The little things in life.

I'm no deep thinker, after all I can't even work out how to get steam out of the new iron, but I do try to appreciate the good things in life.
I'm not talking about fine wines or expensive clothes, more about the little things that make life special.

Perhaps I've just reached that certain age when it's time to wise up and get as much as possible out of life and not to stress the small stuff. I seem to have come over all philosophical, then again, I did watch 'Eat, Pray, Love' the other night. Julia Roberts, all big smile and great hair, cycling across Bali on her way to self-awareness. Not sure it'd be quite the same on a muddy lane in Wiltshire, the only self-awareness I'd have is that my tyres need pumping up.

We all moan and have down days from time to time but when those blue days hit I'm going to try to remember the little things that matter to me.

Books - I'm known as the girl who takes 30 books with her for a three week summer holiday and is rarely to be found without her nose in one. I love that moment of opening a new book and reading the first page, it never fails to thrill.

My hair grows really fast - shallow and vain, I know, but every winter I lop my hair off and then want it long for the summer so the fact it grows as if I'd dunked my head in fertiliser is something to be thankful for.

My three best girlfriends - you know who you are and what you all mean to me.

Maltesers - chocolate so full of air they're almost guilt free.....

A starry night - standing looking at the stars until I get a crick in my neck.

The person who came up with the idea of bringing back the Mini - thank you BMW for making driving fun again. Just getting behind the wheel of my Mini and putting the roof down makes me smile from ear to ear.

The sea - sitting listening to and watching the waves. It doesn't matter if it's Brighton or Cannes, sunny or raining. One of my favourite places is Lulworth Cove where I took the picture at the top of this post on a recent visit.

Lipstick - there's nothing like lippy to lift the spirits, I can be feeling and, probably looking, at least 100 but a slick of Chanel's bright red Enthusiast and I'm good to go.

Music - doesn't matter what the mood is, there's always music to suit it.

Apple crumble - the best pudding ever invented. With vanilla ice cream, naturally.

Brian O'Driscoll - every girl needs a phwoar moment every now and then and he's mine. Irish, gorgeous and a fantastic rugby player. Phwoar indeed.

Stripey tops and dresses - I just love stripes. If the fashion police were right I should never go near a stripe with my impressive frontage but sod 'em, I say.....

Laughter - looking on the funny side of life and laughing so hard until my sides ache.

A huge thank you!

I just want to say a big thank you to you all for reading my blog and for telling me you're enjoying it.

It started out as a way of writing as writing is my real love and I needed to do it again. I was in journalism for 20 odd years and wrote every day but more recently there hasn't been an outlet and I've started to wilt. I didn't realise how much I had missed it until now.

It's a wonderful feeling to know that you are reading it and enjoying it, so thank you all so much. I love getting your comments and feedback, so keep them coming.

My personal aim was to hit Russia, don't ask me why, and yesterday I got my first reader there, woo hoo!

The mutterings of The Undomesticated Goddess have now reached the UK, Ireland, USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, France, Italy, the Netherlands, Germany, Finland, Sweden, Norway, Malaysia, Turkey, South Korea, Vietnam, China, Luxembourg, Nigeria, Guernsey and Russia. A huge thank you and I hope you'll keep reading.

Brazil and Mexico have now joined too.  Hope you're enjoying it and thank you for reading!

The Undomesticated Goddess. x

Now, how did that happen?

I'm not one of those people who plans big purchases, they just seem to happen without me realising somehow.

I admire those sensible people who spend weeks researching, comparing prices and finding the best deal. I think I really should be like that but I'm not and never will be. Actually, if I'm honest, I don't think I would like to be like that, it's too boring for words. A touch of madcap spontaneity and winging it is far more fun even if it means I probably pay more for my mobile phone or car insurance than I really need to. As far as I'm concerned, life's too short to read Which magazine, to paraphrase Shirley Conran.

I once went out to get a lampshade and came back having bought a new house, still not quite sure how that one happened. Fortunately my impulse purchases, so far, haven't been disasters, I'm still in the house that should have been a lampshade.

It does have the tendency to make those around me a bit nervous though. They tend to get worried looks when I announce that I'm just whizzing out to buy a paper, I can see them wondering what the heck I'm going to return with this time.

I never quite know when the mood is going to strike and had no idea that today was going to be the day, one of those impulsive days when I would go to bed with a bank account a lot emptier than it was when I woke up. I only popped out to the post office to post a parcel and came back having bought a car.

I even surprised myself with that one and definitely surprised the salesman when I finished the test drive and said, yep, I'll have it. It's odd as I can agonise over whether to spend £25 on a new top.

So, here's to living a spontaneous life, what's next I wonder?

High maintenance

I saw snowdrops today and it made me hopeful that spring is on the way. There's something really heartening about the appearance of those first perky little plants after a long, cold winter like the one we've just had.

I've noticed the birds have started singing longer in the evenings too and the nights are starting to draw out.

Even better, the Boden catalogue has arrived with all those over-priced but wonderfully tempting, colourful outfits that are clearly going to make me look just as gorgeous, glossy and glam as the models, aren't they? Well, what's a bit of self-delusion among friends?

Soon the opaque tights will be banished, the woolly cover it all up dresses will be folded away and the boots will be stored at the back of the wardrobe for another year. Out will come the wedges, the kitten heels and the sparkly flip flops, the cropped capris, floaty tunics, maxi dresses....

It was as I was mentally making the reacquaintance of my summer wardrobe that the ghastly thought struck me - uh oh, summer also means way more maintenance is needed if there's to be any hope of looking at least halfway decent. 

There's the endless leg shaving and not just up to the knee either, no, summer means it has to be a return to going all the way up (now that alone means having to be a contortionist). I did try waxing but nearly shot off the beautician's couch, jeez why does it have to hurt so much?

Then there's the paint yourself by numbers St Tropez fake tan sessions that leave the bathroom looking like I've been mud wrestling. I now have a very healthy respect for those fake tans after making the mistake of buying a clear spray one in France and dousing myself liberally only to wake up the next morning with mahogany coloured feet. It took weeks before I stopped looking as if I'd stepped in a pot of creosote.

Once you've got the golden tan right, there's the toe nail painting, the slathering the decolletage to avoid the crepey cleavage look, the buffing and exfoliating....on and on it goes.

On reflection, I wonder if I could spin out those opaques until July?

Testing times.....

Could someone please tell me if it is possible to stay sane or at least to avoid slaughtering your firstborn when the dreaded GCSE exams loom?

I am seriously beginning to think that I will have lost the plot by the time the end of June rolls around and it's all over - and then there's the results to fret about.

The son seems to have this idea that all he has to do is turn up and he'll pass and waft serenly into sixth form and A levels. What he doesn't seem to be able to understand is that he's actually got to REVISE if he's to have a hope in hell of scraping in.

Bless him - he proudly showed me the beautifully drawn up revision timetable he'd produced at school and was mightily huffy when I pointed out that whilst it was indeed lovely, he was rather missing the point if he wasn't following it and actually doing some revision. He seemed rather bemused at the concept.

I've shouted - so loudly that I momentarily lost any capacity to speak at all and was amazed the windows didn't shatter - I've encouraged, cajoled, stropped, cried, slammed out and left, turned to drink and now have absolutely no idea what strategy to take.

We all want the best for our kids and I'm finding it really hard to watch a boy effectively throwing away his chance of a good future, who is narrowing his opportunities without realising it. All he sees is a nagging mother who is never off his back.

So, this rather frazzled Undomesticated Goddess would welcome any suggestions. Even I have ruled out the thought of sneaking in and taking the exams for him though......

Three little words

Don't we all like to think we know ourselves and could describe our personalities? The new thing, apparently, is to define yourself in three words - a kind of personal shorthand to who you are.

Coming up with three words sounds easy but actually it takes some thinking about and there's no point kidding yourself. How I'd love my three words to be tall, skinny and rich but it isn't going to happen. Those three words for me are always going to be shortish, curvy and overdrawn.

Then I thought about what three words the people around me would put forward if they were asked to describe me. How lovely it would be if the sons said nurturing, understanding and generous (in recognition of the open purse policy they pursue relentlessly). Realistically it's more likely they'd come up with never stops nagging.

I like to think I'd probably fare ok with my friends and I'd hope they'd say loyal, entertaining and loving and that my work three words would be professional, able and organised.

It's harder than it sounds to sum yourself up in three words - give it a try. There's a few combinations that I wouldn't mind - sexy, entertaining, intelligent, or how about elegant, sparkling, captivating? Then again, on a down day it'd definitely be bad tempered, judgemental and sharp tongued.

Finally, I decided mine would be creative, fun and positive. That'll do me nicely.

Mommy dearest

My mother is coming to stay for a week. I haven't seen her for a few weeks and I'm in that pre-visit state of picturing us sitting chatting in the evenings over a couple of glasses of wine, pottering around the shops and generally having a lovely time.


May I say straight away that my mum is a great person, I know she loves me and my sister to bits and would do anything for us. We have a good relationship and I look forward to seeing her.


The problem is she's my mother. She still seems to think I'm 12 rather than heading towards 50.  I know she doesn't mean the things she comes out with critically but she just seems to have an innate ability to press those buttons and, hey presto, the blue touch paper has been lit and I'm on the ceiling.


When I was teenager she once said that I'd be stunning if I were thinner. I know she meant it as a backhanded compliment but I've been self conscious about my figure ever since. 


The most recent comment and my current favourite came as I arrived home from the hair salon. She looked at me quizzically and then said 'oh, did you want your hair that dark?'......


Bless her, it's not her fault. Perhaps we all subconsciously crave our mum's approval. I should be able to act my age and not bite but I seem to revert to that bolshy teenager I once was. 

I spend the few days before her arrival every time muttering to myself 'don't bite, don't react, just smile' and every time I think I'll succeed - and every time I don't.

This time it'll be different.......yeah, right. 

Confessions of a window cleaner......

I like to sleep with the curtains open. There's something about waking up and being able to see the sky as soon as I open my eyes.

Unfortunately this morning it wasn't the sky I saw but a man on a ladder with a squeezy sponge in his hand. The window cleaner cometh.....

So, what's the etiquette when you're under the covers in your red spotty silk nightie with bed hair and there's a man at your window who's as startled as you are? I did my sleeping lion impression but he and I both knew that I was awake. The poor man was trying to clean the window in double quick time.

Unfortunately the window cleaner and I have history. This is the same man who had been unlucky enough to have chosen to clean my bedroom window exactly at the moment that I came out of the shower room clad in a towel that didn't quite cover all the bits it needed to. The poor chap nearly fell off his ladder and I nearly dropped the towel in shock. We've been extremely polite to each other every time he's called for his money since then.

Finally I decided the only thing for it was to play it cool, so I casually sat up in bed, smiled, shook out the bed hair and wished him a good morning while pulling the duvet swiftly up as far as my ears. A performance worthy of a Bafta but I've a feeling my windows might be staying grubby for a while from now.......

To flush or not to flush......

Anyone of a sensitive disposition might like to stop reading now as I'm turning lavatorial......

I live in a house with three examples of the male species - one little one, one teenager and one of the middle aged variety. I like to think they're all well balanced, likeable human beings who have been brought up to have nice manners, to be considerate to others and to be aware of their surroundings and their environment.

So, why is it then that none of them can flush the blasted toilet? We have three in our house and not a day goes by when I don't find one or more in a state that would put those old-style Parisien pissoirs to shame.

I'm well aware this is probably an unfair sweeping generalisation of the male sex but why, oh why, is the flush such a mystery to them?

It's obvious why one of my brood turned out to be hopeless at football as his aim is clearly so atrocious that if he took up darts he'd be in danger of killing someone in the crowd.

I swear the words 'flush and wash' will be engraved on my headstone because I must say them dozens of time each day as one or the other appears from one of the bathrooms.

It's now reached the stage where action is called for and all males have forthwith been banned from the en-suite which is now a female only zone. Any male caught sneaking in there is likely to come out minus his dangly bits......

The lure of leather....

As a 47-year-old woman I've started to get used to being invisible. I'm not so vain as to want to have men ogling me but it is slightly unsettling to feel as if you've disappeared just because you've turned 45.

I like to think I've still got a little bit of that undefined 'it' - ok so it might need the help of the right outfit, suck it all in underwear and soft light nowadays - but aren't we always being told that 50 is the new 30? Equally I don't want to go down the frozen face route either, I'm too much of a scaredy cat for cosmetic surgery.

So, I'd rather resigned myself to middle aged anonymity - until I bought a leather skirt. Well girls, it seems leather is the answer. I wore it to work the other day and, heavens to Betsy, I was suddenly not only visible, I was in the spotlight. What is it about men and leather?

My skirt is definitely not bum grazingly short nor clingingly tight but it is black. I wore it with heels and a black fitted top. I'm a curvy girl, all boobs and bum, but this skirt seems to work the good bits and I have been told it makes me strut.

Well, it sure does something as I hadn't even got into the building when it started. A delivery man actually put down the parcel he was carrying to open the door for me, a definite first. Men smiled at me, made eye contact and one even held the lift for me. All in all, a very nice day and one I'm putting down purely to the skirt!


.

The soundtrack to life.

I've always loved music. There are songs and pieces of music that take me back to another time when I hear them. It got me thinking that maybe we all have a soundtrack to our lives, songs that mark those special moments, those milestones in our lives, that stand out and always stay with us.

This would be my soundtrack, so far...

December 63, oh what a night - Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons - snogging behind the village hall at the end of the Saturday night disco when I was 15. No memory at all of who I was snogging but I remember the song clearly.

Song Sung Blue - Neil Diamond - memories of my beloved dad. It felt like Neil Diamond was always playing at home during my teenage years. Still, it was better than his other love, The Dubliners...

Eton Rifles - The Jam - being bought a drink by Bruce Foxton when I was a young music critic in Woking, their hometown. Press tickets to their last ever gig at Wembley, how I loved The Jam....

Je t'aime moi non plus - Jane Birkin & Serge Gainsbourg - the intensity of first love at 18. Playing this on the jukebox every time we went to our local pub, how daring it felt then.

Love will tear us apart - Joy Division - first heartbreak. Sitting in my bedroom playing this over and over until my parents could bear it no more and took the plug off my record player.

Handbags and Gladrags - Rod Stewart - I blame this song entirely for my expensive and ongoing addiction to Mulberry bags.

Chemistry - Rush - the romance that led to marriage.

Sara - Fleetwood Mac - wedding day. The plan was to play it as we signed the register until I realised it goes on for more than five minutes and there was no way we could spin out writing our names for that long.

We will rock you - Queen - not what I intended to herald the arrival of son number two but the anaesthetist had had enough of Enya.

Clair de Lune - Debussy - I learned to play this on the flute as a kid and it still calms my mind today.

Starlight - Muse - dancing (badly) to this every August on holiday in France on our terrace after a few too many glasses of pink bubbly.

You can't beat retail therapy....

It's definitely a girl thing but there's nothing like some retail therapy to hit the spot when you're having a dose of the blues.

Call me shallow but a sure fire way to cheer me up is to head me in the general direction of the stores. I'm lucky enough to live near Bath which is not only one of the most beautiful cities in the world but also has some cracking shops.

It's also important to have the right companion for a truly successful shopping extravaganza. Mine is my best friend. She and I are shopping soulmates. We have it down to a fine art now.

The next thing to remember is that when you're feeling a bit sad, DON'T shop for clothes because you'll only come home empty handed and depressed. There's nothing worse than standing in a changing room thinking 'oh great, not only do I feel like shit but I look fat too' to pitch a girl headlong into a deep gloom.

The answer? Shoes! You can't go wrong with shoes. So, four pairs of shoes later, I'm feeling so much better........

Fancy a drink?

I used to be a girl who popped round to her best friend's for a whisky on her way to work. I know, I know, what was I thinking? As a 47-year-old I can see that it probably wasn't the most sensible behaviour in the world but, you know what, it was kind of fun.

So in the spirit (no pun intended) of fun, I decided the time had come to re-discover the joys of alcohol, although preferably not at breakfast time.

I don't want to kill my liver but I've realised that I've gradually slid into a virtually alcohol free world over the last decade or so and I'm in danger of becoming someone who asks for a cuppa at parties. If I don't take action and fast I'll soon be a woman who thinks an M&S cardie is a hot outfit.....

Now I'm not saying I need alcohol to make myself more entertaining but, boy, it certainly helps to loosen things up. So, I've made a good start. Last month I renewed my acquaintance with pink champers which made me giggle and cry at the same time. Last weekend I re-discovered that I'm a far better dancer after a bottle and a half of rose wine (then again, isn't everyone?) and today I've made very satisfying contact again with vodka and Russchian, which used to be my drink when I was 18. I can see it being an ongoing friendship.

Just call me a lush.....I'll be too mellow to care!

Sometimes you just have to....

I drive a convertible. That fact really seems to get up the noses of an inordinately high number of male drivers. I have no idea why they take such exception to it but they do.

It's particularly bad in the summer when I have the roof down. I was once sat at a junction in town when a guy walking by shouted out 'snobby cow'. Bizarre.

The usual methods of showing their disapproval are to insist on carving me up as often as possible, driving so close behind me that I can read the headlines on The Sun on the seat next to them and having to beat me off traffic lights. The worst offenders are white van drivers (say no more) and men driving what I have branded middle management cars, Audis, BMWs, Volvos and Mercs...

Usually I rise above it and let them nearly take my wing off without reacting, mentally patting myself on the back. Today, though, I was in one of those moods. I spotted the signs as I sat at a red light on my way home. This time I was ready for him. I not only shot off the lights leaving him trailing in my wake but I carved him up beautifully too. Childish? Absolutely and completely but, boy, it felt good.

Tripped up by the tooth fairy

I'm all too aware of my many failings as a mother but now even the blasted tooth fairy is out to get me.

The nine-year-old lost a tooth and announced he was putting it under his pillow for the tooth fairy. Now he and I both know, but neither of us acknowledge, that he hasn't believed in the existence of said fairy for some time. The little blighter is rather too canny for my liking and is just after the £1 he knows he'll find there in the morning.

I really meant to sneak in, rummage under his pillow for the tooth and deposit the pound - but I was dog tired and forgot. I did manage to wriggle out of it in the morning with a story about it being too windy for the tooth fairy and that she'd been grounded by air traffic control. Nifty thinking for 7.30am I thought.....

Unfortunately the blessed tooth went clean out of my head until the son marched in two days later with an envelope, containing the tooth, which he slapped down on my bedside table before huffing loudly and stomping out.

On it he'd written in big letters 'Tooth fairy (Mum) PLEASE take this and don't forget again'.

Willpower, what's that?

Help, I need willpower and fast. Why is it that some women seem to have oodles of the stuff and others, like me, have zilch? I even have a girlfriend who can say no to chocolate - now that's just unnatural.

I've recently started a new job and I can see that while it's going to be good for my bank balance, it's looking set to be absolutely horrendous for my figure. A day doesn't go by without someone having brought cakes and biscuits in, both of which I only have to look at to feel my hips expanding.

So, how do I become one of those women who can glide past the kitchen without feeling the pull of the carbs? I keep muttering the mantras of the diet and fitness police to myself 'a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips' but I'm succumbing far too often. The summer isn't that far away and I'm determined not to be hiding under a sarong again.

So, willpower, where are you when I need you? If I don't find some soon I'm going to have to resort to desperate measures involving masking tape...