Me!

Mr Brignall was concluding a Religious Education lesson. I was in Year 3 (or second grade in American terms), and the subject of perfection was the key topic. I think Mr Brignall had been relating to the philosophy that nature and Jesus and God do nothing uselessly. Everything happens for a perfected reason, even if it takes centuries to realise it - that idea. Of course, I wasn't really listening to this. I was captivated by the word perfect. I'd also noticed the blank sheet of paper placed before each of us in class and so my imagination was mass-producing possibilities of what I could draw on it. Mr Brignall tasked us with exactly what I had hoped; "Draw your perfect person," he instructed us, all the way from the peak of his spindly 6'4 stature. I knew straight away who my perfect person was;

Madeline Ashton. A fictional character portrayed by Meryl Streep in the movie Death Becomes Her. (However, in my 6-year-old mind, Madeline Ashton was not fictional, but very, very real.) I'd already watched the film goodness knows how many times and to me there was nobody more beautiful, entrancing or entertaining. Perfect, one might say. I can still recall Sky Movies showing repeated promos for it and I'd known then I was going to love the movie. And I did. I watched it for the first time on a family holiday in Alicante. It was very hot and my parents had rented a villa in the middle of nowhere. There was noting to do and over the course of the holiday I lost a tooth, burnt my scalp in the shower and shared a secret with my brother about a boy in my class who I'd kissed. He told mum and dad who sat me down to express their disappointment. But watching Death Becomes Her erased all the distressing moments. For those unfamiliar with Death Becomes Her, it tells the story of two women who sell their souls for a potion that awards them eternal youth. It opens on a stormy night in Broadway, 1978. A discarded Playbill lies saturated on the pavement as patrons, furious with the show's poor quality, flock from the theatre, happy to face the rain having escaped what a voice describes as; "Waking the dead." Needless to say, I don't share this view. We artfully pan in on the playbill's front cover, a black and white portrait of Madeline Ashton smiles at us (the show's main star, naturally). The scene transitions as though the playbill is coming to life. Madeline Ashton is sat at dressing table, the spotlight illuminates her as she asks in song; "What do I see?" Her gown of mermaid green sparkles, eyelids heavy with eyelashes, make-up immaculate, green-gloved hands gesticulating like only inveterate theatre performing can enable. She looked like something my little-boy mind could only describe as "Perfect." And what a joy it was that day in our sunlit classroom of the Victorian-built school to get lost in the fabulous whiteness of A4 paper sketching, in detail, that opening scene of Death Becomes Her. The green dress, the silk sheet of blonde hair - ends twisted into large curls, her high-heeled feet descending a sweeping staircase that would have been the envy of a young Bette Davis. My favourite feature of this was how they lit up in time with her footsteps. A feathered boa is wrapped theatrically around her arms and her song transitions from a gentle opening to a booming number. She is greeted half way down these amazing steps by handsome male dancers in waistcoats, their characters clearly in love with this magnetic tower of feminine brilliance. It wasn't just her aesthetic that hypnotized little me, nor was it just the lights and twinkling set or the staircase, but her attitude. Madeline Ashton loved being Madeline Ashton, and that made those around her love it too. She was a walking party to which everyone thirsted for an invitation. She was the fun one, the light-hearted one, the full-flavoured one whose attention, for even a second, would have turned your blood to feathers. The character on that stage lived a life, radiated an attitude and introduced me to a mysterious quality I knew I wanted to possess. (I grew up to learn that this mysterious quality is known as charisma.) From the dressing table on the stage to the dressing room beyond it where she is subsequently sat, bedecked with flowers, make-up brushes and a clothing rail over spilling with outfits of Norma Desmond-proportions, Madeline's offstage life appears even better still - and wait til' you see the house she and Bruce Willis share in it! Seriously! This was the film that introduced me to the fabulous aesthetics of women, of what it was to be someone of Madeline Ashton's ilk; an individual who celebrates her persona, expresses it, piles it high, to whom more is more and even shows anger with a gilded edge of irresistible, hilarious charm. We've all encountered them, they've blessed our screens and coffee tables for years; Barbara Cartland, Joan Collins, Madonna, Marilyn Monroe, Dita Von Teese, Isabella Blow and Julie Newmar - to name a few. Madeline Ashton, for me, is the root structure of a tree that continues to grow, flourishing with gigantic roses of adoration for the women of the world who spend their lives constructing a persona, wearing it, living it, breathing it, loving themselves and reminding us day after day to Be Perfect for you.

I do not need one day a year to celebrate it, for I am proud to say I have the heart of a woman and printed upon it is my Year 3 drawing of Madeline "Perfect" Ashton. Everything happens for a perfected reason, as Mr Brignall said. And I agree.

Happy Women's Day. You're all a gift.