Forgotten password?.....Er, yes.

I'm in danger of being locked out of my life - I can't remember the password.

Am I the only person who is starting to feel that this password lark is getting out of control and it might be time for the clever old IT people to think of something new?

I'm all for having lots of passwords protecting my bank accounts, the more the merrier if it means my dosh is secure, but now it seems it's becoming impossible to do virtually anything online without one. Actually I don't mean one, the reality is dozens.

I wouldn't say that I use internet sites any more than the average person -  I book flights and hire cars; order clothes; download music for my iPod and books for my Kindle and do my banking - but I had a quick count up of the sites that I use regularly that demand a password before I can access them, and it came to a staggering 43!

Add to that the pin numbers for bank accounts and it's no wonder we're all suffering headaches more than we used to, it's the stress of trying to remember all those numbers and words.

Use memorable words, they say, or a combination of words and numbers and then comes the stern warning not to use the same one for everything and not to write your password down in case someone should find it. Er, hello....I'm 48 and most days I have trouble remembering where I've put my car key or my shoes, there's no way on earth I'm going to remember the password to my Bravissimo account the next time I need to order a new red bra.

I've listened to all the advice about not using obvious passwords and pin numbers that could be guessed relatively easily, kids' names, birthdays etc. So, how proud was I when I came up with some pretty obscure combinations and got an online pat on the head as the phrase 'password strength - strong' appeared on the screen.

The only problem was.....the reason they were so strong was because they were completely impossible to remember and every time I was faced with the 'enter your password' box, could I think what it was? Nope, not a hope. Consequently, the 'forgotten password?' function and I have become extremely well acquainted. Each time I press the button, I almost expect the words 'what....you again?' to appear.

So my wonderfully obscure, but impossible to remember, passwords are now recorded in a book that is locked away securely in a place known only to me. The security whizzes would have a blue fit, I'm sure.

I had to laugh the other day to discover that it's not just me, and it's definitely not an age thing, when son number one, the 16 year old, sent me a text from the cashpoint to ask if I knew his pin number as he'd forgotten it.

Men are from Mars......

Making stereotypical pronouncements about the shortcomings of men is normally something I'd avoid but this email that's doing the rounds did make me chuckle and reflect on some of those moments that we've probably all had.

'Wico (Women in charge of everything) is proud to announce evening classes for men, open to men only, all are welcome....
The course will cover the following:
How to fill ice cube trays - step by step guide with slide presentation
Toilet rolls - do they grow on the holders? Round table discussion
Differences between laundry basket and floor - practising with hamper (pictures and graphics)
Dishes and cutlery - do they levitate/fly to the dishwasher/sink by themselves? Debate with a panel of experts
Remote control - losing the remote - help line and support groups
Learning how to find things - starting with looking in the right place instead of turning the house upside down while screaming - open forum
Empty milk cartons - do they belong in the fridge or the bin? Group discussion and role play
Real men ask for directions when lost - real life testimonial from the one man who did
Is it genetically impossible to sit quietly as she parallel parks - driving simulation
How to be the ideal shopping companion - relaxation exercises, meditation and breathing techniques,
Calling when you're going to be late and remembering important dates - bring your calendar to class
Getting over it, learning to live with being wrong all the time - individual counsellors available'

Now, I don't hold with the assumption that women are in any way superior to men, I like the fact that we're just different, but some of that email certainly did ring true.

I've watched in disbelief as my 16-year-old son has dropped his dirty washing on the floor in front of the laundry basket and clearly both he and the 10-year-old fear losing their fingers if they dare to open the dishwasher so they just leave the dirty crockery on top of it.

And what is it about men and their attitude to women and parking? I don't know why, maybe I had an extremely good driving instructor, but for some reason I am cracking at parallel parking. I was parking in a tricky spot and had a male friend in the car who turned to me and announced in a disbelieving tone 'wow, you can actually park'. I'm just amazed he didn't pat me on the head while he was at it, although he'd have been in danger of losing a part of his anatomy he'd probably rather like to hang on to if he had. It's like me popping round while he's cutting the grass and saying 'goodness, aren't you good at mowing'.

The refusal to stop and ask for directions is another one although it's probably dying out thanks to sat navs. My father was a past master, his greatest moment came on the New Jersey turnpike when he turned in a panic to me and my mum and shouted 'which way do I go?' How the heck were we supposed to know, we'd never been there before either.

 I'm doing my best to bring my two boys up to be open minded, fair men who wouldn't dream of being sexist but every now and again, I've wondered about the nature over nurture issue. Can we really influence our boys or are they all born with just that little bit of chauvinism, some more than others?

My boys have witnessed me in full fury mode when I've been patronised and understand all about feminism and equality, so I was stunned into horrified silence when the little one yelled at me one day 'that's your job, you're a woman' when I'd told him to pick up his dirty plate and put it in the dishwasher. He's clearly still a work in progress.

The day they stop stepping over the things I've put at the bottom of the stairs for them to take up to their rooms is the day I know I've cracked it.

It definitely could have been worse.....

The Beckhams have announced the name of their new baby daughter and, as with every Beckham arrival, there's been much comment about the choice.

Well, they were never going to call her Jane were they although I did wonder if there might have been a Chanel in there somewhere. Actually I think the child got off relatively lightly with Harper although Seven is something else, just makes me think of the film of the same name that gave me the heebie jeebies for weeks.

Harper Seven Beckham doesn't exactly trip off the tongue and does sound rather like a stop somewhere near Walthamstow on the London Underground but, hey, each to their own.

I like to think VB and Goldenboots have come over all literary and have named their new arrival after Harper Lee, author of the classic To Kill a Mockingbird, although I suspect not. According to the American press, the Beckhams have said that Harper is 'an old English name'. Er, no it's not, well maybe as a surname perhaps. I wonder if it crossed their minds though that if anyone tries to shorten their daughter's name, as is bound to happen, the poor child is going to go through life as Harpy.....

At the other extreme Claudia Winkleman has shown that not all celebs lean towards eclectic names by naming her new baby son, Arthur.

But even the Beckhams can't come close to my current all-time favourite, Laurel-Ann Hardie......

Searching for my sale gene.....

I'm rather worried that I'm not a proper girl, that I'm missing some essential chromosome, the one that makes all women just love a sale.

I can't abide the things. I took the 16-year-old off to the shops on Friday to buy shoes for his prom and everywhere there were sales. It's incredible how a perfectly pleasant looking store can be transformed into the equivalent of a jumble sale just by sticking a huge, red sale sign in the window.

It's strange but goods that previously looked perfectly fine when they were displayed nicely on shelves suddenly leave me cold when they are stacked higgledy piggledy on sale racks or jammed together in bargain bins. Something inside me, ever contrary, seems to say 'well if you don't want them then I don't either.'

I really don't have a clue why I'm so sale averse, after all everyone loves to bag a bargain and I'm no different, but I just can't be bothered with all the rummaging and nonsense that goes with it. I like my shopping to be a relaxed experience that gives me a nice, satisfied glow as I come back with my purchases.

Now I tend to avoid the sales like the plague and wait until everything is back to normal. I'm sure I'm missing out on some fantastic bargains and perhaps I should take lessons from my sister who is a bargain hunter extraordinaire. She's always been like it, from an early age, she's been able to root out the sale of the century.

Last year I noticed that every day on holiday she was appearing in a different bikini - turned out she'd got them all for two for £5 and her collection of 26 bikinis only came to fractionally more than my one full priced swimsuit. She'll turn up in a fantastic outfit and when complimented will say 'oh this, cost me a tenner', I honestly don't know how she does it.

There was the occasion when I almost got myself a stonking bargain. I found a shoe that I loved and it was some ridiculously cheap price, I soon found out why when the other foot was nowhere to be seen. I searched the entire store convinced it had to be there somewhere but, no, it was just one shoe. Now how on earth is one shoe a bargain to anyone?

In an attempt to locate my clearly underdeveloped sale gene, I'm going to give online sales a whirl this year. I'm not holding out much hope but it's a start......

Life's a beach....

The glossy magazines are jammed full of features right now about how easy it is to be a beach goddess - all golden limbs, swingy hair naturally highlighted by the sun and luminous skin.

I would hazard a guess that most women take one look and harumph quietly to themselves knowing that the reality is somewhat different. I've just returned from a lovely girlie week in the South of France, most of which was spent lying on a sunbed under a very big parasol at the beach plugged into my iPod looking out over an azur sea. Heaven.

St Aygulf

Cap Dramont

I took the opportunity to do my own little straw poll of this year's beach fashions and, as the days passed, realised that it is possible to tell someone's nationality from their swimwear. The Italians were all drama and bling, a woman who had long passed 50 desported herself alongside me in an emerald green sequin bikini and her friend was in gold lame, brave indeed.

The French were the epitome of chic, usually in black complete with Louis Vuitton bags, although I have to admit to a sense of satisfaction that even the slimmest of French women can get it wrong, and that a thong is not a good look on anyone over the age of 18 months after which buttocks no longer resemble dewy peaches more chicken skin.

The Dutch were all sensible crocs and hefty tankinis, my favourite was the chap who clearly loved his homeland so much that he'd stepped out in orange crocs, orange t-shirt and orange patterned shorts, a head to foot tango experience.

And then there were us Brits. I always think of the teacher who'd write 'could try harder' on my school reports when I'm trying to put myself together for the beach. In my mind I'm going to look just like one of those glossy magazine features, after all I've found a flattering swimsuit and wrap, had the St Tropez tan, painted my toe nails, slicked on the lip balm.....

I really should have learned by now that it's a waste of time and money....within minutes of stepping foot on the beach there's sand in every orifice, my hair looks as if I've stuck my fingers in an electric socket and my nose is bright pink. Still, a girl can but dream.....one day I'll crack that beach goddess look.

My French hideaway.

Food not so glorious food.....

My granny would have been horrified but I was actually rather proud - my friend's husband had looked at me and his wife and expressed his scarcely disguised horror at the thought of us doing the weekly food shop.....

He reluctantly agreed and then proceeded to write us a very detailed list, one of those idiot proof ones, I'm surprised he didn't go the whole hog and draw us pictures, he was clearly so concerned about what we'd come home with.

It struck me then just how far we women have come since our grandmothers' day when a man can look at two women in their 40s and worry about what his family will eat if he lets them loose with a trolley in Waitrose.

Actually I felt a bit guilty, we women have rather hoodwinked men. Both my friend and I are perfectly capable of buying food but the plain truth is neither of us is particularly keen and within minutes of being in a supermarket we'll have veered off to the magazines or smellies because they're far more interesting than groceries. Naturally, that's exactly what happened, well, who can blame us when there's Neal's Yard blue bottles calling....

When I took a career break last year I decided I would become a supermarket shopper extraordinaire. I gave it a good bash but, boy, buying food is so blooming boring and the trolley got so heavy. So halfway round I came up with a cunning ruse and just said they'd sold out of the rest of the stuff on the list.

So, huge respect to all those women who week in, week out tackle the supermarket especially if you get all the way round. My kids have got used to being fed from the first three aisles!

Weather to fly - part two

Technical problems - now that's a phrase no nervous flyer wants to hear and even more so when they're about to entrust their being to a flying yellow sewing machine.

Flying to and from the Channel Islands is always an adventure in itself and, once again, this weekend's travel didn't let me down. Outbound on Friday from Bristol my flight was delayed and when we were finally aboard, the pilot explained why - the plane had got stuck in a pothole at Guernsey Airport and had had to be yanked out......I decided I didn't even want to think about that too much....potholes?!

Checking in to fly back the flight was showing a delay and we boarded almost an hour late to be told perkily by the pilot that it was due to a 'technical problem' with the plane but everything was hunkydory now and it was back in service.

Now that's where they go wrong - either tell us exactly what the problem is or don't tell us at all because those of us with wild imaginations are now off and running and are already in places we'd really rather not be......It may well be that a light bulb had just gone pop in the loo but I'm imagining propellors hanging on by a thread ready to drop off the minute we headed skyward.

Fortunately said propellors kept turning and remained attached to the plane but my suspicions that something was not quite right were compounded when we flew back at just 8,000 ft, far lower than normal, virtually skimming the sea.

Now I understand why the late Pope John Paul II liked to kiss the tarmac when he got off a plane, it clearly had nothing to do with arriving on new ground, he'd just flown to the Channel Islands in the past.....