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.
Friday 30 September 2011
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?
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