It's the time of year for resolutions. Come to think of it, does anyone still make New Year resolutions?
Well according to the newspapers, they do because every New Year there's a double page spread, right next to the predictable 'time to detox' and 'get slim for summer' articles.
When I was a journalist I used to have to write the stuff and every year it was more hackneyed than the last as I scratched around for something new to say - diet, exercise, managing money, self improvement, relationships, all the old chestnuts were in there. Despite having to churn out several hundred words every year, I still used to make resolutions, never kept them though, naturally.
I've become rather half hearted about the whole idea in recent years because who wants to start a shiny, new year already feeling guilty and defeated? Talk about an instant downer.
I love the thought of a new year, putting the last one and all its ups and downs behind me and starting a fresh new page in my life. Some years are wonderful and it's sad to see them go but every now and then there's one that you can't wait to see the back of.
I still like the idea of making resolutions though, the concept is great, I'm all for trying to improve myself but I'm sure I'm not the only woman who on New Year's Eve, after a few glasses of something bubbly, hasn't unrealistically vowed that this is the year those jeans will fit again, that the gym will become a second home, that her bank account will stay healthily in the black, that she'll be a calm and serene mother with no shouting......
The trouble is any hardcore resolutions of mine are going to have to involve chocolate (not eating), exercising (more), working (harder), driving (slower), swearing (less), daydreaming (less), clothes (fewer).
Take chocolate for example. For most of the time I can turn my back on it but there's those few days every month when there's a very strong possibility I'd do someone a nasty injury if they stood in the way of me and a mint Aero. I once mentioned it to my (female) doctor and she suggested trying a banana instead? A banana?! Did this woman even go to med school? Has she not heard of PMT? A banana is no substitute for chocolate when those hormones are raging.
Then I realised I've been looking at this resolution lark the wrong way. It was all too negative, giving up this, not doing that. It was a recipe for disaster, the expectations were too high and the disappointment inevitable. No wonder I would hit mid January feeling guilty and despondent, as if I'd failed, having broken every blasted resolution I'd made only a couple of weeks earlier. I'd feel crap for a few days, then I'd just trundle along the same as always.
So I've decided to take a new approach. 2012 will be the year of the positive resolutions. None of that 'I'll never eat chocolate again' or 'I'll exercise every day' nonsense, nope, this year my resolutions will be all about what I will be doing not what I won't.
So as Big Ben bongs out the start of 2012 I'll be resolving to make this the year of new experiences, a year of fun and adventure and doing things I've never done before, of just going for it. Everything is possible. Well, ok, everything may be possible but no I won't be bungee jumping, doing a parachute jump or ironing, let's be realistic.
A friend recently gave me a charm engraved with the words 'follow your dreams'. Before this last year I'd probably have shoved it in a drawer dismissing it as too twee, too saccharine, but actually it says it all and that's exactly what I'm going to do in 2012.
Happy New Year.
Wednesday 28 December 2011
Thursday 22 December 2011
Just call me Santa......
The scariest night of the year is almost here. Yep, Christmas Eve, the night of the stocking filling.
As a child, there was something so magical about waking up obscenely early on Christmas Day (naturally) and feeling the weight of my stocking on my feet on the end of my bed. I would never rush to open the parcels, I just loved knowing Father Christmas had been and enjoying the excitement and anticipation. Every now and then I'd wonder how he managed to get in as we didn't have a chimney and my mother took a Fort Knox approach to security, eventually after working through all the possibilities, I decided it had to be through the cat flap....
I wanted to recreate that magic for my sons so they've always hung their Christmas sacks on their beds for Santa to fill. Now that was all well and good when they were tiny and out like a light at 7pm. I could breeze in at 10pm and quietly fill their stockings. Piece of cake.
In recent years though, it's been another matter. The days of them being asleep at a decent hour so I can sneak in and do my Ms Christmas bit are long gone. Stocking time has got later and later and become scarier. More than once I've frozen in mid stocking fill when one has turned over in his sleep or a floorboard has creaked as I've crept in. I got fed up with having to sit up into the early hours to be sure they were asleep so now I go to bed and set the alarm for 3am. How mad is that?
Those are the moments when I find myself muttering 'why the hell didn't you go for hanging the stockings on the fireplace downstairs, it would have been so much easier and you could be tucked up in bed asleep right now?'
It's daft because I know they know it's me (the older one has known for years and the little one more recently) but the traditions are maintained - the letter up the chimney, the carrot for Rudolph and mince pie and tipple for Father Christmas on the hearth....
I found out there was no Father Christmas the year my childhood friend and I decided to try to stay awake to see Santa. We managed the staying awake bit but rather than a jovial chubby man in a red suit with a big bushy white beard we got our dads, completely sozzled and giggling.....I can still remember lying stock still while they noisily and wobbily filled the stockings, then us turning to each other ashen faced when they'd gone and mouthing 'Father Christmas is our dads?!'
A friend said she discovered there was no Santa the year her dad crept into her room while she was fast asleep. Unfortunately, for both of them, he tripped on the pillowcase he was supposed to be filling with presents and fell onto her bed, landing heavily on her leg. So not only did she find out there was no Father Christmas, she ended up with a crushed leg too.
Merry Christmas!
As a child, there was something so magical about waking up obscenely early on Christmas Day (naturally) and feeling the weight of my stocking on my feet on the end of my bed. I would never rush to open the parcels, I just loved knowing Father Christmas had been and enjoying the excitement and anticipation. Every now and then I'd wonder how he managed to get in as we didn't have a chimney and my mother took a Fort Knox approach to security, eventually after working through all the possibilities, I decided it had to be through the cat flap....
I wanted to recreate that magic for my sons so they've always hung their Christmas sacks on their beds for Santa to fill. Now that was all well and good when they were tiny and out like a light at 7pm. I could breeze in at 10pm and quietly fill their stockings. Piece of cake.
In recent years though, it's been another matter. The days of them being asleep at a decent hour so I can sneak in and do my Ms Christmas bit are long gone. Stocking time has got later and later and become scarier. More than once I've frozen in mid stocking fill when one has turned over in his sleep or a floorboard has creaked as I've crept in. I got fed up with having to sit up into the early hours to be sure they were asleep so now I go to bed and set the alarm for 3am. How mad is that?
Those are the moments when I find myself muttering 'why the hell didn't you go for hanging the stockings on the fireplace downstairs, it would have been so much easier and you could be tucked up in bed asleep right now?'
It's daft because I know they know it's me (the older one has known for years and the little one more recently) but the traditions are maintained - the letter up the chimney, the carrot for Rudolph and mince pie and tipple for Father Christmas on the hearth....
I found out there was no Father Christmas the year my childhood friend and I decided to try to stay awake to see Santa. We managed the staying awake bit but rather than a jovial chubby man in a red suit with a big bushy white beard we got our dads, completely sozzled and giggling.....I can still remember lying stock still while they noisily and wobbily filled the stockings, then us turning to each other ashen faced when they'd gone and mouthing 'Father Christmas is our dads?!'
A friend said she discovered there was no Santa the year her dad crept into her room while she was fast asleep. Unfortunately, for both of them, he tripped on the pillowcase he was supposed to be filling with presents and fell onto her bed, landing heavily on her leg. So not only did she find out there was no Father Christmas, she ended up with a crushed leg too.
Merry Christmas!
Friday 16 December 2011
We Three Kings.
There's nothing like a Nativity to put you in the Christmas mood. The wonky cotton wool beards, the shepherds clobbering each other with their crooks when they think no-one is watching, the music teacher pounding enthusiastically on the piano and hitting a range of notes few of which are the right ones, the pushy parents elbowing their way to the front row.
It's been a milestone year as it was the 10-year-old's last Nativity as he goes up to secondary school next September. He went out on a high as he came home the night before this week's performance to announce one of the three kings had pulled out and he'd volunteered to take his place. Even better was not only was he a king but he had lines, well, ok, five words, but hey, better than nothing.
This was a big moment as previously his best role has been innkeeper number three (no lines but a head shake at Joseph and Mary) but mostly he's just been in the choir. This has partly been because he's long been convinced that if his teachers knew his middle name was that of one of the starring roles (no, not Herod), he'd be in tinsel sparkly wings before he knew it, so he's kept quiet.
So this momentous news of major promotion was greeted with lots of 'well done you' and 'how lovely' and then followed swiftly by the panicked thought 'bloody hell, how am I going to whip up a king's costume by 6pm tomorrow?' Somehow my usual fall back position of a dressing gown and tea towel wasn't going to pass muster.
After an almost sleepless night I'd virtually resigned myself to chopping up an old but rather loved red velvet party dress and was starting to hyperventilate at the thought of creating something even vaguely passable when the little son casually announced on his way out of the door to school, 'oh I forgot to tell you, they've got costumes at school Mum so you don't have to make one'. Kids, gotta love em.
The Nativity was everything it should be. Mary held baby Jesus upside down for most of the performance, then dropped him when she realised and tried surreptitiously to turn him round, Herod's cotton wool beard was so enormous only his eyes were visible, the soloists clearly thought they were auditioning for X-factor, the pianist played 'Away in the Manger' in the wrong key and had to start again.....wonderful.
It's been a milestone year as it was the 10-year-old's last Nativity as he goes up to secondary school next September. He went out on a high as he came home the night before this week's performance to announce one of the three kings had pulled out and he'd volunteered to take his place. Even better was not only was he a king but he had lines, well, ok, five words, but hey, better than nothing.
This was a big moment as previously his best role has been innkeeper number three (no lines but a head shake at Joseph and Mary) but mostly he's just been in the choir. This has partly been because he's long been convinced that if his teachers knew his middle name was that of one of the starring roles (no, not Herod), he'd be in tinsel sparkly wings before he knew it, so he's kept quiet.
So this momentous news of major promotion was greeted with lots of 'well done you' and 'how lovely' and then followed swiftly by the panicked thought 'bloody hell, how am I going to whip up a king's costume by 6pm tomorrow?' Somehow my usual fall back position of a dressing gown and tea towel wasn't going to pass muster.
After an almost sleepless night I'd virtually resigned myself to chopping up an old but rather loved red velvet party dress and was starting to hyperventilate at the thought of creating something even vaguely passable when the little son casually announced on his way out of the door to school, 'oh I forgot to tell you, they've got costumes at school Mum so you don't have to make one'. Kids, gotta love em.
The Nativity was everything it should be. Mary held baby Jesus upside down for most of the performance, then dropped him when she realised and tried surreptitiously to turn him round, Herod's cotton wool beard was so enormous only his eyes were visible, the soloists clearly thought they were auditioning for X-factor, the pianist played 'Away in the Manger' in the wrong key and had to start again.....wonderful.
Sunday 4 December 2011
O Christmas tree......
It's that time again, the time to choose a Christmas tree. I'm a self confessed Christmas fan, I've always loved it and enjoy creating my own traditions and carrying on those from when I was a child.
One tradition that I've been happy to leave well behind though is the way my dad would 'find' our annual Christmas tree. My mum always insisted on a real tree but Dad would leave it so late that all that would be left would be the straggly ones, the lopsided ones and the ones with massive gaps between the branches. So, ever resourceful, he'd head off to the heathland that ran for miles behind our village.
As a youngster I never questioned why we always went to get our Christmas tree in the dark, why he took a saw with him and why I had to hold the torch and stand lookout. It was just one of our family traditions and it was fun. Naturally Mum knew exactly where the tree had come from and every Christmas Eve she'd go around muttering about why couldn't he just be like everyone else and get a nice one from the garden centre? It was a sad day for Dad when the authorities cottoned on to the fact that each December they ended the month with fewer trees than they started with, put up locked gates and signs warning anyone caught tree rustling would be prosecuted.
My mother's desire for the ideal tree seems to have passed down to me and I can spend ages choosing my 8ft non drop beauty. I had a brief flirtation with a fake one when the boys were little but there's nothing in my book like the smell and look of a real one.
Much as I love the whole tree shebang I certainly don't take it as seriously as the friend of one of my mates. She's a real perfectionist, so much so that she had her tree delivered, decorated it, stood back to admire it, took all the decorations off again, picked up the phone and called the tree company to tell them to take it away and bring her another one as it just wasn't right. Wowzer, now I like my tree to look pretty but that's hardcore.
Just how tree focused she is came to light when she threw a Christmas party and two male friends swapped some of the baubles around while she was out of the room. One of the guys recounted the story to me in virtual awe, apparently she walked back into the room, glanced at the tree, walked over and, without a word, put the offending baubles back into their original place!
So, in a few days I'll head off by myself to the local farm where I'll spend absolutely ages choosing my tree, naturally I'll look at dozens and end up buying the first one I saw because that's one of my traditions. After 10 minutes of helping to decorate it the boys will get bored and wander off, half the lights won't work and it'll take three attempts before they look right, the little son will reappear and get stroppy when I refuse to replace the angel on top of the tree with a wrestling figure....and finally, it'll be done.
One tradition that I've been happy to leave well behind though is the way my dad would 'find' our annual Christmas tree. My mum always insisted on a real tree but Dad would leave it so late that all that would be left would be the straggly ones, the lopsided ones and the ones with massive gaps between the branches. So, ever resourceful, he'd head off to the heathland that ran for miles behind our village.
As a youngster I never questioned why we always went to get our Christmas tree in the dark, why he took a saw with him and why I had to hold the torch and stand lookout. It was just one of our family traditions and it was fun. Naturally Mum knew exactly where the tree had come from and every Christmas Eve she'd go around muttering about why couldn't he just be like everyone else and get a nice one from the garden centre? It was a sad day for Dad when the authorities cottoned on to the fact that each December they ended the month with fewer trees than they started with, put up locked gates and signs warning anyone caught tree rustling would be prosecuted.
My mother's desire for the ideal tree seems to have passed down to me and I can spend ages choosing my 8ft non drop beauty. I had a brief flirtation with a fake one when the boys were little but there's nothing in my book like the smell and look of a real one.
Much as I love the whole tree shebang I certainly don't take it as seriously as the friend of one of my mates. She's a real perfectionist, so much so that she had her tree delivered, decorated it, stood back to admire it, took all the decorations off again, picked up the phone and called the tree company to tell them to take it away and bring her another one as it just wasn't right. Wowzer, now I like my tree to look pretty but that's hardcore.
Just how tree focused she is came to light when she threw a Christmas party and two male friends swapped some of the baubles around while she was out of the room. One of the guys recounted the story to me in virtual awe, apparently she walked back into the room, glanced at the tree, walked over and, without a word, put the offending baubles back into their original place!
So, in a few days I'll head off by myself to the local farm where I'll spend absolutely ages choosing my tree, naturally I'll look at dozens and end up buying the first one I saw because that's one of my traditions. After 10 minutes of helping to decorate it the boys will get bored and wander off, half the lights won't work and it'll take three attempts before they look right, the little son will reappear and get stroppy when I refuse to replace the angel on top of the tree with a wrestling figure....and finally, it'll be done.
 |
| Last year's tree. |
Wednesday 23 November 2011
Two needles, two balls of wool and lots of swearing......
Like most women, my last 20 odd years have been focused on building a career and then having and bringing up kids. Sitting curled up with a book turned into snatching a few minutes with a cuppa and a glossy magazine and the most creative thing I've done in recent years is sew on school name tapes.
Now the kids are older, I have time again and am reconnecting with my inner creative goddess. I thought I might have a go at dress making again until I remembered the patchwork skirt I created that made me look like something out of the Sound of Music. Maybe not.
Crochet? An aged aunt taught me how to do it but clearly it's not like riding a bike as I can't for the life of me remember how to do it and she's long gone now. Rag rugs? Hmmm, about as old hat now as stencilling, so perhaps not.
So knitting it is. I was an avid knitter in my late teens and early 20s and I don't think there was a boyfriend who escaped being on the receiving end of at least one of my jumpers or scarves. They must have dreaded being with me over Christmas or their birthday as they knew something woolly was coming their way.
One joined the air force so I knitted him a jumper in - yes, air force blue, how imaginative was I? The early amours fared the worst as I really wasn't very good at it, lots of dropped stitches and uneven length arms. I got better and there's hardly a photograph of me from that time where I'm not wearing something I knitted.
I haven't picked up a pair of knitting needles for 25 years and boy, hasn't knitting changed? It's gone trendy. I found a funky knitting website and bought a kit to knit a cushion. There's something wonderfully relaxing and therapeutic about knitting, the gentle click clack of the needles. Well, there would be if I hadn't jumped right in at the deep end and gone for a fair isle design. Fair isle, was I completely mad?
This one isn't even that tricky, I know my limitations so it's only two colours although the pattern is quite demanding, it appears I'm going to be knitting elks, snowflakes and funny little people.
I'n now 26 rows in and so far I've managed to lose one ball of wool under the sofa and get myself in a complete knot. Who knew two needles and two balls of wool could be so challenging? There hasn't been much in the way of relaxation, I seem to have discovered new swear words but I'm refusing to be beaten. Whether my cushion will look anything like it should remains to be seen.
Next, silversmithing I reckon.
Now the kids are older, I have time again and am reconnecting with my inner creative goddess. I thought I might have a go at dress making again until I remembered the patchwork skirt I created that made me look like something out of the Sound of Music. Maybe not.
Crochet? An aged aunt taught me how to do it but clearly it's not like riding a bike as I can't for the life of me remember how to do it and she's long gone now. Rag rugs? Hmmm, about as old hat now as stencilling, so perhaps not.
So knitting it is. I was an avid knitter in my late teens and early 20s and I don't think there was a boyfriend who escaped being on the receiving end of at least one of my jumpers or scarves. They must have dreaded being with me over Christmas or their birthday as they knew something woolly was coming their way.
One joined the air force so I knitted him a jumper in - yes, air force blue, how imaginative was I? The early amours fared the worst as I really wasn't very good at it, lots of dropped stitches and uneven length arms. I got better and there's hardly a photograph of me from that time where I'm not wearing something I knitted.
I haven't picked up a pair of knitting needles for 25 years and boy, hasn't knitting changed? It's gone trendy. I found a funky knitting website and bought a kit to knit a cushion. There's something wonderfully relaxing and therapeutic about knitting, the gentle click clack of the needles. Well, there would be if I hadn't jumped right in at the deep end and gone for a fair isle design. Fair isle, was I completely mad?
This one isn't even that tricky, I know my limitations so it's only two colours although the pattern is quite demanding, it appears I'm going to be knitting elks, snowflakes and funny little people.
 |
| Hopefully it'll look like this! |
I'n now 26 rows in and so far I've managed to lose one ball of wool under the sofa and get myself in a complete knot. Who knew two needles and two balls of wool could be so challenging? There hasn't been much in the way of relaxation, I seem to have discovered new swear words but I'm refusing to be beaten. Whether my cushion will look anything like it should remains to be seen.
Next, silversmithing I reckon.
Wednesday 16 November 2011
Remember me.......
I went to a funeral last week, the funeral of someone I'd known all my life, a wonderfully upbeat, positive, vibrant woman. As we left the crematorium my sister turned to me and said that if she should go before me, she wanted the song 'always look on the bright side of life' from Monty Python's Life of Brian film.
No one likes to think of their own demise and maybe there is something slightly macabre about stipulating what you'd like at your funeral, but, then again if it means being sure no-one brings crysanthemums (I HATE crysanthemums), it's worth doing.
After all we painstakingly plan those big number birthday celebrations, Christmas get togethers, christenings, weddings, anniversaries, so why not our funerals? It is a bit gloomy and perhaps I'm just a control freak, but I'd like my departure to be personal to me.
So sis, rest assured, if you should depart before me, I'll make sure everyone belts out Monty Python's finale song for you. There will also be whoopie cushions on every seat, the vicar will do back flips down the aisle and, if you peer very closely, the floral displays might look just that little bit suggestive......
And sis, I'd like you to return the favour, so here's mine. Lots of music, everything from Muse to Holst, masses of red roses, big black hats, (I've always loved a bit of drama) and laughter.
I've always been proud of my Irish heritage and there's an Irish way of saying goodbye that seems perfect to me. Everyone gathers somewhere that was special (in my case it's the sea, so off to the beach) and remembers the departed in their own way, they might sing, recite a poem, just say a few words, it doesn't really matter.
How lovely is that? So that's what I'd like although please, I do have just one little request, much as I love her, could my best friend not be allowed to sing as I've done Sing Star with her on New Year's Eve and she's tone deaf......
No one likes to think of their own demise and maybe there is something slightly macabre about stipulating what you'd like at your funeral, but, then again if it means being sure no-one brings crysanthemums (I HATE crysanthemums), it's worth doing.
After all we painstakingly plan those big number birthday celebrations, Christmas get togethers, christenings, weddings, anniversaries, so why not our funerals? It is a bit gloomy and perhaps I'm just a control freak, but I'd like my departure to be personal to me.
So sis, rest assured, if you should depart before me, I'll make sure everyone belts out Monty Python's finale song for you. There will also be whoopie cushions on every seat, the vicar will do back flips down the aisle and, if you peer very closely, the floral displays might look just that little bit suggestive......
And sis, I'd like you to return the favour, so here's mine. Lots of music, everything from Muse to Holst, masses of red roses, big black hats, (I've always loved a bit of drama) and laughter.
I've always been proud of my Irish heritage and there's an Irish way of saying goodbye that seems perfect to me. Everyone gathers somewhere that was special (in my case it's the sea, so off to the beach) and remembers the departed in their own way, they might sing, recite a poem, just say a few words, it doesn't really matter.
How lovely is that? So that's what I'd like although please, I do have just one little request, much as I love her, could my best friend not be allowed to sing as I've done Sing Star with her on New Year's Eve and she's tone deaf......
Monday 14 November 2011
Basque separatists.....
There it was, this year resplendent in shiny bright red satin and lace, the item of underwear that will condemn countless unsuspecting men to a frosty Christmas and it'll have nothing to do with the weather - the basque.
Last year it was black satin and gold lace but this Christmas every male can treat the woman in his life to the hooker look.
I lingered and watched as men strolled through the store and did a double take when they spotted the display, which had cunningly been placed as prominently as possible, well it's hard to miss blood red satin. From the attention it was getting, there's going to be a lot of women opening their parcels on Christmas morning to find something red, shiny and tight inside.
Undoubtedly there are women out there who can carry off a crimson number and are happy to do so, and good luck to them, but there will be far more whose heart will plummet into their boots if they unwrap their present only to find a red satin basque inside.
The thing is guys, we women do love beautiful, sexy undies including red, but trust me on this, we like to choose them ourselves as we'd really rather not look like something out of a soft porn film or Jordan. We also like our underwear to fit and how many of you have any idea of our bra size? So you're on a hiding to nothing as you'll invariably get the wrong size, whether it's too small or too big, it'll pee us off either way.
So, you men out there who have the knack of buying gorgeous underwear for your girl, in the right size, congratulations because you are a rare species indeed.
But the main reason why you men should step away from the slapper basque right now if you want any chance of a merry and harmonious Christmas is this - we know you haven't bought it for us, but for you. I'm sure there are women who are happy to strut around trussed up like a turkey in red satin but, come on guys, we're not fools, we know what the basque is for and it's not for wearing under our work clothes or for a trip around the supermarket.
I'm sure there are many women who love being given underwear for Christmas, I'm not one of them. As far as I'm concerned it's the lazy option for men who can't be bothered and smacks of last minute panic. I grew up with a wonderfully generous but hopelessly disorganised father who'd rush out late on Christmas Eve to buy my mum something. He plumbed the depths with a TV one year. He hit a winner when he bought a necklace she'd mentioned liking but blew it when he bought the same thing for the next two years.
I'm not saying all men are hopeless when it comes to buying presents, there are men and women who are fabulous at choosing gifts and equally there are men and women who are rubbish. The worst presents I have ever been given were an ironing board (from a man), Swingball (from a woman) and a can of de-icer (man).
A friend was distinctly chilly with her husband until well into the new year after he gave her three bottles of bubble bath one Christmas. 'He got them on a three for the price of two offer and he didn't even bother to get three different ones,' she ranted.
So step away from the basque guys and head on over to the cashmere, you'll have a much happier Christmas if you do.
Last year it was black satin and gold lace but this Christmas every male can treat the woman in his life to the hooker look.
I lingered and watched as men strolled through the store and did a double take when they spotted the display, which had cunningly been placed as prominently as possible, well it's hard to miss blood red satin. From the attention it was getting, there's going to be a lot of women opening their parcels on Christmas morning to find something red, shiny and tight inside.
Undoubtedly there are women out there who can carry off a crimson number and are happy to do so, and good luck to them, but there will be far more whose heart will plummet into their boots if they unwrap their present only to find a red satin basque inside.
The thing is guys, we women do love beautiful, sexy undies including red, but trust me on this, we like to choose them ourselves as we'd really rather not look like something out of a soft porn film or Jordan. We also like our underwear to fit and how many of you have any idea of our bra size? So you're on a hiding to nothing as you'll invariably get the wrong size, whether it's too small or too big, it'll pee us off either way.
So, you men out there who have the knack of buying gorgeous underwear for your girl, in the right size, congratulations because you are a rare species indeed.
But the main reason why you men should step away from the slapper basque right now if you want any chance of a merry and harmonious Christmas is this - we know you haven't bought it for us, but for you. I'm sure there are women who are happy to strut around trussed up like a turkey in red satin but, come on guys, we're not fools, we know what the basque is for and it's not for wearing under our work clothes or for a trip around the supermarket.
I'm sure there are many women who love being given underwear for Christmas, I'm not one of them. As far as I'm concerned it's the lazy option for men who can't be bothered and smacks of last minute panic. I grew up with a wonderfully generous but hopelessly disorganised father who'd rush out late on Christmas Eve to buy my mum something. He plumbed the depths with a TV one year. He hit a winner when he bought a necklace she'd mentioned liking but blew it when he bought the same thing for the next two years.
I'm not saying all men are hopeless when it comes to buying presents, there are men and women who are fabulous at choosing gifts and equally there are men and women who are rubbish. The worst presents I have ever been given were an ironing board (from a man), Swingball (from a woman) and a can of de-icer (man).
A friend was distinctly chilly with her husband until well into the new year after he gave her three bottles of bubble bath one Christmas. 'He got them on a three for the price of two offer and he didn't even bother to get three different ones,' she ranted.
So step away from the basque guys and head on over to the cashmere, you'll have a much happier Christmas if you do.
Sunday 6 November 2011
Domestic not so bliss.....
Electrical appliances, and particularly those involved with the smooth running of the household, have long been a mystery to me.
The worst offender has to be the washing machine, there's just too many dials and buttons and why, oh why, is it necessary to keep changing where the powder goes? This alone has flummoxed me on the rare occasions when I've been let loose on the laundry.
I've managed to put tablets that should go in the drum into the slidey-out drawer so the washing has gone through a complete cycle and come out as grubby as it went in and I've had to scoop out the resultant powder mulch with a spoon. Then there was the time I wondered out loud why the clothes had come out quite so dry only to be told I hadn't actually switched the water supply on.
The piece de resistance was in France when I resorted to calling out the repair man because the machine wasn't spinning and everything was coming out sopping wet. I stayed in all day for him to arrive, take one look, sigh and mutter under his breath in that way that only Gallic men can, press a button and disappear smartly back to his van. It would appear that in the UK the button to stop a machine spinning is pressed in and on French machines it's left out (or possibly the other way round). Forget the Euro, we can't even agree on our washing machine buttons.
It seems the lack of a domestic gene may have been inherited by the 10-year-old son. He enthusiastically asked this morning if he could wash my car to earn some money. I happily accepted, told him to get a j-cloth out from under the sink and left him to it, only to come down later to find him contentedly washing away - with a yellow duster. I now have a blue Mini, admittedly slightly cleaner than it was, but literally covered in yellow fluff. Bless him.
The worst offender has to be the washing machine, there's just too many dials and buttons and why, oh why, is it necessary to keep changing where the powder goes? This alone has flummoxed me on the rare occasions when I've been let loose on the laundry.
I've managed to put tablets that should go in the drum into the slidey-out drawer so the washing has gone through a complete cycle and come out as grubby as it went in and I've had to scoop out the resultant powder mulch with a spoon. Then there was the time I wondered out loud why the clothes had come out quite so dry only to be told I hadn't actually switched the water supply on.
The piece de resistance was in France when I resorted to calling out the repair man because the machine wasn't spinning and everything was coming out sopping wet. I stayed in all day for him to arrive, take one look, sigh and mutter under his breath in that way that only Gallic men can, press a button and disappear smartly back to his van. It would appear that in the UK the button to stop a machine spinning is pressed in and on French machines it's left out (or possibly the other way round). Forget the Euro, we can't even agree on our washing machine buttons.
It seems the lack of a domestic gene may have been inherited by the 10-year-old son. He enthusiastically asked this morning if he could wash my car to earn some money. I happily accepted, told him to get a j-cloth out from under the sink and left him to it, only to come down later to find him contentedly washing away - with a yellow duster. I now have a blue Mini, admittedly slightly cleaner than it was, but literally covered in yellow fluff. Bless him.
Friday 4 November 2011
Sister act
Looking young for as long as possible and being regarded as youthful is a big deal nowadays. There's a whole multi million pound industry dedicated to it.
Open any glossy magazine, particularly those aimed at women in their 30s and 40s, and there will be the inevitable articles spouting on about how to look 10 years younger, wipe out the wrinkles, live like you're still 21, roll back the years.....
I've often been told that I sound younger on the phone than I am and, like most women of a certain age, it's definitely ego-boosting to be told I don't look my age. I reckon on a good day and in an extremely flattering light I might, just might, be able to get away with late 30s (ok, maybe I'm kidding myself there) or, more probably, early 40s. Take a look at my blog picture and judge for yourself.
So, I was more than a little taken aback by an encounter while out with the 10-year-old son this week.
We'd headed off to do some early Christmas shopping (yes I know it's only November but I do like to be organised) and were standing at the pay desk in one of the department stores. The sales assistant was a friendly type and got chatting with the little son. They nattered away while I paid the bill and I wasn't paying much attention to their conversation until I heard her refer to me as 'your sister'.
Sister, sister?! He's 10 and I'm 48. Now I may not be very good at maths, hopeless in fact, but even I can work out that I'd need to knock a good 20 years off my age for there to be any likelihood of being his sister.
Even with the most flattering light possible and even on an absolute humdinger of a good day, there is no way I could ever be taken for being young enough to be the sister of a 10-year-old.
I pointed out that I was, in fact, his mother. I was also rather tempted to add that perhaps it was time she made an appointment at the opticians. What amused me even more was that the sweet (but clearly deluded woman) was genuinely surprised to be told I wasn't his sister but his mother.
So, from now on I'll be ignoring the lines that are beginning to appear on my face, the ever-increasing trips to the hair salon to top up the colour, the invitations to subscribe to Woman and Home rather than Cosmo......after all, apparently I can still pass for 30!
Open any glossy magazine, particularly those aimed at women in their 30s and 40s, and there will be the inevitable articles spouting on about how to look 10 years younger, wipe out the wrinkles, live like you're still 21, roll back the years.....
I've often been told that I sound younger on the phone than I am and, like most women of a certain age, it's definitely ego-boosting to be told I don't look my age. I reckon on a good day and in an extremely flattering light I might, just might, be able to get away with late 30s (ok, maybe I'm kidding myself there) or, more probably, early 40s. Take a look at my blog picture and judge for yourself.
So, I was more than a little taken aback by an encounter while out with the 10-year-old son this week.
We'd headed off to do some early Christmas shopping (yes I know it's only November but I do like to be organised) and were standing at the pay desk in one of the department stores. The sales assistant was a friendly type and got chatting with the little son. They nattered away while I paid the bill and I wasn't paying much attention to their conversation until I heard her refer to me as 'your sister'.
Sister, sister?! He's 10 and I'm 48. Now I may not be very good at maths, hopeless in fact, but even I can work out that I'd need to knock a good 20 years off my age for there to be any likelihood of being his sister.
Even with the most flattering light possible and even on an absolute humdinger of a good day, there is no way I could ever be taken for being young enough to be the sister of a 10-year-old.
I pointed out that I was, in fact, his mother. I was also rather tempted to add that perhaps it was time she made an appointment at the opticians. What amused me even more was that the sweet (but clearly deluded woman) was genuinely surprised to be told I wasn't his sister but his mother.
So, from now on I'll be ignoring the lines that are beginning to appear on my face, the ever-increasing trips to the hair salon to top up the colour, the invitations to subscribe to Woman and Home rather than Cosmo......after all, apparently I can still pass for 30!
Thursday 13 October 2011
Would you credit it?
Apparently Visa can predict if you're likely to divorce, with 90 per cent accuracy (!), as early as two years before it happens - and all from what you put on your credit card. Heck.
Well I guess if a new set of saucepans (to replace the ones you threw at him), sharp knives, a single bed, locksmith's bill, bumper sized packs of giant chocolate buttons, boxed set of Gray's Anatomy DVDs and a crate of pink bubbly suddenly pop up on the bill, they might very well get an idea that all may not be rosy.....
Tracking people through their credit card spending is big business and companies use the info for risk management and to build up a picture of us all and whether we're going to be able to pay our bills or not.
I just love this - people who buy premier bird food, carbon monoxide detectors and felt pads for the bottom of their chair legs are deemed to be a safe bet. No sh** Sherlock, I could have told them that and also that they sport a comb-over, beige cardie (probably with big brown buttons and leather pads on the elbows), treat themselves to a piece of Battenburg cake on Sunday afternoon and like a bit of train spotting, unless it's raining of course.
Buy a bit of chrome for your car and, according to the credit card snoops, you're extremely likely to default on a payment. I rather like the idea that my credit card company could well be having 50 fits as I not only went for a chrome boot handle on my Mini but plastered the inside with it too. Ha, that should have them well and truly worried!
Some of the stats are just plain weird though. Apparently if you prefer an aisle seat on a plane you're highly likely to clear your credit card balance every month. How on earth do they work that out from where you sit on a plane? I always choose an aisle seat but purely because it means I don't have to squeeze past anyone else to get to the loo.
I've wondered how our lives would look to another person viewed solely through a credit card bill and have long had the idea for a book based on a bored credit card office worker who becomes obsessed with one customer and follows her life through her credit card transactions.
Anyway, it got me thinking about what my credit card bill and my recent transactions would say about me.
One thing would be pretty obvious, I'm somewhat prone to changing my mind and probably just that little bit deluded. The lengthy 'Boden order, Boden refund' entries would be a dead give-away that I still haven't cottoned on that the skinny, beanpole in the catalogue may look tremendous in the tartan shift dress but it's just not going to work on a 5ft 3in, curvy girl.
This last month's purchases tell their own story - that I've absolutely no sense of direction and am fed up with getting lost in never ending country lanes (sat nav); I like a bit of travel (Eurostar to Paris and hotel, flight to Ireland); have a friend who's about to have twins (baby outfits and a spa treatment, well she'll need it!), love a fire (logs); have a son who seems incapable of going out on his bike without riding over a rusty nail (bike repair shop, yet again); don't want to go grey just yet (hair salon); can't be without a book (Kindle downloads); am soon to part company with my wisdom teeth (dentist).
So, what would yours say about you?
Well I guess if a new set of saucepans (to replace the ones you threw at him), sharp knives, a single bed, locksmith's bill, bumper sized packs of giant chocolate buttons, boxed set of Gray's Anatomy DVDs and a crate of pink bubbly suddenly pop up on the bill, they might very well get an idea that all may not be rosy.....
Tracking people through their credit card spending is big business and companies use the info for risk management and to build up a picture of us all and whether we're going to be able to pay our bills or not.
I just love this - people who buy premier bird food, carbon monoxide detectors and felt pads for the bottom of their chair legs are deemed to be a safe bet. No sh** Sherlock, I could have told them that and also that they sport a comb-over, beige cardie (probably with big brown buttons and leather pads on the elbows), treat themselves to a piece of Battenburg cake on Sunday afternoon and like a bit of train spotting, unless it's raining of course.
Buy a bit of chrome for your car and, according to the credit card snoops, you're extremely likely to default on a payment. I rather like the idea that my credit card company could well be having 50 fits as I not only went for a chrome boot handle on my Mini but plastered the inside with it too. Ha, that should have them well and truly worried!
Some of the stats are just plain weird though. Apparently if you prefer an aisle seat on a plane you're highly likely to clear your credit card balance every month. How on earth do they work that out from where you sit on a plane? I always choose an aisle seat but purely because it means I don't have to squeeze past anyone else to get to the loo.
I've wondered how our lives would look to another person viewed solely through a credit card bill and have long had the idea for a book based on a bored credit card office worker who becomes obsessed with one customer and follows her life through her credit card transactions.
Anyway, it got me thinking about what my credit card bill and my recent transactions would say about me.
One thing would be pretty obvious, I'm somewhat prone to changing my mind and probably just that little bit deluded. The lengthy 'Boden order, Boden refund' entries would be a dead give-away that I still haven't cottoned on that the skinny, beanpole in the catalogue may look tremendous in the tartan shift dress but it's just not going to work on a 5ft 3in, curvy girl.
This last month's purchases tell their own story - that I've absolutely no sense of direction and am fed up with getting lost in never ending country lanes (sat nav); I like a bit of travel (Eurostar to Paris and hotel, flight to Ireland); have a friend who's about to have twins (baby outfits and a spa treatment, well she'll need it!), love a fire (logs); have a son who seems incapable of going out on his bike without riding over a rusty nail (bike repair shop, yet again); don't want to go grey just yet (hair salon); can't be without a book (Kindle downloads); am soon to part company with my wisdom teeth (dentist).
So, what would yours say about you?
Sunday 2 October 2011
Less is more?
I'm feeling guilty. Is guilt the scourge of modern day living?
I roped the 16-year-old to help clear out the garage which has been slowly disappearing under piles of bikes, go karts, hockey gear and general rubbish for months. That's the first dose of guilt, why do we have all this stuff?
I've been trying to be less of a consumer for a while now and I recycle wherever I can, a bike and go kart that the 10-year-old no longer uses are about to go off to a new, younger owner. I try to live by the ethos of waste not, want not, to be less materialistic and I make regular trips to the charity shops.
The other morning the doorbell went and it was my postman. He'd seen a bag I'd put by the front door for a charity collection and wondered if I'd mind if he had the Lego for his little boy. He went away with the Lego and some books for his seven-year-old, I felt good and I'd got to know my postie (George) better.
It still doesn't change the fact though that the amount of gear in this house is appalling. The 10-year-old has boxes of toys he doesn't play with, I have far too many clothes, 12 pairs of boots at the last count. My aim is to reduce the amount of stuff to items that we actually need and use regularly and I've introduced a one in, one out policy for everything.
My other source of guilt is this, am I making life too easy for my kids? Am I giving them the tools they'll need to forge their own happy, independent, worthwhile lives or are they going to turn into indulged, spoilt namby pambies? When I told the 16-year-old we were tackling the garage, you'd have thought I'd told him he was about to trek up Everest in flip flops. Ten minutes in and he decided he deserved a break.
I'm currently researching my Irish roots, trying to find out more about my grandfather, who died when I was a baby, and his young life in a remote part of County Mayo in the early 20th century. The contrast between his life in 1911 and ours in 2011 couldn't be greater. The family was living in a one room, thatched house, all crammed in together, trying to live off the land in a resolutely bleak, boggy area. Seven children had been born, three had died before the age of five. The others were under pressure to leave as soon as they could, to support themselves. Jesus.
My boys romp around in a four bedroom, two bathroom house. They have their own den complete with TV, Wii, PS2, stereo. Pocket money drops into their account every month, they're warm, well fed, safe, healthy. I held out for a long time against mobile phones and neither will ever have a TV in his bedroom. The 16-year-old won't be getting a car for his 17th birthday, he'll be saving up to buy his own as I did, and he'll have to contribute financially if he wants to learn to drive.
I had a paper round as a teenager and then worked in my local hair salon. Sometimes it was boring and I'd rather have been out with my friends but I liked earning my own money and becoming independent. I remember the satisfaction of saving up to go on my first holiday without my parents, funnily enough to Ireland, pure co-incidence, I closed my eyes, stuck a pin in a map and that's where it landed.
I'm currently helping the 16-year-old look for a part-time job as if he feels hard done by spending more than 10 minutes clearing out the garage then he's in for a big shock when he goes out into the big, wide world, unless he finds a work ethic and fast. Life moves on, it progresses, but I don't want my kids taking what they have, how lucky they are, for granted.
Maybe I'm being overly dramatic but it's hard not to look around my home and the life we have and think how cushy it is compared to the one my grandfather was born into 100 odd years ago.
I roped the 16-year-old to help clear out the garage which has been slowly disappearing under piles of bikes, go karts, hockey gear and general rubbish for months. That's the first dose of guilt, why do we have all this stuff?
I've been trying to be less of a consumer for a while now and I recycle wherever I can, a bike and go kart that the 10-year-old no longer uses are about to go off to a new, younger owner. I try to live by the ethos of waste not, want not, to be less materialistic and I make regular trips to the charity shops.
The other morning the doorbell went and it was my postman. He'd seen a bag I'd put by the front door for a charity collection and wondered if I'd mind if he had the Lego for his little boy. He went away with the Lego and some books for his seven-year-old, I felt good and I'd got to know my postie (George) better.
It still doesn't change the fact though that the amount of gear in this house is appalling. The 10-year-old has boxes of toys he doesn't play with, I have far too many clothes, 12 pairs of boots at the last count. My aim is to reduce the amount of stuff to items that we actually need and use regularly and I've introduced a one in, one out policy for everything.
My other source of guilt is this, am I making life too easy for my kids? Am I giving them the tools they'll need to forge their own happy, independent, worthwhile lives or are they going to turn into indulged, spoilt namby pambies? When I told the 16-year-old we were tackling the garage, you'd have thought I'd told him he was about to trek up Everest in flip flops. Ten minutes in and he decided he deserved a break.
I'm currently researching my Irish roots, trying to find out more about my grandfather, who died when I was a baby, and his young life in a remote part of County Mayo in the early 20th century. The contrast between his life in 1911 and ours in 2011 couldn't be greater. The family was living in a one room, thatched house, all crammed in together, trying to live off the land in a resolutely bleak, boggy area. Seven children had been born, three had died before the age of five. The others were under pressure to leave as soon as they could, to support themselves. Jesus.
My boys romp around in a four bedroom, two bathroom house. They have their own den complete with TV, Wii, PS2, stereo. Pocket money drops into their account every month, they're warm, well fed, safe, healthy. I held out for a long time against mobile phones and neither will ever have a TV in his bedroom. The 16-year-old won't be getting a car for his 17th birthday, he'll be saving up to buy his own as I did, and he'll have to contribute financially if he wants to learn to drive.
I had a paper round as a teenager and then worked in my local hair salon. Sometimes it was boring and I'd rather have been out with my friends but I liked earning my own money and becoming independent. I remember the satisfaction of saving up to go on my first holiday without my parents, funnily enough to Ireland, pure co-incidence, I closed my eyes, stuck a pin in a map and that's where it landed.
I'm currently helping the 16-year-old look for a part-time job as if he feels hard done by spending more than 10 minutes clearing out the garage then he's in for a big shock when he goes out into the big, wide world, unless he finds a work ethic and fast. Life moves on, it progresses, but I don't want my kids taking what they have, how lucky they are, for granted.
Maybe I'm being overly dramatic but it's hard not to look around my home and the life we have and think how cushy it is compared to the one my grandfather was born into 100 odd years ago.
Friday 30 September 2011
Do it yourself, I wish I could.
The decorator starts on Monday and I'm going to have to spend as much time as possible out of the house. Not because we don't get on but because, once more, I've put my foot in it.
Finding a good decorator is hard enough. I called one and explained that I wanted the hall, stairs and landing painted and wallpapered (yes, I'm channelling the 1970s vibe and will probably wonder what the hell I was thinking once it's done) and could he pop round and give me a quote? There was that sound, that sucking in of breath, the sound they all make just before they tell you it's going to cost an arm and a leg and they can't do it until 2014 at the earliest.
'Wallpaper? I don't like wallpapering', he said. Great, a decorator who doesn't like decorating. Next.
I'd love to be able to do it myself but I'm a complete disaster when it comes to DIY. My greatest triumph over the last 20 years has been putting up a pair of curtain tie backs. In my head I can install a kitchen, plumb in a bathroom, lay a patio and wallpaper like a dream. The problem though is exactly that, it's all in my head.
I once decided to paint my bedroom and got rather a long way in before realising I was painting the wall with gloss paint. Take down any picture in my house and the wall behind will look as if it's been raked by machine gun fire, there's so many holes from where I've had numerous attempts to get the picture hooks in straight.
In France this summer I decided fairy lights would look good around the terrace but managed to nail the hook straight through the cable, knocking out two thirds of the lights. I was right, they would have looked lovely if more than 30 or so of the 100 bulbs had been working.
I know a woman who single-handedly restored a derelict farmhouse. She re-pointed, tiled the roof, plumbed, re-wired, put in heating, laid bricks. She modestly played down her incredible achievement, saying she couldn't afford to have contractors in so she just got books, read up and got on and did it. If that had been me, that place would have crumbled into a pile of stones rather than become the idyllic country home that she turned it into.
So, finally having found a decorator who actually seemed to like his trade, he popped round to run through what I wanted.
'I'd like the stair bannisters rubbed down and repainted, wallpaper up to the picture rail, the doors repainted and the dildo rail taken down.'
Even as I heard the words come out of my mouth and before I'd even registered the startled expression on his face, it suddenly came to me why one of my closest friends has always described me as speaking English as if it's my second language.
'Dado, dado rail, I meant dado rail,' I spluttered.
It's going to be a long two weeks, for both of us.
Finding a good decorator is hard enough. I called one and explained that I wanted the hall, stairs and landing painted and wallpapered (yes, I'm channelling the 1970s vibe and will probably wonder what the hell I was thinking once it's done) and could he pop round and give me a quote? There was that sound, that sucking in of breath, the sound they all make just before they tell you it's going to cost an arm and a leg and they can't do it until 2014 at the earliest.
'Wallpaper? I don't like wallpapering', he said. Great, a decorator who doesn't like decorating. Next.
I'd love to be able to do it myself but I'm a complete disaster when it comes to DIY. My greatest triumph over the last 20 years has been putting up a pair of curtain tie backs. In my head I can install a kitchen, plumb in a bathroom, lay a patio and wallpaper like a dream. The problem though is exactly that, it's all in my head.
I once decided to paint my bedroom and got rather a long way in before realising I was painting the wall with gloss paint. Take down any picture in my house and the wall behind will look as if it's been raked by machine gun fire, there's so many holes from where I've had numerous attempts to get the picture hooks in straight.
In France this summer I decided fairy lights would look good around the terrace but managed to nail the hook straight through the cable, knocking out two thirds of the lights. I was right, they would have looked lovely if more than 30 or so of the 100 bulbs had been working.
I know a woman who single-handedly restored a derelict farmhouse. She re-pointed, tiled the roof, plumbed, re-wired, put in heating, laid bricks. She modestly played down her incredible achievement, saying she couldn't afford to have contractors in so she just got books, read up and got on and did it. If that had been me, that place would have crumbled into a pile of stones rather than become the idyllic country home that she turned it into.
So, finally having found a decorator who actually seemed to like his trade, he popped round to run through what I wanted.
'I'd like the stair bannisters rubbed down and repainted, wallpaper up to the picture rail, the doors repainted and the dildo rail taken down.'
Even as I heard the words come out of my mouth and before I'd even registered the startled expression on his face, it suddenly came to me why one of my closest friends has always described me as speaking English as if it's my second language.
'Dado, dado rail, I meant dado rail,' I spluttered.
It's going to be a long two weeks, for both of us.
Sunday 25 September 2011
Mind the gap.....
The generation gap is wider than I thought. It appears I'm not as in tune with my offspring as I like to think I am.
The generation gap between me and my boys has always seemed much narrower than the one I experienced growing up. I remember spending much of my teenage years rolling my eyes at my parents' taste in music - Willie Nelson, Andy Williams, The Dubliners - and battling to get my mother to understand that staying out until 10.30pm on a Saturday night was not going to turn me into a trollop or a drug addict.
They were great parents but, in many ways, we were light years apart. Their childhoods were so different to mine, they grew up during a world war, whereas I had a safe, comfortable upbringing. All in all though, they must have done pretty well because I'm able to be extremely open with my kids.
I've always been rather chuffed that the 16-year-old and I share a deep love of music and even have similar tastes with a lot of artists in common on our iPods, although we do part company when it comes to Enter Shikari and Slipknot (him) and Amy Winehouse and Joy Division (me).
Like many teenagers he's got to that stage where he's building an independent life for himself. He now divulges as little information about what he's up to in his social life and who he's doing it with as he feels is necessary, so Facebook does come in mighty handy for keeping up to date with what's going on especially when I'm in another county almost 100 miles away.
This weekend, as usual, he was out with friends at a local gig, seeing bands including a couple his mates play in. His subsequent post on Facebook reassured me that he'd had a good night and was back safely although I was a bit bemused to read that he'd ended up on stage singing with 'five sikh dudes'.
Now, the south west is slowly becoming more multi-cultural and there's a sizeable Polish community but the presence of a Sikh band on stage in a decidedly rural, small market town was definitely something out of the ordinary.
Later, as we were catching up on the phone, I asked him about the gig and launched in about how impressed I was that he was widening his group of friends and what had he learned about Sikh culture and music? I happily prattled on.....Did he know that traditionally Sikh men don't cut their hair but wind it around their heads under their turbans? What was the music like and how had he ended up on stage with them?
There was a long pause then the distinct sound of sniggering. I knew, just knew, he was rolling his eyes. 'No mum, not Sikh as in the religion, sikh as in sick meaning cool, s-i-k-h, it's the new way of spelling it.'
Ah. The generation gap is as wide as it ever was.
The generation gap between me and my boys has always seemed much narrower than the one I experienced growing up. I remember spending much of my teenage years rolling my eyes at my parents' taste in music - Willie Nelson, Andy Williams, The Dubliners - and battling to get my mother to understand that staying out until 10.30pm on a Saturday night was not going to turn me into a trollop or a drug addict.
They were great parents but, in many ways, we were light years apart. Their childhoods were so different to mine, they grew up during a world war, whereas I had a safe, comfortable upbringing. All in all though, they must have done pretty well because I'm able to be extremely open with my kids.
I've always been rather chuffed that the 16-year-old and I share a deep love of music and even have similar tastes with a lot of artists in common on our iPods, although we do part company when it comes to Enter Shikari and Slipknot (him) and Amy Winehouse and Joy Division (me).
Like many teenagers he's got to that stage where he's building an independent life for himself. He now divulges as little information about what he's up to in his social life and who he's doing it with as he feels is necessary, so Facebook does come in mighty handy for keeping up to date with what's going on especially when I'm in another county almost 100 miles away.
This weekend, as usual, he was out with friends at a local gig, seeing bands including a couple his mates play in. His subsequent post on Facebook reassured me that he'd had a good night and was back safely although I was a bit bemused to read that he'd ended up on stage singing with 'five sikh dudes'.
Now, the south west is slowly becoming more multi-cultural and there's a sizeable Polish community but the presence of a Sikh band on stage in a decidedly rural, small market town was definitely something out of the ordinary.
Later, as we were catching up on the phone, I asked him about the gig and launched in about how impressed I was that he was widening his group of friends and what had he learned about Sikh culture and music? I happily prattled on.....Did he know that traditionally Sikh men don't cut their hair but wind it around their heads under their turbans? What was the music like and how had he ended up on stage with them?
There was a long pause then the distinct sound of sniggering. I knew, just knew, he was rolling his eyes. 'No mum, not Sikh as in the religion, sikh as in sick meaning cool, s-i-k-h, it's the new way of spelling it.'
Ah. The generation gap is as wide as it ever was.
Monday 19 September 2011
A not so clean sweep
I was all set to blog about decorating until I walked into the sitting room yesterday afternoon to find a whopping great collared dove sitting in my fireplace.
Fortunately the fireguard was up so my unexpected guest hadn't been able to settle on the sofas, or to do anything else less well mannered on the furniture for that matter, but was perched, looking a bit baffled, on top of a pile of pine cones and kindling. A collared dove's gentle cooing is one of my favourite sounds but my fondness doesn't stretch to having the owner of the coo in my firebasket. They don't look that big perched on the roof but up close it's a different matter.
Visits as a child to an aged aunt who had budgies, and would let them out to fly around the room and indulge their love of dive-bombing whoever was unlucky enough to be below them, has left me with a distinct preference for birds in the garden rather than in my hair.
The 16-year-old took one look and announced 'ugh, don't like birds, they flap, I'm not touching it'. The 10-year-old's reaction was 'aaaaw, it's cute, can we keep it as a pet?'. Great couple of hunter gatherers I've produced.
You know that feeling when it slowly dawns on you that the Fates are conspiring against you and your timing just hasn't been great? This was one of those moments.
Only the day before I'd decided it was time to get the chimney swept, order the logs and give the fireplace, which is creamy Bath stone, a good scrub. This is not one of my favourite domestic chores (and that's an understatement). It involves buckets of hot soapy water and a scrubbing brush, is hell on the knees and hands, takes a good hour and I put off doing it for as long as I possibly can. Until Saturday. Two broken nails and a lot of muck, and lord knows what else that had dropped down the chimney over the summer, later, the fire was looking lovely, clean and all ready to go.
So, of course Murphy's Law strikes again, and that's when a bloody great big, not so sure-footed, collared dove decided to fall down my chimney. It had landed safely in the firebasket without hurting itself but had managed to sweep the chimney, admittedly extremely effectively, as it flapped its sizeable wings as it descended, bringing with it a deluge of soot - all over my nice clean fireplace and hearth. Naturally.
Fortunately the fireguard was up so my unexpected guest hadn't been able to settle on the sofas, or to do anything else less well mannered on the furniture for that matter, but was perched, looking a bit baffled, on top of a pile of pine cones and kindling. A collared dove's gentle cooing is one of my favourite sounds but my fondness doesn't stretch to having the owner of the coo in my firebasket. They don't look that big perched on the roof but up close it's a different matter.
Visits as a child to an aged aunt who had budgies, and would let them out to fly around the room and indulge their love of dive-bombing whoever was unlucky enough to be below them, has left me with a distinct preference for birds in the garden rather than in my hair.
The 16-year-old took one look and announced 'ugh, don't like birds, they flap, I'm not touching it'. The 10-year-old's reaction was 'aaaaw, it's cute, can we keep it as a pet?'. Great couple of hunter gatherers I've produced.
You know that feeling when it slowly dawns on you that the Fates are conspiring against you and your timing just hasn't been great? This was one of those moments.
Only the day before I'd decided it was time to get the chimney swept, order the logs and give the fireplace, which is creamy Bath stone, a good scrub. This is not one of my favourite domestic chores (and that's an understatement). It involves buckets of hot soapy water and a scrubbing brush, is hell on the knees and hands, takes a good hour and I put off doing it for as long as I possibly can. Until Saturday. Two broken nails and a lot of muck, and lord knows what else that had dropped down the chimney over the summer, later, the fire was looking lovely, clean and all ready to go.
So, of course Murphy's Law strikes again, and that's when a bloody great big, not so sure-footed, collared dove decided to fall down my chimney. It had landed safely in the firebasket without hurting itself but had managed to sweep the chimney, admittedly extremely effectively, as it flapped its sizeable wings as it descended, bringing with it a deluge of soot - all over my nice clean fireplace and hearth. Naturally.
Saturday 17 September 2011
Size really does matter
Yippee. Hurrah. Woo hoo. It's a very good day. So what could be so exciting you ask? Well, I've bought opaque tights today. Not much of a reason to be so perky, I know, except for one very important fact.
And that fact is this - I've bought them in MEDIUM, not large. Now this is indeed a big deal as it means, rather wonderfully, that my bum has got smaller! Said backside has necessitated extra large tights in the past (I've vowed never again) and has now worked its way down from large to medium. Whoopeee!
I know, I know, in the scheme of things it's hardly earth shattering but women everywhere who have ever worried about, or battled with, their weight will understand my delight and why it's cause for celebration. Call me shallow but it's put a smile on my face, made me walk taller (which is something when you're only 5ft 3ins tall) and made me feel so much better about myself.
It's mad isn't it that the number printed on the inside labels of our clothes can make such a difference to how we feel about ourselves, that getting tights in medium rather than large can have such an impact on a woman's self-esteem? I've watched a friend try on an outfit and look gorgeous in it but refuse to buy it, saying 'there's no way I can get it, it's a (voice dropping to a whisper) large.'
I've read all those 'how to find clothes that will make you look amazing' articles that blithely pontificate that the answer to great dressing is not to pay any attention to the size but to go on the fit and how the outfit looks. 'Ignore the label, don't worry if it's a size bigger than you'd normally buy, it really doesn't matter what the number on the label says', they advise.
Hmmm....That may well make sense but, come on, it's not going to happen, is it? I don't think I know a single woman who'd be happy turning to the sales assistant and saying 'you know what, I think I'll try it in a bigger size.'
Because it blooming well does matter. That little number can make all the difference between a woman feeling wonderful about herself or like a heffalump. I wish it didn't, but it does.
A friend of mine lost a lot of weight and was feeling fabulous. She went into a fashion store she'd never have been brave enough to go in when she was heavier and tried on a knitted dress. In the changing room her spirits began to plummet when she struggled to get it on. She knew it should fit as it was her new, slim-line size but no matter what she did she just couldn't get her head through the opening. By now all her newfound confidence was seeping away - until she realised she was trying to get her head down a sleeve.
Too often, we women beat ourselves up about how we look, what we weigh and probably set ourselves unachievable targets. I know I will never be a size 10 but, you know what, I really don't care because today - I bought tights in medium and that's good enough for me.
And that fact is this - I've bought them in MEDIUM, not large. Now this is indeed a big deal as it means, rather wonderfully, that my bum has got smaller! Said backside has necessitated extra large tights in the past (I've vowed never again) and has now worked its way down from large to medium. Whoopeee!
I know, I know, in the scheme of things it's hardly earth shattering but women everywhere who have ever worried about, or battled with, their weight will understand my delight and why it's cause for celebration. Call me shallow but it's put a smile on my face, made me walk taller (which is something when you're only 5ft 3ins tall) and made me feel so much better about myself.
It's mad isn't it that the number printed on the inside labels of our clothes can make such a difference to how we feel about ourselves, that getting tights in medium rather than large can have such an impact on a woman's self-esteem? I've watched a friend try on an outfit and look gorgeous in it but refuse to buy it, saying 'there's no way I can get it, it's a (voice dropping to a whisper) large.'
I've read all those 'how to find clothes that will make you look amazing' articles that blithely pontificate that the answer to great dressing is not to pay any attention to the size but to go on the fit and how the outfit looks. 'Ignore the label, don't worry if it's a size bigger than you'd normally buy, it really doesn't matter what the number on the label says', they advise.
Hmmm....That may well make sense but, come on, it's not going to happen, is it? I don't think I know a single woman who'd be happy turning to the sales assistant and saying 'you know what, I think I'll try it in a bigger size.'
Because it blooming well does matter. That little number can make all the difference between a woman feeling wonderful about herself or like a heffalump. I wish it didn't, but it does.
A friend of mine lost a lot of weight and was feeling fabulous. She went into a fashion store she'd never have been brave enough to go in when she was heavier and tried on a knitted dress. In the changing room her spirits began to plummet when she struggled to get it on. She knew it should fit as it was her new, slim-line size but no matter what she did she just couldn't get her head through the opening. By now all her newfound confidence was seeping away - until she realised she was trying to get her head down a sleeve.
Too often, we women beat ourselves up about how we look, what we weigh and probably set ourselves unachievable targets. I know I will never be a size 10 but, you know what, I really don't care because today - I bought tights in medium and that's good enough for me.
Tuesday 13 September 2011
Middle aged? Not if I can help it......
So when do you know you've slid from young, hip and happening into middle age? Is there a moment in our lives when we suddenly sit bolt upright and yelp 'oh my god, I'm middle aged'?
What defines middle aged nowadays? Is there even such a thing anymore or has age just become a number?
I'm holding out kicking and screaming against the idea that I'm middle aged even though I know that, at 48, I'm technically well and truly in that bracket. The trouble is it just sounds too dull, safe, uninspiring. If middle age were a colour it'd be beige. Middle aged spread, mid-life crisis, even the words are so incredibly negative.
So what constitutes being middle aged? Everyone has their own idea - to some it's when you get a shed; joining the National Trust or WI (Women's Institute); fancying a man in a cardie; to others it's when you start washing the car every Sunday morning; enjoying a gardening magazine over Vogue; finding yourself seriously considering a coach holiday.
To me, being middle aged is having to be a contortionist to get your opaque tights on because the knees don't like to bend as much as they used to; when the visits to the hair salon to get rid of the grey become more frequent; when you have to give in and get reading glasses because there's every likelihood otherwise that what you thought was a can of kidney beans for the chili will turn out, too late, to be peaches.
All those things have now happened to me in the last few months so I know my body is well and truly middle aged, but there's still my mind and I'm determined that most definitely is not going to be, not if I can help it. I'll know that I've finally plunged into mental middle age only when the idea of popping to the garden centre on a Sunday afternoon for a cuppa and a scone becomes appealing or when I find myself thinking I might take up golf.
I wonder why that mid part of life has even acquired those negative connotations? You never hear anyone saying 'oh I'm so looking forward to being middle aged!' Women like Helen Mirren, Susan Sarandon and Joan Collins (who's married to a man a good two decades younger than her) are proving that the 60s and 70s can be as much fun and as satisfying as your 20s and 30s. So why should your 40s and 50s be any different?
After all, it should really be a golden time. For many it's when the mortgage is coming to an end or paid off; the kids are becoming independent and needing you less; you have the confidence and experience of age; you've worked out your style; established your career. So why do we dread middle age so much?
Times have changed though, thank goodness, and women are less constrained by age in all areas of life. My mother agonised over what she should wear when she hit her middle age and would be forever checking with my dad that her outfit didn't make her look like 'mutton dressed as lamb'. Every new piece of clothing would be accompanied by the question 'you don't think it's too young for me?'
Women of her generation were terrified they would be judged as trying to look young so they went the other way and looked like their mothers. They seemed to disappear in middle age, the skirts got longer, the hair less adventurous, the personalities a little quieter, the lives that bit more humdrum.
Well that's not going to be me. I'm certainly not ready to slide into a boring, unfulfilling middle age, I've only just learned how to do a smoky eye make up, for heaven's sake. I'm determined I'm going to age disgracefully, as colourfully and as full on as possible. The lippie will remain bright red; the dresses just that smidge above the knee; the boots sexy rather than practical; the laugh loud; the attitude 'bring it on', the mantra 'carpe diem'. Who's joining me?
What defines middle aged nowadays? Is there even such a thing anymore or has age just become a number?
I'm holding out kicking and screaming against the idea that I'm middle aged even though I know that, at 48, I'm technically well and truly in that bracket. The trouble is it just sounds too dull, safe, uninspiring. If middle age were a colour it'd be beige. Middle aged spread, mid-life crisis, even the words are so incredibly negative.
So what constitutes being middle aged? Everyone has their own idea - to some it's when you get a shed; joining the National Trust or WI (Women's Institute); fancying a man in a cardie; to others it's when you start washing the car every Sunday morning; enjoying a gardening magazine over Vogue; finding yourself seriously considering a coach holiday.
To me, being middle aged is having to be a contortionist to get your opaque tights on because the knees don't like to bend as much as they used to; when the visits to the hair salon to get rid of the grey become more frequent; when you have to give in and get reading glasses because there's every likelihood otherwise that what you thought was a can of kidney beans for the chili will turn out, too late, to be peaches.
All those things have now happened to me in the last few months so I know my body is well and truly middle aged, but there's still my mind and I'm determined that most definitely is not going to be, not if I can help it. I'll know that I've finally plunged into mental middle age only when the idea of popping to the garden centre on a Sunday afternoon for a cuppa and a scone becomes appealing or when I find myself thinking I might take up golf.
I wonder why that mid part of life has even acquired those negative connotations? You never hear anyone saying 'oh I'm so looking forward to being middle aged!' Women like Helen Mirren, Susan Sarandon and Joan Collins (who's married to a man a good two decades younger than her) are proving that the 60s and 70s can be as much fun and as satisfying as your 20s and 30s. So why should your 40s and 50s be any different?
After all, it should really be a golden time. For many it's when the mortgage is coming to an end or paid off; the kids are becoming independent and needing you less; you have the confidence and experience of age; you've worked out your style; established your career. So why do we dread middle age so much?
Times have changed though, thank goodness, and women are less constrained by age in all areas of life. My mother agonised over what she should wear when she hit her middle age and would be forever checking with my dad that her outfit didn't make her look like 'mutton dressed as lamb'. Every new piece of clothing would be accompanied by the question 'you don't think it's too young for me?'
Women of her generation were terrified they would be judged as trying to look young so they went the other way and looked like their mothers. They seemed to disappear in middle age, the skirts got longer, the hair less adventurous, the personalities a little quieter, the lives that bit more humdrum.
Well that's not going to be me. I'm certainly not ready to slide into a boring, unfulfilling middle age, I've only just learned how to do a smoky eye make up, for heaven's sake. I'm determined I'm going to age disgracefully, as colourfully and as full on as possible. The lippie will remain bright red; the dresses just that smidge above the knee; the boots sexy rather than practical; the laugh loud; the attitude 'bring it on', the mantra 'carpe diem'. Who's joining me?
Friday 9 September 2011
Spaghetti bolognaise then?
Autumn is definitely here, the nights are drawing in, the temperature is dropping.....and with it any chance of being able to serve up salad for dinner any longer and get away with it.
That means a return to cooking. Now I know there are those who would spend hours happily pottering around their kitchens creating culinary delights, but I'm not one of them. I can't even blame it on my genes as my mother would devote an entire day to making a curry for a dinner party, painstakingly crushing all the spices. Me, I'd open a jar. See, I'm just not a natural born cook. Don't get me wrong, I can rustle up a decent enough roast or casserole and I'm actually quite good at puddings, but I'd rather read a book.
It's not as if I haven't got all the gear, there's the big cream range ( I absolutely love it but aesthetically rather than for what it produces), the red KitchenAid mixer (never used it but it does look pretty on the worktop), the juicer cum smoothie maker (ditto), the Emma Bridgewater crockery and pinny. I've even watched a couple of Nigella's cookery programmes but a woman in a fluffy cardie getting that excited over a pack of prawns was just too much for me.
My poor children have become used to my rather unenthusiastic performance in the kitchen, son number one decided the answer was to take matters into his own hands and is now a rather proficient cook. At least there won't be any need to tuck Delia Smith's how to boil an egg book under his arm as he heads off into the big wide world.
My distinct lack of oomph in the kitchen was brought home when son number two wandered in and asked 'what's for dinner mum?' Before I could open my mouth, the computer repair man, who was there sorting out the PC yet again, piped up cheerily 'spaghetti bolognaise'.
When he noticed me looking at him with a decidedly puzzled expression on my face, (mainly because he was right, it was going to be spaghetti bolognaise, now how could he possibly know that?), he remarked 'I've been here four times now and each time you've been cooking spaghetti bolognaise for dinner'. Ouch. Time to buy a recipe book.
That means a return to cooking. Now I know there are those who would spend hours happily pottering around their kitchens creating culinary delights, but I'm not one of them. I can't even blame it on my genes as my mother would devote an entire day to making a curry for a dinner party, painstakingly crushing all the spices. Me, I'd open a jar. See, I'm just not a natural born cook. Don't get me wrong, I can rustle up a decent enough roast or casserole and I'm actually quite good at puddings, but I'd rather read a book.
 |
| Abandon hope all who enter here.....if I'm cooking |
It's not as if I haven't got all the gear, there's the big cream range ( I absolutely love it but aesthetically rather than for what it produces), the red KitchenAid mixer (never used it but it does look pretty on the worktop), the juicer cum smoothie maker (ditto), the Emma Bridgewater crockery and pinny. I've even watched a couple of Nigella's cookery programmes but a woman in a fluffy cardie getting that excited over a pack of prawns was just too much for me.
 |
| All ready and waiting..... |
My poor children have become used to my rather unenthusiastic performance in the kitchen, son number one decided the answer was to take matters into his own hands and is now a rather proficient cook. At least there won't be any need to tuck Delia Smith's how to boil an egg book under his arm as he heads off into the big wide world.
My distinct lack of oomph in the kitchen was brought home when son number two wandered in and asked 'what's for dinner mum?' Before I could open my mouth, the computer repair man, who was there sorting out the PC yet again, piped up cheerily 'spaghetti bolognaise'.
When he noticed me looking at him with a decidedly puzzled expression on my face, (mainly because he was right, it was going to be spaghetti bolognaise, now how could he possibly know that?), he remarked 'I've been here four times now and each time you've been cooking spaghetti bolognaise for dinner'. Ouch. Time to buy a recipe book.
Tuesday 6 September 2011
Dress to impress - at the school gates?
It appears that an increasing number of women are spending time and energy planning what to wear to do the school run and that there's now such a thing as competitive school gate dressing.
I'm not the slightest bit surprised. The school gate has to be one of the most competitive places you can find yourself as a woman. Just imagine what it must be like at the London school where the children of supermodels Claudia Schiffer and Elle McPherson are pupils, who in their right mind would even attempt to compete sartorially with the blonde bombshell and The Body?
Thankfully I no longer have to accompany son number two to school, he jettisoned me as soon as he reasonably could, probably after the time I dropped him off with a mac barely covering my nightie, bright red lippie, sunnies and stilleto heeled boots. (Yes, I'd taken hours planning that outfit the night before, obviously....)
I knew that as an older mum, having had son no two at 37, I stood out like a sore thumb. Added to that, not coming from round here, I had a 'posh' accent and even worse, I work. Three strikes and I was out. The competition here doesn't seem to focus so much on what you wear (although there were definite nudges when I turned up with a Mulberry bag) but on how good a mother the playground mafia considers you to be and seems to split into two camps, those mums who work and those who don't. Once they found out I'd had two planned caesareans (no I'm not too posh to push but one breech and one enormous baby), bottle fed (sorry, but I'm not United Dairies), and my boys went to nursery, I was a dead duck, destined never to be invited to the NCT (National Childbirth Trust) coffee morning.
Each to their own I say and it's never bothered me that I'm obviously regarded as a dead loss in the mothering stakes by a lot of the buggy brigade. These are the women who must camp out overnight to make sure they are bang in the middle of the front row every year for the Nativity (I've always left it so late to get tickets that I'm jammed in at the side next to the 'lively' child who has been given the wooden blocks to play, loudly); the ones who always go on the school trips as the parent helper; who turn up with a beautifully home made spread for the sports day picnic; who jam up the entrance to the classroom at 8.45am every morning because they just have to talk to the teacher (making us working women late for work yet again); who spend days hand sewing outfits for every theme day while the rest of us persuade our kids that a superhero outfit is spot on for Victorian day with a few tweaks here and there.
Occasionally though we hopeless cases do have the last laugh. Son number two's school asked the children to dress up for a Christmas party. As usual our contribution was cobbled together at the last minute after I finally managed to persuade son number two that I might well be wrong but I really didn't recall there being a bare chested wrestler in the manger, and involved the old fail-safe, the dressing gown and tea towel. One of the playground mafia mums had clearly spent hours and a fair amount of money creating a Christmas tree from foam that she'd painted a spruce green, complete with working fairy lights and baubles. It was a work of art and she knew it. Unfortunately for her, her offspring didn't agree, threw an absolute tantrum and refused to wear it. Yes I know it's petty and I should know better and be ashamed of myself but I couldn't help but snigger.
I'm not the slightest bit surprised. The school gate has to be one of the most competitive places you can find yourself as a woman. Just imagine what it must be like at the London school where the children of supermodels Claudia Schiffer and Elle McPherson are pupils, who in their right mind would even attempt to compete sartorially with the blonde bombshell and The Body?
Thankfully I no longer have to accompany son number two to school, he jettisoned me as soon as he reasonably could, probably after the time I dropped him off with a mac barely covering my nightie, bright red lippie, sunnies and stilleto heeled boots. (Yes, I'd taken hours planning that outfit the night before, obviously....)
I knew that as an older mum, having had son no two at 37, I stood out like a sore thumb. Added to that, not coming from round here, I had a 'posh' accent and even worse, I work. Three strikes and I was out. The competition here doesn't seem to focus so much on what you wear (although there were definite nudges when I turned up with a Mulberry bag) but on how good a mother the playground mafia considers you to be and seems to split into two camps, those mums who work and those who don't. Once they found out I'd had two planned caesareans (no I'm not too posh to push but one breech and one enormous baby), bottle fed (sorry, but I'm not United Dairies), and my boys went to nursery, I was a dead duck, destined never to be invited to the NCT (National Childbirth Trust) coffee morning.
Each to their own I say and it's never bothered me that I'm obviously regarded as a dead loss in the mothering stakes by a lot of the buggy brigade. These are the women who must camp out overnight to make sure they are bang in the middle of the front row every year for the Nativity (I've always left it so late to get tickets that I'm jammed in at the side next to the 'lively' child who has been given the wooden blocks to play, loudly); the ones who always go on the school trips as the parent helper; who turn up with a beautifully home made spread for the sports day picnic; who jam up the entrance to the classroom at 8.45am every morning because they just have to talk to the teacher (making us working women late for work yet again); who spend days hand sewing outfits for every theme day while the rest of us persuade our kids that a superhero outfit is spot on for Victorian day with a few tweaks here and there.
Occasionally though we hopeless cases do have the last laugh. Son number two's school asked the children to dress up for a Christmas party. As usual our contribution was cobbled together at the last minute after I finally managed to persuade son number two that I might well be wrong but I really didn't recall there being a bare chested wrestler in the manger, and involved the old fail-safe, the dressing gown and tea towel. One of the playground mafia mums had clearly spent hours and a fair amount of money creating a Christmas tree from foam that she'd painted a spruce green, complete with working fairy lights and baubles. It was a work of art and she knew it. Unfortunately for her, her offspring didn't agree, threw an absolute tantrum and refused to wear it. Yes I know it's petty and I should know better and be ashamed of myself but I couldn't help but snigger.
Sunday 4 September 2011
Shopping? Just don't take a man......
Why do women insist on taking men shopping with them? Any woman in her right mind surely knows that shopping and men just don't mix unless it's for cars, music or techy things.
Perhaps these women have this rose-tinted image of them and their beloved strolling through town, him nodding in appreciation as she tries on shoes, boots and clothes, giving helpful, constructive comments and not minding how long she takes. Pah, dream on. The reality will be deep sighs, fidgeting, constant watch checking, absent minded 'what? oh yeah, you look great' and meaningful, longing glances at music shops.
I'm sure there are exceptions and some men just love to go shopping with their girl but I think you'd be hard pressed to find them. I think I was in my late teens when I worked out that browsing is fine with men but if you want to do some serious shopping, go with a girlfriend. The only time men honestly like shopping is when it's for them. My 16-year-old starts the fidgeting and muttering under his breath after about three minutes when I'm in a shop of my choice yet when we're there for him, it's a different matter. If he had his way buying jeans would take several hours.
And never try to buy cushions when there's a man around. Men just don't get cushions. Do you know a single man who gets up from the sofa and plumps up the cushions? No, exactly.
The average male just wants to get the hell out so he can listen to the sport or plug in his iPod so you're never going to get a true answer to the perennial but vital 'does my bum look big in this'? A girlfriend won't mind if you're in the fitting room for an hour, she'll assess everything you try on and will be brutally honest, sparing you the indignity of buying something that really does make you look like a hippo. A man is never going to tell you the truth, he's worried what will happen to his bedroom privileges.
Then there's the fact that a seemingly substantial number of men have a thing for high heels, the higher the better, and anything as long as it's low at the front, tight and short. I'm well aware I'm veering into the dangerous waters of stereotyping but all I can say in my defence is, I've not yet enountered a man who would choose a flowing, maxi dress over a body-con number or who thinks flat, riding boots are sexy.
Yesterday I was buying boots (having sent the sons off to Waterstones and warned them not to come back for at least 30 minutes) and spotted a Saturday shopping couple. She was in her element, boot boxes were stacked up around her, she spent ages twirling in front of the mirror in each pair, checking them from every angle. He was in hell. His body language was screaming 'for god's sake, how much longer? Just buy a bloody pair, any pair!'
She tried to engage him in a debate about the advantages of the mock croc flats over the tan wedges but by then it was clear to everyone in the shop, except her apparently, that he was fast losing the will to live. At one stage I thought he'd actually fallen asleep but he just seemed to have slumped into a boot induced trance. Now, if she'd had any sense she'd have left him at home in the first place, but failing that, put him out of his misery and told him to take himself off to the nearest music store or sports shop. The mammoth boot session was already well underway when I arrived in the shop and they were still at it when I left 35 minutes later. Poor guy.
Perhaps these women have this rose-tinted image of them and their beloved strolling through town, him nodding in appreciation as she tries on shoes, boots and clothes, giving helpful, constructive comments and not minding how long she takes. Pah, dream on. The reality will be deep sighs, fidgeting, constant watch checking, absent minded 'what? oh yeah, you look great' and meaningful, longing glances at music shops.
I'm sure there are exceptions and some men just love to go shopping with their girl but I think you'd be hard pressed to find them. I think I was in my late teens when I worked out that browsing is fine with men but if you want to do some serious shopping, go with a girlfriend. The only time men honestly like shopping is when it's for them. My 16-year-old starts the fidgeting and muttering under his breath after about three minutes when I'm in a shop of my choice yet when we're there for him, it's a different matter. If he had his way buying jeans would take several hours.
And never try to buy cushions when there's a man around. Men just don't get cushions. Do you know a single man who gets up from the sofa and plumps up the cushions? No, exactly.
The average male just wants to get the hell out so he can listen to the sport or plug in his iPod so you're never going to get a true answer to the perennial but vital 'does my bum look big in this'? A girlfriend won't mind if you're in the fitting room for an hour, she'll assess everything you try on and will be brutally honest, sparing you the indignity of buying something that really does make you look like a hippo. A man is never going to tell you the truth, he's worried what will happen to his bedroom privileges.
Then there's the fact that a seemingly substantial number of men have a thing for high heels, the higher the better, and anything as long as it's low at the front, tight and short. I'm well aware I'm veering into the dangerous waters of stereotyping but all I can say in my defence is, I've not yet enountered a man who would choose a flowing, maxi dress over a body-con number or who thinks flat, riding boots are sexy.
Yesterday I was buying boots (having sent the sons off to Waterstones and warned them not to come back for at least 30 minutes) and spotted a Saturday shopping couple. She was in her element, boot boxes were stacked up around her, she spent ages twirling in front of the mirror in each pair, checking them from every angle. He was in hell. His body language was screaming 'for god's sake, how much longer? Just buy a bloody pair, any pair!'
She tried to engage him in a debate about the advantages of the mock croc flats over the tan wedges but by then it was clear to everyone in the shop, except her apparently, that he was fast losing the will to live. At one stage I thought he'd actually fallen asleep but he just seemed to have slumped into a boot induced trance. Now, if she'd had any sense she'd have left him at home in the first place, but failing that, put him out of his misery and told him to take himself off to the nearest music store or sports shop. The mammoth boot session was already well underway when I arrived in the shop and they were still at it when I left 35 minutes later. Poor guy.
Thursday 1 September 2011
Things to do......
More and more people it seems have a life list, those special things they want to do while they're here. When I was younger the idea seemed somewhat pretentious but, as I head for 50 (god it's scary even writing that), I can see the allure.
A friend decided some years ago that rather than things to do, her list would be places to see and that she'd work her way through the alphabet visiting cities. It doesn't sound that ambitious but the reality of getting around 26 cities across the world takes some doing.
Drawing up a life to-do list is harder than it sounds and takes quite a bit of thought. I've never really been one for lists and am still working on mine. It needs to be realistic, affordable and achievable but also inspirational, preferably legal, and with that little edge of mischief, as a humdrum list rather defeats the object. After all where's the excitement in returning your library books a couple of days late or doing a food shop and leaving without claiming the supermarket loyalty points?
I decided that there was nothing wrong with including things I've already achieved over my 48 years as I've been lucky enough to notch up some bizarre experiences, mainly through work, the maddest of which were probably hanging out the back of a Hercules transporter in flight and being a refuse collector for a day. I've done things that were definitely illegal or downright risky (my excuse is I was young and headstrong) but, you know what, I'm glad I did them all the same (and, no, I'm not saying what they were but they're ticked off my list....)
It's also tempting to play safe and go for things that you know you can achieve but the whole idea, in my opinion, is to give yourself the chance to break out, to do things out of the ordinary, to really live. Obviously there has to be a balance, there's no point me putting 'run a marathon' on my list when two weekly sessions of zumba already almost kill me.
A life list may sound indulgent, after all, life is busy enough as it is but since deciding to have one, I've discovered just how satisfying it is to tick another thing off. Last weekend it was 'go to Reading Festival'.
Mine is still evolving. Things will come and go, some will be a big deal to achieve and will take time, others are simple and just require me finally learning to be patient enough to whisk egg whites properly. So, here's my life list, the things I want to do or achieve while I'm around:
See the Northern Lights
Drive a tractor
Learn how to play the flute again (it's true, you can forget, I played as a teenager and now can't get a sound out of it)
Have a book published
Get arrested (although I'd like to give actually being charged with anything a miss please)
Own a pair of Louboutins
Live by the sea
Discover my Irish roots
Change a tyre
Swim in Iceland's Blue Lagoon
Ride pillion again
Drive a car around a race track
Bake the perfect meringue
Become a grandmother (although not for a very long time please boys)
That's mine so far, what would yours look like?
A friend decided some years ago that rather than things to do, her list would be places to see and that she'd work her way through the alphabet visiting cities. It doesn't sound that ambitious but the reality of getting around 26 cities across the world takes some doing.
Drawing up a life to-do list is harder than it sounds and takes quite a bit of thought. I've never really been one for lists and am still working on mine. It needs to be realistic, affordable and achievable but also inspirational, preferably legal, and with that little edge of mischief, as a humdrum list rather defeats the object. After all where's the excitement in returning your library books a couple of days late or doing a food shop and leaving without claiming the supermarket loyalty points?
I decided that there was nothing wrong with including things I've already achieved over my 48 years as I've been lucky enough to notch up some bizarre experiences, mainly through work, the maddest of which were probably hanging out the back of a Hercules transporter in flight and being a refuse collector for a day. I've done things that were definitely illegal or downright risky (my excuse is I was young and headstrong) but, you know what, I'm glad I did them all the same (and, no, I'm not saying what they were but they're ticked off my list....)
It's also tempting to play safe and go for things that you know you can achieve but the whole idea, in my opinion, is to give yourself the chance to break out, to do things out of the ordinary, to really live. Obviously there has to be a balance, there's no point me putting 'run a marathon' on my list when two weekly sessions of zumba already almost kill me.
A life list may sound indulgent, after all, life is busy enough as it is but since deciding to have one, I've discovered just how satisfying it is to tick another thing off. Last weekend it was 'go to Reading Festival'.
Mine is still evolving. Things will come and go, some will be a big deal to achieve and will take time, others are simple and just require me finally learning to be patient enough to whisk egg whites properly. So, here's my life list, the things I want to do or achieve while I'm around:
See the Northern Lights
Drive a tractor
Learn how to play the flute again (it's true, you can forget, I played as a teenager and now can't get a sound out of it)
Have a book published
Get arrested (although I'd like to give actually being charged with anything a miss please)
Own a pair of Louboutins
Live by the sea
Discover my Irish roots
Change a tyre
Swim in Iceland's Blue Lagoon
Ride pillion again
Drive a car around a race track
Bake the perfect meringue
Become a grandmother (although not for a very long time please boys)
That's mine so far, what would yours look like?
Tuesday 30 August 2011
Be a rock chick....tick, done.
Well it seems I'm not really cut out to be a rock chick after all, the horror of the loos at Reading Festival saw to that. Now I realise the only reason Kate Moss always looks so chirpy in those photos of her yomping around in wellies at some festival or another is because she knows she's got a luxury RV to go back to, with her own private toilet.
I won't dwell on the lavatorial aspect except to say if I were the toilet hire company I really wouldn't bother going to pick them up, just take a flame thrower to them and be done with it.
My deep love of music continues but I think from now on it will do so from the comfort of a nice clean, stadium seat or via my iPod, rather than a muddy field in the company of men dressed in nothing but nappies or as Scooby Do. It did make me wonder how their minds worked. When, as they were packing the clothes they'd need for four days camping in a mud bath, did the thought 'oh mustn't forget the Viking outfit' float into their head?
The girls had made it easy for themselves, almost every last one was wearing the obligatory festival outfit of very short denim shorts with bare legs and wellies. I loved the fact that quite a few were in full make up, carefully applied lippie and artfully teased hair, while from the neck down they were splattered with mud. My favourite festival t-shirt had to be the one that read 'ketamine, just say neigh'.....clever and funny. Then there was the guy who'd wrapped himself from head to toe in toilet paper...
Elbow and Muse lived up to expectations although by the time Muse came on, I'd moved so far to the back to get away from the crush that I was virtually sitting in security's lap.
So at the grand old age of 48 I'm no longer a Reading virgin. Can't say I'll be rushing to do it again but I'm pleased that I can now tick 'go to Reading Festival' off my to-do list. Actually, as I left all dignity behind and finally gave in and peed behind a tree in a very dark car park on the way out with son number one acting as look out, I rather expected to be fulfilling another challenge on my life list, that of 'get arrested'.
I won't dwell on the lavatorial aspect except to say if I were the toilet hire company I really wouldn't bother going to pick them up, just take a flame thrower to them and be done with it.
My deep love of music continues but I think from now on it will do so from the comfort of a nice clean, stadium seat or via my iPod, rather than a muddy field in the company of men dressed in nothing but nappies or as Scooby Do. It did make me wonder how their minds worked. When, as they were packing the clothes they'd need for four days camping in a mud bath, did the thought 'oh mustn't forget the Viking outfit' float into their head?
The girls had made it easy for themselves, almost every last one was wearing the obligatory festival outfit of very short denim shorts with bare legs and wellies. I loved the fact that quite a few were in full make up, carefully applied lippie and artfully teased hair, while from the neck down they were splattered with mud. My favourite festival t-shirt had to be the one that read 'ketamine, just say neigh'.....clever and funny. Then there was the guy who'd wrapped himself from head to toe in toilet paper...
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| Funky Reading wellies |
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| Reading 2011 |
So at the grand old age of 48 I'm no longer a Reading virgin. Can't say I'll be rushing to do it again but I'm pleased that I can now tick 'go to Reading Festival' off my to-do list. Actually, as I left all dignity behind and finally gave in and peed behind a tree in a very dark car park on the way out with son number one acting as look out, I rather expected to be fulfilling another challenge on my life list, that of 'get arrested'.
Friday 26 August 2011
Results time
Sometimes it's hard to be a woman, according to buxom warbler Dolly Parton. Well, I seem to have got the hang of the woman bit but this mothering lark is a different matter.
Yesterday was GCSE exam results day. Son number one had already got some under his belt and was waiting to see how he'd done in five more including the all important English and Maths. Let's just say he's now finding out that very few people indeed can muck around for two years and come out with fantastic grades.
I knew this would be the likely outcome so why then am I walking around like an unexploded bomb? I keep telling myself that in the scheme of things it's not that disastrous, he's got his sixth form place and he can re-sit English and Maths, but I'm still doing a mighty impression of Stromboli as it's about to blow.
I'm not even mad at him, although I have done the 'I'm so disappointed' speech which, I remember from experience, was far harder to take than a parent ranting and raving. I know he's kicking himself for wasting the last two years and not doing anywhere near as well as he should have, so, ironically, this may be the wake up call he needs.
I've never believed that exam results are the be all and end all but, whether I like it or not, they are an essential stepping stone and having decent qualifications provides choice and opportunities.
Do all mothers blame themselves when their child fouls up? Is guilt an inevitable by-product of childbirth? I know I did as much as I could over the last two years from out and out bribery, although I prefer to call it a motivational tactic, (£50 per pass) to downright threats (French foreign legion) but it didn't make one iota of difference.
I've been a mother for 16 years now and it's been a relative breeze. There's been the odd contretemps along the way but nothing major. Now I'm realising that we've reached the stage where what I believe is right for him is about to take second place to what he wants, that he'll be making his own decisions about his life and future. I hope that includes A levels and university and maybe it will, but it's his call now.
Every parent wants the best for their child but I can see I'm going to have to start learning that what I want for him may not be what he wants, and that's tough.
Yesterday was GCSE exam results day. Son number one had already got some under his belt and was waiting to see how he'd done in five more including the all important English and Maths. Let's just say he's now finding out that very few people indeed can muck around for two years and come out with fantastic grades.
I knew this would be the likely outcome so why then am I walking around like an unexploded bomb? I keep telling myself that in the scheme of things it's not that disastrous, he's got his sixth form place and he can re-sit English and Maths, but I'm still doing a mighty impression of Stromboli as it's about to blow.
I'm not even mad at him, although I have done the 'I'm so disappointed' speech which, I remember from experience, was far harder to take than a parent ranting and raving. I know he's kicking himself for wasting the last two years and not doing anywhere near as well as he should have, so, ironically, this may be the wake up call he needs.
I've never believed that exam results are the be all and end all but, whether I like it or not, they are an essential stepping stone and having decent qualifications provides choice and opportunities.
Do all mothers blame themselves when their child fouls up? Is guilt an inevitable by-product of childbirth? I know I did as much as I could over the last two years from out and out bribery, although I prefer to call it a motivational tactic, (£50 per pass) to downright threats (French foreign legion) but it didn't make one iota of difference.
I've been a mother for 16 years now and it's been a relative breeze. There's been the odd contretemps along the way but nothing major. Now I'm realising that we've reached the stage where what I believe is right for him is about to take second place to what he wants, that he'll be making his own decisions about his life and future. I hope that includes A levels and university and maybe it will, but it's his call now.
Every parent wants the best for their child but I can see I'm going to have to start learning that what I want for him may not be what he wants, and that's tough.
Monday 15 August 2011
Too brief encounter
It just doesn't make sense. How can a country that takes fashion so seriously get it so spectacularly wrong when it comes to the swimming pool?
France and fashion go hand in hand, this is the land that gave the world Chanel, Dior, Yves St Laurent, Louis Vuitton, Hermes to name but a few.
So what on earth went wrong when it came to swimming? How can a place where so much store is placed on how you look and dress, have come up with the rule that all men, whether babes in arms or octogenarians, must wear the horrendous maillot de bain? The skin tight Speedo, loathed by every boy and man I know is obligatory in swimming pools.
Tight trunks look dreadful on virtually everyone except cute toddlers and fit teenagers. Most men are sensible and search out as discreet a pair as possible, usually black and a size too big to allow an element of give. Thank the Lord for them I say.
The problem with the maillot is that there's just too much on show. Or as my dear departed granny once put it so beautifully, the one and only time she watched ballet, as the male lead dancer appeared 'looks like he's got his packed lunch down those tights'.
I really never want to repeat the experience of looking up from my Kindle straight into the crotch of a man on the wrong side of 40 in white, shiny, TINY trunks, especially as he'd just come out of the pool......well, you know what water does to white fabric....
Maillot de bain
France and fashion go hand in hand, this is the land that gave the world Chanel, Dior, Yves St Laurent, Louis Vuitton, Hermes to name but a few.
So what on earth went wrong when it came to swimming? How can a place where so much store is placed on how you look and dress, have come up with the rule that all men, whether babes in arms or octogenarians, must wear the horrendous maillot de bain? The skin tight Speedo, loathed by every boy and man I know is obligatory in swimming pools.
Tight trunks look dreadful on virtually everyone except cute toddlers and fit teenagers. Most men are sensible and search out as discreet a pair as possible, usually black and a size too big to allow an element of give. Thank the Lord for them I say.
The problem with the maillot is that there's just too much on show. Or as my dear departed granny once put it so beautifully, the one and only time she watched ballet, as the male lead dancer appeared 'looks like he's got his packed lunch down those tights'.
I really never want to repeat the experience of looking up from my Kindle straight into the crotch of a man on the wrong side of 40 in white, shiny, TINY trunks, especially as he'd just come out of the pool......well, you know what water does to white fabric....
Maillot de bain
Sunday 14 August 2011
Parlez vous francais? Well, I thought I did
French is the language of love they say. I tend to agree, it's a beautiful language. It's also one that can land you in a right old pickle without even really trying.
I wasn't bad at languages at school and studied French at A Level, although how studying the likes of French literary heavyweights Camus, Sartre and Moliere ever helped when it came to ordering a meal or buying bread, I'm really not sure. Then again, I'm your girl for a lovely chat about existentialism.
Anyway, I've been visiting France for 30 years now and can get by in French although I'm by no means fluent. I've got myself across the country, hired cars, bought furniture and passed the time of day with neighbours in French. So I was a bit baffled by the reaction I got when I politely turned down a waiter's offer of pudding in a restaurant.
I smiled and told him in French, 'no thanks, not for me, I'm full'. He gave me a distinctly startled look before walking away leaving me wondering what on earth that was all about.
I was recounting the tale to a friend's French husband and how odd it had been. 'Tell me exactly what you said', he instructed. So I did, and he almost spat his drink across the table. When he'd recovered enough to be able to speak for laughing, he explained that what I'd said in my textbook French was technically correct but the phrase now had a rather different colloquial meaning.
Ah, so how do I put this politely? Well, it seems rather than telling the waiter I'd eaten enough and was full, I'd breezily announced to all and sundry that I'd recently had an extremely good time horizontally (if you get my drift) and was up for it any time, big boy.
Well, that's just great. Clearly showing my face again in one of my favourite restaurants now runs the risk of the staff nudging each other and muttering 'hey there's that Englishwoman who goes like a train'....
I wasn't bad at languages at school and studied French at A Level, although how studying the likes of French literary heavyweights Camus, Sartre and Moliere ever helped when it came to ordering a meal or buying bread, I'm really not sure. Then again, I'm your girl for a lovely chat about existentialism.
Anyway, I've been visiting France for 30 years now and can get by in French although I'm by no means fluent. I've got myself across the country, hired cars, bought furniture and passed the time of day with neighbours in French. So I was a bit baffled by the reaction I got when I politely turned down a waiter's offer of pudding in a restaurant.
I smiled and told him in French, 'no thanks, not for me, I'm full'. He gave me a distinctly startled look before walking away leaving me wondering what on earth that was all about.
I was recounting the tale to a friend's French husband and how odd it had been. 'Tell me exactly what you said', he instructed. So I did, and he almost spat his drink across the table. When he'd recovered enough to be able to speak for laughing, he explained that what I'd said in my textbook French was technically correct but the phrase now had a rather different colloquial meaning.
Ah, so how do I put this politely? Well, it seems rather than telling the waiter I'd eaten enough and was full, I'd breezily announced to all and sundry that I'd recently had an extremely good time horizontally (if you get my drift) and was up for it any time, big boy.
Well, that's just great. Clearly showing my face again in one of my favourite restaurants now runs the risk of the staff nudging each other and muttering 'hey there's that Englishwoman who goes like a train'....
Saturday 13 August 2011
Mind your language.
I've always thought I'm relatively clean-mouthed, that you'd be unlikely to hear me effing and blinding unless something truly ghastly had happened.
I worked in newsrooms for almost two decades where swearing was rife. I definitely did my share of cursing and was soon dubbed the bolshy cow by my first editor.
I've never had an issue with bad language although there's one word - yes that one, you know the one I mean - that has never and will never pass my lips. in fact, probable hypocrite that I am, I once gave someone merry hell for daring to utter that four lettered obscenity in my house. I like to think that bad language isn't a part of my daily speech and that I only swear when sorely aggravated or under pressure.
It would appear, though, that I'm living under a mis-apprehension and am actually far more foul-mouthed than I thought, presumably sufficiently so that I'd give any trooper a run for their money, well according to son number two anyway.
We were listening to music on the terrace here in France last night taking it in turns to play our favourite tracks. He put on Tinie Tempah. Now I've heard his music in passing but have never really listened to it, so I was somewhat startled by his liberal use of the f word, and said to the 10-year-old that I wasn't sure I really wanted him listening to it.
'Oh for goodness sake Mum', he announced, 'I hear it all the time from you'!
I worked in newsrooms for almost two decades where swearing was rife. I definitely did my share of cursing and was soon dubbed the bolshy cow by my first editor.
I've never had an issue with bad language although there's one word - yes that one, you know the one I mean - that has never and will never pass my lips. in fact, probable hypocrite that I am, I once gave someone merry hell for daring to utter that four lettered obscenity in my house. I like to think that bad language isn't a part of my daily speech and that I only swear when sorely aggravated or under pressure.
It would appear, though, that I'm living under a mis-apprehension and am actually far more foul-mouthed than I thought, presumably sufficiently so that I'd give any trooper a run for their money, well according to son number two anyway.
We were listening to music on the terrace here in France last night taking it in turns to play our favourite tracks. He put on Tinie Tempah. Now I've heard his music in passing but have never really listened to it, so I was somewhat startled by his liberal use of the f word, and said to the 10-year-old that I wasn't sure I really wanted him listening to it.
'Oh for goodness sake Mum', he announced, 'I hear it all the time from you'!
Sunday 31 July 2011
A big thank you....and happy holidays
A huge thank you for continuing to read The Undomesticated Goddess. I'm chuffed to bits with the response, it's great to see it's being read in Mexico, Spain, Italy, Israel and Malaysia now too.
I did have to laugh though when I saw someone had done a google search for 'flowery trowel' and had been directed to my blog, probably not quite what they were expecting.
Thanks for all your comments and feedback, I'm pleased it makes you laugh. I'm off on holiday now (gawd, three and a bit weeks with two boys, heaven knows what sagas are in store) and won't be blogging until the end of August, so see you all then. Whatever you're doing, if you're in my part of the world, have a wonderful summer and happy winter to everyone in the southern hemisphere.
The Undomesticated Goddess.
I did have to laugh though when I saw someone had done a google search for 'flowery trowel' and had been directed to my blog, probably not quite what they were expecting.
Thanks for all your comments and feedback, I'm pleased it makes you laugh. I'm off on holiday now (gawd, three and a bit weeks with two boys, heaven knows what sagas are in store) and won't be blogging until the end of August, so see you all then. Whatever you're doing, if you're in my part of the world, have a wonderful summer and happy winter to everyone in the southern hemisphere.
The Undomesticated Goddess.
Saturday 30 July 2011
Inappropriate.....just for a while.
The Undomesticated Goddess is about to go on her summer holiday but first there's the small matter of packing to be done.
I love all those articles about the holiday capsule wardrobe that appear every year - you know the ones - everything fits into a rucksack, a swimsuit doubles up as a cheeky evening top; a sarong, when twisted and knotted in a myriad of ways, has 50 different looks. A couple of tops, a skirt and away you go. Yeah right, who are they kidding? If I tried that I'd just look like I'd forgotten to take my cossie off and put on proper clothes and, undoubtedly, the sarong knot would decide to untie itself at the most inopportune moment possible. And, what they don't say is how blessed uncomfortable a swimming costume is once it's got sand in it. Who wants to go out to dinner while being simultaneously exfoliated by their clothes?
Knot-tying practicalities aside, just think how blooming boring it'd be too. Holidays are all about freedom - freedom from routine, from alarm clocks, from normal life. A big part for me is the freedom from everyday dressing. I'm no clothes horse but I like clothes as much as the next woman. Over the years I've found a look that works for me, that makes me feel confident and, on a good day, maybe even sexy. For most of the year I'm Ms Appropriately Dressed.
Which is why I love that for a few weeks every August in France, I can become Madame Inappropriately Dressed and waft around in clothes that I wouldn't ever dream of wearing back in my UK world. I can assume a completely different clothes personality, one who wears sparkly flip flops, brightly coloured sleeveless linen dresses and strapless maxi dresses. My wardrobe alter ego, Madame Inappropriately Dressed, celebrates her cleavage and goes bare legged. She often doesn't bother with make up in the day and has even been known on occasion to go without a bra......
I'm not saying I lose all sense of reason or throw all decorum out the window, there's certainly not any cropped tops or very short skirts in this holiday world of mine. I may like to be inappropriate for a while but I certainly don't intend ever to be downright alarming.
So, the capsule holiday wardrobe isn't, and will never be, for me. It may well be extremely sensible in this day and age of airlines charging extra to check in hold luggage but, you know what, sometimes sensible just has to be ignored because it's downright dull. Anyway, I enjoy my few weeks as Madame Inappropriately Dressed too much and I never was any good at tying knots.
I love all those articles about the holiday capsule wardrobe that appear every year - you know the ones - everything fits into a rucksack, a swimsuit doubles up as a cheeky evening top; a sarong, when twisted and knotted in a myriad of ways, has 50 different looks. A couple of tops, a skirt and away you go. Yeah right, who are they kidding? If I tried that I'd just look like I'd forgotten to take my cossie off and put on proper clothes and, undoubtedly, the sarong knot would decide to untie itself at the most inopportune moment possible. And, what they don't say is how blessed uncomfortable a swimming costume is once it's got sand in it. Who wants to go out to dinner while being simultaneously exfoliated by their clothes?
Knot-tying practicalities aside, just think how blooming boring it'd be too. Holidays are all about freedom - freedom from routine, from alarm clocks, from normal life. A big part for me is the freedom from everyday dressing. I'm no clothes horse but I like clothes as much as the next woman. Over the years I've found a look that works for me, that makes me feel confident and, on a good day, maybe even sexy. For most of the year I'm Ms Appropriately Dressed.
Which is why I love that for a few weeks every August in France, I can become Madame Inappropriately Dressed and waft around in clothes that I wouldn't ever dream of wearing back in my UK world. I can assume a completely different clothes personality, one who wears sparkly flip flops, brightly coloured sleeveless linen dresses and strapless maxi dresses. My wardrobe alter ego, Madame Inappropriately Dressed, celebrates her cleavage and goes bare legged. She often doesn't bother with make up in the day and has even been known on occasion to go without a bra......
I'm not saying I lose all sense of reason or throw all decorum out the window, there's certainly not any cropped tops or very short skirts in this holiday world of mine. I may like to be inappropriate for a while but I certainly don't intend ever to be downright alarming.
So, the capsule holiday wardrobe isn't, and will never be, for me. It may well be extremely sensible in this day and age of airlines charging extra to check in hold luggage but, you know what, sometimes sensible just has to be ignored because it's downright dull. Anyway, I enjoy my few weeks as Madame Inappropriately Dressed too much and I never was any good at tying knots.
Friday 29 July 2011
Distraction offence
Is getting distracted with all its ensuing consequences - usually slightly ridiculous but sometimes almost disastrous - inevitable? Is it something that comes with age or are some of us more pre-disposed towards it than others?
I've long been guilty of not really concentrating on the dull stuff and the scrapes I've got myself into have happened when I've been distracted. There was the time my best friend and I were so busy chatting that, without thinking, when the barrier went up I followed the car in front of me into the underground car park. Yep, it came down on the top of my car. What still makes us giggle is that we both ducked. From then on until I got rid of that car I'd see people glancing at the obvious barrier shaped dent across the roof and knew they were thinking 'how on earth, surely not?'
The sound of the smoke alarm became the regular accompaniment to me cooking when, yet again, I got distracted, usually by a book or music, and forgot all about the saucepan boiling itself into a blackened mess on the hob.
So the last thing someone like me needs is extra help in getting distracted, unfortunately not something the 10-year-old seems to have realised.
Yesterday he chose 7.53am as being the perfect moment to bound into my bedroom, without so much as a 'morning mum' and announce that I absolutely had to hand over £20 on the spot so he could go to Toys"R"us (aka, the pits of hell) with a friend to spend it on a plastic wrestling figure, without which his life would be utterly devoid of any meaning.
When I, unfortunately for him, didn't agree that this was the truly splendid plan he thought it was, he did that noisy flouncing that pre-teens are so good at, told me I was the worst mother EVER and stropped out. All before 8am. Lovely. Just what every parent needs as they're trying to get ready for work.
Consequently I got distracted (although I'm pleased to say I didn't give in on the £20) and the result was turning up at work to discover (after some odd looks from colleagues) that I'd only put make up on one eye. Wonderful.
I've long been guilty of not really concentrating on the dull stuff and the scrapes I've got myself into have happened when I've been distracted. There was the time my best friend and I were so busy chatting that, without thinking, when the barrier went up I followed the car in front of me into the underground car park. Yep, it came down on the top of my car. What still makes us giggle is that we both ducked. From then on until I got rid of that car I'd see people glancing at the obvious barrier shaped dent across the roof and knew they were thinking 'how on earth, surely not?'
The sound of the smoke alarm became the regular accompaniment to me cooking when, yet again, I got distracted, usually by a book or music, and forgot all about the saucepan boiling itself into a blackened mess on the hob.
So the last thing someone like me needs is extra help in getting distracted, unfortunately not something the 10-year-old seems to have realised.
Yesterday he chose 7.53am as being the perfect moment to bound into my bedroom, without so much as a 'morning mum' and announce that I absolutely had to hand over £20 on the spot so he could go to Toys"R"us (aka, the pits of hell) with a friend to spend it on a plastic wrestling figure, without which his life would be utterly devoid of any meaning.
When I, unfortunately for him, didn't agree that this was the truly splendid plan he thought it was, he did that noisy flouncing that pre-teens are so good at, told me I was the worst mother EVER and stropped out. All before 8am. Lovely. Just what every parent needs as they're trying to get ready for work.
Consequently I got distracted (although I'm pleased to say I didn't give in on the £20) and the result was turning up at work to discover (after some odd looks from colleagues) that I'd only put make up on one eye. Wonderful.
Tuesday 26 July 2011
The booby prize.
Is it a fact of life that women hanker after the boobs they don't have? Do women with small ones wish theirs were bigger and do those of us with sizeable chests yearn for less of a frontage?
I love the way women nowadays are so up front, as it were, about their boobs. I can't imagine that men chat so openly about their dangly bits as we women do about our chests. In fact, I'm absolutely convinced there isn't a man on this earth who'd be happy comparing the size of his accoutrement with another chap. I'm not saying we women get them out at any opportunity but we do seem to be comfortable talking about them.
This relaxed attitude to boobs has been taken to a whole new level - a friend and I went to the theatre to see Busting Out, not knowing anything about it but expecting something similar to The Vagina Monologues. How wrong were we? What we certainly didn't expect was Aussie actors Bev and Emma whipping off their tops and turning their boobs into clothes lines (yep, complete with pegs on nipples, yowzer); drinks optics and even glove puppets. Boy, never have two women been so at ease with their bosoms as those two. The rest of us sat open-mouthed in disbelief and awed admiration but with one arm protectively clutched across our chests, wincing slightly.
I went from no chest to va-va-voom frontage in what seemed like 0 to 60 speed when I was in my early teens and it was excruciatingly embarrassing. Forget A and B cups, I was in a C cup before I knew it and it continued steadily from there until finally settling in the higher reaches of the bra cup alphabet. Then, there was nothing I wanted more than to be a 30A like the other girls. PE was an absolute nightmare (all that bouncing around) as this was before my mother cottoned on to me needing industrial strength underwiring. Now, with the confidence of age, I'm finally ok with my chest and have realised it's as much a part of who I am as my personality and my curly hair. Clearly I like to hope that it doesn't define me so much that I'm referred to as 'that woman with the enormous tits'.....
Seeing as we women spend so much time talking and joking about our chests, it's interesting that the vast majority of us are walking around in the wrong size bra. I was lucky enough to stumble across Bravissimo where I discovered I was in a bra four back sizes too big and three cup sizes too small. No wonder my chest was fast heading for my waist. Those fitters are amazing, no tape measures, they do it all by eye, although for one heart-stopping moment I was sure mine was going to take hold of my boobs in her hands as if she were weighing them.
There are times when I wish my chest was smaller, zumba is definitely one of them. It was like those ghastly PE sessions all over again until I finally found a sports bra that can cope with the challenge, although it does rather resemble something you could sling between trees and lie in on a summer's day. It also has to be on so tight to keep the girls in place that when I undo it, it flies off like a slingshot and could take someone's eye out if they were standing too close.
There are positives though - a larger chest makes your waist look smaller and balances your bum. I've also recently discovered that it's a brilliant prop for a Kindle, look mum, no hands.....
I love the way women nowadays are so up front, as it were, about their boobs. I can't imagine that men chat so openly about their dangly bits as we women do about our chests. In fact, I'm absolutely convinced there isn't a man on this earth who'd be happy comparing the size of his accoutrement with another chap. I'm not saying we women get them out at any opportunity but we do seem to be comfortable talking about them.
This relaxed attitude to boobs has been taken to a whole new level - a friend and I went to the theatre to see Busting Out, not knowing anything about it but expecting something similar to The Vagina Monologues. How wrong were we? What we certainly didn't expect was Aussie actors Bev and Emma whipping off their tops and turning their boobs into clothes lines (yep, complete with pegs on nipples, yowzer); drinks optics and even glove puppets. Boy, never have two women been so at ease with their bosoms as those two. The rest of us sat open-mouthed in disbelief and awed admiration but with one arm protectively clutched across our chests, wincing slightly.
I went from no chest to va-va-voom frontage in what seemed like 0 to 60 speed when I was in my early teens and it was excruciatingly embarrassing. Forget A and B cups, I was in a C cup before I knew it and it continued steadily from there until finally settling in the higher reaches of the bra cup alphabet. Then, there was nothing I wanted more than to be a 30A like the other girls. PE was an absolute nightmare (all that bouncing around) as this was before my mother cottoned on to me needing industrial strength underwiring. Now, with the confidence of age, I'm finally ok with my chest and have realised it's as much a part of who I am as my personality and my curly hair. Clearly I like to hope that it doesn't define me so much that I'm referred to as 'that woman with the enormous tits'.....
Seeing as we women spend so much time talking and joking about our chests, it's interesting that the vast majority of us are walking around in the wrong size bra. I was lucky enough to stumble across Bravissimo where I discovered I was in a bra four back sizes too big and three cup sizes too small. No wonder my chest was fast heading for my waist. Those fitters are amazing, no tape measures, they do it all by eye, although for one heart-stopping moment I was sure mine was going to take hold of my boobs in her hands as if she were weighing them.
There are times when I wish my chest was smaller, zumba is definitely one of them. It was like those ghastly PE sessions all over again until I finally found a sports bra that can cope with the challenge, although it does rather resemble something you could sling between trees and lie in on a summer's day. It also has to be on so tight to keep the girls in place that when I undo it, it flies off like a slingshot and could take someone's eye out if they were standing too close.
There are positives though - a larger chest makes your waist look smaller and balances your bum. I've also recently discovered that it's a brilliant prop for a Kindle, look mum, no hands.....
Saturday 23 July 2011
Bing.....bong-kers.....
Another celebrity baby arrives and, as someone who has a bit of a thing for slightly bonkers names, I've not been disappointed.
What a summer this is turning out to be....Mylene Klass's new daughter Hero (I have to admit to a sneaking admiration for that one although I'd never have been brave enough to go for it); Half past Seven Beckham; Mariah Carey's Morrocan and Monroe; Alicia Silverstone's Bear Blu and now the Bellamy-Hudson arrival.
Matt Bellamy (Muse frontman with the fantastic soaring voice and rather unhinged lyrics, yep, I know if aliens ever do land he'll have been spot on after all) and partner, actress Kate Hudson have called their baby son Bingham. Apparently it's his mother's maiden name and Kurt Russell's dad is Bing.
Bing Bellamy......hmmmm. I know it didn't do Bing Crosby any harm but, consequently, I can only think of an benign older chap with a pastel woolly-pully warbling melodically while wandering around a (fake) snowy film set.
It's one of those names that poor newborn Bing is just going to have to grow into. He might get there when he's 84......
What a summer this is turning out to be....Mylene Klass's new daughter Hero (I have to admit to a sneaking admiration for that one although I'd never have been brave enough to go for it); Half past Seven Beckham; Mariah Carey's Morrocan and Monroe; Alicia Silverstone's Bear Blu and now the Bellamy-Hudson arrival.
Matt Bellamy (Muse frontman with the fantastic soaring voice and rather unhinged lyrics, yep, I know if aliens ever do land he'll have been spot on after all) and partner, actress Kate Hudson have called their baby son Bingham. Apparently it's his mother's maiden name and Kurt Russell's dad is Bing.
Bing Bellamy......hmmmm. I know it didn't do Bing Crosby any harm but, consequently, I can only think of an benign older chap with a pastel woolly-pully warbling melodically while wandering around a (fake) snowy film set.
It's one of those names that poor newborn Bing is just going to have to grow into. He might get there when he's 84......
Friday 22 July 2011
Schools out......
Now I like to be organised and to get ahead with things if I can, but I'm beginning to wonder if the world is on fast forward. The retail world definitely seems to be.
A few days ago, the little son and I headed off to Sainsbury's to stock up on holiday clothes for him. There we were happily pottering amongst the flip flops and swimming trunks when a perky voice announced over the tannoy that everyone should hurry to the TU clothing department without delay because the new school uniforms were in stock.
'Everything you need for back to school,' she proclaimed, or words to that effect. WHAT????
The poor kids hadn't even broken up for the summer holidays and the retailers were already wanting us to be thinking about September and the new school term. Surely we should have been walking in and hearing Alice Cooper's 'Schools out' blaring out over the sound system rather than being persuaded to start stocking up on new rulers and PE shorts?
The last thing son number two, who's 10, wanted to be doing was trying on V neck woolly pullovers and school trousers and thinking about moving up into year six. At the age of 10, six weeks is an eternity, the summer holidays stretch ahead and going back to school is a thought on the dim, distant horizon, and it shouldn't be any other way.
The summer holidays should be a time of total freedom - long, leisurely (hopefully, sun-drenched, hot but hey, this is Britain) days doing whatever you want, day after endless day of time spent having fun and just enjoying being a kid.
I have to admit I had one of those grumpy old women moments. Harumphing to myself, I shot upright from the flip flops and announced loudly to no-one in particular, (much to the surprise of the couple passing with a laden trolley) 'For heaven's sake, the schools haven't even broken up yet, this is ridiculous.'
I was all for marching to the customer services desk and giving the manager a flea in his or her ear but son number two vetoed the idea as being just too embarrassing.
My son's school finally broke up for the summer today and the holidays have begun. I know, without a doubt, that when we return from France at the end of August, the Christmas cards will be on the shelves in the supermarkets.
And I'll be the mother rushing around frantically the day before school starts on September 1 getting new uniforms and school kit - which is exactly how it should be.
A few days ago, the little son and I headed off to Sainsbury's to stock up on holiday clothes for him. There we were happily pottering amongst the flip flops and swimming trunks when a perky voice announced over the tannoy that everyone should hurry to the TU clothing department without delay because the new school uniforms were in stock.
'Everything you need for back to school,' she proclaimed, or words to that effect. WHAT????
The poor kids hadn't even broken up for the summer holidays and the retailers were already wanting us to be thinking about September and the new school term. Surely we should have been walking in and hearing Alice Cooper's 'Schools out' blaring out over the sound system rather than being persuaded to start stocking up on new rulers and PE shorts?
The last thing son number two, who's 10, wanted to be doing was trying on V neck woolly pullovers and school trousers and thinking about moving up into year six. At the age of 10, six weeks is an eternity, the summer holidays stretch ahead and going back to school is a thought on the dim, distant horizon, and it shouldn't be any other way.
The summer holidays should be a time of total freedom - long, leisurely (hopefully, sun-drenched, hot but hey, this is Britain) days doing whatever you want, day after endless day of time spent having fun and just enjoying being a kid.
I have to admit I had one of those grumpy old women moments. Harumphing to myself, I shot upright from the flip flops and announced loudly to no-one in particular, (much to the surprise of the couple passing with a laden trolley) 'For heaven's sake, the schools haven't even broken up yet, this is ridiculous.'
I was all for marching to the customer services desk and giving the manager a flea in his or her ear but son number two vetoed the idea as being just too embarrassing.
My son's school finally broke up for the summer today and the holidays have begun. I know, without a doubt, that when we return from France at the end of August, the Christmas cards will be on the shelves in the supermarkets.
And I'll be the mother rushing around frantically the day before school starts on September 1 getting new uniforms and school kit - which is exactly how it should be.
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