Apologies to my lovely American relatives and any Stateside readers of my blog but I have a bone to pick with your country. It's this prom lark that has now migrated firmly this side of the pond and is about to cost me a small fortune.
When I left secondary school it was all pretty low key - a disco in the school hall with fizzy pop and crisps, a few stink bombs let off in the corridors and a school shirt emblazoned with messages from my classmates.
Now the challenge each year is to come up with an event even glitzier than the previous year. This year is prom year for son number one and the preparations are well underway. He's already bought his suit and very smart and grown up he looks too. It turns out the outfit isn't really the big deal - that's how you get to and from the prom itself, the more outlandish method the better apparently.
I thought I'd come across a teacher with a wry sense of humour when I read the latest school newsletter about the prom which asked that the school be given plenty of notice if anyone was planning to travel to this year's event by helicopter or tank........
I had a little chuckle to myself thinking 'how droll' and then re-read the paragraph and realised......they were serious! Ok, there might be some indulgent parents out there with the dosh to hire a helicopter, but a tank?!
Admittedly we are relatively close to Salisbury Plain but the army does tend to keep an eye on the whereabouts of its armoured vehicles, so where on earth is the average 16 year old going to get their hands on a tank? Actually, I think I'd rather not know.
I've done some research among friends who've already been through the prom experience and it turns out transport has ranged from the ubiquitous stretch limo (old hat apparently) to tractor and trailer; London bus; horse and trap and even a hearse!
I've noticed son number one casting appraising glances in the direction of my new Mini......hmmm, no chance laddie. Now where can I find a tank?
Saturday 30 April 2011
Wednesday 27 April 2011
Mission control we have lift off.......
I've just collected my new Mini Cooper convertible - very exciting but I wish someone had warned me that just driving it off the forecourt would be virtually the equivalent of launching the space shuttle.
My old car was also a Cooper convertible so there was I thinking I'd be a dab hand - after all how much could a car have changed in only six years. A lot, it turns out. Blimey, how many buttons and switches can one little car need?
My outgoing Cooper was a doddle - a button to open and close the roof, a couple for the windows, stick the key in and away you go. Easy peasy. This new one has a dashboard that looks like mission control.
Now I'm all for progress but honestly why would anyone need inside lights that change colour? Apparently I can choose whether I'd like mine to be anything from an off white through to blue. Unfortunately they're currently a bilious green and I haven't worked out yet how to change them so I drove along tonight looking decidedly alien like.
This car even tells you what gear you should be in. This new technology is all very sensible I'm sure but I'm sad that eventually it'll mean there'll no longer be drivers like a friend of mine who seems to change gear with the tides. We'll be whizzing along nicely in fifth and she'll suddenly shift into third for some bizarre reason - it's probably a miracle the engine has actually stayed in the car at all.
Perhaps I'm just a dinosaur and I'm sure I'll soon be wondering how on earth I ever managed without interior lights that change colour, but it does seem a long way from the simple days of my 2CV, which felt like driving something held together by rubber bands. It was the only car I've ever owned where you could take the front seats out and use them as picnic chairs!
My new blue Mini is very pretty and I'm sure we'll get along fine once I've worked my way through the instruction manual and found out what all those dials and switches actually do. Now I just need to find out how to turn off those blessed green lights.....
My old car was also a Cooper convertible so there was I thinking I'd be a dab hand - after all how much could a car have changed in only six years. A lot, it turns out. Blimey, how many buttons and switches can one little car need?
My outgoing Cooper was a doddle - a button to open and close the roof, a couple for the windows, stick the key in and away you go. Easy peasy. This new one has a dashboard that looks like mission control.
Now I'm all for progress but honestly why would anyone need inside lights that change colour? Apparently I can choose whether I'd like mine to be anything from an off white through to blue. Unfortunately they're currently a bilious green and I haven't worked out yet how to change them so I drove along tonight looking decidedly alien like.
This car even tells you what gear you should be in. This new technology is all very sensible I'm sure but I'm sad that eventually it'll mean there'll no longer be drivers like a friend of mine who seems to change gear with the tides. We'll be whizzing along nicely in fifth and she'll suddenly shift into third for some bizarre reason - it's probably a miracle the engine has actually stayed in the car at all.
Perhaps I'm just a dinosaur and I'm sure I'll soon be wondering how on earth I ever managed without interior lights that change colour, but it does seem a long way from the simple days of my 2CV, which felt like driving something held together by rubber bands. It was the only car I've ever owned where you could take the front seats out and use them as picnic chairs!
My new blue Mini is very pretty and I'm sure we'll get along fine once I've worked my way through the instruction manual and found out what all those dials and switches actually do. Now I just need to find out how to turn off those blessed green lights.....
Thursday 14 April 2011
Zumba!
I've just had to crawl upstairs on my hands and knees and seriously thought I might have to call the fire brigade to hoist me out of the bath.
Every part of my body aches, I feel at least 110. Yes, I've discovered zumba!
Holy moly, why did no-one warn me....it's fast. I'm not actually sure the female body is even designed to move that quickly or in so many directions at once. I've never been very good at exercise classes, I just don't seem to be very co-ordinated and I'm definitely unfit.
Zumba is all the rage right now and there must have been a good 40 plus women in tonight's class, all ages, shapes and sizes. They all seemed to be able to move their arms and legs at the same time so perhaps there's hope for me yet as mine definitely weren't playing ball, I'd just cracked the leg moves and started to try to get the arms sorted and we were on to the next dance. Actually I spent most of the time gasping for air and expecting to have to summon the paramedics and an oxygen cylinder any minute.
Having managed to get through the hour without expiring on the spot, I can see what all the fuss is about. After all where else can a grown woman go and do mad African drumming, flap her legs as if she's a chicken and wiggle her hips in an alarming take off of a belly dancer, without being thought completely bonkers?
I clearly won't be able to walk for the next few days but I've got the bug. I love zumba even if it is trying to kill me!
Every part of my body aches, I feel at least 110. Yes, I've discovered zumba!
Holy moly, why did no-one warn me....it's fast. I'm not actually sure the female body is even designed to move that quickly or in so many directions at once. I've never been very good at exercise classes, I just don't seem to be very co-ordinated and I'm definitely unfit.
Zumba is all the rage right now and there must have been a good 40 plus women in tonight's class, all ages, shapes and sizes. They all seemed to be able to move their arms and legs at the same time so perhaps there's hope for me yet as mine definitely weren't playing ball, I'd just cracked the leg moves and started to try to get the arms sorted and we were on to the next dance. Actually I spent most of the time gasping for air and expecting to have to summon the paramedics and an oxygen cylinder any minute.
Having managed to get through the hour without expiring on the spot, I can see what all the fuss is about. After all where else can a grown woman go and do mad African drumming, flap her legs as if she's a chicken and wiggle her hips in an alarming take off of a belly dancer, without being thought completely bonkers?
I clearly won't be able to walk for the next few days but I've got the bug. I love zumba even if it is trying to kill me!
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Bonjour monsieur
I have a definite soft spot for those mad moments that happen to us all every now and again.
My current favourite happened to a friend this week at work. She works in a highly specialised technical field and was expecting a prestigious French visitor.
She wanted to make him feel welcome so had made sure that attention had been paid to detail including arranging lunch for him and bringing the team together to greet him.
The visitor duly arrived and my friend greeted him with a cheery 'Bonjour', the limit of her French. She asked him if he'd had a good journey and where he'd come from and was a bit confused when he answered 'Andover' as she thought he was coming direct from the airport having flown in from France, but didn't really give it another thought.
She explained that they'd stop for lunch which had been laid on for later and then plunged in with her spiel about the work that she was needing doing.
She said later that it was only when she'd been banging on for a good few minutes in highly technical language that she realised her 'French' visitor was looking a bit baffled and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Realisation began to dawn.......
'You are Jean-Claude?' she asked, to which came the reply 'No, I'm Brian and I'm here to mend the computer'.
My current favourite happened to a friend this week at work. She works in a highly specialised technical field and was expecting a prestigious French visitor.
She wanted to make him feel welcome so had made sure that attention had been paid to detail including arranging lunch for him and bringing the team together to greet him.
The visitor duly arrived and my friend greeted him with a cheery 'Bonjour', the limit of her French. She asked him if he'd had a good journey and where he'd come from and was a bit confused when he answered 'Andover' as she thought he was coming direct from the airport having flown in from France, but didn't really give it another thought.
She explained that they'd stop for lunch which had been laid on for later and then plunged in with her spiel about the work that she was needing doing.
She said later that it was only when she'd been banging on for a good few minutes in highly technical language that she realised her 'French' visitor was looking a bit baffled and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Realisation began to dawn.......
'You are Jean-Claude?' she asked, to which came the reply 'No, I'm Brian and I'm here to mend the computer'.
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