Onesie? Oh dear god.

Sometimes I have the distinct feeling that I go to sleep and something extremely bizarre happens while I'm out for the count.

This has happened again. I went to bed and sensible, fashion conscious and stylish women were kipping down for the night in sexy satin nighties, cosy cotton PJs and classy nightshirts. I woke up to discover the hideousness that is the onesie is now being touted as nightwear for grown women. What?!

And here it is, the ghastly onesie. Who on earth over the age of five would want to be seen in something like this? If you happen to be slim and petite you're going to look like an overgrown toddler and if you've got curves, hey, it's the instant Teletubby look. Lovely. In my book the only people who look cute and adorable in romper suits are babies. Young teenage girls might just be able to get away with them in the privacy of their own home and look sweet and Tiggerish but anyone else, no way.

                                                                    




Not only are they supremely unflattering, they're also totally impractical for any woman who's starting to wish she'd paid more attention to those pelvic floor exercises. All those buttons, just what you need when you're dashing to the loo.

                                                                         

There's something disquieting about the onesie too. Perhaps it's just me, but I've always found those nightshirts with cutesie teddy bear motifs on the front unsettling and the onesie falls into the same category - why would a grown woman want to wear something that's more suited to an eight-year-old girl? We're not little girls, we're women.

And sexy? Hardly. I can't believe there are many men out there who'd get all hot under the collar at the sight of their beloved in one of these. They'd be more likely to fall about laughing, I reckon. Can you imagine the logistics of getting out of a onesie too? It'd be like peeling a banana.

I'll probably be told the onesie is ironic fashion. Well, I'm all for irony and black humour but the onesie is a fashion horror too far for me. I'm sticking to my safe satin nighties and PJs.








 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now that's a compliment.....

Today the most surprising thing happened. I was walking through Bath city centre when a complete stranger stopped me, apologised for bothering me but said they just wanted to say how glamorous I looked.

Blimey. I was so taken aback that I just smiled, stuttered out a brief thank you and we went our separate ways. I later tweeted and posted about the encounter on Facebook adding 'presumably they were on the way to Specsavers.'

Is it just me or are there others out there like me who find it hard to accept a compliment? I can graciously accept any compliment about my writing, (I positively beam if anyone says nice things about my blog), but the minute someone says anything even vaguely favourable about my appearance, grace goes out the window and I cover up being flustered with self deprecating humour.

I've always been the same. I've ruined many a romantic moment with my inability to take a compliment. I was once told by a man, who happened to be gazing into my eyes at the time, that I had 'beautiful eyes', that they were such a 'lovely colour'. Did I just smile enigmatically and thank him? Oh no, smartass me piped up 'yep, muddy puddle colour eyes, that's me.' (They're green). See what I mean? Just can't keep my mouth shut.

I'm good at giving compliments. I'll often comment when I think someone is looking great but when it's me on the receiving end, it's a different matter. Hopeless. If a friend tells me I look good in a certain dress, it's a dead cert that I'll come out with something along the lines of 'it's got plenty of stretch, it needs it to cope with my arse.'

I have no idea why being complimented on how I look makes me uncomfortable, but it does. Today's totally unexpected compliment so took me by surprise that I didn't have the time to open my mouth and come out with some chippy comment. I wasn't able to spoil what was just a very nice moment, something that made me smile and feel perky all day.

It's not the only compliment I've had recently. The 11-year-old and I were talking the other day about the fact I was going out that evening to my Rosemary Conley diet and fitness class, or Fat Club as I like to call it.

'You know what Mum,' he said in a musing kind of way, 'it really wouldn't matter how fat you were, you'll always be a stick to me.'

Now that's my kind of compliment!

Turning 50.............

In a few months' time I will be 50. A lot of my friends have been or are about to notch up their half centuries too.

Those of us who are yet to celebrate the big 5-0 have begun to notice something worrying, something that's scaring the be-jesus out of us and it's this, the increasing propensity of family and friends to feel they have to come up with something 'special' as a present, something wacky, something 'to make you feel you're alive', something to prove 40 or 50 isn't old, something different, out of the ordinary, an 'experience'.

This concept raised its head in our family when my sister turned 40. Fully expecting a garden centre voucher or a nice new woolly jumper from her loved ones, she was somewhat startled to discover she'd been 'treated' to a flight in a very small plane to do aerobatics.

Now, my sister has never shown any interest in aircraft apart from when she books her twice yearly flight from Heathrow to Nice, so why on earth her nearest and dearest thought she'd fancy looping the loop heaven only knows?

For one heart stopping moment we actually thought her husband (whose life had never been in such danger before) had completely lost the plot and bought her one of those wing walking flights where you're in a jumpsuit strapped to the top of a bi-plane (remember those Utterly Butterly adverts?) but, thankfully, she'd be sitting a la Biggles in a seat when the pilot turned a small, flimsy plane upside down. Small mercies.

For a long time she went around looking decidedly pale and muttering 'what on earth were they thinking? I'd have been happy with a Kindle.'

See what I mean? Suddenly it's de rigeur to mark the passing of another decade by being 'treated' to white water rafting, a bungee jump, waterskiing, paragliding, diving with sharks.....

Undoubtedly there will be some people who'd enjoy any one of those pastimes - but I am most definitely not one of them. I'm a wuss. I don't like heights, my knees creak going up the stairs, I panic in deep water, I'm blind without my contact lenses, I'm rubbish at skiing, I got seasick on the Staten Island ferry.

So I'm laying down a marker. I don't want an 'experience', thank you very much. I really, really don't want to cuddle a snake or abseil down Ben Nevis. I can't think of anything I would like less than swooping around the skyscrapers of Manhattan in a helicopter. I have no inclination to pot-hole, to ride a killer whale, drive a speed boat or go camel racing in the desert.

That's not to say I'm hoping for National Trust membership or a tea cosy and I do admit I wouldn't mind a session in a fast car around a racing track but that's about as lively and wild as I'll ever get.

So please, please, all those of you who think fondly of me, please let my 50th pass elegantly, with lots of laughter, pink bubbles and fairy cakes but most definitely at ground level and on dry land, without any hot air ballooning, stunt driving, canoeing, wing walking, fire eating......

A cuppa in bed, something 18ct white gold and sparkly and maybe a new book. That'll do me nicely.

The battle of the on switch.

Every autumn it's the same, the battle over when to switch on the central heating. We circle each other, me looking for the opportunity to make a dash for the on switch, him keeping an eye on me to stop me doing so.

If he had his way we'd all go around in so many layers that we'd resemble a family of Michelin Men and the only way to get on and off any piece of furniture would be to roll. The heating would go on when there was snow on the ground and the bird bath was frozen solid. I, on the other hand, will have been itching to light the log fire since the August Bank Holiday weekend.

He grew up in a big oldish house that looked lovely from the outside but was so badly built if you knocked a picture hook into a wall, a brick would fall out outside. The heating system was woefully inadequate and that's putting it mildly. It is the only house I've ever known where, if you took a glass of water to bed with you in the colder months, it would be frozen solid in the morning. Visiting any time between September and April necessitated layers of clothing, preferably cashmere, and I once was so cold I kept my coat on throughout dinner. Having a bath there was like one of those gruelling treatments at an Austrian boot camp spa, the water never got above tepid in the huge cast iron bath.

I grew up in a relatively modern house which had underfloor heating when we first moved in. Great idea except in reality it meant roasting feet but every part of you from the knees up was cold. My parents liked to walk around in short sleeves all year round so that was soon switched off and a whizzy proper heating system went in. Oh we were snug. Actually I spent most of my teenage years virtually comatose because not only would they have the heating pumping out at a constant 25 degrees but my mother had an aversion to open windows so it was like being sealed in a very hot, airless bubble.

I'm somewhere in the middle, I like to think heatwise I'm your average person. I don't expect to swan around in a camisole top indoors in December but neither do I want to have to wear 16 layers to be warm. I like fresh air but I also like to be cosy and warm as the temperature drops.

This morning I saw my chance. He was distracted by the Match of the Day he'd recorded so I made a break for it. Success. The heating is on.

The 11-year-old has just walked past the conservatory radiator and put his hand on it.

'It's warm! Yay, the heating is on. Finally'. See, it's not just me.

The only way is......

I'm about to drive across France. This fact is causing me a fair amount of worry even though I've done the trip from Calais to Frejus in the south many, many times. In fact the last time was only just over a month ago. So why am I fretting?

This is why, all those other trips were with another adult. This time it'll be just me and my two boys, the 17-year-old and 11-year-old. They're not the problem. The problem is I have no sense of direction. Literally. I was born without a directional gene in my body and, in a few days, I'm about to try to navigate my way from the Channel Tunnel, 800 odd miles across France and hope I end up on the southern French coast rather than in Switzerland.

The odds aren't good. Only a few weeks ago I went to the loo in Cafe Rouge in Bath which is downstairs. All I had to do was go through two doors but in the time I was in there, all of a couple of minutes, I managed to come out of the ladies and find myself looking at two doors. Naturally I headed for the one which wasn't the exit but a storage cupboard. See why I'm worried?

Then there was the time I was at the wheel on another trip across France and all my passengers had dosed off. Coming up to traffic lights in Reims I had the choice of turning right or going straight on. I went straight on and found myself driving the wrong way down a one way street in the centre of Reims at rush hour.

I've gone the wrong way around Eton Square in London, I've got lost trying to find Oldbury nuclear power station (losing one of these is hard as they are BIG and kind of dominate the skyline), I've had a major panic attack that my car had been stolen in Oxford only to discover I'd taken a park and ride bus back to a completely different car park on the other side of the city from where I'd left it. My family and friends are used to me walking out of a shop and having physically to guide me in the right direction.

It's a family thing. Years ago my lovely aunt, who lives in the States, gave me directions on how to get from her then home in Baton Rouge to the French Quarter in New Orleans. She was quite clear that I had to 'go over the bridge' which I did and ended up in an area that, not to put too fine a point on it, made locking all the car doors and getting the hell out of there fast the most sensible course of action. 'You went over the bridge?' she shrieked, when I returned hours later safe but somewhat nervy. See, it's a family failing.

What doesn't help are all those 'reassuring' comments - 'you've done it so many times, you must know it like the back of your hand' and 'you'll be fine, you just come out of the tunnel, get on the autoroute and keep going'.

Yes, I keep telling myself, it's a pretty straightforward journey.....and then I remember Lyon. Lyon, the city where the autoroutes meet, where you either head south or off to Germany and Switzerland. I really don't want to go to Germany or Switzerland, lovely though they may be.

I'm taking a crash course in how to use the built in sat nav because that's another issue, I'm crap with technology. How ironic is that, the car has a machine that's made to save me from getting lost and I can't work out how to operate it!

So if anyone happens to be on the autoroute du soleil early next week and spots a harassed looking woman with two exasperated boys clearly heading to Germany, that'll be me.

Happy holidays!

The guilty party?

What is it about women and guilt? Why are we women going through life burdening ourselves with guilt and feeling we're not really getting anything right or doing anything well enough?

I've heard several of my friends recently say how they feel guilty all the time - guilty for not spending more time with their kids because they're at work; guilty for not working more hours or not working at all and feeling they're not contributing to the family coffers; guilty that they're reading 50 Shades of Grey rather than something cultured and mind improving; guilty they're often too knackered for sex, guilty that they're not getting to that exercise class.... and on it goes.

One even admitted that she feels guilty if she sits and has a cuppa and reads a magazine because 'there's always something around the house that needs doing but instead I'm sitting on my bum'.

Another said with a rueful laugh, 'we women are just born guilty, it comes with the territory.' Woah, stop right there. Where is all this guilt coming from and why do we women seem to be putting ourselves through it?

Most of us are doing the best we can, juggling busy lives, kids, work, money. Pack guilt on top of that and you're heading for a stressed out woman. Guilt is negative and who needs negativity in their life?

I realised I have my own guilt, mine centres on money, spending too much, being too indulgent, having expensive taste, not contributing financially as much as I could if I worked full time in an office instead of being lucky enough to be setting up my own business and doing something I love.

So what I'd like to know is why is it that men don't seem to suffer from guilt the way we do? The menfolk in my house have shown not one iota of guilt at commandeering the TV sets and sitting night after night in front of another bloody Euro 2012 football match. All normal life grinds to a halt as soon as that whistle blows. It's now got to the stage where I can walk into the sitting room, speak to them and they don't even hear me or notice I'm there, so absorbed are they.

Now if I announced that I would be hogging a sofa for hours on end, several nights in a row for almost a month watching interior design programmes, well, I'd never hear the end of it.

So I'm taking myself off to the South of France next week to shop, sit by the sea, eat, swim, sunbathe - and do I feel guilty? Not a bloody chance.

Say it how it is.

Another summer, another diet. This year though I'm not alone. It seems a lot of my friends are now battling the middle aged bulge and are finding their bodies just aren't playing ball as easily as they used to. The pounds go on so blooming easily but are a swine to come off.

Weight sticks relentlessly to the bits we'd really rather it didn't, the days of springing out of bed are long gone as the joints creak and grumble, everything seems that bit more of an effort. If that weren't enough, we've got the menopause just around the corner to look forward to as well, oh joy.

Which is why it's more important than ever to be able to laugh at this inevitable ageing process, to see the funny side of the stiff knees, squidgy tummies and fine lines. This is where kids, with all their straightforwardness, come in handy, they don't let you take yourself too seriously, they say it how it is.

One of my girlfriends decided she'd had enough of the weight slowly but surely going on, she was fed up with her clothes not fitting, of feeling lumpy and bumpy. The time had come to do something about it, the day had come to join a slimming club.

Now anyone who has ever gone down the slimming club route will know that while it definitely works, it's joyless and humiliating. There is little worse than that moment of stepping on the scales for the first time in front of a lithe, energetic instructor and seeing what you've been denying but can't avoid any longer - that you're not 'just a few pounds over 10 stone' and haven't been for a very long time.

My friend took her 14-year-old daughter along for moral support to her first 'fat club' class. She filled out the forms, listened to the nutrition pep talk, jumped around in the exercise class and then came the ghastly moment, she stepped on the scales, with her daughter joining her for the weigh in and peering over her shoulder.

There was a sharp intake of breath from them both then a long silence as they took in the figure on the digital scales.

Well mum', piped up her daughter chirpily, 'it's a good thing you've got dad.'

'Why's that?', asked my friend.

'Because you've no chance of getting another man weighing that much,' came the reply.

It's a gardener's world.

It's that time of year when the garden centres are packed and it seems like everyone is pruning, mowing, weeding and planting.

My garden is featuring in a couple of weeks as the backdrop for the launch party for my new business, La Belle Provence, so my usual annual practice of bunging a few geraniums in pots and doing a spot of weeding so the perennials are vaguely visible in the borders, isn't going to be anywhere near enough.

Everyone has been pitching in and my menfolk have been doing their bit to help get the place looking fetching. They're full of enthusiasm but their gardening knowledge is rather limited.

The 17-year-old put the schedule back somewhat when he managed to put the lawnmower out of action by mowing through the cable. After that, I decided the safest place for him and his brother was the flower beds, so one son tackled one border while the other tidied up another. A short while later the 11-year-old called me over to see his handiwork and proudly pointed out that he'd carefully weeded around 'that yellow flower'.......a dandelion. Bless.

He's definitely not in the league though of the estate agent friend of one of my girlfriends who arrived home and was telling his wife about his day. He told her that he'd done a viewing where he'd shown a couple around a house and it had been like virtually every other viewing until they'd begun acting extremely oddly as he took them around the garden.

Apparently the viewing around the house had been fine but once they'd got in the garden and he'd begun his sales pitch, they'd started sniggering and every time they caught each other's eye they'd start giggling and it was obvious they were trying not to collapse into hysterics.

The poor chap was completely baffled by their behaviour and couldn't work out what was going on but he gamely carried on with the viewing, trying to ignore the couple's sniggers and snorts.

'Well, did you do anything or say anything to make them behave like that?' asked his wife. 'They were ok in the house and it only started in the garden? Talk me through what you did when you got out in the garden and tell me exactly what you said.' 

'Well, we went into the back garden and you know I don't know that much about gardens so I couldn't go into a lot of detail so I said there was a nice mature oak tree. Then I took them over to one of the borders and said there were some lovely established shrubs and then I pointed out how pretty the clitoris was that was in flower.'

'WHAT? YOU SAID WHAT?'

IT'S CLEMATIS!' yelped his wife........

It's party-time......not in my house, it isn't.

I came across an online article yesterday where parents were fretting about whether they dared to show their faces if their teenager was having a party at home. The general tone implied that staying in the house was heavy-handed and they should leave the kids to it.

Apparently parents don't want to be seen as killjoys or, horror of horrors, embarrass their offspring by staying in the house and keeping an eye on proceedings. It appears there's an etiquette to teenage parties and that centres around the parents not being there although being close enough just in case. The article suggested popping to a nearby cinema or maybe around the corner to the local pub or restaurant so you'd be in the area but wouldn't spoil the fun.

Are these people completely mad? I've recently experienced a teenage party from hell and all I can say is don't do it but if you do, don't step a toe outside your house and, for god's sake, don't leave them alone for a minute. A riot hose on standby is also a good idea.

Last year the elder son had a music night at home for his 16th birthday with about 15 friends, take-away pizzas, music up loud....and it passed without a hitch. He planned to do the same this year. I'd put in place all the precautions I could think of, the main one being to keep quiet about his party and not, under any circumstances, to mention it on Facebook or any other social network.

Somehow word got out and we were inundated with gatecrashers, already flying on Lambrini and god knows what else by 8pm. A house and garden full of drunk teenagers is not much fun and I was seriously considering turning the garden hose on to get rid of them but a more measured approach from a less confrontational adult than me eventually worked. Knowing my luck that night the hose would have been on the sprinkler setting anyway.

In the time it took to get rid of our uninvited guests they managed to steal five bottles of champagne and a bottle of vodka, break the downstairs loo, pee in the shower in the boys' upstairs bathroom, smash pictures I'd stacked in my bedroom leaving glass scattered all over the carpet, climb on my neighbour's Mercedes and rip off the number plate and, the piece de resistance, steal my son's iPod, BlackBerry and watch. They were trying to get his laptop and Beats headphones but a canny friend of his overheard and hid them. Apparently 'jacking' is now the in thing, go to a party and nick as much as you can...

I caught a couple trying to sneak into the spare bedroom and threw them out despite their 'we only want to talk' routine, yeah, right......

With the help of the teenage network, by the next day I'd got the iPod, phone and watch back and the girl who'd caused the damage to my neighbour's car had been traced and paid for the damage.

This all happened with adults in the house in a rural market town in Wiltshire. There's a seismic difference between 16 and 17 and it's alcohol. I later discovered that some of the girls who'd looked at least 18 in their body-con dresses and skyscraper heels and who were out of their heads were actually only 14 or 15.

A friend told me that someone she knew had invited 20 kids and 80 had turned up so we got away relatively lightly. I'm still seething about the champagne as it had been given on special birthdays and to celebrate special moments and I know it ended up being sprayed around a la Formula One or necked and then chucked (up).

I did my fair share of drunken partying as a teenager and I have dim and distant memories of throwing up in someone's flowerbeds. The police turned up a few times but it was always because the music was too loud, not because we were trashing someone's home.

So my advice to any parents thinking about letting their teenager have a party at home and worrying about spoiling the fun by staying around, is this - hire a hall.

It's good to talk

When you work from home it's rather pleasant when the phone rings. It could be an exciting new project, a favourite client or a friend with a spontaneous lunch invitation.

Not so any more it seems. My phone still rings but it's increasingly someone calling for my computer or my washing machine. The laptop clearly has friends all over the world, particularly in the sub continent, concerned about its welfare and adamant that I need to take (it goes without saying, expensive) action right away to put right something that I, in my techy ignorance, have failed to notice. Boy these mates of my computer don't give up either, they like to call it every couple of days, usually just as I'm serving dinner.

It started off with people but when that strategy failed, they adopted a new tactic, they get a machine to call. That's even more irritating. I answer the phone in a nice, friendly manner only to be greeted with silence and then a bloody recorded message.

Now the washing machine, tumble drier and dishwasher are getting their own calls, my white goods have a better social life than I do. Only the range cooker is less popular than I am.

I've taken either to ignoring the landline when it rings or to answering and not saying anything, presuming it'll be a machine a few thousands miles away calling for one of my appliances. Unfortunately a couple of times it's been my mother or a friend and they've been somewhat disconcerted to hear someone pick up and then breathe irritatedly down the phone at them.

It appears even my mobile isn't safe. Twice this week I've had calls from guys wanting to make me rich and handle my money for me. Yeah right. What they don't know is that it only takes the words 'equity' and 'investment' for me to glaze over.

I'm the most risk averse person on the planet when it comes to my dosh and there is no way in hell they have any chance of getting their hands on it. The more financially astute people around me (that's everyone) roll their eyes in despair at my insistence on tucking my money away in the safest place I can find. 'You'll get a better return if you put it here, take out this bond, buy these shares' they say in frustration. I'm sure there are some lovely bankers out there but, in my opinion, there's a very good reason why bankers rhymes with something beginning with w......

So these cold callers are whisting in the dark when they call me. Do they honestly land clients this way, surely no one in their right mind is going to do business like this? I always used to wonder at the conservatory companies that set up camp by the exit in the DIY stores and would accost you on your way out. A conservatory is hardly an impulse buy now is it? You've just popped in for a paint tester pot or a bit of shelving, how likely is it that you're going to lash out several thousands of pounds on an extension between the check out and the car park?

I was brought up that it's not nice to be rude so I haven't resorted to swearing yet, although the machines have heard a few choice words. I've taken to quietly putting the phone down and walking away leaving them waffling on to themselves.

New York, New York.....

Packing.....

The 17-year-old wanders in to the bedroom as I'm packing, surrounded by cases and piles of clothes. He watches for a few moments and then, in a slightly confused tone, asks 'Mum, why on earth are you packing those?'
Me, looking up with a pair of long black socks in my hands, 'What?, Oh these, they're my flight compression socks.'
Him: 'Your what?'
Me: 'Flight compression socks, you wear them on long flights to stop deep vein thrombosis.'
Him: 'Deep vein what? What's that?'
Me: 'Blood clots in your legs.'
Him, nodding at socks, 'Well, they won't be any use.'
Me: 'Why not?'
Him: 'They're my football socks.'
Ah, ok.

Just arrived, 4am UK time, a huge bed each!

Rockerfeller Center.

Getting to grips with the lingo.

The 11-year-old, ordering breakfast: 'I'd like some eggs please.'
Waitress: 'Sure, how would you like them?'
Son, looking a bit unsure: 'Er, I'd like them fried please.'
Waitress: 'Would you like them sunny side up?'
Son, looking more than a little confused: 'I don't know what that is'.
Waitress: 'That's when they're looking at you with the yolk facing up.'
Son: 'Oh right, so is the other way rainy side down then?'

Look what I found in Battery Park

Ah, so that's the real one.......

Times Square

Central Park

Central Park

Hot chocolate in The Boathouse, Central Park

Brooklyn Bridge

Bell given by London to New York in rememberance of 9/11

Freedom Tower going up at the World Trade Center site

Taxi!

The amazing Flatiron building

One boy's idea of WWE heaven, ToysRus, Times Square

Busking New York style....wandering through Washington Square Park, Greenwich Village.

The 11-year-old: 'Wow, there's a man playing a piano.'
The 17-year-old, looking around,: 'Blimey, how did he manage to get that here? Oh it's on wheels, perhaps he was dropped off by someone in a van.'
Slight pause while we listen to the music.
The 11-year-old: 'Well that's not something you'd see in Bath every day.'

Busking Greenwich Village style

Empire State, one tall building....

What a view.....from the Empire State

My favourite building, the beautiful Chrysler Building

And again....breathtaking at dusk

Downtown skyline from Staten Island ferry

And finally.....well, every girl deserves a treat.......

Flying home.

Settling into my seat on the British Airways 747 waiting to leave JFK for London.
'Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I'm Captain Mandy ****** and I'll be flying you to London this evening'....
Oh great, six hours of not being able to get 10cc's 'I'm Mandy, fly me' out of my head.

Horror story on the High Street.

This is the time of year when the opaque tights, boots and woolly dresses are packed away and I head to the shops to see what's in for spring. Most years I can usually find something to add to my spring/summer wardrobe and more often than not it's red or navy and involves stripes.

Well, this year, be afraid, be very afraid. I'm no style guru but surely I'm not the only one who thinks something has gone badly wrong? Having seen what's on offer I'm not surprised that so many other countries consider the British bad dressers.

Fashion appears to have gone completely bonkers and taken a plunge back into the 1970s but come up with clothes that are far worse than they were first time around.

Marks and Spencer used to be the stalwart of the High Street for good quality basics but I can only hazard a guess that someone smuggled in some very strong hash cakes or dodgy acid and the buyers were all off their heads and having technicolour hallucinations when they ordered this season's stock. I can't believe that anyone in their right mind would ever want to wear let alone buy any of these disasters. They're not even cheap, buy a top and skirt and it'll set you back around £100.

Biggest horror of all - the mushy pea green sack shaped top with inset gold sequin panels and, if all that wasn't bad enough, it's in that foul slippy, slidey fabric. Get too near any flame and you'd go up in a flash. (M&S Limited collection).

There are some gorgeous shoes out there - but these aren't them. Gold sequins again, perfect for that bad taste 1970s fancy dress party but little else. (Office).

Ah, the sausage dress. Squidge yourself into this and look like a fuchsia porker and, yes, that's a zip up the front and the fabric is ridged so it'll cling nicely to every lump and bump. (M&S again).

Anyone remember Showaddywaddy? Violent blue jacket with leatherette (yes, cheap and nasty pretend leather) sleeves and skin tight leopard skin trousers to complete the Shakin' Stevens look. And this is for women! (You've guessed it, M&S Limited collection again).

Now it's Star Trek. Puce yellow jacket with black seams, completely shapeless. Team it with the purple polyester pleated, elasticated waist knee length skirt that your Granny wore in her 80s.

Oh dear god. Cheap airline air crew uniform circa 1975?

Then there's the 'resemble a floral sofa' look, this one is courtesy of Sainsbury's Tu range.The camera has softened the colours in this, that yellow is actually a shrieking mustard.

Words fail me......almost. My personal favourite.Throw in short sleeves, pleats, a collar, waist seam, buttons and then make it in the most unflattering aubergine, cheap fabric going and this is what you get. Sainsbury's again.

I'm certain there are some lovely, stylish, flattering clothes out there but it's going to take some hunting to find them this year.

Spring cleaning......

Every year it's the same, the temperature starts to rise, the sun comes out and I get this urge to de-clutter.


 I'm no minimalist, I like a cosy home but sometimes I get the distinct feeling that I'm disappearing under stuff. For years I've gone around muttering William Morris's 'have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.' I do try to live by it but, then again, I'd probably have to chuck myself out if I did. 


I've always been ruthless with my wardrobe and have a rule that if something hasn't been worn for a year then out it goes. Whoever came up with the idea of those charity collection bags is a genius in my book, I can have a clear out and feel I'm helping worthwhile causes at the same time, guilt free de-cluttering. 


I have a one in, one out rule for everything else (apart from the kids, they were both allowed to stay) and it does help keep the place reasonably under control, but there's one area that drives me mental - the attic. I just know it's been full of crap for years. 


The problem is I can't get up there as I'm hopeless with heights, stand me on a stool and I get vertigo. Fortunately though, son number one is now tall enough to go up for me so I've embarked on Operation Clear Attic although I'm beginning to wish I hadn't.


It appears there's enough clutter up there to fill another house. There's the stuff you'd expect to find in most people's loft - the artificial Christmas tree missing a few branches; dodgy looking suitcases; concert programmes, old school reports, photo albums, baby memorabilia.


I also have an antique standard lamp with an authentic silk covered flex that would undoubtedly electrocute me if I were mad enough to try to use it, bucket loads of soft toys and lurid pictures that I can't believe I would ever have hung on my walls. 


What I hadn't expected to find was a tent. A two room, four person tent complete with bed rolls, awning and groundsheets. Never used. I'd completely forgotten buying it. It was one of those hair brained moments, you know the ones, when an image pops into your head. Mine was completely deluded - a happy family around a campfire on a warm summer's evening, having a great time out in the open air in a beautiful campsite overlooking a gorgeous beach.


I know I'm not the only one. Friends bought a tent and set off with their two kids for a fortnight's camping in Lyme Regis. They lasted three days. Another friend said she fell for the flowery Cath Kidston fantasy of camping but managed only one night before packing up and coming home. I'm sure there are expert campers out there, I just haven't ever met any. 


I completely blame that fantasy, because that's exactly what it is, for buying the tent. I should have known better and let reality kick in before I handed over the credit card, because reality would have reminded me that my one and only experience of camping was as a Girl Guide and I hated every minute. It rained; a friend fell in a nettle patch within minutes of arriving; the tent leaked if you so much as brushed a fingertip against it; we had to make shoe stands out of twigs for some bizarre reason and the loos were.....well, the less said about them the better. We quickly learned not to stand downwind of them. 


I remember now that I did give the tent a trial run and put it up in the back garden. Well, tents have certainly changed since my days as a guide when it was all hefty cream canvas, guy ropes and thumping in tent pegs with a whopping great mallet. At least you know where you are with a tent peg and a length of rope. This tent was virtually pop up and held together by lengths of elastic that ran through channels. Needless to say it took bloody hours. We were just standing back to admire our handiwork when the next door neighbour sauntered over (she being one of those practical RAF wife types), took one look and asked in a slightly amused voice 'is there any reason why you've put it up inside out?'

Smile please, we're British.

Times may be tough, it's still a bit nippy and spring seems a long way off, the economy's shot to pieces and the next series of Mad Men has been snaffled by Sky (another reason to loathe Murdoch) but, blimey, does it really mean we have to all go around like utter mannerless miseries?

Twice in the last few days I've been snarled at by two separate women drivers because they had to wait, oh all of a few seconds, while I reversed into a parking space. Then I held a shop door open for a guy and he walked straight through, completely ignoring me. No chance of a thank you, obviously.

I'm sick of hearing people moaning. We Brits have long been obsessed by the weather and boy, didn't everyone bang on about the recent snow? Well what do you expect in winter? I was inwardly sniggering when the whingers went on and on about how treacherous their journey was, how their lives were turned upside down by a mere couple of centimetres of the white stuff. I'm remembering Bill Bryson's great comment that real snow is when you can't find your car until spring.

I was recounting all this to a friend and she told me that she'd been at Bath railway station and a bloke had spat not just once but twice on the platform in front of her. Honestly, what is going on, is Britain becoming the land not just of the negative but of the pig ignorant?

I'm just back from New York and a few weeks ago I was in Paris, two cities with long standing reputations for rudeness. It's been almost obligatory to be ignored by waiters in Paris where they evidently work to the premis that the customer is always wrong and you'd never dare order soup there, just in case..... Then there's New York, the city that never sleeps, and where being rude is steeped into the psyche.

Well.....no actually. Three days in Paris and a week in New York and my only encounter with brusqueness in either city was an extremely verbose cab driver in Manhattan who moaned about anything and everything the entire trip. The irony was he couldn't have been more chatty with me, it just happened that he was slagging off everything about the city, but he was the exception.

From hotel staff to shop assistants, waiters, cabbies (bar one), tour guides, even a couple who sat alongside us in a coffee shop in Times Square and heard our accents, everyone was not only pleasant but friendly. Even the immigration officer at JFK who not only smiled but joked with us! That's how much things have changed.

It was actually a bit unnerving and I kept waiting for someone to slam a door in my face, ignore me, short change me, mug me, try and run me over as I crossed the street so I could sigh and say 'yep, that's more like it, that's rude old New York', but it never happened.

So come on Britain, we used to be known for our manners, our quirky sense of humour, our stoicism, our ability to look on the bright side. Can we stop all the moaning and bad manners now please?

I've had enough of all the negativity so I'm operating my own one-woman charm offensive. I go round smiling at everyone, I'm making eye contact, holding doors open and letting cars into traffic. Ok, I'm in danger of being considered a raving nutter but so what?

Isn't it more pleasant to smile rather than snarl? And do you know what? Nine times out of ten, if you smile at someone and acknowledge them, they smile back. It's definitely better than moaning.

The art of flirting

I've just been told I'm an incorrigible flirt. It was clear from the tone with which this pronouncement was made that this was not at all a good thing to be. So it probably didn't go down at all well when I laughed and said 'goodness, thanks.'

I don't mind admitting, I'm all for flirting, in fact, I'm convinced that it's in very real danger of dying out in this bland politically correct world in which we now live. It's time to revive the art of gentle flirtation in my book.

Obviously there are rules, I'm not advocating the bimbo version, where the subtext is all about sex, all those long sideways glances, licking of the lips, chest stuck out, crossing and uncrossing of the legs and extravagant flicking of the hair. No, I'm talking about the style of flirting that leaves both parties having enjoyed a harmless episode of brief mutual admiration, without having felt the need to rip any clothes off.

After all, what is wrong with a bit of harmless flirtation? The very word is light, fluffy and smacks of fun. I've realised that I flirt virtually every day in some way or another, today it was with the courier who delivered my repaired laptop, just a bit of banter than made us both laugh.

This week alone I've flirted with two 16-week-old males who responded with lots of eye contact, gummy smiles and giggles and a chap in his 70s who called me 'young lady', told me I had a great smile and thanked me for a lovely chat. This guy was a flirting pro, he knew the rules and that I no more wanted to jump his bones than take up carpet bowls.

Maybe that's why flirting is fast becoming a thing of the past, it's become too associated with sex. Perhaps modern flirting has become shorthand for foreplay but that's not my kind of flirting. I like the subtle, innocent kind.

I'm not sure when flirting turned toxic. When did being a natural flirt become something bad, something to be viewed negatively? When did being a bit of a flirt become synonymous with asking for trouble, for being regarded as a woman who's 'up for it'? Probably about the same time that judges started making odious comments that rape victims who wear short skirts deserve what they get. Naturally there are boundaries that it's sensible not to cross, never flirt with a man who's had a few for a start as you're liable to get your tits groped.  

In the days when there were bank managers, flirting was always worth a try when you needed to get the overdraft extended, it certainly worked for me a few times. Maybe flirting is just really all about using our womanly charms to our advantage, subtle manipulation.

I'm a feminist but I'm guilty of having exploited men through flirting, usually by playing the helpless woman when something has gone wrong with my car. Then again, I really am a helpless, hopeless female when anything mechanical packs up. If it means I never have to change a wheel, then I'll carry on flirting.

Breakfast at Tiffany's

The almost 11-year-old has a real thing about cafes, he's become quite a connoisseur.

He'll not consider a shopping trip unless he has secured a cast iron guarantee of a cafe stop and he likes to have negotiated where he'll be dining before we set out. He also likes to have thrashed out whether it's breakfast, brunch or just lunch, nothing is left to chance.

I've given up saying where I'd like to go, if we're off to Bath I just turn to him as we get into the car and say 'ok, where are we eating?' and he'll announce the day's choice. Fortunately some of my taste appears to have rubbed off on him so we're pretty compatible cafe goers.

He's such a bon viveur that he's now far more interested in the cafe stop than in the shopping or sight seeing. Before Christmas I took him and his older brother to see a truly beautiful light installation at a Bath museum. He thought it was quite pretty but was far more interested in getting into the cafe to see what it had to offer. He even rates them and has his own league table of his favourite spots.




Field of Light

 Next month we're off to New York, a city I've visited a few times and love. It'll be a first visit for the boys and they are beyond excited. I've been talking to them about the places we'll see and what we'll be doing. We've discussed taking a boat out to Liberty and Ellis Island; a wander through Central Park with a stop at the Boathouse; Macy's for a spot of retail therapy; the Empire State Building; Rockerfeller Center, Bryant Park, the Flatiron building, the Metropolitan Museum.

The little son has listened intently to it all but perked up visibly when I mentioned Tiffany's and how it was in one of my favourite films, Breakfast at Tiffany's.

'So mum, what's the cafe like there then?' he asked eagerly.

A distinct frown appeared on his little face when I told him that there isn't a cafe in Tiffany's, that it's a very famous jewellery store on Fifth Avenue.

'So if there's no cafe, why did she keep going there for breakfast then?' he replied.

Mine's a salad.....

Every year it's the same. Every bloody year. You'd think I'd learn by now, Pavlov would despair of me.

What am I talking about? Christmas and New Year food and drink overload, that's what. I sail into the festive season vowing that this year it'll be different.

Just remember, I say to myself annually and usually about December 20, that Christmas is really just a more elaborate Sunday roast with a couple of other meals tucked around it on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day. It'll be a breeze.....

Of course that's not exactly how it turns out. The house goes into the festive season groaning at the seams with enough food and drink to feed a small army or sit out a lengthy siege. What is it about Christmas that makes us buy food that we'd never normally give cupboard space to?

Why doesn't it feel right if there isn't a sizeable stash of mince pies in the cupboard, even if no-one even likes them? Every year my mother would buy that foul yellow pickle stuff and every year it would sit there untouched and end up at the back of the larder until several months later when someone stumbled across it and chucked it out.

Then there's the trifle, cakes, chocolates, puddings, cheeses, all the stuff that I try to avoid for the rest of the year but for some bizarre reason seem to think I can eat without any consequences over the Christmas period. What is even more ridiculous is that I shouldn't eat any of this because I have a decidedly wonky digestive system and it makes me ill.....but I still do.

It's as if some devil sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear 'of course that cake isn't going to go straight on your arse' or 'go on have that pudding, it's good for you, you're a growing girl'. Too right, by the time Christmas and New Year are over I have definitely grown - and not in a good way.

My body has now taken to taking matters into its own hands. It seems to realise that I've lost the plot yet again and to decide that it's had enough, in fact, way more than enough. It's as if it gets fed up with wondering when I might actually eat a vegetable again and loses patience with me on or around New Year's Day. That's about when I wake up feeling absolutely dreadful with aching joints, a stinking headache and craving water and salad, yes, salad.

Actually it's almost a relief when it does happen, suddenly lettuce never looked so good.