Two needles, two balls of wool and lots of swearing......

Like most women, my last 20 odd years have been focused on building a career and then having and bringing up kids. Sitting curled up with a book turned into snatching a few minutes with a cuppa and a glossy magazine and the most creative thing I've done in recent years is sew on school name tapes.

Now the kids are older, I have time again and am reconnecting with my inner creative goddess. I thought I might have a go at dress making again until I remembered the patchwork skirt I created that made me look like something out of the Sound of Music. Maybe not.

Crochet? An aged aunt taught me how to do it but clearly it's not like riding a bike as I can't for the life of me remember how to do it and she's long gone now. Rag rugs? Hmmm, about as old hat now as stencilling, so perhaps not.

So knitting it is. I was an avid knitter in my late teens and early 20s and I don't think there was a boyfriend who escaped being on the receiving end of at least one of my jumpers or scarves. They must have dreaded being with me over Christmas or their birthday as they knew something woolly was coming their way.

One joined the air force so I knitted him a jumper in - yes, air force blue, how imaginative was I? The early amours fared the worst as I really wasn't very good at it, lots of dropped stitches and uneven length arms. I got better and there's hardly a photograph of me from that time where I'm not wearing something I knitted.

I haven't picked up a pair of knitting needles for 25 years and boy, hasn't knitting changed? It's gone trendy. I found a funky knitting website and bought a kit to knit a cushion. There's something wonderfully relaxing and therapeutic about knitting, the gentle click clack of the needles. Well, there would be if I hadn't jumped right in at the deep end and gone for a fair isle design. Fair isle, was I completely mad?

This one isn't even that tricky, I know my limitations so it's only two colours although the pattern is quite demanding, it appears I'm going to be knitting elks, snowflakes and funny little people.




Hopefully it'll look like this!


I'n now 26 rows in and so far I've managed to lose one ball of wool under the sofa and get myself in a complete knot. Who knew two needles and two balls of wool could be so challenging? There hasn't been much in the way of relaxation, I seem to have discovered new swear words but I'm refusing to be beaten. Whether my cushion will look anything like it should remains to be seen.

Next, silversmithing I reckon.

Remember me.......

I went to a funeral last week, the funeral of someone I'd known all my life, a wonderfully upbeat, positive, vibrant woman. As we left the crematorium my sister turned to me and said that if she should go before me, she wanted the song 'always look on the bright side of life' from Monty Python's Life of Brian film.

No one likes to think of their own demise and maybe there is something slightly macabre about stipulating what you'd like at your funeral, but, then again if it means being sure no-one brings crysanthemums (I HATE crysanthemums), it's worth doing.

After all we painstakingly plan those big number birthday celebrations, Christmas get togethers, christenings, weddings, anniversaries, so why not our funerals? It is a bit gloomy and perhaps I'm just a control freak, but I'd like my departure to be personal to me.

So sis, rest assured, if you should depart before me, I'll make sure everyone belts out Monty Python's finale song for you. There will also be whoopie cushions on every seat, the vicar will do back flips down the aisle and, if you peer very closely, the floral displays might look just that little bit suggestive......

And sis, I'd like you to return the favour, so here's mine. Lots of music, everything from Muse to Holst, masses of red roses, big black hats, (I've always loved a bit of drama) and laughter.

I've always been proud of my Irish heritage and there's an Irish way of saying goodbye that seems perfect to me. Everyone gathers somewhere that was special (in my case it's the sea, so off to the beach) and remembers the departed in their own way, they might sing, recite a poem, just say a few words, it doesn't really matter.

How lovely is that? So that's what I'd like although please, I do have just one little request, much as I love her, could my best friend not be allowed to sing as I've done Sing Star with her on New Year's Eve and she's tone deaf......

Basque separatists.....

There it was, this year resplendent in shiny bright red satin and lace, the item of underwear that will condemn countless unsuspecting men to a frosty Christmas and it'll have nothing to do with the weather - the basque.

Last year it was black satin and gold lace but this Christmas every male can treat the woman in his life to the hooker look. 

I lingered and watched as men strolled through the store and did a double take when they spotted the display, which had cunningly been placed as prominently as possible, well it's hard to miss blood red satin. From the attention it was getting, there's going to be a lot of women opening their parcels on Christmas morning to find something red, shiny and tight inside.

Undoubtedly there are women out there who can carry off a crimson number and are happy to do so, and good luck to them, but there will be far more whose heart will plummet into their boots if they unwrap their present only to find a red satin basque inside.

The thing is guys, we women do love beautiful, sexy undies including red, but trust me on this, we like to choose them ourselves as we'd really rather not look like something out of a soft porn film or Jordan. We also like our underwear to fit and how many of you have any idea of our bra size? So you're on a hiding to nothing as you'll invariably get the wrong size, whether it's too small or too big, it'll pee us off either way.

So, you men out there who have the knack of buying gorgeous underwear for your girl, in the right size, congratulations because you are a rare species indeed.

But the main reason why you men should step away from the slapper basque right now if you want any chance of a merry and harmonious Christmas is this - we know you haven't bought it for us, but for you. I'm sure there are women who are happy to strut around trussed up like a turkey in red satin but, come on guys, we're not fools, we know what the basque is for and it's not for wearing under our work clothes or for a trip around the supermarket.

I'm sure there are many women who love being given underwear for Christmas, I'm not one of them. As far as I'm concerned it's the lazy option for men who can't be bothered and smacks of last minute panic. I grew up with a wonderfully generous but hopelessly disorganised father who'd rush out late on Christmas Eve to buy my mum something. He plumbed the depths with a TV one year. He hit a winner when he bought a necklace she'd mentioned liking but blew it when he bought the same thing for the next two years.

I'm not saying all men are hopeless when it comes to buying presents, there are men and women who are fabulous at choosing gifts and equally there are men and women who are rubbish. The worst presents I have ever been given were an ironing board (from a man), Swingball (from a woman) and a can of de-icer (man).

A friend was distinctly chilly with her husband until well into the new year after he gave her three bottles of bubble bath one Christmas. 'He got them on a three for the price of two offer and he didn't even bother to get three different ones,' she ranted.

So step away from the basque guys and head on over to the cashmere, you'll have a much happier Christmas if you do.

Domestic not so bliss.....

Electrical appliances, and particularly those involved with the smooth running of the household, have long been a mystery to me.

The worst offender has to be the washing machine, there's just too many dials and buttons and why, oh why, is it necessary to keep changing where the powder goes? This alone has flummoxed me on the rare occasions when I've been let loose on the laundry.

I've managed to put tablets that should go in the drum into the slidey-out drawer so the washing has gone through a complete cycle and come out as grubby as it went in and I've had to scoop out the resultant powder mulch with a spoon. Then there was the time I wondered out loud why the clothes had come out quite so dry only to be told I hadn't actually switched the water supply on.

The piece de resistance was in France when I resorted to calling out the repair man because the machine wasn't spinning and everything was coming out sopping wet. I stayed in all day for him to arrive, take one look, sigh and mutter under his breath in that way that only Gallic men can, press a button and disappear smartly back to his van. It would appear that in the UK the button to stop a machine spinning is pressed in and on French machines it's left out (or possibly the other way round). Forget the Euro, we can't even agree on our washing machine buttons.

It seems the lack of a domestic gene may have been inherited by the 10-year-old son. He enthusiastically asked this morning if he could wash my car to earn some money. I happily accepted, told him to get a j-cloth out from under the sink and left him to it, only to come down later to find him contentedly washing away - with a yellow duster. I now have a blue Mini, admittedly slightly cleaner than it was, but literally covered in yellow fluff. Bless him.

Sister act

Looking young for as long as possible and being regarded as youthful is a big deal nowadays. There's a whole multi million pound industry dedicated to it.

Open any glossy magazine, particularly those aimed at women in their 30s and 40s, and there will be the inevitable articles spouting on about how to look 10 years younger, wipe out the wrinkles, live like you're still 21, roll back the years.....

I've often been told that I sound younger on the phone than I am and, like most women of a certain age, it's definitely ego-boosting to be told I don't look my age. I reckon on a good day and in an extremely flattering light I might, just might, be able to get away with late 30s (ok, maybe I'm kidding myself there) or, more probably, early 40s. Take a look at my blog picture and judge for yourself.

So, I was more than a little taken aback by an encounter while out with the 10-year-old son this week.

We'd headed off to do some early Christmas shopping (yes I know it's only November but I do like to be organised) and were standing at the pay desk in one of the department stores. The sales assistant was a friendly type and got chatting with the little son. They nattered away while I paid the bill and I wasn't paying much attention to their conversation until I heard her refer to me as 'your sister'.

Sister, sister?!  He's 10 and I'm 48. Now I may not be very good at maths, hopeless in fact, but even I can work out that I'd need to knock a good 20 years off my age for there to be any likelihood of being his sister.

Even with the most flattering light possible and even on an absolute humdinger of a good day, there is no way I could ever be taken for being young enough to be the sister of a 10-year-old.

I pointed out that I was, in fact, his mother. I was also rather tempted to add that perhaps it was time she made an appointment at the opticians. What amused me even more was that the sweet (but clearly deluded woman) was genuinely surprised to be told I wasn't his sister but his mother.

So, from now on I'll be ignoring the lines that are beginning to appear on my face, the ever-increasing trips to the hair salon to top up the colour, the invitations to subscribe to Woman and Home rather than Cosmo......after all, apparently I can still pass for 30!