A vicar in the town where I live has caused huge upset and landed himself in the national press for bowling into a primary school and announcing to the startled, and subsequently very upset, kids that Father Christmas doesn't exist.
What on earth possessed the man?! I bet he's keeping his head down and staying firmly out of sight in the vicarage right now. It appears the teachers had no idea of what he intended to say and are as miffed as the parents.
I've long had a detached relationship with the church and it's episodes such as this that further confirm that detachment. I appreciate it must get right up the clergy's nose that Christmas has become, for the vast majority, a consumer frenzy with the focus on the presents under the tree, drinking way too much and eating so much that it's hard to get into anything not involving strong elastic in January.
This offending vicar probably only meant to try to emphasise to the children the real meaning of Christmas in his eyes but handled it badly and ended up with a PR nightmare at his church steps. Bet there'll be even fewer bums on the pews in his parish this Christmas morning.
Christmas is different things to different people. To my religious friends, it's the birth of Christ. To me it's a winter festival. To little kids, it's about anticipation, excitement and presents. It's a magical time and each family creates their own traditions, ways of celebrating and memories that are precious to them.
Little kids have plenty of time to decide if they want to believe in God or not. Surely the magical story of Father Christmas can sit comfortably alongside the story of Jesus's birth?
It's such a short time that parents have to see the wonder and magic of Christmas in their children's eyes before they work out the truth. I can still remember clearly the horrible moment when I found out that Father Christmas was in fact my slightly sozzled dad, when a friend and I managed to stay awake late and heard our dads come stumbling and giggling into our room to fill our stockings.
I know, as a parent, I wanted to prolong the magic of the sheer possibility of Father Christmas, his reindeer and the elves for as long as possible when my boys were young. I loved everything about the Christmas traditions we created as a family, the sending of the letters up the chimney to Father Christmas, the whisky and mince pies left on the hearth on Christmas Eve, the sooty footprints that he left after his visit that they found on Christmas morning.
It's only this year, when they are 18 and 12, that we've agreed finally to move the stockings from their rooms to the sitting room as setting my alarm for 3am to ensure they were asleep before I crept in, as I've done the last few years, was, even to this Christmas addict, somewhat mad.
I have no problem with Christians putting Jesus at the centre of Christmas even though he's not at the centre of mine. I went along with the whole Nativity story when my boys were little even though I don't for a minute buy into the baby in a manger story, but I respect those who do. I wanted my boys to be exposed to all the traditions and stories of Christmas.
The Church of England wonders why it is having a hard time reaching people nowadays. Episodes like this bumbling vicar should give them a clue.
Merry Christmas!
Friday, 13 December 2013
Monday, 10 June 2013
Being 50.
I've been 50 now for five days. This is what I've learned....
1. Intensive skin rejuvenating wrinkle defying face serum is a great present.
2. Wear high heels all night at your 50th party and your knees will pay you back by giving you terrible gyp the next day.
3. Despite having notched up a half century, go out with your mother and she'll ask if you have your bag/coat/keys. Could be worse, she could still be asking if you're wearing clean knickers and if you need a wee before you leave, she only stopped doing that when you were about 32.
4. You are now Madam, never to be Miss or Madamoiselle again.
5. 'Suck it all in' bodies do work but unpop them without concentrating at 2.45am at the end of your party and, before you know it, they roll up tight under your armpits and you're stuck fast. It'll take a considerable length of time and several helpers to get you out. I know, I learned the hard way.
6. Your email spam is suddenly full of Saga holidays, facelift offers, ads for star lifts and Viagra and invitations to train to become a gas engineer.
7. Be forgetful, lose something or just be a little bit eccentric and your sons will say 'It's because you're old now Mum'.
8. Keeping the boobs upright will require a bra that costs the equivalent of the GDP of a small country.
9. 10.30pm is a late night.
10. Buy an expensive new perfume and everyone says 'oh I loved you in Chloe, it was your smell.' Put the expensive new perfume in a drawer and go back to Chloe.
11. If you wake up and feel the need to see the sea, go.
12. If someone buys you great jewellery, hang on to them, tightly!
1. Intensive skin rejuvenating wrinkle defying face serum is a great present.
2. Wear high heels all night at your 50th party and your knees will pay you back by giving you terrible gyp the next day.
3. Despite having notched up a half century, go out with your mother and she'll ask if you have your bag/coat/keys. Could be worse, she could still be asking if you're wearing clean knickers and if you need a wee before you leave, she only stopped doing that when you were about 32.
4. You are now Madam, never to be Miss or Madamoiselle again.
5. 'Suck it all in' bodies do work but unpop them without concentrating at 2.45am at the end of your party and, before you know it, they roll up tight under your armpits and you're stuck fast. It'll take a considerable length of time and several helpers to get you out. I know, I learned the hard way.
6. Your email spam is suddenly full of Saga holidays, facelift offers, ads for star lifts and Viagra and invitations to train to become a gas engineer.
7. Be forgetful, lose something or just be a little bit eccentric and your sons will say 'It's because you're old now Mum'.
8. Keeping the boobs upright will require a bra that costs the equivalent of the GDP of a small country.
9. 10.30pm is a late night.
10. Buy an expensive new perfume and everyone says 'oh I loved you in Chloe, it was your smell.' Put the expensive new perfume in a drawer and go back to Chloe.
11. If you wake up and feel the need to see the sea, go.
12. If someone buys you great jewellery, hang on to them, tightly!
Monday, 20 May 2013
Talking sex.
The 12-year-old looked up from his book and asked 'what's a dyke?' 'It's a barrier to stop the sea flooding the land', I said. He looked puzzled. Ah. 'It's also slang for a lesbian,' I went on. 'Oh, that makes more sense,' he said, and went back to his book.
Now that's a conversation I would never have had with my parents aged 12 or even 22, come to think of it. It seems not only have books changed since my day but so have our relationships with our kids. My parents never did the birds and bees talk, I found out all I needed to know from behind the bike shed at school, from friends, the problem page of Jackie magazine and sneaky reads, under the bed covers at night with a torch, of my dad's Dennis Wheatley books.
Sex just wasn't discussed. My mum would go bright red and start stammering if even the most oblique reference came up and Dad was in a world of his own and, presumably, felt that having daughters rather than sons made 'all that business' Mum's domaine.
Once puberty kicked in Mum went on high alert. One lunchtime when I was at Sixth Form college, she came home early to find me and my best friend and a male friend eating sandwiches. 'What on earth is going on here?,' she shrieked. 'Er, we're having lunch,' I said. Clearly she suspected we were planning a threesome after we'd finished our cheese and pickle and Cokes.
After I'd left home we went on holiday and my younger sister was allowed to bring her boyfriend. Mum hauled me to one side and hissed 'keep an eye on them, they can't be left on their own for one minute in case they, well you know.' I did know.
Such was the atmosphere of embarrassment about sex in our house that I can still clearly remember going hot and cold while watching Ryan's Daughter with my dad. As Sarah Miles got down to it with Robert Mitchum, I leapt out of my chair, announced loudly 'think I'll make a cup of tea, anyone want one?' and disappeared into the kitchen at warp speed. I was probably about 17 at the time.
Contrast that to just a few nights ago when my 18-year-old son wandered in to the sitting room as a girlfriend and I were watching Hope Springs. He happened to appear just at the moment when Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones were trying to get down and dirty but realising nothing was going on downstairs for poor Tommy. 'Oh blimey, he can't get it up', says the son and we all laughed.
I'm relieved and kind of chuffed that somehow, I'm not sure how, I'm just not embarrassed to talk about sex and answer any questions my kids have. They know gay men and women and don't think twice about it. I'm proud they're enlightened and non-judgemental.
How times have changed. Well, kind of. The husband of a friend of mine was delegated to have the facts of life talk with his son. He kept putting it off until my friend ordered him to get it over and done with. The poor man waited until it was dark, took his son out to the car on the drive, sat him in the back, then climbed in the front seat and kept staring straight ahead while he did the deed. He'd have got on well with my mum.
Now that's a conversation I would never have had with my parents aged 12 or even 22, come to think of it. It seems not only have books changed since my day but so have our relationships with our kids. My parents never did the birds and bees talk, I found out all I needed to know from behind the bike shed at school, from friends, the problem page of Jackie magazine and sneaky reads, under the bed covers at night with a torch, of my dad's Dennis Wheatley books.
Sex just wasn't discussed. My mum would go bright red and start stammering if even the most oblique reference came up and Dad was in a world of his own and, presumably, felt that having daughters rather than sons made 'all that business' Mum's domaine.
Once puberty kicked in Mum went on high alert. One lunchtime when I was at Sixth Form college, she came home early to find me and my best friend and a male friend eating sandwiches. 'What on earth is going on here?,' she shrieked. 'Er, we're having lunch,' I said. Clearly she suspected we were planning a threesome after we'd finished our cheese and pickle and Cokes.
After I'd left home we went on holiday and my younger sister was allowed to bring her boyfriend. Mum hauled me to one side and hissed 'keep an eye on them, they can't be left on their own for one minute in case they, well you know.' I did know.
Such was the atmosphere of embarrassment about sex in our house that I can still clearly remember going hot and cold while watching Ryan's Daughter with my dad. As Sarah Miles got down to it with Robert Mitchum, I leapt out of my chair, announced loudly 'think I'll make a cup of tea, anyone want one?' and disappeared into the kitchen at warp speed. I was probably about 17 at the time.
Contrast that to just a few nights ago when my 18-year-old son wandered in to the sitting room as a girlfriend and I were watching Hope Springs. He happened to appear just at the moment when Meryl Streep and Tommy Lee Jones were trying to get down and dirty but realising nothing was going on downstairs for poor Tommy. 'Oh blimey, he can't get it up', says the son and we all laughed.
I'm relieved and kind of chuffed that somehow, I'm not sure how, I'm just not embarrassed to talk about sex and answer any questions my kids have. They know gay men and women and don't think twice about it. I'm proud they're enlightened and non-judgemental.
How times have changed. Well, kind of. The husband of a friend of mine was delegated to have the facts of life talk with his son. He kept putting it off until my friend ordered him to get it over and done with. The poor man waited until it was dark, took his son out to the car on the drive, sat him in the back, then climbed in the front seat and kept staring straight ahead while he did the deed. He'd have got on well with my mum.
Friday, 3 May 2013
A vision of loveliness....er.....
Is there anyone who looks good in glasses? Apart from the dentist, flying and smear tests, there is little I like less than choosing new specs.
I have worn contact lenses since a beady eyed secondary school teacher spotted that not only could I not read the words on the white board, I was having trouble locating the white board at all. My parents endeavoured to persuade me that NHS frames (ie: the cheap ones) made me look absolutely gorgeous, a vision in, usually, bilious pink plastic. I may have been young but I was on to them and I put my foot down and refused point blank to wear glasses.
In those days wearing contact lenses was like putting a piece of Tupperware in your eyes, they were so thick, but I persevered, there was no way on earth I was wearing the Joe 90 specs.
My dislike of specs remains to this day but my eyesight is now so bad that I've had to succumb to reading glasses and a second pair for my shortsightedness, so I can find my way from the bed to my contact lenses each morning. Without specs or contact lenses my world is like an Impressionist painting.
Every year or so I'm summoned by my optician for a check up. There's no getting out of it, they're a canny bunch, cancel and they sweetly but adamantly point out they won't be sending my monthly batch of contact lenses until I turn up.
I have no problem with the optician's check up, I quite like being made to jump by that little puff of air as they check my eye pressure, there's no horrible drilling and you get to keep your clothes on.
The bit I really can't abide is choosing new frames. Why is it that in a shop surrounded by several hundred frames, there is not one that doesn't make me look like Dame Edna Everage or my grandma?
I love the way the specs industry has tried to jazz things up and have us believe that glasses are fashionable, hip and cool. Dotted around are posters of fetching women and hot men gazing into the mid distance looking alluring in a pair of specs. Gok Wan has even got in on the act and his range sits alongside the likes of Missoni, Red or Dead, Hilfiger, Karen Millen and RayBan. It makes no difference, £25 or £175, they all make me look like Hank Marvin on a bad day. There is nothing remotely sexy or come hither about me in specs.
Last time I got so fed up and huffy that when finally I found a pair that I could just about bear, I bought identical frames for both my distance and reading glasses and then spent the next two years muddling them up and wondering why my world was constantly fuzzy.
Every year I have that little glimmer of optimism that, maybe just maybe, when I collect my new specs I'll put them on and think 'wow, I look good in these', but in 10 days or so's time I know the reality will be, I'll pick them up, hand over a small fortune, put them on and think 'yep, Su Pollard.'
I have worn contact lenses since a beady eyed secondary school teacher spotted that not only could I not read the words on the white board, I was having trouble locating the white board at all. My parents endeavoured to persuade me that NHS frames (ie: the cheap ones) made me look absolutely gorgeous, a vision in, usually, bilious pink plastic. I may have been young but I was on to them and I put my foot down and refused point blank to wear glasses.
In those days wearing contact lenses was like putting a piece of Tupperware in your eyes, they were so thick, but I persevered, there was no way on earth I was wearing the Joe 90 specs.
My dislike of specs remains to this day but my eyesight is now so bad that I've had to succumb to reading glasses and a second pair for my shortsightedness, so I can find my way from the bed to my contact lenses each morning. Without specs or contact lenses my world is like an Impressionist painting.
Every year or so I'm summoned by my optician for a check up. There's no getting out of it, they're a canny bunch, cancel and they sweetly but adamantly point out they won't be sending my monthly batch of contact lenses until I turn up.
I have no problem with the optician's check up, I quite like being made to jump by that little puff of air as they check my eye pressure, there's no horrible drilling and you get to keep your clothes on.
The bit I really can't abide is choosing new frames. Why is it that in a shop surrounded by several hundred frames, there is not one that doesn't make me look like Dame Edna Everage or my grandma?
I love the way the specs industry has tried to jazz things up and have us believe that glasses are fashionable, hip and cool. Dotted around are posters of fetching women and hot men gazing into the mid distance looking alluring in a pair of specs. Gok Wan has even got in on the act and his range sits alongside the likes of Missoni, Red or Dead, Hilfiger, Karen Millen and RayBan. It makes no difference, £25 or £175, they all make me look like Hank Marvin on a bad day. There is nothing remotely sexy or come hither about me in specs.
Last time I got so fed up and huffy that when finally I found a pair that I could just about bear, I bought identical frames for both my distance and reading glasses and then spent the next two years muddling them up and wondering why my world was constantly fuzzy.
Every year I have that little glimmer of optimism that, maybe just maybe, when I collect my new specs I'll put them on and think 'wow, I look good in these', but in 10 days or so's time I know the reality will be, I'll pick them up, hand over a small fortune, put them on and think 'yep, Su Pollard.'
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
Just too blooming smart.
I've been a BlackBerry girl for virtually as long as I've had a mobile phone. There's something comforting for a technically challenged person like myself to know your way around the workings of these increasingly complicated Smartphones. As a touch typist, the Qwerty keyboard is like an old friend.
Recently I decided it was time to get another phone for private use and to keep my BlackBerry for work, so, in a moment of frivolity, I decided to ring the changes and dive into the previously unexplored world of the iPhone. Well, the iPhone 5 is, indeed, a nifty piece of kit and has many whizzy features that I will never understand, let alone use.
I'm one of those customers who has assistants in the phone shops rolling their eyes and mouthing 'nightmare, hasn't a clue' at each other. Maybe not as bad as a friend who, in complete innocence, asked an Apple assistant or guru or whatever they're called, if you could make phone calls on an iPad, but almost.
I text, I phone, I email, go on the Internet and occasionally take pictures with my phone. I don't play games, have no interest in apps (first time I heard incorrectly and thought they'd said abs), will never use it to play music, find my way anywhere, look at the stars, or do any of the myriad of other clever things that Apple has come up with.
The touchscreen keypad has been the biggest hurdle between me and my iPhone becoming great friends quickly. It has nearly driven me mad. I've been used to my BlackBerry being cooperative and accommodating and recording the exact word I type on a text or email. Oh no, that's not the way the iPhone 5 likes to operate. It has a mind of its own.
Yesterday I emailed a shopping list and it decided I couldn't possibly want unsalted cashew nuts so it did its own thing, overruled me and declared that I'd like some 'insulted cashews' please. Huffy nuts, what a great thought.
Then the other day it helpfully informed a friend that I was doing us 'grizzled salmon' for dinner. Clearly it's seen my cooking.
My friends are now used to having to interpret my messages and those who have iPhones themselves are past masters, having been through the same thing with theirs. A text conversation with an iPhone owning friend can be challenging to say the least. 'Did she really mean she's got the bird? Oh, got it, she's bored!'
A friend who is an iPhone veteran has told me that mine will, apparently, get to know me over time and work out what I'm going to say so it can predict my words accurately. That I find rather disconcerting. It's clearly not that good at it yet.
Recently I decided it was time to get another phone for private use and to keep my BlackBerry for work, so, in a moment of frivolity, I decided to ring the changes and dive into the previously unexplored world of the iPhone. Well, the iPhone 5 is, indeed, a nifty piece of kit and has many whizzy features that I will never understand, let alone use.
I'm one of those customers who has assistants in the phone shops rolling their eyes and mouthing 'nightmare, hasn't a clue' at each other. Maybe not as bad as a friend who, in complete innocence, asked an Apple assistant or guru or whatever they're called, if you could make phone calls on an iPad, but almost.
I text, I phone, I email, go on the Internet and occasionally take pictures with my phone. I don't play games, have no interest in apps (first time I heard incorrectly and thought they'd said abs), will never use it to play music, find my way anywhere, look at the stars, or do any of the myriad of other clever things that Apple has come up with.
The touchscreen keypad has been the biggest hurdle between me and my iPhone becoming great friends quickly. It has nearly driven me mad. I've been used to my BlackBerry being cooperative and accommodating and recording the exact word I type on a text or email. Oh no, that's not the way the iPhone 5 likes to operate. It has a mind of its own.
Yesterday I emailed a shopping list and it decided I couldn't possibly want unsalted cashew nuts so it did its own thing, overruled me and declared that I'd like some 'insulted cashews' please. Huffy nuts, what a great thought.
Then the other day it helpfully informed a friend that I was doing us 'grizzled salmon' for dinner. Clearly it's seen my cooking.
My friends are now used to having to interpret my messages and those who have iPhones themselves are past masters, having been through the same thing with theirs. A text conversation with an iPhone owning friend can be challenging to say the least. 'Did she really mean she's got the bird? Oh, got it, she's bored!'
A friend who is an iPhone veteran has told me that mine will, apparently, get to know me over time and work out what I'm going to say so it can predict my words accurately. That I find rather disconcerting. It's clearly not that good at it yet.
Saturday, 13 April 2013
A politics free zone
Politics has been everywhere this week following the demise of Britain's first woman Prime Minister. Tomorrow my in laws are coming for lunch. Between now and their arrival a sign will be going up on the door announcing that this house is a Thatcher free zone.
I have never seen the point of debating politics, after all my humanitarian, leftie leaning arguments are hardly likely to have a die-hard Tory suddenly having an eureka moment and declaring 'golly, you're right' are they?
The trouble is my father-in-law, lovely man though he is, doesn't work by the same rules. He loves nothing more than to bang on about politics and will argue black is white if it's the opposite of the view everyone else around the table is espousing. When my father was alive I would stand well back and watch them, one the son of a Socialist who believed vehemently in unions and didn't have much time for management, the other a self made man, a member of the management class and believer in free markets with not much time for the welfare state or NHS. It's amazing they never came to blows.
I'm a political being and have firmly held beliefs and principles but, as far as I'm concerned, they're my business and no-one else's. I don't hide them but I don't need to impose them on anyone else either. I grew up under Thatcher. My views about her and those of my father in law are as wide apart as the Grand Canyon. I've interviewed a few politicians in my days as a journalist and have concluded, generally, they tend to be much of a muchness. The best I can say about David Cameron, our current incumbent, is he has lively hair.
We're just back from a couple of weeks in America visiting North and South Carolina and New York. The United States is a fine place with many lovely, friendly people but I've found, it's best to steer clear of politics and religion especially when you're in the South.
I reminded the husband of this before we left the UK and pleaded with him, for the sake of a relaxed, pleasant holiday, not to come out with anything inflammatory. He got distinctly huffy at the very possibility.
Eight hours and two flights after leaving the UK we arrived in Charlotte, North Carolina, on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The sons and I sat with the luggage in the Avis car rental office while the husband did the paperwork. Our accents were much admired, the wonderfully friendly staff took the boys to have their photos taken sitting in a whizzy Mustang, the atmosphere couldn't have been friendlier, until the assistant commented on the husband being left handed as he signed the rental agreement.
'The same as your President, I'm in good company then,' I heard him utter chirpily. Oh great.
The temperature dropped several degrees, the previously effusive assistant turned distinctly chilly and snapped in her Southern drawl, 'I'm no supporter of his, I'm a Ronald Reagan girl' and the bonhomie was long gone. Fabulous, we're not even out of the airport and he's done it. Sigh.
It didn't even come as a surprise when, suddenly, our pre-paid all inclusive voucher now was mysteriously £350 short and when, a few days later, the supposedly top of the range executive Chrysler 300 developed a burning smell and all the electrics packed up.
See, steer well clear of politics and religion.
I have never seen the point of debating politics, after all my humanitarian, leftie leaning arguments are hardly likely to have a die-hard Tory suddenly having an eureka moment and declaring 'golly, you're right' are they?
The trouble is my father-in-law, lovely man though he is, doesn't work by the same rules. He loves nothing more than to bang on about politics and will argue black is white if it's the opposite of the view everyone else around the table is espousing. When my father was alive I would stand well back and watch them, one the son of a Socialist who believed vehemently in unions and didn't have much time for management, the other a self made man, a member of the management class and believer in free markets with not much time for the welfare state or NHS. It's amazing they never came to blows.
I'm a political being and have firmly held beliefs and principles but, as far as I'm concerned, they're my business and no-one else's. I don't hide them but I don't need to impose them on anyone else either. I grew up under Thatcher. My views about her and those of my father in law are as wide apart as the Grand Canyon. I've interviewed a few politicians in my days as a journalist and have concluded, generally, they tend to be much of a muchness. The best I can say about David Cameron, our current incumbent, is he has lively hair.
We're just back from a couple of weeks in America visiting North and South Carolina and New York. The United States is a fine place with many lovely, friendly people but I've found, it's best to steer clear of politics and religion especially when you're in the South.
I reminded the husband of this before we left the UK and pleaded with him, for the sake of a relaxed, pleasant holiday, not to come out with anything inflammatory. He got distinctly huffy at the very possibility.
Eight hours and two flights after leaving the UK we arrived in Charlotte, North Carolina, on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The sons and I sat with the luggage in the Avis car rental office while the husband did the paperwork. Our accents were much admired, the wonderfully friendly staff took the boys to have their photos taken sitting in a whizzy Mustang, the atmosphere couldn't have been friendlier, until the assistant commented on the husband being left handed as he signed the rental agreement.
'The same as your President, I'm in good company then,' I heard him utter chirpily. Oh great.
The temperature dropped several degrees, the previously effusive assistant turned distinctly chilly and snapped in her Southern drawl, 'I'm no supporter of his, I'm a Ronald Reagan girl' and the bonhomie was long gone. Fabulous, we're not even out of the airport and he's done it. Sigh.
It didn't even come as a surprise when, suddenly, our pre-paid all inclusive voucher now was mysteriously £350 short and when, a few days later, the supposedly top of the range executive Chrysler 300 developed a burning smell and all the electrics packed up.
See, steer well clear of politics and religion.
Friday, 9 November 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
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!
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!
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 23 September 2012
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.
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.
Monday, 23 July 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 17 June 2012
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.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
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........
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........
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 21 March 2012
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.
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?'
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.'
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.
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. |
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.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
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.
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).
 |
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?
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.
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