to remember me, but nor did I expect her to dismiss me without a modicum of grace or politeness. I later talked to the real Calendar Girls, and being straight-talking Yorkshire women, they confided that, after having had the benefit of a personal audience, they didn't like the toothsome telecrat much either.

Being a bad mingler at large social functions, I soon found myself sitting in a corner of the room beside a woman who was wearing a large surgical boot. It was rather an arresting sight, and being a direct kind of girl, I chose to break the ice with the words, 'That's a bit of a radical departure for Jimmy Choo, but I bet it's a lot more comfortable than a kitten-heel mule.' The woman smiled a weak, post-bunion-operation smile, and asked what I did. I started to tell her that I ran a website for young widows, but I wasn't really allowed to elaborate any further, because as soon as the words, 'young' and 'widow' had escaped my lips, a look of fear crossed her face and her eyes began to dart around the room in search of an escape route. It's hard to run away when you're wearing a surgical boot, so the poor, unfortunate woman had to stay rooted to the spot. Hers was a common-enough reaction and one I've grown used to over the years, but she didn't even give me a chance to delight her with my comic wit, or explain that being a young widow doesn't necessarily make you a compulsive death bore. I'm a party girl, and in the right company I know I can be laugh riot. I am not defined by circumstance, and you cannot write me off because of the small chance that I might mention dead people. Death has made me strong and death has made confident, and if more people had the courage to talk about death like I do then there would be fewer doctors burdened by severely depressed widows and widowers, and fewer children whose adult lives are blighted by their parents' reluctance to confront their grief.

The boot woman was delighted when a friend wandered over to rescue her from a fate worse than death, and when she turned her back on me I had no option other than to get up and walk away. I think bunions are God's way of telling us not to judge people before we've heard them speak. You can sit on all the hospital charity committees in the world, but what's the point in appearing to be so worthy when you don't actually give a toss?

So don't call me a professional widow. I'm not a wallower, and I can guarantee that when you meet me you won't feel sad - even if you are wearing a surgical boot.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.