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...




Funky Reading wellies

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.



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'.

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.

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

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'....

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'!