swearingmother

Call Me Non-Swearing Grandmother Now!

2011-12-16T16:49:00.002Z

If anyone remembers me, just wanted to share the fact that I am now a Granny! Can't begin to tell you what that feels like, the responsibility of not swearing, learning to make jam, growing the colour out of my hair and smelling of lavender - it's not an easy adjustment I can tell you. My only concession to grannyhood is that I do seem to have developed a sore knee, but that could be because of my stubborn refusal to stop wearing what my husband calls "bad woman" shoes, so it's probably my own fault and I ought to know better at my age.

Actually, apart from the fact that I'm in a permanent "aaaah, isn't he gorgeous" state of mind, physically there's no discernable difference - I guess I was expecting to look and feel different, but apart from all my old maternal feelings coming flooding back with a vengence, being totally besotted by this tiny scrap of humanity and the granny hormones kicking in like you wouldn't believe, Swearing Mother is pretty much the same as always. Just trying not to swear so much, but bloody hell it's hard.

Anyway, just thought I'd drop by, out of the blue as it were, to say a Very Merry Christmas to anyone and everyone who happens to still be in touch with this blog. Can't promise that I'll start it up again, but then again who knows?

Have a good Christmas!

Here We Go Again......

2010-02-14T03:23:00.004Z

Well hello, long time no post. No particular reason for the deafening silence from moi, I just ran out of steam, lost my writing mojo down the back of the sofa or somewhere, not really sure why the creative juices ran dry, but dry they did indeed run. If dry juices can run, obviously.

The thing is, apart from the general madness of this world we all share, nothing much happened to relight my fire and force me to tongue-lash the guilty, which is uncharacteristically benign of me as I can usually find a foul mouthful for anyone who gets up my nose. Not literally of course, but you know what I mean. I can usually launch a well aimed gobbet of vitriol upon any figure of authority that I deem to have let us down or done us wrong and my blog had become a series of rants, and when I stopped ranting I found I didn't have very much else to say.

I was very nearly tempted out of hiding by the ridiculous story of those police officers getting a serious bollocking for sliding down snowy hillsides on their police issue equipment - my working title for that little gem would have been "'Ello, 'Ello, 'Ello - What's All This Then?" or maybe "What a Riot (Shield)!", or even "All Downhill From Here!" but frankly, in the event, I just let it pass and hoped they'd get away with it.

I wanted to have another go about our greedy politicians, still squealing like stuck pigs because the lid of the expenses trough seems to have been slammed down on their thieving snouts. And then I thought, "what's the point, the rules will change, they'll get their trotters rapped and find another more devious way to rip us off", so I didn't bother, too weary to care.

So I went away to think about what I've done, and what I'll do in the future if there is one for this blog. I remembered a time when it used to be quite funny, and not just me having a poke at parts of "the establishment" that annoyed me. I looked back on my old posts and made myself laugh, (sorry if that sounds a bit arrogant, comedian laughing at his own jokes kind of stuff), and realised that I had become CRABBY, so I decided to stop until my sense of humour returned.

Funny things just seemed to stop happening to me. Quite a few miserable things did and I didn't want to do a Gordon and cry in public, I'm not out to catch votes (was that harsh?), but now I feel it's about time the miserable tide started to turn.....

So this is what I want you to do. Tell me some good heart warming stuff, silly stuff, can-you-believe-what-happened-to-me kind of stuff. Nothing nasty, heavy, sad or doomy.

Let there be light! Get Swearing Mother swearing again!

Or, better still, laughing.

WIFE IN THE NORTH IS BACK!

2010-02-02T22:45:00.000Z

So get over there and say hi!

Lying Down On The Job?

2009-09-10T16:14:00.013+01:00

Oh dearie, dearie me. And tut, tut, tut. Some doctors and nurses from the Accident and Emergency Department at a Swindon hospital are in serious trouble, it seems. The Hospital Management are on their case, big-time. They are facing a Disciplinary Hearing, no less. They've been very bad. Very bad indeed. In fact, it's a scandal.

So what on earth are they guilty of? What have they done? Did they turn up for work drunk, were they so hungover that they fell asleep whilst suturing someone's scalp wound, did they sneak out for a sly fag and set fire to the Plaster Room. Or worse?

Well, I'll tell you. They played a game and had some fun.

Let me explain.

For those of you not in the know or as in-touch as moi, let me fill you in on the latest craze to sweep the nation. Apparently, and you'll know this if you're as down with the kids as I am (joke), or if you read The Times today, there's a thing called The Lying Down Game which consists of lying flat, face down, hands at your side, palms pointed inwards, toes to the floor, in the most humorous, unusual and public place you can manage. You strike your pose and then get yourself photographed and post it on the internet. It's described as "parkour (free-running*) for those who can't be arsed." It all sounds a bit random but I have to say that this new sport really appeals to me. I may well take it up.

To people with a sense of humour like mine, it's bloody funny seeing pictures of people balanced on top of post-boxes, shelves, mountains, horses, fences and shop counters and as far as I can see, no innocent human being has been injured by this activity as yet. It seems a harmless pastime, as opposed to, for instance, the ridculously named "happy" slapping, or child pornography, or dog-fighting, but I guess it won't be long before some bloody idiot proves me spectacularly wrong by impaling themselves trying to balance on a spike, having not been warned that it's sharp. Ah well. That's what you get for ignoring Health and Safety regulations. If you ignore Infection Control regs presumably you can expect your wound to go septic too.

So, picture the scene. On a quiet night shift in A and E, several young doctors and nurses came up with the idea that it would be a bit of a laugh to play the Lying Down Game and take photographs of each other in unusual and amusing places around the Department and post them on Facebook. Unfortunately for them it seems that although they must have had a lot of fun posing for these photos, lying face down on resuscitation trolleys (unoccupied ones, presumably, or that would have been naughty), ward floors and even the hospital heli-pad, some snitch informed Der Management which has taken a dim view of these japes, sighting "infection control" and "health and safety" issues as the reason for the disciplinary action, despite the fact that no patients were involved and patient care was not compromised at all. They are taking this very seriously and heads may roll, apparently.

Bloody hell. Good job they weren't in charge of us back in the 60's when I worked at a large teaching hospital, or the lot of us would have been sent to Alcatraz. Our nightly parties would often culminate in someone's pants waving from the flagpole, or one of the doctors getting plastered, literally, from heel to groin and then left in a wheelchair to sober up in Out Patients. I seem to remember a young SHO getting his genitals painted bright blue with medical dye the night before his wedding (if you're reading this now, Professor, it wasn't me), and tied with his stethoscope to a radiator (that wasn't me either, honestly), a Health and Safety nightmare without a doubt. A cantankerous senior surgeon found a stuffed moose's head on his examination couch, covered by a sheet but left there by some minion he'd been particularly vile to (OK, that was me), an obvious Infection Control issue if ever there was one. Looking back now, I don't know how we got away with any of it, but no one got hurt and the job got always got done, and with good humour.

Ah, happy days.

So, although I wouldn't like to think that this sort of thing goes on with regularity, and with the proviso that the patients would never suffer from it, I expect a little light-hearted fun on the night shift in the A and E Department made a welcome change from being yelled at, spat at, punched, vomited on, bitten and stabbed, and I feel sorry that those medics have got themselves into such trouble for it. It's a shame they can't just have a stiff bollocking from Matron as we used to if she ever caught us out, rather than have this on their employment record for ever.

Anyway, must dash, am taking hubby and the digital camera down to Waitrose so that we can play The Lying Down Game and he can take a pic of me flat out in the fruit and veg aisle, amongst the pak-choi I think. Or maybe the Chanterelle mushrooms?

Watch out for me on Facebook?

*If you don't know what Parkour or free-running is, this must have been the most boring post you've ever read. Would you mind looking it up on Wikipedia? Thanks so much.

NHS In Free For All?

2009-08-14T18:13:00.008+01:00

Poor old NHS, a creaking giant born of good intentions, the saviour of many, the tormentor of some. Say what you will, a service where everyone payed in to provide health care for all seemed to be a good idea at the time. Or was it? According to critics both here and in America, the National Health Service of Great Britain is a disgrace. They say we are subjected to governmental control and tyranny in order to access basic health care for which, they say, we wait and wait for no good reason. And what's more we have awful teeth. Nice. How kind of them to mention it.

I've worked in the NHS all my adult life, and quite frankly despite all the negative press I'm proud of what can be achieved, although I'm the first to agree it isn't all good news. That much is obvious. Since 1969 I've seen many changes, many different incentives and initiatives relentlessly pursued only to be abdandoned and tried again years later with the same disappointing results. I've witnessed the rise and rise of superbugs, the lowering of cleaning standards, the out-sourcing of basic services which are often substandard, the ridiculous obsession with producing statistics rather than genuine improvements in patient care. Whole hospital departments exist merely to collect raw and sometimes inaccurate data, mould it into the required good news format to be used in the never ending game of ping-pong politics in which the NHS has become the continually battered ball. Point scoring results can be manipulated to order, depending on who's asking the question and what they want the answer to convey. Legions of career focused hospital managers now spend their time in meetings about finances, targets and cuts whereas at one time they used to know more about patients' needs, the local population, the value of their staff. Sadly, that's all in the past.

Yes, there's plenty to be negative about if we want to look and look and look for it, but whilst we're having such a close look I'd urge anyone who's at all interested in fair play and a balanced argument to take care not to ignore the tremendous good that is also achieved.

In the years I've worked in the health service, I've seen kids who would never have previously survived into adulthood given transplant surgery which has provided them and their families with a future. There are chronically ill people in the UK who are being kept alive by combinations of drugs/therapy/care, all free at point of delivery. What would happen to them if it wasn't for the NHS? Babies smaller than bags of sugar (much smaller, actually) are now routinely cared for in amazingly expensive high-tech units until they're big enough to go home, when the nursing staff joyfully hand the parents a baby, not a bill. Every day we can freely go to our GP's surgery, or take part in some sort of health screening, or be seen by a consultant without taking a credit card with us (although change for the carpark would be handy), but these treatments come at a cost and these costs come from our contributions, and we who contribute do so on behalf of everyone. I think we can be proud of that.

I'll not try to pretend that there isn't massive room for improvement in the NHS and admit that there are very, very many cash-strapped services which are not up to a good enough standard, and yes, our demands for health services outstrip the available supply because there simply isn't enough to do everything everyone wants, so yes, we sometimes have to wait. And sadly, yes, some people have been very badly let down by the NHS for many different reasons. But please don't forget the millions and millions of people who owe their health and wellbeing to it, who have been treated successfully and well and are living proof that when the National Health Service is allowed to work, it works. It may be a long way from perfect, but at least you can rest assured that the first question a patient is asked before treatment in a British A and E Department is never going to be "who will pay?"

For me, the sight of people in the US with no health insurance queueing up before dawn in order to see a doctor, certainly vindicates our NHS warts and all.

And yes, in this country you can get those treated for free too.

New Balls Please

2009-06-21T22:22:00.007+01:00

Well, here we are in the middle of the year - the sun's been shining, Wimbledon's well under way and at last we've got a tennis player in with a chance of winning. We've had several BBQs, already eaten more than enough strawberries and drunk far, far too many jugs of Pimms to be sensible when in charge of a barbecue. At work there's a permanent aroma of fake-tan in the office and we've broken out the fans. Anyone would think we're having a summer at last.

All in the garden should be lovely.

Well, it would be but we haven't booked any holidays yet which probably accounts for the gently gnawing sense of anxiety that I'm feeling right now. It's the same every year. If you've been a reader since this blog began you'll know that I have trouble with holidays because I am a total wuss. Part of me wants to go everywhere/do everything/see the world, and another part of me (the fairly large dithery part, unfortunately) is scared shitless by taking the risk of going into the unknown, even if it's only a few hours Easyjet away. I spend ages on the internet searching for the perfect location for us (is there such a place I ask myself, does it really exist?), get to the point of actually booking it and then, and then.........nothing. I just go off the idea because I read something dodgy about pick-pockets in the area we're thinking of going to, or someone tells me a horror story about the hotel we're booking, or my husband makes a negative comment and/or fails to look, a) interested, b) keen, or c) awake. I slink off defeated, read more travel magazines and worry that we're missing out on the big adventure. Which of course we are.

Annoying isn't it?

What's to be done with me? Last year we threw caution to the wind, went into the travel agent and willingly, although unknowingly, chucked away enough money to pay an MP's food-bill on the holiday from hell. I thought we were being spontaneous, exciting and adventurous by booking at the last minute, packing and leaving the UK all within three days, when it actually turned out that we were just gullible idiots reeled in to fill a travel agent's quota and ended up somewhere which was totally the opposite of what we really wanted.

I asked you all for help in finding a good holiday venue, somewhere not too touristy with nice restaurants, lovely coastline, friendly people, you gave me your suggestions and what did I do? I ignored them all and took a flyer, thinking I was being really brave. Mistake. Big mistake.

This time I'll listen.

Britain's Got Talons

2009-06-05T00:24:00.005+01:00

Well, it's been a gripping week. Our government's in melt-down, we've got so cross with some of our less than honourable politicians that several of them have been forced out of office, the Prime Minister could possibly be dusting off his suitcases and ordering the removal van for some time next week, I guess, and the vultures are circling over the Houses of Parliament, barely waiting for the juiciest carcasses to draw their last gasp expenses cheque before tearing them to shreds and speculating upon the new pecking order.

Crikey.

Who'd have thought that "the court of public opinion" would have produced so many hanging judges? Is this what happens when we, the public, dig our claws in? Has our anger really made this happen? It seems that everywhere you go - the hairdressers, supermarket, restaurant or pub, the talk is about one thing and one thing only - the expenses scandal. I don't think I've seen people so stirred up about anything as much as this, ever. And it shows no signs of abating any time soon.

I am quite stunned by it all, to be honest.

So what on earth's going to happen next? What do YOU want to happen next? For the first time in ages, I feel as if we have a say in what happens next, so what shall we ask for?

A Few Good Men

2009-05-22T08:33:00.011+01:00

"It is necessary only for the good man to do nothing for evil to triumph" - Edmund Burke, 1729 - 97.

Whatever did we talk about before the expenses scandal of MPs' moats and duck-ponds, bath-plugs and plasma TV's? Each day brings fresh revelations which shock and infuriate us, closely followed by whingeing, whining excuses from those we trusted to lead us and not to rob us blind.

"I was only working within the rules, I've done nothing wrong" has so far been the number one get-out line trotted out by thick-skinned on-the-take MPs outed by the Press, a phrase which raises my blood pressure a notch every time I hear it. How can they not realise the ridiculousness of such an excuse when they themselves have written the rules, have been responsible for the oh-so-generous interpretation of them and have apparently happily worked within those "guidelines" until public outrage has shone the spotlight of shame upon them?

And now we have MPs coming forward who apparently always thought that their expense account procedures were a bit dodgy, but who nevertheless continued to use these procedures whilst ever so quietly raising their doubts about them. Their protests apparently fell on deaf ears (probably such a high-pitched squeaking that only dogs could hear it) but instead of shouting louder and louder until they made their point and forced reform, they waited it out for someone else to blow the whistle hard enough for it to be heard, in this case a national newspaper. Now these same MPs are trying to use the fact that their back-dated protests were rejected as a defence for continuing to work within a rotten system, as if retrospectively we will accept that they never really wanted to be part of the classroom naughty gang after all, and let them off detention.

But they were part of it simply because of their tacit acceptance of the status quo, however reluctantly, and as such are almost as responsible for this unholy mess as those who dived snout-first into the trough with that infuriating sense of entitlement which has enraged so many of us over the past few weeks.

All of this has got me thinking about my own character. Would I be strong enough to keep my integrity when all around were losing theirs? Would you? In reality, who knows until tested how any of us would react. I suppose we all like to think that there are some things "up with which we will not put", but where do we draw the line? Would you or I continue to be part of a system which we know is intrinsically wrong because we fear for our personal future, or would our consciences get the better of us and force us to stand up and be counted? Would we have the determination to try very hard to change things, refusing to take no for an answer and making ourselves extremely unpopular in the process? Could you be a whistle-blower and face the consequences?

Being the trouble-maker that I am, I think I have my answer, but then again I don't have powerful colleagues with ducks desperate for a little island to sit on, manor house moats that need cleaning or several mortgage interest paid houses to "flip", all on the taxpayer, so that makes my choice a whole lot easier.

A Quiet Sort Of A Do....

2009-05-04T15:38:00.006+01:00

You know you've had a really good 60th birthday party if, when clearing up the morning after, the three most random items left by guests departing at daft o'clock the night before, are:

a) A Pyrex bowl.
b) A single jewelled flip-flop.
c) A Screw-Fix catalogue.

I'm not really sure which of those things I find the most puzzling.

Maybe someone felt they had to bring their own Pyrex bowl just in case our party food turned out to be a bit more stomach-churning than usual, or they intended to get raucously drunk and weren't sure if they should partake of vast amounts of alcohol whilst on medication. That sort of fits in with the age group.

Re the single flip-flop - I tried to remember if we'd entertained a female unidexter*, or someone with their leg in plaster, or if any of our friends had arrived and left in an unusual hopping style, but I can't recall anyone who fits the bill.

Maybe the thing that mystifies me the most is the Screw-Fix catalogue. WTF was that all about?

Creative answers only please:

NB: Travelling and Knifepainter - try and keep it clean dear boys.

* http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFoagC5yGY0

Sixty's Chic?

2009-04-29T17:47:00.011+01:00

Hey, guess what? I am officially an O.A.P. as from last Sunday.

Weird, I know. And to be honest, it's a little bit scary. I'm wondering just what happened to the time, to the long-legged mini-skirted girl, striding out into life in white PVC boots and Mary Quant mini-skirt, dancing the night away to the Sweet Soul Music at Le Metro,The Rum Runner and Opposite Lock; smoking, drinking, laughing, loving my days and nights away. Well, she met her match, married him, made a Habitat home and settled down. Became a mother, (definitely not a swearing one), wiped bottoms and noses, pushed prams, liquidised carrots, washed nappies and floors. Bathed sore knees, kissed them better, made cakes and excuses for lost homework. Did the school run, forgot to wash gym kits, searched for nits, dealt with worms, had a perm. Learned to worry, worry, worry. Put on weight, wore big earrings and shoulder pads. Watched Dallas, bought some lip-gloss, thought JR was a bastard but kind of fancied him. Became a nag, a working Mum, an always knackered cleaning bore, a mother of arsey teenagers, a picker-up of rancid socks, a drug tsar, a lecturer on STD's and unwanted pregnancies, one half of the bank of Mum and Dad, a taxi-driver, a tennis partner, made Henry Kissinger and his peace-keeping force look like a bunch of amateurs. Wiped away tears, tried to allay fears. Took worry to higher level, became an ever vigilant witch, a total wreck, couldn't sleep until that key went in the door at 4 a.m. Became a Uni Mum of brainy son and mother of the bride, glowed with pride. Watched them pack, wanted them back, broke my heart. Learned to start again with a different life.

Nearly forgot to remember that once, long ago, there were only the two of us, and two of us once more there would be. Had trouble with the sadness the empty nest brought with it. Had trouble with the tidy house, the quiet house, the empty house. Thought that black hole would definitely get me.

Decided to get a grip. Started a blog. Made some more friends. Had a laugh. Learned to swear in print (fucking liberating, I can tell you). Bought a sports car, had a new hairdo, rediscovered who's the Daddy round here, decided I still really liked him, started to have a bloody good time. Learned to be a bit selfish, self-indulgent and flash, discovered high maintenance hair-do's, facials and the gym. And then, suddenly, I was sixty.

Bloody hell. Now how am I going to deal with that, my dear friends?

Quick, Let's Buy That Man A Briefcase!

2009-04-10T12:50:00.012+01:00

Well, well, well. Whatever next? In a week that has seen published lists of items claimed for by MP's more reminiscent of the conveyor belt on Bruce Forsythe's Generation Game than reasonable work-related expenses, (stone sink, patio set, barbecue, etc) there is something that most of us would have gladly provided - and I don't mean the deep fat-fryer or cuddly toy.

For goodness' sake, why didn't anyone treat Bob Quick, Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner, to a brief-case? Or maybe a plastic document holder? Or even a big brown envelope?

Whilst it's very worrying that such a senior officer in counter-terrorism would be so daft as to carry Top Secret documents in plain sight of journalists with long-range lenses, I'm not really sure if his resignation will do anyone any good or not. He obviously felt he had to go, and I suppose the least we can say about him is that having dropped such a monumental clanger, he's bitten the bullet and done the decent thing. I guess many of the MPs who are currently working their way through piles of expenses receipts with black marker pens this Easter weekend will be thankful to Mr Quick for getting their subsidised shopping lists off the front page for a few days. Having someone else held up to ridicule must come as a bit of a relief to them, and a very welcome change no doubt.

It's hard these days to watch the news and not have the feeling that the lid is about to pop off yet another can of worms, or several cans for that matter, with more revelations that embarrass and diminish us as a nation, which I find both infuriating and rather sad.

But anyway, enough already. See what happens when I try to get more politically aware? They all start to piss me off and then I'm forced to rant. I can't do anything about any of it so no more sniping from me. I'll just go back to reading the fashion pages of the newspapers, try to ignore the political bits and turn off the TV after Eastenders. All this intrigue is wearing me out.

I will now definitely be resting my case.

Unlike Mr. Quick of course, who sadly hasn't got one.

Would You Adam And Eve It?

2009-03-31T19:03:00.011+01:00

Sorry to go on about this dodgy expenses claim thingy, but go on I must as long as this unsavoury episode continues. Now our Home Secretary’s husband has been dragged out of the house to explain himself to the media and apologise for what he’s done - viewing films which he subsequently (and stupidly) charged to the wife’s expenses, two of which were of the, ahem, "adult entertainment" kind.

She appeared to be absolutely furious but no more furious than we, the poor suckers who paid for them, have every right to be. What concerns me is that she seems to be far more cross with him for his taste in films and for embarrassing her rather than being truly regretful that the taxpayer was asked to foot the bill for something of such a personal nature.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t care if he was viewing adult films, among others. Good luck to him, if that’s his bag then let him get on with it. What he does in the privacy of his own home is entirely up to him. The bit I find more shocking is that he claimed for any of the films at all, regardless of their subject matter. To me the fact that they were paid for on expenses is the truly offensive thing here, not the content of a couple of them.

So what's the next episode in the sorry saga of the Home Secretary, Her Expenses and the Husband Who Will Be Sleeping On The Sofa? Are we soon to be treated to more insights of how the other half live, at our expense?

If recent events are anything to go by, my guess is that having funded the films for a cosy night in front of the TV, Joe Public will be getting the bill for the Chinese takeaway any time now.

With tip, no doubt.

My Other Home's on Expenses

2009-03-23T19:37:00.019Z

For those of you living without any form of media stimulus because you can't afford newspapers any more, or if your television has been repossessed along with your home, recent news regarding the clever personal accounting of some of our MPs must have come as a bit of a nasty shock. We have learned that it’s apparently a widely accepted practice amongst our elected representatives to claim expenses for whichever of their several residences yields the most dosh, and it doesn't seem to matter whether it's the constituency home of the MP, or where Mum and Dad live, or a sister's house in London as long as there's money to be made from it. By performing this devious switcheroo, some MPs are taking huge amounts of cash from the public purse to which they are not morally entitled. It appears that the lax guidelines (I won't call them "rules" as there obviously aren't any) allow claims regardless of the true validity or necessity of that claim as long as the criteria is loosely met. We are told by the newspapers that it's actually possible to charge for alternative accomodation in London when an MP's actual home is itself only eight miles away, something which must really piss off thousands of rail commuters who strap-hang every day on sweaty overcrowded trains for many more miles than that and pay a large chunk of their salary for the privilege of doing it.

For us ordinary people who have to pay our own bills (no John Lewis list for us, unfortunately) and are trying to survive the current financial balls-up (or "down-turn" as it is quaintly known) imposed upon us by a sleep-walking government and a criminally greedy financial sector, news that some of our very own public officials are apparently shafting us via their expenses claim forms is, putting it mildly, a bit sick-making. For the thousands of people facing eviction from their homes having been lured into borrowing more money than they could ever hope to pay back should the financial climate change, as it has, learning that some of our own political masters are allegedly raking it in by means of some very nifty financial footwork is somewhat galling, to say the least. If only they could have managed our economy as efficiently as they've managed to line their own pockets, we wouldn't be in the monetary mire that we currently find ourselves splashing around in. It really pisses me off to think of our student children racking up massive debts in order to get an education which many of these public servants got for free, yet with tuition fees set to rise again those self same government officials are still receiving way more than their rightful share of public funding. It just doesn’t seem fair. How can they take this unearned money when it is so badly needed in very many more deserving areas? Hospitals, schools, pensions? Impoverished public services? Many people in this country can't even afford to see a dentist, let alone run a second home to make going to work a bit easier. It makes my blood boil. But even more seriously, my heart breaks for every young service man or woman sent to war on our behalf, ill-equipped and vulnerable and put at risk because of cost. Put into this context these expenses' fiddles become, quite frankly, obscene.

So far, outed MP’s say they’ve done nothing wrong when what I think they actually mean is that they haven't broken any laws or fallen foul of any party policy. However, there is a difference between being regulated by law or adhering to an expected code of decent behaviour, a distinction which is obviously not understood by some. As dear old Eric Morcambe used to say "they can't touch you for it", so this type of monetary manipulation has become common practice and is therefore deemed by some creative thinkers to be OK, simply because until now it has been allowed. A blind eye has been turned, thus giving credence to the scam. Worryingly, many more MPs than we know of are probably getting away with this sort of thing on a continuous basis and are legitimately, if immorally, helping themselves to public money - grabbing seats on the UK gravy train even as it runs out of steam, dipping their bread into the fat of the land which is oozing out of Great Britain plc as we, the tax-paying public, face the most serious financial roasting of our time.

Now the excrement has hit the rotating blades and the newspapers have got hold of the story, is anyone going to stop this dodge? Can these people be shamed? And, if not, within a self-regulating system who is going to stop them? We are told there’s going to be a full review, but I for one won’t hold my breath to see if this legalized pocket-picking is going to end any time soon.

One thing's for certain. I'd really like to ask any of the guilty parties to stop pretending that this abuse of position is all right when it definitely is not OK. I'd like to say "C'mon chaps, do the decent thing." I'd like to feel that elected Members of Parliament know the difference between right and wrong and that the trust put in them by their electorate wasn't misplaced.

And I'd like them to stop taking the piss.

That's it. Rant over.

No Business Like Snow Business

2009-02-11T21:57:00.005Z

Liking the weather are we? Enjoying the deep and crisp and even?

I have to admit, I'm a dithering wreck in this weather. Despite the fact that I have walking boots which can take me up vertical frozen rock faces (not that I've ever asked them to, but still), my legs turn to petrified tree-trunks the minute I put one foot in front of the other on even a lightly snow-kissed pavement. A pig on stilts is more graceful. I'm not alone in my fear of going arse over tit - all my female colleagues feel the same, whatever their age and/or fitness level. We are, to a woman, scared to death of slipping in the snow.

Walking from the car to the office (a good twenty yards at least), bundled up like people trying to avoid the excess baggage charge on Ryanair by wearing every item of clothing they possess, we clutch each other's arms and scream like banshees if there's even the tiniest possibility that our feet will go from under us. Even indoors we are trussed up as if this is the coldest place on earth, despite the fact that we work in a building kept at tropical temperatures day and night. We take it in turns to be on "Snow Watch" and by 3.00 p.m. each day, should a few flakes of snow begin to fall, we down tools saying that we've got to get home before the weather closes in, and abandon the office. We have a developed siege mentality, filling our freezers with bread just in case we can't get out tomorrow, despite the fact that most of us live within slithering distance of Sainsbury's. Being "snowed in" has become the excuse du jour for being very, very late and going home very, very early.

With all this extra time at home, I've taken to making soups, venison sausage casseroles, even baked apples with proper home-made rice pudding - comfort food usually unheard of at my house during the working week. To increase the snuggle factor we've added another quilt to our bed and I've bought some sheepskin slippers. I am well prepared for more snow and, to be honest, I've secretly started to enjoy myself.

As long as I don't have to go out in it of course.

Hope everything is OK where you are.

Ding-Dongs Merrily On High

2009-01-03T17:58:00.024Z

Hi, long time no write. Here's one I wrote earlier and didn't post, for whatever weird reason I can't remember now.

Good Christmas? Happy New Year?

In Casa Swearing Mother Christmas and New Year went predictably, which is both a good and a bad thing. On the positive side, we were all together, had enough (more than enough, in fact) to eat; a warm, clean and cosy home in which to enjoy the holidays and on the whole, we did. On the negative side, it's always difficult to keep the peace between people who rarely spend more than a couple of days together and, although devoted to each other as much as humanly possible, have the capacity to get up each other's noses without very much effort at all, season of goodwill or not.

In our family, we are argumentative. We are very rarely bored or boring. Everyone has something to say and fights to say it, usually in a good humoured way but sometimes it can get a bit out of hand. We can argue about anything and everything, from leaving the bathroom light on to the state of third world economics, and back again via "who the fuck moved my keys?" I'm not sure quite why it happens or how the niggling starts but I think it's something to do with kids returning to the fold and regressing back to patterns of childhood despite the fact they are now grown up, and we as parents forgetting to back off and let them be the capable adults that they actually are. That's theory number one anyway. And then there's the other problem; we olds think we know best because we always used to, way back when our kids took any notice of us, but now our grown-up children are filled with knowledge far greater than ours about a variety of subjects I don't necessarily give a toss about, which can and does breed a certain amount of intolerance at times. Yes, I am concerned about global warming but not enough to worry about it when I'm trying to cook Christmas dinner and chopping carrots in the dark because someone switched the frigging lights off in an effort to save the planet.

I admit to being very small town in my attitudes. When my son says he's got something serious to discuss with us, my heart leaps into my mouth and I think "oh shit, what's up with him?", when actually he's worried about the Palestinian Israeli crisis. Phew. I feel guilty at my relief - so that's all, I think, thank goodness for that. I realise my margins are set way too narrow and that I must appear infuriating and insular, but first and foremost I am relieved that he is OK. I really do care about those who suffer but my sphere of influence is small and my own family is at the epi-centre of it. The rest of the world has to get in line behind them for my total devotion and compassion, and I make no apologies for it. Yes I do care about the starving millions, global warming, the homeless, the victims of violence, the fight for democracy and so on. And so on. But there are those about whom I care more, heated discussions or no.

So, although it would be an exaggeration to claim that the home front was a bit of a war zone this Christmas, let's just say there were times I wished someone with a harmonica would start playing "Silent Night" and instigate a kick-about conversation in the comparitive safety of the neutral no-man's-land of small talk. Or that predictable conversational landmines could be skirted around instead of being deliberately triggered with both feet (husband) just for the sport of it, or some hapless idiot (me) would refrain from unintentionally lighting the blue touchpaper. And, in fairness, maybe it would help if the junior snipers didn't have such touchy trigger fingers when it comes to other people's opinions.

After reading a few articles in various papers and magazines about family rows at Christmas, it makes me wonder why sometimes families find it so much of a challenge to be together over the festive season, more than any other time of year. It's especially sad when so much effort has been put in to make it perfect, but maybe that is the problem - do we invest so much time, money and effort into a few short and precious days together that if it doesn't work out exactly as we'd like, trouble ensues? I wish I knew.

Generally speaking though, we had a happy Christmas and New Year and now we've gone our separate ways once more until the next time we all get together and wind each other up again. It was good to have a houseful and, looking on the bright side, mercifully we didn't actually throttle each other.

But it was close.

Happy New Year everyone and peace be with you (especially you, Gaza).

It seems such a long time ago now, but if you can still remember Christmas and New Year, how was yours?

.

Mistletoe and Whine

2008-12-14T20:27:00.009Z

Well hello, nice to see you, to see you........ I really must stop watching Brucie on that Strictly Come Dancing thingy, I think it may be getting to me. Anyway, how are you? Ready for Christmas?

Of course, the correct answer to this if you are any friend of mine, is absolutely, definitely "NO WAY". Please don't tell me you've already wrapped all your presents, iced your cake, cleaned out your freezer and filled it with home-made goodies. I just couldn't stand it. And if you are one of these hideously organised people who have made their own cards from sticky backed plastic and glitter way back in November, please speak to the hand 'cos the face ain't listening.

No, I prefer the haphazard chaos theory of Christmas preparations - ignore it for as long as possible, throw up my hands in horror that it is in fact NEXT WEEK, tear around like a maniac buying all manner of unsuitable gifts, open the Harveys Bristol cream and fling decorations on the tree whilst steadily getting festively merry.

Catering-wise I've decided to take the easy road this year with ready-stuffed turkey, pre-prepared veg, M and S gravy and Mamma Mia DVD for afters. Hopefully having produced this gourmet feast I'll be wearing a new pair of those furry slippers that look like Ugg boots, my feet up on the sofa, a tin of Quality Street on my lap, waiting for one of my doting family to bring me a cup of tea after they've washed up and tidied the kitchen.

In my fantasy world all presents will have been received with enthusiasm, Christmas dinner will have passed without anyone having an argument, I will remain sober until tea-time and no one will notice we've lost half the Scrabble tiles since last year. It will all have been absolutely perfect, worth all the effort and everyone will be happy.

In reality I have only two words to say to that. One is "fat" and the other is "chance".

But really, what is a "perfect" Christmas? For me, it's having my family around me, my kids under my roof once more, sitting at a table with everyone I love around it.

So this coming week when we're all struggling with bags of shopping in the pouring rain (unless you've pre-booked your Sainsbury's delivery slot, in which case you can stay at home and be smug), or standing in a queue at M and S listening to everyone around us moaning about the amount of stuff other people are buying ("it's only two days after all, I don't know what all the fuss is about"), let's hold on to what's really important to us this year. Whatever you wish for yourselves, I hope you get it. Within reason, of course.

Happy Christmas everyone, try not to throttle each other, and enjoy.

Black Dog Blues

2008-11-19T23:10:00.003Z

Some days it's hard to be a woman. Or a man. Or a goddam dog, come to think of it. I'm having a blue period at the moment, frankly an extended jag of feeling down in the dumps, a black mood tinged with a bit of grey laced with a few great gobbets of purple. I am fed up. Don't know why, that's just the way life is.

Counting my blessings works, but only up to a point.

I need something fantastic to bring back the spring in my step. Something to restore the old sense of humour, to bring back my faith in humanity, to give me a bit of a warm glow. Preferably not related to alcohol and chocolate, if at all possible.

So what've you got for me?

Over A Barrel At The Bank

2008-10-08T19:09:00.011+01:00

We got our mortgage statement recently. We thought they'd made a mistake. It showed we only owed a relatively smallish amount of money, in comparison to the relatively huge-ish amount we used to owe. How time flies when you've got a mill-stone around your neck. We looked at each other and said "Blimey, shall we pay it off and be done with it? We could save ourselves a fortune in interest". This would however involve raiding the piggy bank, big-time, living on curried dust and wearing our children's cast-offs but we'd both read in the financial papers that the best way to survive the current hideous financial turmoil is to pay off as much debt as possible, spend as little as possible and avoid paying anyone any interest if at all possible. It seemed like maybe this was a Good Plan.

"Hello, we'd like to talk about paying off our mortgage" we told the advisor at the bank. We waited for a fanfare, fireworks or a twenty-one gun salute. We'd even have settled for a round of applause. I thought they'd be thrilled to get some money back in their coffers in view of the current financial climate, but no, nothing. In fact, if anything, she looked very unimpressed. "In one go, completely, totally finished" I added, just in case she hadn't understood. She sighed.

"Yes, you could do that" she said, "but it'll cost you about £400 in penalty fees for ending your mortgage early and £50 for us to send you your deeds." Fifty pounds to send us a few papers?? I wondered where on earth they were getting their stamps.

"Oh, that seems a bit mean doesn't it" I attempted a bit of light-hearted humour, "the bank charging us to give them their money back to them? What about if we just let the mortgage run on, and continue to overpay, how much interest would we be charged until the end of the term?"

There was frantic jabbing at the calculator. "About £400 give or take a few pounds. And of course £50 to send back your deeds."

Of course.

"So, let's get this straight. If we give you back several thousand pounds of the bank's money, they'll charge us £400 for doing it. If we don't give it back all in one go, and continue monthly payments, you'll charge us £400 in interest for doing that."

"Yes," she said "that's correct."

Undaunted, we tried a different approach.

"Could we change to a different mortgage then, with a lower interest rate?"

She nodded. "You could, but there is an arrangement fee for changing to a different mortgage product."

We were ahead of her here. "And how much is that fee?"

Yes, you guessed, it was £400.

So in summary, if you pay the bank back, it costs you money. If you keep the loan going, it costs you money. If you try and overpay to finish it off a little bit early, it costs you money. And if you try to save yourself a bit of interest by switching to a lower rate "mortgage product", it'll still cost you money. And don't forget, when they've finally wrung out all of the money you think they're going to get from you, the first edition Penny Black stamp they buy from Sotheby's to post your deeds to you will cost you the rip-off sum of £50.

Banks, eh? Just institutions whose mission in life is to find as many different positions as possible from which to screw you, whilst at the same time pleading poverty because they've all paid themselves too much in bonuses for pissing your money down the drain.

No wonder we're all over a barrel.

Credit Where It's Due

2008-09-29T19:51:00.009+01:00

I feel I must start by thanking you most sincerely if you are still with me after the endless moaning rant I've been indulging in about the holiday. Sorry. It's been a marathon drone even by my standards. I like to think that getting it out in the open has helped me deal with the sheer bloody annoyance of wasting a huge amount of dosh and annual leave on an experience I wouldn't have wanted if they'd paid me to go. But still. Enough already. We did have some nice times too, but what's the fun in telling you about those? So I've decided that from now on I can let the whole sorry episode wash over me, learn from it and move on.

Or so I thought until the post came this morning.

Got the credit card bill today. There it was in black and white (soon to be red I fear), the whole sorry catalogue of disaster documented in pounds and euros from start to finish. The Travel Agent's rip-off con trick. The hire car which somehow magically appears to have cost many, many more Euros than we were quoted. That first night meal which had me puking for England, literally, (didn't tell you about that, too much detail). Even the eighteen quid bottle of bog cleaner masquerading as white wine, it was all there as evidence of a bad time had by all.

And there was the bill for the umbrella, purchased in a "raindrops keep falling on my head" moment in an attempt to make things more bearable with a bit of retail therapy, that was there too. Sheltering underneath it in the pouring rain, dodging heaps of Day-glo dog-poo, we dashed through the city streets looking for shelter and warmth.

"Let's start again," suggests husband, "let's try and make the most of it, even though it's not really our scene" he says as we wait to cross the road.

"OK," I say, "it hasn't all been bad, we're having some nice times too I suppose. Looking on the bright side, at least I've gone a trendy new umbrella."

"Let's treat it like a bit of a watershed then" he says, laughing.

He can be such a witty bugger at times, thank goodness.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.

2008-09-28T20:30:00.014+01:00

We've never had a proper holiday flop before, so really we should have counted ourselves lucky, but instead as the days went by we tormented the life out of each other with thoughts of what we would rather have spent the money on had we not sleep-walked (or should that be slept-walked?) into this situation.

We could have gone to Paris on Eurostar, always a favourite of ours, stayed somewhere swanky and hit the shops big-time. True, someone had set fire to the Chunnel the day before, so that was a bit off-putting, but still. Or maybe we would have been better going to Barcelona for a few days, got a bit of Ramblas shopping under our (designer) belts and a little culture to boot. Right at the start I should of course have insisted on a destination from my recommended list, but no, here we were, disenchanted and disgruntled, unable to find the light at the end of the tunnel which wasn't in fact an on-coming train.

The morning after our arrival we woke up with two matching hangovers, the result of drinking far too much on way too empty stomachs. Husband had refused to be thwarted re the lack of red wine and had charmed the hotel receptionist into producing a bottle of white from the back of a cupboard somewhere. Actually, I guess it might have been from under the sink. It was disgusting, tasted of pencil sharpenings and ear-wax (I imagine) but did the job of numbing the pain until dinner time when we re-emerged, slightly pissed but re-energised, re-fettled and ready to party. We had gone on foot in search of the village and spent a good time searching for it before we realised that the dingey parade of shops reached by four flights of un-lit, slippery concrete steps, was in fact, it.

In my dreams the village would have had little waterside restaurants with candle-lit tables, smiling waiters and gorgeous food. In reality we were greeted at the local Pizzeria with a scowl, made to sit outside because the staff hadn't yet finished their supper, and only allowed back in when they'd done. It was bloody cold out there. The food took hours to arrive and when it did it was average, so we did the only sensible thing under the circumstances and kept on drinking. We left a huge tip in the hopes that if we had to eat there again during the week, this time they would like us more and maybe give us a smile, or be a little more friendly. It didn't work. This was obviously a local pizzeria for local people. Later that night I regretted both the tip and the tortellini I'd eaten there as my stomach lining and I violently attempted to part company.

Consequently, the following morning, things were dire. We went down to breakfast and again, not a soul in sight. I began to fantasise about the reason for it and finally decided that the whole hotel, which was pristine, white and hushed, reminded me of the euthenasia clinic as featured in the BBC1 TV series Holby City a while back. No one was coming in or going out, although I suppose it would have been a lot more worrying if loads of people had been coming in and no one going out. Whatever. It made me a bit suspicious of the breakfast juice, I can tell you.

And still it rained.

We went into town by taxi, bought an umbrella, hired a car and had a row. I ruined my best flat shoes and my hair went frizzy. Husband trod in dog-mess (unavoidable, the whole place was covered in it - what DO those dogs eat??) and got it on his jeans. Day one was not going well.

We looked across the grey sea towards Elba, shrouded in mist.

"Napolean died there you know, some say he was poisoned" said husband, trying to distract me from my misery with interesting facts, but failing totally.

"Not bloody surprised, probably ate at that fucking pizza parlour."

I shouldn't have said that. It was not helping, I know that now. I really needed to get a grip of myself, cheer up and tone down the smart-aleck remarks.

But all I could think about was that it was still six more days until I could go home.

If The Rain Comes

2008-09-24T19:34:00.024+01:00

The journey from airport to hotel would have been so much better undertaken in the dark. We'd arrived mid-morning, had been greeted by a cheery holiday rep who put us in a cab and waved us off, all the while trying to smile a happy smile even though she was getting thoroughly soaked to the skin. Apparently it hadn't rained in Corsica since May, and whoever or whatever controls the weather over there certainly knew how to pick the best possible moment to welcome us with a storm of monsoon proportions, with raindrops so large they could hit the ground and bounce back up your trouser legs, soaking you up to the knees of your jeans in ten seconds flat. Trying to make us Brits feel at home, no doubt. How kind.

Sitting back in the taxi my husband reached for my wet hand. I didn't look at him. Instead I continued to gaze through the steamy cab windows at the passing vista of crumbling high rise flats, industrial yards and derelict concrete buildings. I bit my lip to stop it quivering and wished I'd packed an umbrella and cyanide pill.

We arrived at the hotel which was surprisingly pretty considering it's urban surroundings, and my spirits began to lift. I gave myself a bit of a mental telling off for being so defeatist and silly. Maybe it was going to be OK after all. At reception we asked about getting some lunch, we'd been up since 4 a.m. and had avoided the in-flight cold bacon ciabbatta on the grounds that it looked like a bit of a health hazard, and now we were starving.

The bad news that this particular hotel had no food service at all apart from breakfast came as a bit of a shock to us, ditto the revelation that everything in the village would now be shut, it being Sunday lunchtime, and wouldn't be opening again until that evening. Perhaps. The only place we would be able to eat at this time of day was back in town, from where we had just come, and as we weren't due to pick up a hire car until the following morning, we were, quite frankly, buggered. And no, sorry, even though this is indeed a hotel in wine making country, we don't actually have a bottle of Corsican red in the so-called bar for you to take up to your room to help pass away the time until dinner.

So we started our holidays tired, wet and hungry. And just a little bit grumpy.

Things could only get better, right?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

And So The Die Was Cast

2008-09-23T22:17:00.017+01:00

"OK then, Bastia it is" smiled the Travel Agent, outstretching her hand to take my husband's credit card. I couldn't quite remember agreeing to it, but I suppose we must have.

I watched in stunned silence, my mouth opening to form the words "hold on a minute, I'm not actually sure......" but husband just beamed at me and said "I've always wanted to go to Corsica, it'll be great" and punched in his PIN.

The words "I don't really think I fancy it" withered and died in my mouth. I felt the noose of commitment tightening around my neck. I was trapped into a decision I wasn't sure about. I gave my husband a panicky look, willing him to telepathically get my drift and get the transaction voided. Or maybe get me voided. I tried to say something but it was too late, my protests fell on deaf ears, largely because it was only the voice in my head which was shouting "I've changed my mind".

I am a total holiday nightmare. I can never decide where to go. And if, by some weird twist of fate I do actually make a decision, the very second the decision is made I want to get out of it. Make up some silly reasons not to go. It might rain (it did), we might not like it (we didn't), it seems an awful lot of money (it was).

The only thing I fear more than going to new places and seeing new things is not going to new places and not seeing new things. I have to really push myself to take that first fearful step and our ultimate destination has to be worth all the effort. I'm not a natural born traveller, nor an adventurer, but merely a home bird with occasional migratory tendencies, eager to fly the cage that I have constructed for myself but rarely brave enough to spread my wings.

Usually my fears prove to be groundless and once we arrive everything is fine, but this time I was really worried that we'd made a big mistake.

And when we got there, saw the lie of the land, that voice in my head was saying "I told you so."

Now How Did That Happen?

2008-09-22T18:18:00.015+01:00

So I said to the travel agent, "I have a list of places I'd like to go to, recommended by some well travelled friends of mine." I think she was impressed. Thanks to your input, it was a very long list.

Top of my list was Italy in general, Lake Garda in particular, and if she wanted me to be even more specfic, how about Malcesine? Or if not Garda, how about Maggiore? Or Verona maybe with a little excursion to an Italian lake, or vice versa, or even a short break? If not for a week, then maybe just three or four days or so? Or anything at all?

There was nothing available, sorry. I said I was really surprised, that we'd expected there to be loads of last minute holidays given the current financial climate and everyone worried about the price of chicken breasts and bread, and sacrificing their holidays in order to pay the milk bill or keep grandma off the streets. She said that because the weather had been so foul and the news so dire, lots of folk were just desperate to get away from it all and had booked a holiday anyway, and that because several small airlines had so recently gone tits up (OK, she didn't say tits up, but that's what she meant), people were booking through travel agents for last minute deals so that they were protected financially. Or something like that. The long and short of it was that last minute deals were hard to find, and non-existent in some cases. Anyway, there was bugger all in the Italian lakes.

So OK, no problem, back to the list. What about Alghero in Sardinia? I'd heard from a reliable source that it is fab. My friend Mimi says there are good views, fab food and very, very laid back people. I really like good views, fab food and especially very, very laid back people, and they usually like us, so can we go there then?

No flights available for our week unfortunately.

Mmm, what about Cyprus then, my mate Norman thinks it's simply the best. I trust his judgement so what about it?

Same thing, couldn't fit a week in around our dates.

And so it went on, through my shopping list of desirable destinations until we'd been through them all and not been able to find an available week anywhere to fit in with our holiday fortnight. No to Alghero, forgot to ask about Santorini, couldn't do Malcesine, Maggiore, sorry about Verona, forget Sicily. And Sorrento? Sorrento at such short notice? Pah, you must be kidding. Maybe Cyprus if you fly in the next half hour, but not sure about next week being available and definitely not to any of your mate's other suggestions, that's for sure.

And suddenly, she said "Ever thought about Corsica?"

I can't say I ever have, to be honest.

So I said no, I hadn't.

And the next thing I knew, we were going.

Oh Bastia.

Am I Being Too Fussy?

2008-09-06T18:54:00.006+01:00

I'm almost too embarrassed to tell you but I'm still in rainy Blighty, despite all of your fantastic travel tips for which I am eternally grateful. They all sound so great, but unfortunately I think we've left our run a wee bit too late. The travel agent surprised us by saying that there aren't that many late-deals around to the places we want to go to but can offer us hundreds of holidays which we don't really fancy. In fact, some of the deals on offer made me want to hide in the airing cupboard until next April. Top of his list was an "adult-only" holiday in a concrete village in Spain, all inclusive, as much as you can eat and drink with all night entertainment and escorted trips. Great if you like that's your sort of thing, but my personal idea of hell.

Next up was a Mediterraean cruise, ditto the above details but this time waking up in a different location every day with forty-five minutes or so ashore to "do" the area local to the port, then back on board and off to the next one. Sounded absolutely knackering, and thankfully I was able to use my claustrophobia as an excuse to say no thanks to an inside cabin deep in the bowels of the ship.

We could have gone to Egypt if only I'd had the jabs previously and the time to get them done before we set off. Not that I wanted to go to Egypt particularly anyway (no offence, Egypt), as my taste buds were working overtime for Italian food and culture at the time.

So here we are, still at home, with two weeks' holiday and as yet nowhere to go. And it's still pissing down.

I feel so stupid.

Remind me to book earlier next year.

Tell Me Where To Go

2008-08-27T22:03:00.007+01:00

Lord Snooty and I are trying to book a holiday. We have two weeks off in September and as yet we haven't arranged anything. The problem is that himself travels a lot and I don't. He's been there, done that and has several hundred tee-shirts to prove it. Me, I have a wardrobe of foxy summer clothes, as yet unworn, and a burning urge to pose in them. I need a little warm sun on my skin, a poolside glass of something potent and fruity with several floating umbrellas and a decent amount of fizz in my hand. I need sun, sea and, erm, anything else that's going, if you get my drift. I just don't know where to go to get it.

Husband is happy to take a holiday wherever I would like to go, within the bounds of possibility, but the trouble is I just can't decide. That seems like a very spoilt thing to admit to, but I don't mean it in the way it sounds. I just can't choose. I am having one of my famous dithers.

I quite fancy Italy, but which bit? Positano sounds extremely cool but hideously expensive and now that I equate everything in terms of kitchen equipment (just a mini-break in that area costs twice as much as a new dishwasher, freezer and cooker-hood combined) it is definitely making me think twice about spending that sort of cash for a few days away. It feels almost immoral. The Italian lakes look fab, and more realistically priced, but which one to choose? I also like the look of those Trullo thingies (you know, those little pointy round stone huts), but is that going a bit too far on the "authentic Italy" scale? Presumably they have electricity, or where would I plug in my hair straighteners? These are all very important questions, the answers to which I simply do not know. I need some unbiased help.

So this is where you guys come in, please pay attention:

We don't like:

Anything to do with caravans, camping or mosquitoes, long haul flights, injections for hideous diseases (OK, that's just me, husband's already jabbed up) or in fact the actual hideous diseases themselves. We are happy to give destinations known to induce diarrhoea and vomiting a miss too.

Also not keen on:

Inner city litter. Scary dudes who grab your bag and make off with your passport, money and (worse still) my makeup. The bastards.

Can do without:

Screaming kids who cannon-ball into the pool and splash you and bat you with their sodding beachballs.

Really dislike:

"Real English Pubs" when they are not, in fact, in England.

We really, really like:

Sun, great scenery, good food and wine, nice restaurants and bars, a touch of arty-farty culture, a little bit of light shopping and comfortable but not too over the top accomodation, although I've never been one to turn down an upgrade or a little bit of unashamed luxury if it's on offer.

We could go back again to where we always go, which ticks all the above boxes, but it seems a shame to do the same thing time and time again when there are so many other places to go and things to see, but perhaps it's the safest bet.

Unless, of course, you've got any other suggestions?

Ignorance Is Bliss

2008-08-18T20:38:00.029+01:00

Back in the office, the breaking news that my veins apparently resemble "Cheesy Strings" has caused a mild amount of hilarity given that I am the one who everyone agrees "eats healthy" in that I don't have lasagne and chips for lunch in the hospital canteen but take my own box of rabbit food instead. They are incredulous that I should have a problem with what I eat since mostly I am on a low calorie diet with plenty of fruit and veg and my lunchbox usually resembles the salad bar at Sainsbury's, minus the mayo. It's not unusual for one of my workmates to peer into the Tupperware and comment "Hmm, that looks healthy" before happily tucking into a cheese and pickle baguette and bag of crisps, leaving me to wade through the grass clippings which are my lunch.

It's not easy being in an office full of women who celebrate anything and everything with cake, biscuits or chocolate. There is no excuse too trivial to prevent a break-out of buns. You come back from holiday, you bring in chewy foreign sweets in lurid colours. It's your birthday so you buy cream cakes. You go into town to buy a pair of tights and bring back a huge slab of chocolate on special offer from Woolies, or a bag of Thorntons. You drink diet Coke so that you can, with a clear conscience, have a Mars bar just because it's Friday. That kind of thing.

It's all a cholesterolaemic's nightmare. Temptation is everywhere I turn. No other person in the office knows what their cholesterol is or has any intention of finding out. Taking a survey of what healthy eating issues actually worry my colleagues, the main areas of concern appear to be whether or not any particular food induces a) heartburn, b) flatulence or c) halitosis. The fat content of anything does not appear to be a question regularly asked, although the calorie content does in fact remain a very important one. To a woman, we all know exactly how many calories there are in a small Kit-Kat (107) or a bag of Maltesers (183) and some of us even know how many there are in just the one (10). But who can stop at a single Malteser? No one I know.

But cholesterol? Who knows? Who cares? As long as it doesn't make you fat, why worry? Refusing a piece of chocolate cake today, and having to admit to my new low fat regime, I explained that I had been told by the GP not to eat cake or chocolate any more "except at Christmas or on birthdays."

"But whose birthday did he mean?" my workmate asked, pushing the plate torwards me, "Just yours or everybody's?"

I am doomed.

The Fat Of The Land

2008-08-12T22:17:00.005+01:00

Went for the results of my cholesterol check today. Oh, bloody hell. The figure quoted sounded like a Richter measurement of a massive earthquake, or the number given to a very severe gale force wind on the Beaufort Scale. It's so bad I can hardly say it.

OK, it was 8.

Apparently my veins are full of lard and from now on I need to live on porridge. Dry porridge at that. Or for a special treat I'm allowed a bowl of curried dust. Marvellous.

I'm totally puzzled by this revelation and I am struggling to understand how so much of my "good" cholesterol turned so, so bad on me. What on earth did I do to offend it? And when did things get to this pretty pass? How can I possibly have a cholesterol of 8? Looking at the wall chart given to me by my GP (foods which are either good, not too bad or a ticking bomb, only to be eaten by those with suicidal tendencies) I still can't see where I've been going so wrong. True, I have been known to snaffle the odd chip now and then, or a bit of Brie, but generally speaking I am a careful eater. I even put my specs on to read food labels whilst I'm shopping, checking the fat content of everything in a particularly nerdy way. Yes, I know I waxed lyrical about Waitrose's Gourmet Sausage but I hardly ever actually eat one in reality. So how the hell I've managed to exchange my blood for a river of cooking oil, I really don't know.

I don't want to end up on cholesterol lowering drugs, so come on everyone, tell me how to reduce this terrible number to something more respectable. Three or four would be nice, but I'd settle for a five if that's all you can manage.

But don't say "give up chocolate". That would be silly.

A Wet Weekend At Waitrose

2008-08-02T14:01:00.009+01:00

Hasn't the weather been gorgeous? Been in the garden? Had a barbecue? It's been fabulous, hasn't it? Or not, if you happen to be in charge of the ordering department for Waitrose stores. For you, last weekend was a washout. You must have been the one person in Britain who opened the curtains last Saturday morning and thought, "Oh shit, it's sunny."

Determined to make the most of the summer now it's actually arrived, midway through last week we decided to invite a few friends round for a bit of a get together in the garden, as you do. With British weather being a touch on the taciturn side, I thought it would be a good idea to plan a weather-proof menu - a barbecue if it turned out nice again, a couple of lasagnes and a vat of chicken curry available should the weather decide to rain on our parade, and a massive strawberry Pavlova (or Eton Mess if it all went horribly wrong) for pud. Simple. I knew that whatever wasn't used could be frozen and eaten at some later date, apart from the Eton Mess of course which we would have to eat until we made ourselves sick. But either way there'd be no problem. I'm adaptable, me. And a little bit greedy.

So last Saturday morning off I went to Waitrose. At the risk of being labelled rich/old/posh (I am definitely none of those things, especially not the middle one), I have to say that I've always loved the store, their food and the staff so I make no apology for using the W word so gratuitously. I know it would be much cheaper to go to Aldi or Asda but frankly I just can't be arsed fighting my way round those megastores - and besides, they don't do Waitrose Gourmet Sausage which, frankly, are worth every penny. So there am I with my list, my recycled jute tote, my Bag for Life carriers, expectantly pushing my trolley round when, whoah, what's all this then? Or, more accurately, what isn't all this then? Hardly any Gourmet Sausage? No burgers (and these aren't just any old burgers, these are lamb and redcurrant or pork and apple burgers) and no strawberries? No fresh rolls or crusty bread? But why? What's gone wrong? Am I in so early I've got here before the delivery truck?

Apparently not. They have none. Bugger all. All gone. Maybe try tomorrow. Or Monday. I go to another Waitrose store (there's loyality for you) and when I speak to the manager, the story is the same. He says he is sorry, madam, but they've been caught out by the weather. At this moment I want to ask him if he's related to Michael Fish, but resist the temptation. By the look on his face I don't think he'll find it at all funny. He says that they didn't realise it was going to be so nice this weekend and had been told it was going to be wet, so they didn't order enough. It being summer and all.

My ghast had never been so flabbered. A store like Waitrose falling to order enough strawberries because someone told them it was going to be wet? How silly. Surely I can't be the only person who eats strawberries when it's raining, or cold, or even just a little bit nippy? I'd eat them with my raincoat on and thigh-length waders if necessary. Any why so low on sausages? Don't try and tell me that they're seasonal too. Surely sausages transcend season, you can eat them any time of year, any time of day or night. You don't need a weather forecast to tell you how many sausages to order, do you? Apparently, you do.

Ironically, despite the distinct lack of seasonal foods, Waitrose could have supplied me with everything I needed had I wanted to cook a Christmas dinner, a stew or roast pork. But nothing for my summer party. Drat.

So I did the only sensible thing, I left my half full trolley, took my list, my jute tote, my bags for life and my debit card and buggered off in a huff to summery Sainsbury's where they had loads of English Organic strawberries, and plenty of everything else too. Obviously they must have a better weather forecasting system or a more accurate piece of seaweed*. Or perhaps someone on their staff has bunions which play up when it's going to rain, and as she was tripping the light-fantastic throughout the previous week, totally pain-free, they knew we were going to have great weather at the weekend and ordered a shed-load of barbecue food. Or maybe they are simply more worried about keeping their customers happy than they are about having a couple of punnets of strawberries left over at the end of the day, should the heavens open. Who can say?

On the up side, on Tuesday, having forgiven Waitrose enough to pop in for some low fat yoghourt (back on the diet again), I was able to fill my freezer with all the unsold and reduced priced roasting pork, braising steak and as many Gourmet Sausages as I wanted.....

.... which goes to prove that every cloud has a silver-lining, or even that it's an ill wind which blows nobody some good, or any number of other weather-related proverbs.

Braised beef and carrots, anyone?

* For those of you too young to understand this obscure seaweed reference, in the olden days pre weather satellite, we used to be able to tell what the weather was going to be like by looking at a piece of seaweed which you'd hang up outside the back door. If it was shrivelled, it was going to be dry. If it was not, we were in for a rainy spell.

Or alternatively we'd just stick our heads out of the door, and if we got wet we knew it was raining.

Let The Good Times Roll

2008-07-27T00:09:00.010+01:00

Lord Snooty and I have been having quite a bit of fun lately, especially since the summer has decided to actually grace us with it's presence. We've been doing a bit of tearing about in the little grey sports car, eating al fresco at lakeside watering-holes, enjoying the odd BBQ at home with friends or just pottering about in the garden, me in my lime green Crocs with an ice cold jug of Pimms on the go. I'm really enjoying it and when I can stop my other half thinking about work all the time, so is he.

We've both been working way too hard of late so I've made it my business to take time out every now and then to just enjoy life and make himself do the same, which is a bit of a struggle I can tell you. I felt it was time to stop awhile and think about what I've done, which is precious little really apart from work, work, work, and plan what I want to do in the future. Hence the blog-break. Hopefully, I've come to some sort of arrangement with myself now. It sounds a little sad and maybe a bit defeatist to say that I suppose at some stage you just have to come to terms with the fact that you're probably not going to do all of the things you thought you would, may never reach your full potential or make your mark in life in the way you hoped. That this, in fact, is it. You won't be any sort of high-flyer unless something miraculous happens. You have found your niche, even if you don't think it was the one intended for you, and being reasonably good at a few things should actually be enough. Like growing mint to put in your Pimms and making a bloody great lasagne, or, as in my case, swearing.

And do you know, having come to terms with that I feel a lot better. Striving for something unattainable and knocking yourself out trying to make things happen is very draining. Living for the moment and appreciating what you have right here and now is obviously the way to go in the search for contentment. I'm slightly annoyed that it's taken me this long to understand that, but there you go.

So, unusually for us, on Saturday, we abandoned all our multiple catch-up tasks and drove out to a country pub, ate lunch outside under a shady parasol on the village green, watched cricket for a bit and went home for a sleep in the garden. Later on I watched five recorded episodes of "Desperate Housewives" back to back, ate Cadbury's chocolate, drank tea and admired my freshly painted toe-nails whilst my feet were up on the sofa. Lovely colour by the way, Chanel "Madness" (how apt), looks like blackberries.

No work, no worry, no guilt. That, for me, is one hell of a result and something of an achievement in itself.

It felt so decadent, so good and so about bloody time.

So what's your recipe for contentment then?

Lord Snooty

2008-07-23T22:27:00.004+01:00

So, we're sitting in a bar, my husband and me, chatting as you do about this and that. A companionable silence develops, we are relaxed, drinking our wine and watching the world go by. A hugely fat couple waddle past us, he wearing low slung football shorts revealing the hairiest and mightiest of butt-cracks, she giving us the benefit of a really good look at her pregnant, veiny abdomen as it balloons out between maternity jeans and cropped top, belly ring twinkling in the sunlight.

I look at my husband, the master of disparaging remarks, a warning gleam in my eye.

"Don't even say it".

"What??"

"You know what I mean. You're such a snob. Don't even think it."

He shrugs.

"I wasn't thinking anything, just going to say something along the lines that if you sit here long enough, all of life is here."

"Oh. Sorry." My mistake.

"Including pond."

I'm Off, And I May Be Some Time.....

2008-06-20T00:29:00.007+01:00

This is quite a difficult post to write. I'm thinking of jumping ship for a while. Not because I don't love you all dearly, because I do, but I really feel as a blogger I've more or less ground to a halt for the time being. It's been nearly a year since my first post, I've laughed, almost cried, ranted, raved, moaned and generally taken the piss out of more or less everyone and everything, including myself. And now I'm worried about getting boring and wondering whether it's best to go out with a bang rather than a wimper, or at least take some time out.

I love talking to you, it's always fun, but I've begun to run out of steam. Maybe it'll come back to me, I don't know. I've really tried to write entertaining stuff and all the while blogging and enjoying it, but suddenly I think it's time to give it a rest and have a break for a while.

So I think I'll take a few weeks off and hopefully bounce back with a vengeance ...... we'll see. In the meantime, take care of yourselves. I may not be writing, but I'll still be reading.

Here's looking at you kids.

Beam Me Up Scottie.

2008-06-12T19:12:00.007+01:00

I'm having a really sad day today. Working in a hospital, as I do, has it's fun side but often things happen which shake you to the core. Stuff happens which you can't talk about to anyone else, you just bottle it up inside and the sheer sadness of it, the total madness of it, tends to seep into your soul. Mostly you keep a lid on it, compartmentalising upsetting, frustrating or worrying events in order to retain your sanity and your spirit. You do your best and try not to give up. But it's hard to know when you've done enough, how to rationalise the mind-bogglingly stupid things that occur, how to put harrowing case scenarios out of your mind and then go home and watch Eastenders.

But you have to do it. I'm giving myself a bit of a talking to and reminding myself that although shit certainly does happen, and to a huge amount of people, sometimes the sun shines too. For every evil bastard that hurts a child there are ten, twenty, a hundred people who spend their working lives trying to make this sad world a better place. For every one person who isn't going to get any better, there are hundreds who will, courtesy of the sort of people I work with day in, day out. When I've had a tough day like today, this is what I tell myself.

But it's hard. Am I making a difference, or just knocking myself out for nothing? I want to change to world, but where to start? It's a tough question. People often criticise the NHS, and with some reason, but for those of us trying to do a good job despite the hurdles and pitfalls placed in the way by a supposedly well meaning but clueless bureaucracy, some days it can all seem a bit too much effort.

Today I just want to give up and sell lipstick, or hang up clothes in Marks and Spencers. Today I want to do something frivolous and fun, breathe fresh air that doesn't smell of dust and filthy lifts.

Who can make the NHS work as it should?

Not just me, that's for sure.

Would You Adam and Eve It?

2008-06-08T17:19:00.011+01:00

What a lovely weekend it's been. We've spent most of it a) in the garden digging, or b) in the garden, drinking or c) in the garden rather pissed and silly, pruning things which shouldn't be pruned in such a random fashion with the kitchen scissors. I've come in before it's too late and my beloved garden takes on the look of a bad haircut from a visually impaired barber with a red wine hangover.

Anyway, yesterday, to enhance the loveliness of our courtyard garden (sounds so much posher than "the patio" doesn't it?) we decided to ponce it up a bit with some solar lights. I went on the internet and had a good look around, finding just the very thing at John Lewis, but unfortunately at a price which made the husband snort with derision. Apparently he would expect a fitted solar panel on the roof of the house which powered all our lighting, heating and hot water for that sort of money, so back to the researching I went. Although not wishing to spend an arm and a leg we didn't want anything that was too tacky, naff or unacceptably hideous, but finally much to my surprise I found just the very things at Wilkinson's. They were actually metal and glass as opposed to plastic and plastic, looked a bit John Lewis-esque but were at a gob-smackingly amazing price - five pounds each! Needless to say I wasted no time at all, got out of my gardening gear, slapped on some lippy and whizzed down to Wilkinson's to get a trolley load.

Back home and triumphant (did I tell you they were only FIVE POUNDS?) it was just a matter of screwing all the bits together, charging the little suckers up in the sunlight and hey presto - nearly all of them worked, with just one refusing to charge or glow at night (the party pooper). Despite the fact that there were only a fiver each (have I mentioned that before?) I got back in the car and took the faulty one back and changed it. Back home once again I found that although the replacement lantern was fine the little hooky thing it was supposed to hang from didn't screw together properly. Flange bracket a) just didn't want to fix into flange bracket b) or c). Oh bugger.

So back into town I went, this time a bit hot and bothered as I had by then been to the goddam shop three times and still not got a full set of working lights. Yes I know they were only a fiver, but still they should all work shouldn't they? And by then I'd spent more than that on parking and petrol. Grrr.

At the till the cashier was a bit puzzled to see me again so soon and even more so when I tried to show her the problem.

"You see these three pieces of metal tube? Well, that one should fit into that one, and this one should fit into them both, but they don't. The problem is that there are three female ends and no males."

She stared at me a bit, slightly taken aback.

"Three female ends and no males. I don't understand what you're talking about."

I tried again. Someone standing behind me had a little giggle.

"Well, somewhere along the line, there's got to be one end that goes in, the male, and another that receives it, the female, and I've got three ends that receive and nothing to go in. Three female ends and no male."

I hear several sniggers from the growing line of shoppers in the queue.

"Still not quite with you there love" - the cashier shook her head and gazed and me, mystified. I think she is definitely having me on, but I can't be quite sure as she remains dead-pan.

"It's simple," says I, undeterred, demonstrating with my left hand fore-finger and thumb, making a circle and using my right index finger to poke through it to demonstrate the problem visually. "It goes through like this, only with more screwing." I am too intent on my mission to fully realise the visual impact of my action at this point, or the fact that my mime might in some circles be considered obscene, but I am aware that I am causing a bit of a stir. I'm pretty sure I saw the cashier's mouth twitch a bit at the corners, as if trying to suppress a smirk.

The muffled tittering behind me is turning into a the sort of laughter a stand-up comedian would be pleased with. I can't understand why the cashier isn't getting my drift if everyone else is. Or is she? I begin to wonder if they are laughing at me, not her. Her lip is definitely quivering.

"Sorry, she says, smiling broadly. "I still don't understand the female receiving and the male screwing bit. I'm just not getting it"

From the near hysterical queue behind me, a highly amused middle aged woman, helpless with laughter, chimes in:

"You and me both, dear. You and me both."

Next time I'm selling tickets.

I So Hope This Is True

2008-05-31T22:50:00.005+01:00

Another snippet from the office email.

An award should go to the Virgin Airlines desk attendant in Sydney some months ago for being smart and funny, while making her point, when confronted with a passenger who probably deserved to fly as cargo.

A crowded Virgin flight was cancelled after Virgin's 767s had been withdrawn from service. A single attendant was rebooking a long line of inconvenienced travellers. Suddenly an angry passenger pushed his way to the desk. He slapped his ticket down on the counter and said, 'I HAVE to be on this flight and it HAS to be FIRST CLASS'.

The attendant replied, 'I'm sorry, sir. I'll be happy to try to help you, but I've got to help these people first, and I'm sure we'll be able to work something out.'

The passenger was unimpressed. He asked loudly, so that the passengers behind him could hear, 'DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO I AM?'

Without hesitating, the attendant smiled and grabbed her public address microphone: 'May I have your attention please, may I have your attention please,' she began - her voice heard clearly throughout the terminal.

'We have a passenger here at Desk 14 WHO DOES NOT KNOW WHO HE IS. If anyone can help him find his identity, please come to Desk 14.'

With the folks behind him in line laughing hysterically, the man glared at the Virgin attendant, gritted his teeth and said, 'F*ck You!'

Without flinching, she smiled and said, 'I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to get in line for that too.

Don'cha you just love it?

It's All In The Mind

2008-05-29T18:42:00.021+01:00

Now where were we? Oh yes, I remember. I was having a right old moan about the chaos theory which is my life. I was having a rant about how things never seem to go right, how my to-do list never gets any smaller and how I just can't manage to make headway with anything. I took comfort and advice from your comments, although admittedly I did have a snorty little laugh at the suggestion that I should get rid of the list and stop worrying about all that was on it (if only), and it was really good to hear that I am not alone in the battle to get things done in the face of constant frustration.

One thing I did manage to do was book a holiday. Bearing in mind that husband wasn't due to jet back into the UK until the night before we were going away (great planning, nothing to do with me), things went surprisingly smoothly all things considered. I'd spent the previous three evenings getting a few things done - washing, ironing, selecting a jaunty capsule wardrobe (as you know, it's very important to me that I remain stylish at all times, obviously) and generally sifting and sorting so that everything was absolutely ready for the off when we'd packed the car in the morning. Husband arrived home at 1 a.m., delayed courtesy of some dodgy landing gear (the plane's, mercifully, not his), yawning and knackered with coffee breath, a suitcase full of dirty washing and a bottle of Cointreau. He showered, fell into bed and slept like a baby (a snoring, stubbly baby if truth be told) until 8 a.m. the next morning when up he sprang, fully energised and ready for the off. How does he do that? I of course, lay awake half the night worrying about what I might have forgotten, my own lack of sleep rendering me slug-like with tiredness until lunchtime.

This difference between us got me thinking. Husband had been up for eighteen hours, travelled hundreds of miles, hung around in various airport lounges whilst the ground staff buggered about with bits of plane, but still arrived markedly more zingy than me. In contrast, I had been colour co-ordinating holiday clothes at home, eating chocolate, emptying the fridge and doing a bit of light ironing, but was absolutely drained and wondering whether a few days away was really worth all the effort.

At the risk of using a bit of psycho-babble, I think the difference between us is all down to PMA - positive mental attitude. He's got it. In bucketfuls. I think I used to have it but lost it somewhere along the way. Perhaps it's down the back of the sofa. Or maybe I just let my PMA desert me while I worried about trivia and wore myself to a frazzle dashing round doing things that don't really matter in the overall scheme of things. I think I've been so busy looking at individual pixels, I've sort of failed to see the big, wide screen picture. So the holiday, despite getting off to a shaky start, gave me a lot of time to think and proved to me that sometimes you need to get away from everyday surroundings to see things in a totally different perspective and realise what really is important to you. It's good to give yourself time to sit and stare, and just re-prioritise. Sitting on the quay-side, gazing across the river, or looking at the fresh May greenery of the woodlands - all these things somehow made a mockery of my self-induced pressures and limits. So why worry about everything on that damned to-do list? It's now gone, I am list-less and loving it.

As husband so rightly (but irritatingly) says, about virtually any subject, "it'll either be OK, or it won't". This may sound like a statement of the blindingly obvious (and one which sometimes makes me want to sneak up behind him menacingly with a cast iron frying-pan) but actually this philosophy is probaby why he doesn't waste any mental energy on trivial worries. Which is a nice trick if you can do it.

I'm giving it a go.

Hi Honeys, I'm Home!

2008-05-23T22:16:00.003+01:00

Sorry, I should really have left a note saying I was about to bugger off, but time ran away with me and I just didn't get round to it. Decided on the spur of the moment to get the hell out of Dallas (or Birmingham, strictly speaking, but Dallas sounds so much more cool)and go for a swift break for a few days to restore the old batteries, which are now well and truly fizzing. We've been down to Dartmouth for the Music Festival which, although a bit wet weather-wise, was still brilliant. There's nothing like wandering round the streets with an umbrella in one hand and a hot pasty or beer in the other to revive a weary woman's sense of fun. And then the sun came out. Fantastic.

Will be back to blog some more when I've unpacked, opened the mountain of mail and stuffed the washing machine. Hope you've all been good while I've been gone. I'll be checking later.

So, what have you been up to then?

Procrastination Is The Enemy Of Progress

2008-05-07T19:49:00.015+01:00

Or is it "the thief of time"? Or something like that.

I'm having a devil of a job making any headway with anything and everything in my life at the moment. I've got a "to-do" list as long as a roll of Andrex loo paper, and absolutely nothing, repeat nothing, is getting crossed off it.

First of all, the kitchen. Why-oh-why did you let me even think about getting it refurbed? The whole thing's turning into a complete nightmare. First of all, various men came into the house, stomped through to the kitchen scattering bits of other people's building works hither and thither, looked at my ceiling or cupboards or floor or windows etc., sucked air in through their teeth whilst shaking plaster encrusted heads as if I'd asked them to reproduce the artworks of Leonardo da Vinci by Friday. Replace a kitchen? This year?? And replaster your ceiling??? Sharp intakes of breath all round. They will see what they can do. They will try to get an estimate to me in the post by the weekend at the latest.

And do they? Of course they bloody well don't. Either they don't like the look of my kitchen, or me (fair enough I suppose). Or maybe we just don't look daft enough to pay an obscene amount of money for bugger all. Whatever.

Secondly, holidays. Now I know I'm not exactly Judith Chalmers when it comes to travel, and I have been known to get pre-holiday jitters par excellence from time to time, but I reckon the only way to conquer this syndrome is to continuously expose myself to it, if you'll pardon the expression. But can I get husband to co-operate and actually help choose somewhere to go? No, I can't. He travels all year round and would probably be just as happy sitting in the back garden for a fortnight, but I don't really go anywhere much and want to see more of the world. As I am sure Oscar Wilde would have said if I'd asked him, "I fear doing nothing with my life more than I fear actually living it". There's a big world out there and I haven't seen nearly enough of it.

And then there are the zillions of tiny little things which I should do which I don't ever seem to get round to - filling in forms, checking accounts, getting some exercise, phoning the "dink" man to remove a dent where some swine opened their 4x4 door and dented the little grey sports car (bastard), chasing up the insurance company re the hole in the roof, choosing some tiles, going to bloody work, having a life, etc.,etc. And trying to write something worth reading, that would be good. And so on. Blah, blah, blah.

You know the sort of thing. How do you sort your life out when it seems to be full of clutter and trivia, you can't make any progress and you haven't got any time to do anything? I'm tempted to ignore it all and maybe, like cleaning, it'll become invisible and after a while the crap will just cease to be important.

And what's more, I can't even blog properly at the moment. Feel too distracted. How sad is that?

I really am becoming a moaner. Sorry.

And by the way, I have absolutely no idea how these rating stars got here (please tell me you can see them too). It's a complete mystery to me. Have been trying to remove them but can't, worried in case I get thousands of "hated it" votes.

Bloody hell, another thing to sort out.

Update: They've gone! Was it something I said?

Lip Service

2008-05-06T22:56:00.003+01:00

Still busy, and uninspired at the moment, so hope you enjoy another office email. I did.

According to a news report, a certain private school in Washington recently was faced with a unique problem. A number of 12-year-old girls were beginning to use lipstick and would put it on in the girls' lavatories. That was fine, but after they put on their lipstick they would press their lips to the mirror leaving dozens of little lip prints. Every night the caretaker would remove them and the next day the girls would put them back.

Several memos were posted about this. Finally the principal decided that something had to be done. She called all the girls to the toilets and met them there with the caretaker.

She explained that all these lip prints were causing a major problem for the man who had to clean the mirrors every night. To demonstrate how difficult it had been to clean the mirrors, she asked the caretaker to show the girls how much effort was required. He took out a long-handled squeegee,dipped it in the toilet, and cleaned the mirror with it. Since then, there have been no lip prints on the mirror.

There are teachers, and then there are educators....

In The Real World......

2008-04-30T19:53:00.003+01:00

A bit busy this week, so I'm sharing this with you. Donated by kitchen weary work-mates.

1. Nigella's Way
Stuff a miniature marshmallow in the bottom of a sugar cone to prevent ice-cream drips.
The Real Woman's Way
Just bite the end off and suck the ice cream out of the bottom of the cone, for goodness' sake. You are probably lying on the couch with your feet up eating it anyway.

2. Nigella's Way
To keep potatoes from budding, place an apple in the bag with the potatoes.
The Real Woman's Way
Buy Smash and keep it in the cupboard for up to a year.

3. Nigella's Way
When a cake recipe calls for flouring the baking tin, use a bit of the dry cake mix instead and there won't be any white mess on the outside of the cake.
The Real Woman's Way
Tesco sells cakes. They even do decorated versions.

4. Nigella's Way
If you accidentally over-salt a dish while it's still cooking, drop in a potato slice.
The Real Woman's Way
If you over-salt a dish while you are cooking, that's tough!. Please recite with me the Real Woman's motto: "I made it and you will eat it and I don't care how bad it tastes."

5. Nigella's Way
Wrap celery in aluminium foil when putting in the refrigerator and it will keep for weeks.
The Real Woman's Way
It could keep forever. Who eats it?

6. Nigella's Way
Cure for headaches: Take a lime, cut it in half and rub it on your forehead. The throbbing will go away.
The Real Woman's Way
Cure for headaches: Take a lime, cut it in half and drop it in 8 ounces of vodka Drink the vodka. You might still have the headache, but you won't care!

7. Nigella's Way
If you have a problem opening jars, try using latex dishwashing gloves. They give a non-slip grip that makes opening jars easy.
The Real Woman's Way
Why do I have a man?

8. Nigella's Way
Freeze left-over wine into ice cubes for future use in casseroles
The Real Woman's Way
Left-over wine???? Helllloooo....

Your Life In A Limerick:

2008-04-21T11:32:00.002+01:00

Here’s another Meme. This time I can’t blame anyone else, it was my idea, though I should say that Amy over on Blog to the Bone is the real culprit because she started it first. The Limerick theme I mean.

Although obviously, as you can imagine, I know some really awful ones (or good ones, depending on how broad your sense of humour is) I decided to put a twist on my Meme (don’t I always?) and this time ask anyone who wants to join in to write a limerick describing themselves, or their life in general. Unless you happen to actually be that Young Man From Tashkent, (who’s genitals were very bent, dah dah dah di dah, dah dah di di dah, and instead of coming you went), in which case we will allow you a bit of poetic licence, but other than that, no filth please unless it’s very, very funny or pertinent to your story. And that means you Travelling. And Knifepainter. Oh, and Cath - don't think just because your Dad's away you can be rude.

Here’s mine:

A mother so normally caring,
Got pissed off and then began swearing,
She ranted and raved, became so depraved,
*And ended up putting it all on the internet and then was ashamed of herself and wished she hadn’t done it because eventually her children might see it and think that she’s an embarrassing foul-mouthed harridan not realizing that she did it
Quite simply to appear a bit daring.

*OK, so I cheated.

Over to you.

If Anyone Says "You're Only As Old As You Feel" There Will Be Trouble!

2008-04-18T16:27:00.039+01:00

That naughty little minx, Mean Mom, has tagged me with a Meme. Is she psychic? How did she know that I'd sunk into the slough of despond (remember that slough, it's despond can be very nasty) and was wallowing in my own self-pity, unable to blog, and needed a well aimed kick up the backside to get me going again?

The problem? Well, it's been a really crappy week at work. People keep mentioning my age. Someone only three years younger than me told everyone I was "powering down to retirement" - that really hurt, considering I'm working far harder than some of those who are supposed to be powering up. Then I set fire to a baked potato in the office microwave because I was multi-tasking and answering everybody's goddam phone whilst I was at work and they were not. Now they must think I'm a senile old bat who can't be trusted with hot food. Bollocks.

I. Have. Had. Enough. A joke's a joke, but things are getting on top of me and I'm beginninig to lose my sense of humour. I need some time out, so have taken the week off to go away and think about what I'm doing with my life, which is very little considering the length of time I've been on this planet.

In the meantime, the Meme. Can't believe there's anything you don't already know about me, but simply because I love Mean Mom and she's showered me with awards, I am going to do it anyway. But not with good grace, obviously. I am after all a crabby old bag. And don't think I'm obeying the rules (or telling you what they are) or passing the meme on or anything like that either, because at my advanced age I'll probably forget, simply not bother or be too bloody arsey to do it properly.

Sorry about that.

Now go get a blanket and prepare to nod off while I carry on dribbling down my cardigan:

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Precisely the same sodding thing that I'm doing now. Only I was younger and not "powering down for retirement". Huh.

Name 5 snacks you enjoy.

1. Charcoal baked potatoes, left in the microwave too long because I WAS RUNNING ROUND LIKE A BLUE ARSED FLY and didn't notice the smoke.
2. Stewed apple that doesn't interfere with my dentures.
3. Anything that can be liquidised and taken through a straw.
4. Gruel.
5. Crustless bread dipped in warm milk, thank you nurse.

If you were a billionaire, how would you spend the money?

Go into work on Monday and tell everyone who annoys me to sod off.

Name 5 jobs you have had.

Five jobs too many. All involved working my arse off to make someone else look like a frigging genius.

Name 3 bad habits you have.

I can occasionally go over the top with my moaning and swearing(really?).

I am sometimes a bit vitriolic about people who annoy me (the whole wax/doll/pins scenario).

I have a burning urge for senseless violence and hideously bad language when riled (no shit, Sherlock).

I am seriously angry a lot of the time (surprise, surprise).

And yes, I know I am only supposed to have three bad habits, BUT DON'T ARGUE WITH ME, five is my absolute working minimum at the moment.

Name 5 places where you have lived.

Leamington Spa - lovely, lovely, lovely. Really lovely.

Birmingham, not the posh bit. Not very lovely at all. It wasn't my idea.

Birmingham, the slightly posher bit. A bit more lovely.

Tamworth, not very posh or lovely but very friendly. With very affordable housing.

Birmingham, the very posh bit, thinks it's lovely, but is just up itself really. And still not as lovely as Leamington.

So that's it. Wish it was a bit more interesting, but there it is, my life in a nutshell.

And what the fuck does it all amount to?

I have absolutely no idea. Not enough, that's for sure.

And did I mention it's my birthday next week? Probably not.

Home On The Range

2008-04-04T23:17:00.022+01:00

It's all that Nigella Lawson's fault. I've started cooking again. Not just meatballs and frites, though as we all know they are totally delicious, but real homecooked gourmet grub. I used to be quite good at it, pre-children, but faced with endless demands for fish-dogs (hot dogs with fish-fingers instead of sausages, bloody gorgeous with tomato ketchup) and cheese and potato pie with sausages and baked beans (shaped to look like a face or a boat, obviously), I somehow went off the boil catering-wise. The Nigella Express cook book husband bought for me at Christmas (was that a hint, do you think?) has somehow kick-started my interest in actual cooking again and now the kids are grown, they're so grateful for a Mum dinner I can virtually get away with anything. Fresh tuna with black beans, spicy salmon, stir-fried just about anything. You name it, they're all now well and truly up for it, and so am I. Not that I am averse to opening a jar of Dolmio and bunging it into a pan of mince, or making a quick dash round to the chippie, somehow the luscious Nigella has caught my imagination with her easier than pie super-fast, minimum fuss dinners. She's caught my husband's imagination too, though in an entirely different way, but that's another story and absolutely nothing at all to do with the kitchen, if you get my drift.

Anyway, moving swiftly on, since my renewed enthusiasm for all things culinary (I've even started to make my own garlic oil for goodness' sake - please be impressed) it's become apparent that my knackered old kitchen could do with a refurb. Think I mentioned this before in a previous post. Husband was hoping that we'd tour a few kitchen shops, I'd get bored (this is what usually happens) because I don't see anything I like that we can afford, we'd go back home and think sod it, let's go on holiday instead. We were following this well trodden path and had almost got to the sod it stage, when suddenly (in John Lewis) I saw it. A range cooker. One grill, two ovens, one fan and one gas, five burners, a wok cradle, a griddle and a cute little rail to hang your tea-towel over, in a farmhouse kitchen kind of way. It comes in four colours. There's a chimney to go with it. With another cute little rail on that too. I've never had a chimney in my kitchen before, with or without a tea-towel rail. I think I want one. No, dammit, I need one.

So the internet marathon began. I'm now glued to the computer day and night trying to find the best possible price. If asked, I can quote all the different options, fuels, accessories and colours. I know what each model comprises, the pro's and cons of all of them, the available extras and delivery times PLUS haulage costs. In short, I could be on Mastermind with my specialist subject being "range cookers, dual fuel, gas and electric, circa 2008" and be assured of winning the trophy, no problem.

Predictably, the simple idea of tarting up the kitchen by adding a few well chosen bits and pieces here and there has turned into the threat of a full refurb, with a new cooker and fridge, tiling, lighting and units. The thing that worries me a bit is that if we do all of this, will I feel obliged to turn out culinary masterpieces day and night in order to justify the huge financial outlay? Whilst I'm having fun with food at the moment, I haven't forgotten that less than a year ago I was the one who reminded everyone that life was too short to stuff a mushroom, and now I'm contemplating equiping my kitchen with enough hardware to stuff just about anything I damn well please. That bloody yapping dog next door had better watch out.

But you know I can just see myself, making jams and baking cakes, taking huge sizzling joints of roast beef out of the oven (sorry, make that ONE of the TWO ovens, did I mention that?), producing fragrant casseroles, popping corks and sipping wine whilst cooking dinner... proper Mrs. Housewife kind of stuff. I'm even considering throwing away my old apron on which is printed the words "IF YOU THINK I'M COOKING DINNER TONIGHT, YOU CAN SOD OFF" such is my enthusiasm for this current project.

But does that image fit with what you know about me already? Or do you think I'll revert to type, get bored with domesticity, start making reservations for dinner instead of venison casseroles, only use either oven for reheating Marks and Spencer's Chicken Kiev and set fire to the tea-towel hanging over the cute little chimney rail because I've had a pre-dinner gin too many?

Difficult question.

It's Only Rock 'n Roll But I Liked It

2008-04-02T22:49:00.005+01:00

Actually, the Stones/Scorcese film "Shine a Light" isn't only rock and roll, it's pure magic. Have just come back from the local premier showing (darlings) and...well, it was absolutely fantastic. The hardest part was sitting through some of the best Rolling Stones music ever without getting up and dancing, although someone did but unfortunately it wasn't me.

Superb music, superb cinematography, just superb everything. Even better than Ikea meatballs and worth all the aggro I went through to get the tickets. Even got a free t-shirt.

As long as you've got blood in your veins, rhythm in your soul and an appreciation of something really special, this film is for you.

Start queueing for tickets NOW.

I Heart Swedish Meatballs

2008-03-29T07:09:00.019Z

So yesterday being Friday, husband was working from home. It's my day off too but I am not supposed to interrupt him, though obviously I do if at all possible. His study door stays firmly shut with a "Do Not Disturb" notice hanging from the doorknob. I view this as a challenge to get in there and cause havoc, my excuse being that as he is working away so often when I do have him at home I can't leave him alone for long. It drives him crazy.

The good news is that in the aftermath of last week's home improvements debacle, he is rapidly going off the idea of strapping on his toolbelt and getting stuck in personally. My subliminal put-off lines have been seeping into his subconscious mind throughout the week and now I think we've reached a stage where he too can't be arsed with the hassle of DIY. So, wishing to strike whilst the iron is hot, I needed him to come with me to one or two kitchen shops and view some units. With fridges. And sinks. And of course, cookers, or more specifically range ovens, with those trendy chimney thingies instead of the old-fashioned cooker hood that we currently have which threatens to put my eye out when I lean forward to stir the gravy. And I need his input re worktops - Formica, wood, marble? And of course, tiles.

Now I've discovered the only way to do anything as hideous as this is to suggest it whilst he is doing something else even more mind-bogglingly boring than looking at kitchens. Yesterday he was doing his expenses, a task so mundane that he needs multiple coffees throughout the morning in order to stay awake long enough to get the stamp on the envelope to Head Office. Coming up to lunchtime so bored is he that he's usually desperate for diversion, so if I want to distract him at all that is the best time to do it.

Coincidentally, my daughter is off work too. She has had a vile affliction called labrynthitis which brings with it dizziness, nausea and general debility. She's had this for a while but is now on the mend, thank goodness. It's ages since she's been out and about so she was getting a bit stir-crazy - there are only so many episodes of Bargain Hunt one can tolerate before madness sets in, so I asked her if she'd like to come along for the ride and look at kitchens with her Dad and me. Being so desperate to get out of the house, she said yes.

So off we go, visit a few showrooms and stare at a lot of kichens. The range is mind-boggling and very, very expensive. I'm not sure we're up for that sort of outlay, so Daughter comes up with an idea and suggests we go to Ikea where kitchens come in kits with cute names such as Ulriksdal and don't tend to cost as much as Third World Debt. And hey, it's Ikea, so what's not to love?

Now it's quite a long time since we've shopped at Ikea. Back in the days when our kids were small we kitted out bedrooms galore with Billy bookshelves and Leksvig beds, but we haven't been there for years despite the fact that a massive Ikea (is there any other kind?) is about half an hour's drive from home, so I don't really know why we've been away so long.

I LOVE IKEA. I love the fact that someone really clever can design a whole flat pack living area, including kitchen, bedroom, lounge and bathroom in the space of a double garage and it can still look incredibly trendy and welcoming. I love the way you get drawn round the winding walkways with lovely goodies either side, room settings containing stuff you don't need but which demands to be bought. Can anyone walk through and Ikea and buy nothing? Not me, for sure.

So impressed were we with the ingenious drawer dividers, the pull-out breakfast bars, the subtly lit glass shelved cupboards that we almost failed to notice Daughter looking a bit pale and wan. Her vertigo had obviously kicked in and her internal gyroscope was throwing a bit of a wobbler, making us wonder if this trip was just a step too far in her recovery process. She sat for a while on a sofa called Ektorp while I fussed around her. Shall we go home straight away? Was she hungry? How about a piece of chocolate cake to raise the blood sugar? She took one of her tablets and said that maybe a cup of tea might help. So off we went to the Ikea Cafeteria trailing a drugged-up daughter who was weaving around looking like she'd OD'd on tequilla slammers.

I've got just one thing to say to you about the Ikea Cafeteria.

Swedish meatballs with cream sauce, lingun-berry "jam" and thin fries.

Despite the fact that I was obviously concerned about my little girl's health and welfare (she is only thirty after all), I couldn't help but be distracted by the pictures of very appetising looking food at very reasonable prices displayed around the servery in the cafeteria. I checked again to see if she was hungry, but the mention of meatballs in cream sauce made her go even paler than before, and anyway she was feeling better now, courtesy of a very sweet hot chocolate. She was fine and ready to continue. And no thanks, she didn't want anything to eat, at all. No Mum, definitely not. Couldn't face it.

But I just couldn't get those meatballs out of my mind, which is very strange for me because I am usually a bit sniffy about factory produced processed meat-products, especially frozen ones, declaring this type of food "nuclear waste" and refusing to have such spawn-of-the-Devil in the house. (If you've ever seen those programmes about how such meat is "reclaimed", you'll know exactly what I mean). But husband assured me that, being Swedish, the food standard would be high, the ingredients would be wholesome and the meatballs would be great. Apart from which, he fancied them too.

So in our large blue recycled Ikea carrier bag, alongside the kitchen brochures, we had one manly looking apron, one matching oven glove, one three way plug adapter with timer, twenty-four Dime bars, 1 kg of frozen Kottbullar Swedish meatballs, two packets of Graddsas cream "gravy" mix and a jar of Lingonsylt lingunberry jam - all for less than fifteen of your English pounds.

And even better, husband says he'll cook so that he can use his new apron and oven-glove, while I browse through the kitchen brochures.

Result.

Getting A Man In

2008-03-24T09:47:00.013Z

Despite the snow, icy winds and mini-tornados I think Spring is definitely on the way. How do I know that, apart from the tiny lime green shoots of hope that are begining to unfurl in our weather-worn gardens? I know that Spring is here because, instead of a young man's fancy turning to thoughts of love, my old man's fancy is definitely turning to those of DIY. Now to those of you for whom DIY equates with getting all those niggly jobs done in the house, let me fill you in on the horror of DIY, Swearing Mother style.

First of all, we must identify our project. Cue for a couple of hours' depressing discussion from breakfast till coffee time, where we come up with a list so long we just stare glumly at each other. Husband comes up with some really outlandish ideas, I make a few snidey and sarcastic comments about the last time we took on such a project and just look at it now. We have another coffee, eat a few biscuits and calm down a bit. We start to talk constructively - OK, shall we finish the terrace/deal with the rotten kitchen window/sort out garage? The list seems endless. How to choose? It has to be a new project to capture the imagination of him indoors; bringing up the subject of finishing previously started but abandoned projects is viewed as not playing the game and any mention of them by me is, apparently, nagging. To hell with the fact that my ten year old kitchen still has a piece which was never fitted, that's old news now and therefore those little niggles have long since become invisible. Ditto some ungrouted tiles, the odd unpainted door, a helluva mess in the garage and a new fuseboard which remains stubbornly unfitted, celebrating it's fifteenth birthday under gardlands of cobwebs in the electricity box. I could go on. And, believe me, I do, at length.

So eventually we decide on a task. This usually means a protracted trip to one or more of the hideous DIY sheds along with the rest of the local walking dead who have been drawn out of their crumbling homes to view mass manufactured shit, cunningly got up to look like the really useful stuff you need rather than the total crap that it actually is. This weekend top of the list are some additional kitchen units and worktops because the ten year old (as yet unfinished) kitchen is now sadly needing a refit and a new fridge. I know this doesn't strictly come under the heading of DIY, but the thought of embarking on this kind of disruption fills me with dread, especially as husband thinks he can probably do a lot of the work himself (cue hollow laughter from moi) but I want to get a man in.

Now the phrase "getting a man in" is probably one of the most emotive things it's possible for me to say to my husband. It carries with it all sorts of inferences, i.e., an implied lack of commitment on his part, or lack of ability, lack of drive, confidence, expertise - you name it, "getting a man in" is almost tantamount to infidelity in our house. For a husband who is pretty damned good in the, er, household maintenance department given the time and opportunity, to him my wanting to get a man in is the ultimate betrayal. Like reading maps, bleeding radiators and going to the tip, this is HIS job and he doesn't want another bloke poking his screw-driver in where it isn't wanted.

So we reach an impasse. I don't want the chaos of infinished work bugging the life out of me for aeons, husband doesn't want some strange bloke getting his hands on my hanging units. Guess it's a territorial thing.

So now I'm on to the gentle wheedling campaign. I'm casually mentioning the fact that, really, it's a false economy to do such major work ourselves when we are both so busy, time is precious, we could be doing so many other more enjoyable things and letting someone else do the work. And then as the weather is getting nicer, we could be driving out to country pubs, taking a weekend trip to Barcelona, doing a bit of shopping in London. Whatever. Let's leave the big jobs to the professionals and just do the little leftover tasks ourselves. What do you think? Yes?

But the rot has set in now. I've caused a total distraction from home improvements and now we're doomed, the place will fall about our ears. We will neither get a man in, because husband doesn't trust him, nor DIY because I can't face the fuss. The little niggly jobs can go hang.

Stupidly, I've mentioned weekend trips, pubs, London, fun.

No wonder we never get anything done in our house.

Just Let It Be

2008-03-20T21:49:00.011Z

I spend quite a lot of time worrying about the effect I have on other people. Have I been mean to someone? Was I a bit sharp? Am I being unfair? That kind of thing. I have a dread of saying something a bit too near the mark (apart from swearing of course) and upsetting someone, or being unfairly critical or hurtful. I don't like that in others, so hate it in myself. But I know I occasionally do it even so.

The problem is, I am a real bitch when riled. Or even when moderately annoyed. Or mildly cheesed off, come to think about it. I regularly give myself a good talking to about that. Having the ability to answer back, to always think of the killer put-down and never be lost for words is something of a curse if you happen to have a conscience about what you say, but an inability to stop yourself saying it. I really wish I was a nicer person. I would like to be able to see something really irritating happening and not feel compelled to comment about it, to just shrug and sigh and walk away, maybe sagely nodding my head. But it just ain't happening. I always wade in, fight my corner, your corner, anybody's corner, whoever. And you know what? I'm getting a bit tired of myself. I need to change, I want to be sweetness and light, I'd like to just let stuff wash over me, my feathers remaining unruffled. A new serene me.

And what has brought about this epiphany?

Well, have you seen how ugly Heather McCartney looks in all the papers this week? The more she rants and raves, spits venom and chucks water, the more unattractive that girl is looking (which is more than can be said for Sir Paul's divorce lawyer, Fiona Shackleton, who looks so much better soaking wet than dry). Everyone is laughing at Heather and she still doesn't know why. All in all she's made a complete fool of herself, but still argues on and on and on, despite the fact that she has been well and truly rumbled. The girl just doesn't know when to shut up.

So, as I was looking at her pictures in the papers this week and wondering why, if she's got so much money, she doesn't sort her eyebrows out (and yes, that was my bitchy self speaking, I haven't quite got it under control just yet) and noticing what anger, vengeance and greed can do to a person, it occured to me that getting so emotional can't be all that good for you. Perhaps sometimes it is true that you can't always get what you want, and not getting it is maybe good for the soul or something like that.

Anyway, from now on expect a cool, calm and collected Non-Swearing Mother, who never says anything remotely bitchy or offensive (at least until the end of this week). After that let's see how long it lasts.

Happy Easter.

Stone Me!

2008-03-12T22:29:00.008Z

~The ticket saga continues: Gave up on the phone, gave up on the internet, went off and made myself some beans on toast (comfort food) and watched Cash in the bloody Attic or whatever tripe was on day-time TV. Had a bit of a sulk. Bloody phones, sodding internet, useless piece of junk that computer, anyway. And that website! Makes you enter your life history and then, just because you've not ticked a box which asks if you've got a mole on your left and/or right buttock it clears out all the previous boxes you've filled and makes you start all over again, just to teach you a lesson. Then it times you out because you've taken so long. Well sod it. I will not play any more. So there. Stamp, stamp, huff, huff, slam.

Made a cup of tea and decided to forget the whole silly episode. Stupid, stupid, stupid sodding internet and bloody, bloody, bloody automated phone services. To hell with the lot of them. What was I thinking anyway? Why was I trying so hard to get tickets for a film preview, when only a couple of weeks later we could go any time we liked and for far less money. So just what is the big deal about seeing a film on the night it's released? Probably crap anyway. And you know damn well you'll end up sitting in front of some fifteen year old texting chav eating a tomato ketchup filled donkey-burger which squirts down your neck as soon as the film starts. Bollocks to it. They can keep their stupid tickets. Pah!

So that was it then. Made up my mind to give up and do something else. Got out the ironing, hell knows it needed doing. Told myself to stop wasting time on the phone or thumping seven shades out of the computer. And stop bloody swearing, it was scaring the cat.

But then a taunting little voice in my head said "You going to give up that easy? That's not your usual style. Going soft?" and before I knew it, the bloody sodding computer was back on, I was filling the online booking form in, absolutely no problem, and KER-CHING!! Scored four tickets!!! How and why it was so easy this time, I don't know. Maybe I'd just shown the damn thing who's boss. Ha!

Which would have been absolutely fantastic if I hadn't immediately had a call from the husband to say, "good job you didn't get those film tickets, I've just heard I've got to be in Italy on that day anyway".

Oh bloody bugger and bollocks.

Anyone fancy a night out with Swearing Mother?

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2008-03-07T12:24:00.027Z

Don't know if you're a Rolling Stones fan or not, I am. So is my husband. We met at a disco (which would now be called a club) and fell in love whilst Mick Jagger strutted his stuff, wiggled his skinny hips and puckered those famous lips. At the time we did a huge amount of lip puckering of our own, quite a bit of strutting and definitely went in for hip wiggling, big-time. Sad though it is to think about it now when my hips have expanded to a size where they don't so much wiggle as wobble, back then we thought we were quite cool, actually, and looking back at the photos of us then, I think we really were. Years later we're still Stones fans, cavorting about behind closed doors to Brown Sugar or exacerbating our tinnitus by listening to Honky Tonk Woman on the car stereo way, way too loud, even though now we're supposed to be old enough to know better. But it's so great that the Stones are still around, carrying on regardless and doing their own thing as ever. I so identify with that. And, what's more, they're even older than we are.

All in all we feel that band is, somehow, ours.

So last night, the day before preview tickets for Martin Scorcese's Rolling Stones film "Shine A Light" were due to be released, I spent hours cruising the net trying to find out how to get tickets for the advanced simultaneous showing of the film at one of the selected cinemas across the UK. This is going out on April 2nd via satellite at the same time as the rich and famous will be seeing it in London, and is probably going to be the nearest we ordinary folk will ever get to going to a film premiere. I know it won't be the same fetching up at the Erdington Roxy, or wherever, but in spirit I'll be walking down the red carpet at the Leicester Square Odeon, should I be lucky enough to get some tickets. I'm already planning what I'm going to wear.

But I'm not experienced at booking this sort of thing, I just couldn't find a "how to" or "where to buy" site, however hard I looked. I've even registered with the film company website, hoping that this will give us a chance if there's a lottery type draw for tickets. Fingers crossed. But how frustrating.

Then suddenly, whilst I was writing this post, I took a quick look back at the website and, bloody hell, there was a new web address where I could get tickets, so I logged onto that only to be told that the cinemas listed in our area don't accept internet bookings for this one-off preview event. Bugger. They did however give the booking line phone numbers, so I rang and got put through to an automated phone service which bounced me round the various options until my ears bled. None of them were what I wanted, so I went round a second time, and then a third. Finally, when I got tired of shouting obscenities at recorded voices that wouldn't answer back, I decided to ring the cinemas direct, whereupon I was told that they couldn't do a credit card transaction over the phone, but I could either a) pick up some tickets in person (how quaint), or b) try again to get them from a different internet address. Great, back to square one. At least this time the voice at the end of the phone had the decency to sound shocked when I let loose a string of expletives which would have made a docker blush.

If there's one thing I can't stand it's being buggered about by automated phone services. If I'm going to be messed about with, I'd much prefer to have the satisfaction of being able to yell at a real person, not a machine. At least they have the decency to fight back.

So, once more into battle.

Press 1) if you'd like to hear a list of films you don't want to see.

Press 2) if you'd like to book tickets for a film you don't want to see.

Press 3) if you'd like to hear perfomance times of the film you don't want to see.

Press 4) if you'd like to send a band of drug-crazed machete wielding miscreants to beat our absolutely infuriating automatic phone service into a trillion smouldering pieces.

All in all, I can't get no satisfaction.

Oh no, no, no.

http://www.shinealightmovie.co.uk/

If Life Sends You Lemons, Make Lemonade

2008-02-27T06:51:00.012Z

Did the earth move for you last night? Well, it did for me, and not in a good way either. Husband away on business, me alone in a great big bed, trying to get off to sleep with everything and nothing racing through my mind, finally I doze off and then suddenly BANG the whole place is shuddering and rattling - in blogging language, WTF was that? Doesn't Mother Nature know this is Britain, we don't do the whole earthquake thing, surely? Or if we do, I thought we were only signed up for minor tremors, not a Richter Scale five point whatever if was. Bloody hell. Something to do with global warming maybe? I dunno, but I found the whole thing a bit scarey.

So then of course, further sleep was out of the question. Anyway, I needed to stay awake just in case there was another, stronger, quake on the way. And what about after-shocks (see, I know the jargon already)? Would the chimney fall in through the roof and kill me? Had anyone else noticed it, or was it just me? Aren't you supposed to stand in a doorway to protect yourself from falling masonry? Which doorway? How do you choose? How do Californians cope? Should I get dressed and put my makeup on just in case firemen have to dig me out of the rubble of my house? Do I have time to wash my hair? Many and varied questions such as these spent the rest of the night chasing each other around my over-stimulated imagination, taking turns to keep me awake until daybreak.

In the meantime, in an effort to bore myself to sleep, I tried to imagine what I'd do if a bloody great chasm had in fact opened up in the back garden. I spent a good while fretting about how terrifying it would be, and how annoyed my husband would be that I hadn't been able to prevent a massive act of nature from buggering up his precious lawn, but with a sudden paradigm shift* in my thought process, another more positive idea crossed my mind. Hold on a minute, I thought, a damn great hole in the ground could be quite useful, actually. My own personal land-fill site without having to drive to the tip. What a bonus. I could get rid of all my household rubbish down a chasm that big. For instance there's an old fridge, all of my ironing, a derelict Wendy House (sorry kids), husband's hedge trimmers, a spare lawn mower, a defunct slow-cooker, fourteen old computer keyboards (don't ask), and a very strange contraption which I understand is for putting rivets into jeans or taking stones out of horses hooves or something like that. Always the opportunist, I could view this as a great chance for a bit of a de-cluttering, if ever there was one. I might even be able to get rid of a couple of old bikes and a total waste of money sandwich toaster, used once and shoved in the back of the cupboard, never to see the light of day ever again. Fantastic.

The moral of this slightly sleep deprived and rambling story is that there's usually an upside to most things, if only you take the time to think about what that upside might be. My husband says it's my talent for lateral thinking, which he tells me can be a bit irritating at times. In fact, what he actually says is "always remember, nobody likes a smart-arse." I suppose he's right. For instance, when a Fire Officer recently asked me what I'd do if a blaze broke out in my waste-paper bin, and I replied "throw my filing in it" I thought it was a good idea, but he obviously was not at all amused. I have to re-attend the lecture and this time take it more seriously. Such is life.

Anyway, it's light now, I've checked the grounds for seismic shenanigans and so far, nothing. Looks like we'll have to put all that stuff in a skip after all. Damn.

Which brings me to the question, what would you throw down a gaping chasm in the earth's crust if you had the opportunity? And don't say Paul Daniels, that would be cruel.

*Sorry, Mother Of All This Lot, just couldn't resist.
Can I still keep my award?
(see previous post comments).

Valentine's Week Massacre

2008-02-17T10:30:00.007Z

It's Sunday morning, I'm doing a bit of blogging in my dressing gown and listening to the sounds of:

a) Birdsong?

b) Radio 4?

c) The hiss and bubble of the coffee machine?

d) The sound of a chain-saw, crackling branches and a bloke up a tree shouting "get out of the way, you fucking pillock" to his mate below as our neighbours' beautiful trees crash to the ground?

Top marks if you guessed that the answer is d).

What is it with blokes and chain-saws? Give them a piece of throbbing equipment (oo-er missus), a ladder and some lovely, mature trees that rustle and wave their whispering branches so gracefully in the summer, and what do they do?

They chop the bloody lot down, that's what. And that's not all.

Stimulated by the smell of petrol driven mayhem and the excitement of seeing next door's trees come tumbling down, thus rendering our lovely private garden open to all who (wisely) don't really want to see me sunbathing topless this summer, presuming we get one, and not to be outdone by blokes with bigger equipment than his, my husband took leave of his senses and massacred the ancient ivy which has been growing over the walled garden opposite my kitchen window for the past twenty-five years. Needless to say, I wasn't paying attention at the time or I would have sensed the potential act of vandalism which was looming and nipped it in the bud, so to speak. After all, it's an obvious equation that blokes plus power-tools, plus foliage, equals total deforestation and I should have been more aware of the potential scene of devastation that would greet me. Only Napalm could have done the job better.

I planted that ivy. I loved that ivy. That was my ivy.

Apparently, he did ask me, so he says. Or rather, he'd said "shall I give the ivy a bit of a trim?" to which I'd allegedly replied "mmmm, you could do, but nothing too radical." So he took great chunks out of it, obviously, with hedge-trimmers. And guess what? Now he can also play with his power shredder in order to get rid of the mounds of lush greenery he's hacked down. Oh goody.

As for the ivy, it looks like the victim of a very bad hair cut by a blind barber, high on crack. I am supposed to be reassured by the fact that it will grow back, eventually, but this isn't helping me at the moment. You don't quite see the logic in cutting it down in the first place, only to wait for it to grow back? Really? My thoughts entirely. But then I am only a woman, and I don't understand these things. Obviously.

In the meantime the power tools are once again stowed safely in the shed. I have the key. Fortunately for him, husband's off on a business trip to Italy, or he'd be sleeping in the shed too. Sounds a bit harsh, but frankly I am so angry he's lucky that this massacre didn't land him sleeping with the fishes instead the hedge trimmer. In the same way he's in charge of lawns and there would be outright war if I tried to muscle in on his turf, my message to him is if you mess with my ivy, you mess with me.

Capisce?

Oh No, Not Another Bloody Repeat

2008-02-16T00:24:00.004Z

Sorry, too busy to post at the moment so rather cheekily, I am recycling an old post from when you didn't know me, way back last summer, in the hopes that you are not one of the two people who read it the first time.

Shit Happens:

Well, have just come back from a quick trip into Birmingham City Centre to return most of the stuff I bought last week whilst on a shopping trip with my daughter. It's all her fault. She eggs me on. I think it's because she doesn't like the thought of me getting old, so she encourages me to buy clothes which aren't really suitable and a bit too young for me. Either that or she's planning to raid my wardrobe sometime soon.

Anyway, we nearly didn't go because I was worried about the heightened security alert we've all been under since last week's scarey terrapin* episodes in London and Scotland, but my husband (whose message is "bollocks to that, I'm going") taunted me with an offer of lunch at Selfridges Noodle Bar which I considered to be worth the risk so off we went with me still a bit nervy. He gave me a pep talk all the way into town about how we mustn't be intimidated or be frightened to live our lives because some people were trying to force their views upon us, etc., etc., and that I was more likely to be hit by something dropping out of the sky than be blown up whilst shopping, and so on (and on). Lecture over, he dropped me off at the back of Rackhams (please note, if you are from Birmingham, this does not mean that I am a prostitute) and went to park the car, so I walked through the sunny Cathedral square, picking my way carefully through the two million pigeons who have squatters' rights there.

What is it with pigeons? Why do they wait for you to politely skirt around them, then suddenly fly up into your face all feathers and flutter? I hate the bloody things. The feeling is obviously mutual because today one actually pooped on me - although judging by the huge acrid dollops that hit me this could well have been a case of formation-pooping by the pigeon tribute version of the Red Arrows. Yes, something actually did fall out of the sky and it definitely wasn't a bit of space debris.

If you've never been crapped on by a pigeon, I can honestly not recommend it - it reeks. It's hot, acidic and burns like hell. You feel so stupid with pigeon-shit highlights and a liquid brown handbag charm when only one minute earlier you thought you looked quite good, actually. No amount of Chanel Number 5 is going to hide this stench. You just know your rope-soled suede wedges are going to be a bugger to clean. It also tends to put a dampener on your enjoyment of beef in blackbean sauce at the Noodle Bar although I can guarantee you'll definitely get an empty seat beside yours where you can put your coat.

Am off to wash my hair, clothes, shoes and bag now so must dash. There must be a moral to this story somewhere though for the life of me at the moment can't think of what it is.

*not using the proper word in case I set off a bloody great hooter at the Anti-Terrapin HQ or something.

Six Of The Best

2008-02-05T22:52:00.000Z

Was listening to the Today programme on BBC Radio 4 this morning whilst frantically trying to get ready for work, so I didn't quite hear all of it, only snatches in between frenzied showering and hair drying activity. Late, late, late as usual. There was a feature about Ernest Hemingway, how he'd been challenged by some guy in a bar or somewhere to write a short story in six words. He came up with:

"For sale: Baby shoes, never worn."

He won the bet.

Despite the fact that I was hopping round the bedroom trying to get my other boot on whilst simultaneously scrabbling in my bag for my car keys, those six words spoke to me with far more impact than maybe thousands more could have done. The poignancy of them stopped me in my tracks. Who would have thought that so few words could give the lead to however many stories the reader is capable of imagining? By the time I actually got to the office I'd got the bare bones of a story in my mind and was just coming to the reason why those baby shoes had never, in fact, been worn. And believe me, it was sad.

So this story had become the idea behind another challenge (this time from the editor of Smith, the American on-line magazine) when writers were invited to create a memoir in the same way, in just six words. There were a few featured on the programme which I found amusing, depressing, clever or just terribly sad. The best were selected to appear in Smith's book "Not Quite What I Was Planning - Six Word Memoirs From Writers Famous and Obscure."

So, having arrived late at the office because I'd been spellbound by a radio feature, at coffee time I told my colleagues about it and before long, we had:

"Divorced Mum, Only Loved One Man."

"Taught Dancing, Got Married, Grew Up."

"Took Wrong Turn. Can't Go Back"

Revealing, huh?

Now I'm not suggesting we all want to bare our souls here, unless anyone really wants to, but it did occur to me that this was something which might appeal to some of us, to write six words which best describes our lives up until this point. If you fancy giving it a whirl, please feel free to write what best describes you on my comment page. I'll start you off with mine.

"Could not? Did not. Why not?"

Fancy giving it a go? Go on then.

Good Housekeeping (Yeah Right)

2008-02-02T20:03:00.000Z

Rather hilariously, considering my previous form, Winchester Whisperer has tagged me for a Meme about household management. Or mis-management in my case. I feel somewhat embarrassed to give anyone any tips at all because I am getting to be so useless at the whole thing, but as always, I'll have a go:

First of all, don't clean anything, just tidy. Unless you've got some particularly sad friends who run their fingers along your skirting boards checking for dust, or your mother-in-law is a hag-from-hell who looks behind cushions for old apple cores, no one will notice anyway.

Always cook twice as much of everything than you really need, and divide it into two BEFORE you serve or you'll end up eating the whole lot or have a leftover portion too small to freeze for next time. Believe me, when you come home after a hellish day at work it feels like the beef casserole fairies have blessed you with a ready meal from heaven, and you will feel SO smug. Just bung the casserole in to defrost, throw some baking potatoes in the oven, make yourself a cup of tea and go blog for an hour (or so).

Don't iron anything that can go in the tumble drier and then be hung up to let the creases drop out. It's heavy on electricity but light on effort, so to hell with global warming, at least we don't have a patio heater so I am in credit on the old carbon foot-print malarky. If you are mad enough to iron pants or socks, please don't tell me or I'll have to send someone round with a tranquiliser dart and straight-jacket to take you away.

Forbid anyone to leave pots and pans "in soak". This is totally unnecessary now that Fairy has invented their Power Spray, which lifts fired on food (my particular speciality) in a couple of minutes. "In soak" is another term for "can't be arsed with this, I'll leave it till later when you go into the kitchen and do it for me". No dice mate. Get sprayin'.

If you go into the bathroom and someone (ladies, you know who I mean) has left just one or two sheets of loo paper on an otherwise empty roll, don't replace it. Just find another toilet roll in the cupboard and use some of that and take the rest out with you, or hide it, just to make the point. That'll learn 'em. Unless of course the same empty loo-roll is still there some days later, in which case you know you're being played.

And finally, even though you don't have one, tell everybody you have a cleaner but she is useless, and bemoan the state of your house at every opportunity. Say you really ought to sack her, but can't find a way to do it nicely without hurting her feelings. Everyone will feel sorry for you, and meanwhile you can spend what money you would have paid a cleaner, if you had one, on gin.

Works for me.

Is This How You Spell Wiener?

2008-01-30T18:10:00.000Z

Needless to say, I didn't write this, but thought it might make you laugh a bit.

How To Shower Like a Woman:

Take off clothing and place it in sectioned laundry hamper according to lights and darks.

Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown.

If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.

Look at your womanly figure in the mirror - make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc., and stop eating chocolate.

Get in the shower. Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.

Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.

Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean, but this time use shampoo with only 37 vitamins to avoid overload.

Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner enhanced with real passion fruit.

Cleanse your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 10 minutes until red.

Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash.

Rinse conditioner off hair.

Shave armpits and legs, trim bikini line.

Turn off shower.

Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.

Spray mold spots with Tilex.

Get out of shower and stand on bath mat.

Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.

Dry body with towel the size of a small country, carefully put wet towel in bathroom linen basket or hang over towel rail to dry.

Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown and towel on head.

If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.

How To Shower Like a Man:

Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.

Walk naked to the bathroom.

If you see wife along the way, shake wiener at her making the 'woo-woo' sound.

Look at your manly physique in the mirror.

Admire the size of your wiener and scratch your ass.

Get in the shower. Wash your face. Wash your armpits.

Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.

Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.

Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.

Wash your butt, leaving those coarse butt hairs stuck on the soap.

Rinse off and get out of shower. Avoid bath mat.

Dry off by violently rubbing body with towel in order to scatter short and curly hairs over the widest possible area.

Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of tub the whole time.

Admire wiener size in mirror again. Shake it to watch water fly off.

Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on, window shut.

Return to bedroom with towel around waist.

If you pass wife, pull off towel, shake wiener at her and make the 'woo-woo' sound again.

Throw wet towel on bed.

Please don't take offence at this wild generalisation, folks, it's just an email which is doing the rounds at the office and helped brighten up an otherwise dark and gloomy but incredibly busy week.

True Grit

2008-01-20T07:27:00.001Z

Well, let's hear it for Captain Peter Burkill and his Co-Pilot John Coward who expertly and successfully brought stricken flight BA038 to a hairy but happy conclusion a couple of days ago. Or rather, if we are to respect their wishes, let's not. In true British iconic style, both Captain Burkill and First Officer Coward would just prefer to put their achievement down to good training and the reliability of their team rather than make a big deal of it or portray themselves as high-flying heroes. It is said that they find the story's front page status "embarrassing." How incredibly refreshing.

At a time when UK news is full of the fanciful sycophantic babblings of ex-Royal butler Paul (I've got a secret) Burrell, who obviously can't tell the difference between a patronising pat on the head and proper Royal Patronage, and who has remained in and out of the spot-light for the last ten years by spreading a little information incredibly thinly in order to appear more important than he actually is, it's comforting to learn that we still have heroes in this country who prefer to remain unsung.

It's hard to imagine the incredible pressure put on airline pilots and crews at the best of times. It can't be a stress-free job even in the general run of things. But can you imagine how it must feel to be in charge of the huge Boeing 777, 10 tonnes of fuel and the lives of 152 passengers and crew at the moment you realise the rubber band's bust? It's bad enough driving a car when you stick your foot on the gas and nothing happens, but at 600ft in the air? And still they had the presence of mind not to swap controls to let Captain Peter bring the plane in, thus saving valuable seconds, but held their nerve and did everything BA's extensive training had prepared them for. Fantastic.

And afterwards? Declaring that they were only doing their jobs, that they didn't want a fuss and after paying due tribute to their colleagues, what did they do then?

They went out for a quiet curry.

Bloody good show, chaps.

Fifties Chick

2008-01-18T10:00:00.000Z

OK, so now you know I'm well over fifty, but please don't hold that against me. And guess what, being fifty plus isn't any big deal really. It just looks bad on paper. Of course, there are mornings when I wake up and think "Shit, I'm really old" but by the time I'm up and showered, have blow-dried my hair, put on some slap and a foxy outfit from one of my favourite non-geriatric stores (Hobbs, Zara or M and S on a good day) and spritzed myself with perfume, I am definitely hot to trot. Maybe with the odd wrinkle, but generally still "up for it" - whatever "it" turns out to be.

And that's the weird thing about getting older. Once you've learned to handle the inevitable hormonal helter-skelter (if you're a woman) or ignored it (if you're a man), you're sorted really and ready for the next slice of life, and often with renewed vigour. I'm not saying that I'm looking forward to it but, let's face it, getting older is certainly better than the only other alternative.

But one of the reasons I sometimes keep my advanced age to myself (apart from vanity) is that if people know how old you are, they tend to treat you differently. They have preconceptions of how each age group should behave and how it should be treated. It can be a little bit patronising. It's not exactly ageism, more an assumption that as you get to certain milestones, you will naturally do certain things and begin to act in a certain way. But why is that? Why does the chronological age of your body and mind mean that you will undergo a radical personality change? And is that inevitable? Can't we just be the same people we always were, but older? And hopefully a bit wiser, of course.

Recently I was a part of a conversation with a woman in her late 50's who was thinking of getting a smaller house because her kids have now left home and it seemed ridiculous maintaining a huge property just for her and her husband. She wanted to save cash to spend on exotic holidays, a new car, more fun. I could relate to that, but most people just assumed that she was "downsizing" now that they are "older" and would naturally opt for a bungalow, to avoid the stairs. She found this view quite amusing as both she and her husband regularly walk two miles a day, play tennis and badminton, go to the gym and have a landscaping business digging other people's gardens. Oh, and she teaches tap-dancing. But obviously, assumptions had been made, given her age.

As always, I have to rebel. So far I have resisted wearing my lipstick around the outside of my mouth, having a curly perm or buying a purple cape (unless they feature in Vogue), or any of the other stereotypes attributed to "women of a certain age". I haven't become invisible and I often (too often, some say) get my voice heard. I am me and always will be, personality-wise just the same as I always was but with a bit more time and money to spend on myself (until we reach pensionable age when I'll have to go on the game to afford makeup and gin).

And in the meantime?

No, I don't want an effing bungalow. But thanks very much for asking.

Up Close And Personal

2008-01-09T20:05:00.000Z

Two of my favourite bloggers have tagged me recently, Wake Up And Smell The Coffee and Mopsa.

Mopsa's Meme asks for eight things I would like to happen in 2008. I am going to say straight away that I am not going to ask for world peace, an end to famine and pestilence, people to be kind to each other or any of that sort of stuff. It would all be very nice, but I have to be realistic.

Mainly my hopes for 2008 focus around home, family, health and happiness and to be honest, I'd pour all eight wishes into that. Selfish, I know, but we've had a tough time over the last few years in some ways, and frankly I feel my little clan deserves a break. So forgive me Mopsa, for being so introspective, but what I would really like to see is:

My son to get the recognition, support and respect he deserves.

My daughter and son in law to continue to enjoy their happiness.

My husband to realise that he doesn't have to hold the entire world on his shoulders and learn to relax.

Me to find a way to reach my personal writing goals.

OK, now for the rest of the world:

I'd really like to see Madeleine McCann returned safe and unharmed to her parents.

I'd like all the troops in Iraq to come home.

I'd like to see a change in attitude towards older people. Respect.

I'd like our Government to stop messing with people's lives and give professionals the opportunity to know best.

Oh-oh, watch out, I think I see pigs flying overhead.

And.....

Wakeup's Meme is to give seven previously undisclosed unusual facts about myself. I don't really think there's much you don't already know about me other than:

I once nicked a Bounty from our local newsagents (I was seven), tried to eat it but couldn't, guiltily threw it away, went back into the shop and put more than twice the original cost of the Bounty on the counter and ran out in tears. Odd girl. Still hate Bounties. Still have an over-developed sense of justice and fair play. Plus I was scared of being struck by lightning in retribution for a terrible sin.

Around the same age, I also dropped a toy car out of my bedroom window to scare my brother who was in the garden below, but instead of just hitting the ground beside him and making him jump, it embedded itself in his head. Blood everywhere. I blamed the boy next door, obviously. Well, it was his car before I "borrowed" it. Later I confessed to get him off the hook, burst into tears and ran off. again extremely worried about being struck by lightning.

The girl next door (whose brother's car I nicked) was horrible to me (I wonder why), so I carefully took the top off a bottle of milk which was on their doorstep and dropped a piece of fossilised cat poo into it and replaced the silver top. Later on I realised that this was an awful thing to do, ran round to confess, but they were all sitting there drinking cups of milky tea so I just burst into tears and ran off (see a pattern forming here?). At that point was convinced it was only a matter of time before the clouds parted and...... yes, you've guessed it. Kaboom.

When we left my childhood home I was eleven, leaving my best friend, every one of my relatives and all of the above fun and games behind and moved to Birmingham, and I was so lonely and unhappy I cried for two solid years (no kidding) but no one at home noticed. Or, so I thought, cared. By this time I think they were probably getting bored with the waterworks. It was such a terrible time, I think this was the lightning strike I'd feared for so long, and even now I could cry thinking about it.

In the 60's my friends and I used to wear mini-skirts so short they only just covered our knickers, but only if we didn't bend forward. We couldn't decently walk up the stairs at New Street Station and there often used to be a crowd of lads standing at the bottom of the steps, looking up and bumping into each other. But at least it taught me how to climb stairs or stand on the escalator sideways and block the rear view with my handbag. Unfortunately, these days I would need a much bigger bag.

In my 20's I did a bit of modelling (before you ask, it was the commercial type) and once modelled for a kitchen bin advert. Yes folks, it was my foot on that pedal and my hand on that lid. They didn't ever pay me or even give me a free bin. They must have thought I was rubbish.

And finally, I have over the years astounded many people with my slight psychic ability and fearsome ESP, but because of these "gifts" I regularly scare the shit out of myself before I really need to. No wonder I have high blood pressure.

But enough already, that's more than I've told anyone about myself, all in one go, ever. Without bursting into tears or running off, that is.

Oh Doctors, We're In Trouble

2008-01-07T18:56:00.000Z

WARNING - RANT IN PROGRESS!

So. The Government now thinks it would be a good idea to instigate a screening programme for life-threatening diseases before they become a problem. On paper, that is indeed a great idea. Hopefully they realise it can only be a good thing if done properly and with a clear plan of how to deal with the inevitable knock-on effects, because without such a plan and a commitment to spend huge additional amounts of money, a screening programme will be useless. A bit like a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest, it just won't stand up.

Admirable though the notion is, the idea that we can introduce universal screening without a guaranteed corresponding improvement in treatment availability means that this is unlikely to be successful in the long term. What "waiting list initiative" will be able to cope with the additional thousands of people who will no doubt swell the queues for specialist treatments because of their early diagnoses? Would it be better for them to fret about a potential deadly disease which may be progressing unchecked whilst anxiously waiting for months to be seen, or less worrying to live in blissful ignorance? Who can say? But perhaps the NHS should only ask the questions when it is committed to doing something with the answers. It's no good revealing a hidden problem early if there's no early treatment available for it, surely?

Forgive me for being cynical, but what concerns me is how on earth all of this is going to be paid for when, apparently, even now the NHS cannot afford the drugs which can prolong the lives of breast cancer sufferers and other patients are routinely switched from "too costly" drugs which treat their symptoms efficiently and are tolerated well, to something cheaper which fails to do the job and leaves the patient feeling ill. Psychiatric facilities are a shambles, geriatric services a disgrace, filthy hospitals are a breeding ground for bugs which are resistant to everything except good old fashioned cleaning, also deemed to be too expensive. So now we have to rely on bottles of gel instead of washing our hands, on antibiotics to make people better after we've made them sick, all for the lack of decent hospital cleaners and a bucket of hot bleach and a clean mop. Yet instead of fixing existing problems within the NHS, and goodness knows there are enough of them to go at, the Government is thinking of yet another way to put an additional strain on already hideously overstretched resources. And no mention of how it's all going to be funded. Brilliant.

Prevention certainly is better than cure, but it all takes money and unless this is definitely going to be made available (and not at the expense of some other deprived area of the NHS) just what is the point anyway? Hasn't anyone thought of the consequences and the requirements of a scheme such as this? If you ask me, it's a bit of a tease.

Or just another sick joke?

Tell Me What You Want, What You Really Really Want From 2008

2007-12-30T13:06:00.001Z

A bit like Elvis, my son has now left the building. In his wake he leaves a smoking ruin of a house, a sentimental weeping wreck of a mother and an empty fridge. It's been great, but he needs to get back to Uni-land to take up where he left off. There's work to be done, people to see, Wii games to play and lager to drink, so there's a lot of catching up to do. Not to mention he has a hot date for New Year's Eve. Oh yes.

Me? Well, I'm wandering from room to room surveying the chaos. I haven't done a single bit of housework since before Christmas and, believe me, you can tell. The tree which looked so lovely only a week ago has become a target for walnut and satsuma throwing miscreants (OK, I did it too, but only when drunk and egged on by my naughty children), so most of the needles are now firmly embedded in the carpet and the fairy looks decidedly pissed. Every gold-rimmed plate, dish, crystal wine glass and trifle bowl is washed but stacked in the kitchen, waiting for someone to be arsed to put them away until next time. And right now, that isn't going to be me.

It's going to take me a bit of time to get back into harness, even if I can find one that still fits me. I've stuffed my greedy face for a week, drunk myself silly and grazed continuously 24/7 since Christmas Eve. I've so enjoyed having the family around me and have gone native to a degree which has astounded them as much as me, given that in the past I've had a bit of a reputation for my Hyacinth Bouquet tendencies. I was once called "Mrs. Clean" by an ex-friend. Note the ex. But I haven't once dusted, polished or brought out the 1001 carpet spray, which is a bit of a first for me, given that I usually like things to be just so.

So it's not impossible to change, is it? We can all get a new perspective on life, however many Christmases and New Years we've lived through. We don't have to be shackled by the past, repeat our usual mistakes, run on the same rails as we've always done. Things cannot remain the same if we are to grow and flourish.

If blogging has taught me something, then it's this. Reading about other people's lives, the good and the bad bits, the random and sad bits, has shown me that there is no such thing as "normal" or "standard". Blogs have made me laugh out loud and even cry sometimes, I've ranted and raged occasionally, but some things have been constant - my enjoyment, involvement and interest.

Next year my target is to find a magazine or newspaper editor who will let me write an occasional short column or even contribute regularly in some way. I am starting to collect material for a book, and I've submitted another short story for consideration. I've realised that I just need to write. Don't let me give up, I'm counting on you to give me a swift kick up the arse if I look as if I'm going off the boil, and any suggestions about how I go about reaching my goal would be welcome. If you think I don't have a cat in hell's chance, please be gentle with me as my self-belief is delicate, but I am open to constructive criticism and suggestions.

In the meantime, give me your own aspirations for 2008, I am sure they are going to be impressive given what I know about a lot of you already.

Happy New Year everyone.

x

Food Glorious Food

2007-12-28T14:46:00.001Z

I am getting stir crazy. I don't want to do battle in the shopping mall but I am definitely thinking of excuses to get out of the house - a walk to the pub or park or a gentle wander down to Waitrose for some fresh salad stuff is on the cards any minute now. My body is screaming out for anything not covered in icing, double cream or gravy, at this point I wouldn't give a stuff if I never saw another mince-pie, and I've just completed my favourite recipe for leftover turkey which involves opening the bin and throwing the bloody thing in it.

We've still got half a baby Stilton, an appallingly odoriferous Brie, two tons of chocolate and a tree with no needles left on it. Oh, and half a sherry log. And a ham. With Nigella Bloody Lawson's spiced peaches, which were very nice actually once I'd got some jars, but right now even the smell of cinnamon is enough to make me gag.

Enough already.

The foods which seemed to be so vital and jostling for pole position on my "must have or your Christmas catering will be rubbish" list are now lying wilted and tired, unopened at the bottom of my decimated fridge, pointing withered fingers at me and laughing mockingly. I am trying not to think about the money I've needlessly spent but cannot stop myself feeling bad about such a terrible waste of food. Remind me next year not to be so silly. Yes I know we should be eating it all up, but frankly I couldn't face another sausage roll to save my life.

Meanwhile, I've got nothing for dinner.

I could kill a curry.

Retail Therapy? No Ta.

2007-12-27T00:25:00.001Z

There are two sorts of people in this world. Those who will get up at four in the morning and queue up outside Next to buy a half price sweater, and those who simply can't be arsed. It may not surprise you to know that I'm of the latter persuasion. Right now I just can't imagine wanting any material thing enough to drag myself out of bed at some ridiculously early time in the morning on Boxing Day or the day after, probably with a well-deserved hangover, simply to go shopping again. And quite frankly, that's not something you hear me say all that often, me being the career shopper that I am, however much of a sucker I am for a bargain.

But after the excesses of the past few days and the weeks of pre-Christmas shopping frenzy that we've all been through, who can be bothered to do it all again so soon? There just can't be anything left in the shops to warrant that kind of effort, can there?

Round here it's still Christmas, and we've still got a whole lot more lounging about to do. I am so not ready to get back to normality just yet.

But give it time......

A Very Merry Christmas To All

2007-12-24T19:07:00.000Z

Just wanted to say Merry Christmas to everyone, and thanks for visiting my blog during 2007. As I've said before, I don't quite know what I was expecting when I began, but it's been a real pleasure to meet all of you and it's been great reading your blogs and also your comments on mine.

Hope you all have a wonderful Christmas, wherever you are and whatever you're doing. And I wish you all a happy, healthy and chatty New Year.

Take care, speak soon!

xx

Home, Sweet Smelling Home.

2007-12-20T10:39:00.000Z

For some obscure reason, I am driven to spring-clean the house from top to bottom in readiness for Christmas and my son's return from university, where he lives in studenty squalor and frankly wouldn't notice or care if I didn't bother to clean here for the next two years. But that's not the point, although I'm not quite sure what the actual point is. I just have to do it. In the same way I have to stack the pantry and fridge to maximum capacity in an effort to make up for all the times he's existed on baked beans, getting the house clean and welcoming for him just seems the most important thing to do right now. I guess it's a nurturing thing, and I don't get to do it often enough these days.

My husband thinks I'm slightly mad to go to these lengths, because in about three hours' time the hall will be full of son's manky washing, kicked-off boots the size of boats, coats over the bannister, keys, small change and general rubbish scattered to the four corners, lost until it's time for him to go back and we clear it all up again. His bedroom will once again become a no-go zone and we'll run out of lager.

Although underneath the chaos the house will be clean, with help from the rest of the family over the Christmas holidays it's going to degenerate into a total, shambolic mess.

Bring it on.

I can't wait. I just want him home.

Fail to Plan, Plan to Fail.

2007-12-11T22:59:00.000Z

So I thought I'd join in with this whole cookin' shoppin' and preparin' lark, and having watched Nigella making whoopie with four cans of cling-peaches last night on TV (anyone know why they're called "cling" peaches, other than in solidarity with Ms Lawson's skin tight sweater?), I called into Waitrose on my way home from work to buy the stuff I needed. After a day flapping around like a clairvoyant turkey, I felt a little bit of festive cookery would be therapeutic, and what's more I'd downloaded the ingredients list from the internet. That's extremely organised for me, so please be impressed.

White wine vinegar, check. Two sticks of cinnamon, check. Chilli flakes, er what? Will these crushed ones do? Yes, of course they will, bung them in. Check. Four centimetre piece of fresh ginger. Check. Tinned peaches? Yes, I said peaches. Please. You know, those hairy yellow things that used to have a stone in the middle but don't any more? In a can? In syrup? C'mon, you must know what I mean. Sold out? Oh, silly me, of course they're sold out, I should have realised - it's 5.00 p.m., on the day after Nigella showed us how to make hot 'n sexy Spiced Peaches to go with our cold gammon, so why on earth did I expect Waitrose to have any sodding peaches left? Or gammon, come to that. Every aspiring domestic goddess in Britain has obviously had the same urge as me - and it's not often I can be bothered to do anything that involves chilli flakes or cinnamon, I can tell you. Let alone tinned fruit. Oh bugger.

So I set about making a right nuisance of myself until we found some, and after a bit of serious shelf rummaging, I finally managed to assemble ALL the ingredients so off home I went, triumphant. Well, I thought, that's my evening planned. A quick supper, put on the apron, a bit of lip gloss, a gin, some background music (Led Zeppelin actually, not very seasonal but absolutely fantastic nonetheless) and away with the mixer. Festive food prepared Swearing Mother style. No problem. Move over Nigella and let a real woman in.

And it was all going so smoothly until the end, when I discovered some missing but vital ingredients. Why didn't anybody remind me to get some jars to put the bloody things in?

Fuck.

Busy, busy, busy.

2007-12-07T12:30:00.000Z

Like everyone else who is on a marathon pre-Christmas orgy of cleaning, shopping, cooking and working, I am rapidly disappearing up my own exit, so instead of maintaining a sinister silence I'm posting something that has been doing the rounds in the office. So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody's having fun......... yet another definitive list of Venus/Mars observations which I found to be quite amusing. Hope you do too.

Cats:
Women love cats.
Men say they love cats, but when women aren't looking, men kick cats.

Future:
A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband.
A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.

Success:
A successful man is one who makes more money than his wife can spend.
A successful woman is one who can find such a man.

Marriage:
A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn't.
A man marries a woman expecting that she won't change, but she does.

Dressing up:
A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the bins, answer the phone, read a book or get the post.
A man will dress up for wedding and funerals.

Natural beauty:
Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed.
Women somehow deteriorate during the night.

Offspring:
Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favourite foods, secret fears, hopes and dreams.
A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in his house.

Selective Hearing:
When a woman says: C'mon.....this place is a mess, you and I need to tidy up. Your trousers are on the floor and you'll have no clean clothes if we don't do the laundry now.
What a man hears: C'MON ..... blah, blah, blah YOU AND I blah, blah, blah, blah, ON THE FLOOR blah, blah, blah, NO CLOTHES blah, blah, blah, blah, NOW.

Nicknames:
If Laura, Suzannne, Kate and Sarah go out for lunch, they will call each other Laura, Suzanne, Kate and Sarah.
If Mike, Charlie, Dave and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Godzilla, Shit-Head and Four-Eyes.

Eating Out:
When the bill arrives, Mike, Charlie, Dave and John will each throw in £20, even though the bill is only £32.50. None of them will have anything smaller and none will actually admit they want change back.
When the girls get their bill, out come the pocket calculators.

Money:
A man will pay £2 for a £1 item if he needs it.
A woman will pay £1 for a £2 item that she doesn't need, but it's on sale.

Bathrooms:
A man has six items in his bathroom - toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of soap and a towel.
The average number of items in a typical woman's bathroom is 137. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these items.

Arguments:
A woman has the last word in any argument.
Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.

And finally......

Thought For The Day:
Any married man should forget his mistakes. There's no use in two people remembering the same thing.

Dont'cha just love wild generalisations? Please feel free to add anything that tickled you over the past week to my comment page, I think we all need a laugh!!

Ready For Christmas?

2007-11-27T07:28:00.000Z

Me? Ready for Christmas? You must be kidding.

If there's a phrase specifically designed to get many of us breaking into a cold sweat, it's that one. This is the time of year when hairdressers throughout the land switch from "been anywhere nice for your holidays?" to "all ready for Christmas, then?" and it's the one question which can engender feelings of woeful inadequacy in some people, sheer terror in others and put most women into a bit of a spin. I go in for all three, obviously.

In our house things follow a well-trodden path. Around now I start asking my grown-up family what delightful little prezzie they would like from Mummy and Daddy. The answer these days is usually, "dunno". They will let me know. At this point I often reminisce about how lovely it used to be back in the good old days when they sent letters to Santa (or Father Christmas as we used to call him), written in wobbly crayon and entrusted to me to dispatch to FC by means of lighting the note and letting it float up the chimney (a dangerous practice I know, and one the Fire Brigade used to condemn on a regular basis when they turned up to deal with our chimney fires, although I must admit they always used to enjoy the sherry and mincepies. I really miss those boys). But those innocent days are long gone, and now gifts get to be ordered direct, from source, i.e., John Lewis, Amazon or Argos, bypassing Santa and his little elves completely. How sad.

Husband is similarly "not bovvered". He is a man with everything, he says, and has the receipts to prove it. He tells me he honestly can't think of anything he really wants, which is nice in one way and sad in another. Of course, this feigned apathy will last right up until the day before Christmas Eve, when having given it a coat of thought he will decide, at the very last moment, that what he'd really, really like would be some obscure, out of print book, written by an obscure out of print author forty years ago, which gives me no chance at all of finding it before the big day. There won't, of course, ever be an ISBN number, just a vague description of the plot and what the front cover looks like. Really useful.

But me, well, I've always got a list. A long one. It's usually random, varied but never boring, and doesn't contain anything remotely useful or domestic. I'll ask for a bottle of Chanel No 5, but never an egg poacher. I like orchids in pots, or hyacinths in baskets, but definitely not gardening gloves. Slippers are a no-no especially if they look like they've escaped from a tart's bedroom, anything thermal will get the giver a thick ear rather than a thank-you note, and I absolutely hate gift sets. Apart from that, I am easy to buy for. It's everyone else who's the problem.

But when it comes to festive food, for me that's where the real potential for panic lies. Questions such as "made your puddings yet?" are enough to make me want to lock myself in the pantry until February. No, of course I haven't made my pudding yet, or ever will as long as I can buy a fantastically delicious one from our local deli at less than it would cost me to make it. Ditto quiche, paté and ham. And have I done my stuffings? Are they nestling in cling-filmed smugness alongside the home-made bread sauce in my giant size freezer? Bugger off, this is me you're talking to. Don't forget who reminded you that "life's too short to stuff a mushroom". In my case, that extends to peeling chestnuts or arsing about with breadcrumbs too. There is one thing I've ticked off the list, however, and that is I've orderd "the bird" - or more accurately I should say "several birds" because this year (if you're vegetarian, please look away now) we're having a turkey, stuffed with duck, stuffed with chicken and I think there's a partidge in their somewhere. Gross really. A sort of festive, poultry pile-up, as if the whole lot of them had been travelling in convoy across an icy farmyard and then suddenly, oops, the lead bird (the turkey in this case) had slammed on the brakes, not giving the following traffic time to slow down. A rear-end shunt of gourmet proportions. Come to think of it, that's not very nice really. Especially for the birds.

Actually, on reflection, I might change my mind about the turkey et al, now I've described it in terms of road-kill. It's put me off a bit. But now that means I've done nothing, absolutely nothing, to get ready for Christmas.

Apart from buying a sparkly frock, booking my hair appointments and getting my nails sorted, obviously.

Doing anything special for New Year?

We've Got Your Number, Alright?

2007-11-25T10:08:00.000Z

I am definitely turning into a grumpy old woman. No doubt about it. This week has been one of rants, complaints and mutterings. "I don't believe it" has figured greatly in any and all conversations I've had for the past few days, along with "is it me, or was that totally thick/ridiculous/bloody dense/a complete waste of time?" etc., etc. Rant, rant, moan and grumble, ridiculous, stupid and crap. Like the village of Trumpton (old kids' TV show), my world seems to be populated by a load of wooden-heads.

It all started off when I ordered some train tickets over the Virgin trains automated telephone service because I couldn't be bothered to go down to the station in person (it was raining) or struggle with the internet (don't ask). Eventually, after negotiating the seemingly endless pre-recorded voice messages I was put through to a call centre probably somewhere considerably hotter and much further away than the UK, spoke to a charming but clueless person in Bangalore or wherever it is, and ordered two return tickets from Birmingham New Street to London Euston for this Saturday. The idea was to take in a show, have a nice meal, enjoy a relaxing wedding anniversary treat. Simple.

Or so you might think. Several days went by and nothing turned up. Then an enveloped which looked a bit like train tickets arrived but was addressed to my husband. As he was away on business (and I don't routinely open his post unless it looks really, really private and smells of perfume) it just got chucked in the pile of bills awaiting his return, lucky man. Over the next day or so nothing arrived addressed to me, so I looked at the letter again, decided it definitely felt a bit tickety, so opened it. Despite the fact that I had bought the tickets in my name, paid for them with my own credit card, for some reason they had been sent and charged to him, which was annoying as this was supposed to be a surprise treat. Now I don't know what you think about that, but I feel it's a security problem if one person can order something and it can be sent to someone else and charged on their credit card too. If only I could do that with clothes, handbags and shoes, my wardrobe worries would be over.

So I rang up and explained that this was just not acceptable, that I was the customer and not my husband, asked how and why they'd used his credit card details instead of mine and how they'd got them. I just got a blanket "we are sorry for the inconvenience" rather like I was on platform 10a waiting for the train to Coventry which was going to be a bit late. Bloody infuriating. No proper explanation was offered, the "operative" said that if I would hold on, he would put me through to a supervisor. I waited for a good fifteen minutes and then the line went dead. So much for customer services, Virgin.

But now it's got me thinking about how safe all our details really are, whoever's hands they are in, not just those held by half-soaked Civil Service numpties. After this week's fiasco at HM Revenue we are now only too aware that some Governmental departments are having a laugh when they tell us our personal files are secure, but I was really hoping that commercial transactions over the phone or the internet were less risky given the volume of business that depends on it. But now I am not so sure, and am wondering if anything other than face to face good old fashioned shopping is unwise. With cash, obviously, if we can all remember what that actually is.

Apart from the obvious ID fraud situation (my husband has always said that it would be a relief if my credit card was stolen as the thieves would probably spend less than I do), can you imagine the consequences if you were trying to get away with something a little bit naughty or secret? With someone other than your partner?

For instance, you've probably seen that credit card company's advert:

"Two First Class train tickets to London: £150.

Tickets for a West End show, with dinner: £180.

Illicit overnight nooky-fest, posh hotel, champagne and chocolates: £375.

Accidentally charging the above to your other half's credit card and thereby dropping you in the shit:

- PRICELESS."

Told you before, you can't get away with anything these days.

Big Brother Goes Postal

2007-11-20T22:16:00.000Z

Unusual as it is for me to write anything topical, tonight's news that several million people who receive Child Benefit in this country have had their personal details put on disc by the Revenue, mailed out and subsequently lost, has drop-kicked me out of my usual after dinner sofa-coma and forced me to post something of my own. To say the least, losing a third of the population's personal information (including national insurance numbers, bank and savings details, along with those of their children) with the worrying prospect of this stuff getting into the wrong hands, is a cock-up of huge proportions with the possibility of dire consequences (ID fraud and theft being just two). It adds to an already long and varied list of cock-ups made by governmental departments within the UK. Heads will no doubt roll, arses will inevitably be kicked. And rightly so. The shit is certainly hitting the fan, and frankly so it should. It comes to something when we can get a more secure service from Amazon when ordering an Amy Winehouse CD over the internet than we can from HM Revenue and Customs.

But will the right heads roll, and the correct arses be kicked? The Chairman of the Revenue has resigned, apparently, not even waiting to be given the slow hand-clap, (or would that be the golden hand-shake - I can never remember which one it is that senior figures get when they've bolloxed things up and have to leave), but in isolation what good will his departure do us? Probably none at all because he, no doubt (like many other people in charge of huge organisations) had absolutely no bloody idea of what really goes on at less exalted levels, and was probably blissfully ignorant of how or why certain things were being done or by whom. OK, maybe he can be blamed for that in itself, and morally I suppose that as the head bloke he may feel that falling on his own sword is the honourable thing to do, but you have to ask yourself this.

Who really ordered such sensitive information to be downloaded in the first place (and how was that possible, given that computers can always be programmed to say "no" if asked to perform an "illegal" task?), and which blithering idiot stuck the discs in the post, not even sending them recorded delivery? And who's idea was that? Not the Chairman's, I'll bet, yet he must carry the can.

There is, however, a silver lining of delicious irony to this particular grey cloud of institutional ineptitude - whoever finds those CDs might well find themselves in possession of the personal and banking details of some very important people, including government officials and even extremely senior cabinet ministers, and that would never do. Unless of course the security services find them first. Or have I been watching too many episodes of Spooks?

Crazy Eights

2007-11-17T16:24:00.000Z

The lovely Amy over at Blog To The Bone has tagged me for Crazy Eights, so don't blame me, it's all her fault. Go over to her great blog and give her a bollocking if you're too bored to read any more of my lists. In my own contrary way I am doing some eights, some fours and an occasional five, so here goes:

Eight Things I Am Passionate About:

My husband and children.

My family and friends.

My home.

Justice and fairplay.

I'd like to add: Sex, gin, chocolate and shopping but fear it would look a bit shallow, so I shall stop at four.

Eight Things I'd Like To Do Before I Die:

Make a disgrace of myself at my grandchild's wedding by chatting up the bride's or bridegroom's Dad, whichever one I'm not related to. (I don't have any grandchildren yet, but there's always hope).

Invent an elixir of eternal youth and remember to patent it.

See my kids happy and settled with someone who loves them even half as much as I do.

Do something spectacular, or even bloody damned good.

Find an enjoyable way to earn enough money to have a wicked retirement.

Travel more, and stop making such a fuss about it.

Have more good times, and stop feeling guilty about it.

Discover what I am here for.

Eight Things I Say Often:

Fucking hell.

Sorry.

Wouldn't it be great if...........

Do I look as if I've put on weight?

I'm hungry.

I'm giving up this writing lark.

Hang your bloody coat up.

I am NOT nagging.

Eight books I have read recently or am still reading:

The Bible (now that shocked you, didn't it? Ha!)

The Wedding Officer by Anthony Capella.

The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger.

The Girls by Lori Lansens

Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith

Daddy's Girls by Tasmin Perry

Sharon Osbourne's Autobiography

Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka.

Eight Songs(out of hundreds) I Could Listen To Over and Over:

Anything at all by the Beatles, except Yellow Submarine (sorry Ringo)

Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks

Simply Irresistible by Robert Palmer

Grapevine by Marvin Gaye

On The Road Again by Canned Heat

Filthy Gorgeous by The Scissor Sisters

Sweet Soul Music by Arthur Connolly (I think)

Let's Stick Together by Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music

Eight (yes, I know I've only done four) Things That Attract Me to Friends:

Sense of humour.

Capacity for fun.

Loyality.

Understanding.

It helps if they are fatter than me, obviously. (kidding).

Eight (as in four) People Who I Think Should Do Crazy 8's who haven't been tagged already:

1. Norman over at Thole Man.

2. Knifepainter.

3. The Grocer.

4. Travelling But Not In Love.

Now these are all chaps, and I don't want you to think I'm a flirt, but hey, why not?

Cheers?

2007-11-10T05:43:00.000Z

I was sitting in the hairdressers waiting for my high-lights to cook, as you do, and leafing through an old magazine when I came upon an article about the "alcohol epidemic" amongst young drinkers in the UK. Frightening facts and scary statistics regarding alcohol induced illnesses, violence and deaths. Very worrying stuff.

It got me thinking about our current attitude to alcohol and social drinking in this country. Don't get me wrong, I am not anti-alcohol, I like a glass of wine or a gin as much as the next person (and occasionally more so, depending on the circumstances and who's driving), but I began to think back to my own youth when the object of going out on the town was to enjoy ourselves, maybe meet a nice chap, dance our arses off in some club and along the way have a few drinks. Just that, and in that order. We didn't go out with the express intention of "getting trashed". If we occasionally "had a little bit too much to drink" (as it was quaintly called then) it was just a by-product of having a good time, not the sole reason for going out in the first place. We suffered the hideous hang-over consequences, got a real good telling-off from our Mums, were laughed at by our work-mates, and vowed never to do it again. Or not often, anyway, and for several reasons - we couldn't afford it, for one, but also because puking over your brand new Faith platform boots (or even worse, someone else's) wasn't a requisite component of a good night out, just the occasional and embarrassing consequence of it. And, of course, lying in the gutter wth your skirt over your head wasn't considered a good look in those days.

So what has changed over the years? Obviously, a lot of younger people earn more so have a bigger disposable income with which to buy their fifteen pints of lager and ten Tequila shots (each) per night. In the interests of equality, girls have become more like lads in their capacity for drinking. But when did it become a foreseeable outcome, or even obligatory, to get so drunk and incapable that you don't know what you're doing any more, when did falling over pissed become the high spot of a night out, and when did putting yourself in such frequent and chronic danger become so acceptable, or even desirable?

And more worryingly, how have things come to this, and why? Why has drinking yourself into oblivion on a regular basis become de rigueur with the young? Walking down most main city streets on any weekend night will reveal to anyone in doubt that it's time for an attitude change on social drinking. So what is the solution and how can it be achieved?

Let me have your views on this, and reassure me that I'm not becoming a cantankerous old bag.

And please, don't even START me talking about drugs, one worry is enough for this week.

All Right Now

2007-11-05T17:40:00.000Z

OK you lot, I'm back. And what's more, I'm back with a f*cking vengeance. Forget chocolate, wine or (in my case) gin, forget staring into the middle distance obsessing over the past and worrying about the future. This is it. I am over it and I am going for it, whatever "it" may turn out to be. I am sick of being a bit miserable, I've decided that from now on I am going to be either, a) happy and content, or b) an absolute hag-bitch from hell, depending on the prevailing events at the time. But sod miserable, I've done it and it was boring.

So, you may ask, how is this change of attitude going to affect my everyday behaviour? What difference will it make? Well, I'll give you an example.

Yesterday, for instance, we took my young nephew and niece out for lunch to an American-style chain restaurant, (maybe I'd better not say which one to avoid giving unnecessary offence or risk getting sued, so it shall remain nameless) some miles from here in between their home and ours. I was a little disappointed to find that it wasn't anywhere near as good as our local TGI's (oops) which is, of course, incredibly posh and trendy. It goes without saying that I am also incredibly posh and trendy and live in an incredibly posh and trendy neighbourhood. Obviously. So the Hyacinth Bucket in me was a bit shocked to encounter sticky tables, manky floors, wild-eyed people in low cut sequinned tops and knicker-skimming mini-skirts (and that was just the men) inhaling food at breakneck speed as if in some sort of suicidal pie-eating contest, and a general air of hungry desperation pervading the atmosphere. Service was, to say the least, a little slow. Cheerful, but slow. But bloody hell, the food was dire. It's the only place I've ever been where you could take a person's eye out with a fossilised chip (sorry, that would be "fries") so overcooked and brittle they would shatter if dropped, showering potato-based shrapnel over the entire area. And I've never before seen a pot of baked beans covered in such a thick skin that you could turn them upside down and they still wouldn't spill. Like they were hiding under a heavy blanket in an effort to keep warm. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out.

But did I say anything? No I didn't. Did I complain or cause a fuss? No, not me. And why was this? Because I was relaxed, happy and tolerant. And no, it didn't have anything to do with mind-altering drugs or artificial stimulants of any kind, not even a recreational Yorkie.

So what achieved this Zen-like state of total wellbeing for me? Well, several things actually. I could lead you to believe that it might have been the aforementioned chocolate, wine or gin. Or that I may have indulged in a bit of girlie pampering, a little retail therapy or even had a bloody good seeing to (I sincerely hope my kids never get to read this, they still think we only ever did that for procreational purposes, and then only twice). But the truth is, apart from any or all of the above, counting my blessings and a generally lovely weekend, I can hazard a guess at what really dragged me out of the slough of despond.

As Crocodile Dundee once said when his girlfriend told him about someone she knew who was seeing a therapist, "Therapy? Why would she need a therapist? Hasn't she got any mates to talk to?"

Well, I've got mates. Lots of them, and I thank you all very much indeed for listening to me.

Life, The Universe and Everything

2007-11-02T17:40:00.000Z

Well, here I am, but frankly I don't know what to say. It's been a funny couple of weeks, not sure how to describe them but, you know me - I'll always have a go.

There's nothing dramatic to report really, just a general melancholy which came on roughly about the same time as we put the clocks back. Not having had much summer it made me feel a bit sad about the winter being nearly upon us, and even though these lovely autumn days were unbelievably beautiful, it's just made me think dark thoughts.

This time of year in the run up to Christmas, I always miss family members who are not with us any more. Baking a Christmas cake to my lovely mother-in-law's recipe, written in her own handwriting on the back of an old greetings card covered in splats of cake mix, always makes me yearn for a hug from her and Grandpa. I miss my Mum, Dad and brother. Talk of Christmas dinner, Boxing Day parties, prezzies and shopping makes me realise how very small my family gift list has become.

But I will snap out of it, always do. There's plenty to do, hopefully our little family will be together, we'll eat too much, drink too much and fall asleep in front of the TV as usual. Wouldn't have it any other way, except of course, for the things we can wish for but cannot have.

Sorry. It's this time of year. Will be better soon.

Warning: It's All About MEME.

2007-10-21T23:09:00.000+01:00

Well, bugger me, I've been tagged. Not electronically, thankfully. Manic Mother of Five (MMOF to her fans) has chased me round the playground and declared that I am "it". Apparently I have some explaining to do, so here goes.

Initially, having spent too many lonely nights with husband working abroad and me suffering the chronic insomnia often experienced by us vintage chicks, one night in the wee small hours I happened upon the blogsite of Wife In The North. I'd read about her in our Sunday paper and thought I'd have a look. From day one she had me hooked. I loved her writing and read her every post, commented regularly, and often at great length (who, me?), so eventually it seemed the only decent thing to do was to start my own blog where I could drone on without clogging up someone else's site. She'd written a post about her husband (who works away a lot of the time) banning the children from watching TV for a fortnight because he'd heard one of them swear, and then promptly clearing off back to work in London leaving her with builders, new baby, children on school holidays, no TV etc., etc. There was some discussion about children, swearing and mothers. Indeed, in the comments there were a lot of mothers, and most of them were swearing, including me, amazingly. I was furious for her and remember saying something like "in solidarity with you, I am going to start my own blog and call it Swearing Mother".

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Being a total technophobe I had no idea how to do it, no one to ask as I didn't particularly want my family to know my guilty secret in case they laughed at me, hence my blog is very plain, I don't have any links, many photos or any fancy gizmos. Just lots of swearing. And the thing is, sometimes I don't even feel like swearing but then how can I go on calling myself Swearing Mother? Maybe we need to change it to I Used To Be Swearing Mother But I Am A Reformed Character Now? Not very catchy.

About Me:

I am very, very old. Or extremely young looking for my age, depending on the amount of maintenance I've undergone when you see me.

I am struggling to find a creative outlet, and would like to write short stories or articles for a magazine or newspaper. At the moment I am an NHS wage-slave with attitude.

I have a small but beautifully formed family (this should have come first really) who mean everything to me.

I am an Olympic standard worrier.

I decided when I was 14 that as I didn't seem to be shaping up to be a stunner, at least I could have a personality. Character, they called it in those days.

I am passionate about stuff, verbal, hot tempered if riled, sensitive about other people, intuitive, a bit of a control freak, obsessive, compulsive, hard-working (most of the time) and high maintenance. I don't have to tell you about my weird sense of humour, you've probably already noticed.

I drink too much, eat too much, and swear too much. But I am trying to cut down on the eating and drinking.

And that's it really.

Oh, one more thing. The response I've had to my blog has really surprised and delighted me. I don't really know what I was expecting when I began, I just kept on going because I enjoyed writing it and reading everyone's comments, visiting other blogs and leaving my comments there. It's become a bit of a way of life, and cheesey though it sounds, I'd miss you guys if we stopped now.

Ooops, nearly forgot to nominate a MEME tagee - I'd like to nominate Laurie (Three Dog Blog) who has been with me from the start and given good advice whenever I've asked for it.

What a Difference a Day Makes

2007-10-20T12:49:00.000+01:00

This week I did a really naughty thing. I pulled a sickie. Played hooky. Went AWOL. In my defence, it wasn't premeditated, it just sort of happened. It started off like any other day. I woke up, had a shower, did my hair and make-up, dressed, packed up my diet lunch, got in the car and drove to work. Nothing unusual there. It was a lovely, lovely day - crisp, autumnal, sunny; the sort of day when you ought to be out, walking your dog in the park, kicking up the leaves, just happy to be alive. The sort of day that, if you had one, you should to be hammering down country lanes in your open topped sportscar, enjoying the autumn sunshine, catching a whiff of woodsmoke as you wend your way through pretty villages in search of the perfect pub for lunch. The sort of day that you shouldn't spend caged up in an office, staring at your computer screen like some sad little budgie gazing into its mirror, wondering if this is all there is to life.

So there I was, waiting at the traffic lights, and suddenly a renegade idea came into my head. Bugger it, I thought, I really don't want to go into the office. So I didn't. I pulled into the carpark, did a swift U turn and drove straight back out again, stopped the car half a mile away and phoned in sick. I can't believe I actually did it, and to be honest, I'm still slightly shocked at myself. I don't usually do things like that, but I've rationalised it now - they owe me so much time I could take the rest of the year off and still have change, and my colleagues, who suspected that "things were getting on top of me" were OK with it. And somehow I just needed it. So it was a done deal. I was taking what is known in some countries as a "mental health day" or, to put it in Brummie vernacular, I was skiving a day off.

My next phone call was to my husband who was supposed to be working at home.

"Fancy going out to lunch with me, in the country?" I already knew the answer to that one. He's always been easy to lead astray.

"Have you got the sack?" he asks, shocked that I am not already in the office.

"Not yet, but I'm working on it" says I, tossing the phone in my bag and heading for home.

After a brief pit-stop to pick up husband and get changed into my casual gear, off we went, heading out into the Staffordshire countryside. Apparently, the autumn colours in the UK this year are even more spectacular than the trees in New England, and driving down those country lanes I can quite believe it. What a fabulous sight. The sun shone through the golden leaves as they drifted down to the ground, the roadside red berries looked vibrant, the creeper covered walls positively glowed, there was a nip in the air which brought the colour to our cheeks. We found a wonderful pub, sat in the stone-flagged bar in front of a crackling log fire, husband ate game pie, which he said was delicious, and I enjoyed venison sausages and tried not to think of Bambi. After a nice cup of coffee and a walk around the village, we took another picturesque drive home. An entirely fabulous day, a totally unexpected but necessary soul-restoring treat.

And did I feel guilty? Yes, a bit. Did I regret it? No, not at all. Are my batteries fully recharged? Yes, yes and yes.

Life, as someone once said, is too short to stuff a mushroom. Or let glorious autumn days slip by unappreciated.

You Just Can't Get The Staff

2007-10-11T18:49:00.000+01:00

People are seriously pissing me off. To the point that I have actually said something. Shock! Horror! Probe! “Seriously Pissed Off Woman Actually Says Something!” What I mean, of course, is that someone's annoyed me so much, I’ve actually said something TO THEIR FACE, rather than muttering to myself, or just giving a silent “tut” and looking up at the ceiling with pursed cat's-bum lips.

The thing is, I am usually quite a nice person. A bit scarey when riled, but then I was born to be riled, so everyone’s used to it by now and takes no notice. But I’m not usually downright mean, or if I am I really don’t want to be. I’m the sort of person who might think “sod it, I’m actually going to put the boot in this time,” but I rarely do in reality. In my head, now that’s another thing, in my head I can bollock people to infinity, could turn even Jeremy Paxman into a quivering jelly of angst, probably make him cry even.

But I don’t like to hurt people and my biggest worry is that if I actually do vent my spleen on someone, I may later find that I am wrongly accusing them, or they will turn out to be the very person whose dog has just died, or has a child in hospital, their husband’s gone off with their best mate or they’ve just been told very bad news re a dear, dear friend. And then I'd feel like hanging myself in pure remorse. For all I know, they could be making up their hard-luck story in an effort to get the sympathy vote, but it would probably affect me just the same. I would feel an absolute git, and that’s an end to it.

Unless, of course, they GO TOO F*CKING FAR and then, sorry, it’s goodnight Vienna. With bells on. My fuse is long but there is, unfortunately, a nuclear arsenal at the far end of it.

Like today for instance, when a receptionist muddled up some fairly vital medical papers and gave the wrong information to the patient's specialist. I can't really go into too much detail because if I told you I'd have to kill you, but basically it could have potentially been the MOTHER OF ALL COCK-UPS, had it not been so quickly discovered, and she was clearly at fault. As the person who had spotted the error, it was up to me to tackle her about it and help put things right.

So I had a quiet word and asked her to join me in a mutual effort to sort it out. How could we prevent this from ever happening again? Did she have a problem understandng how the system works? Could I help in any way? That sort of thing. Touchy, feely, softly, softly approach. All non-confrontational stuff. Whereupon, she promptly adopted a glazed expression, twiddled her hair, chewed her gum, gave a bit of a nonchalant shrug and left me to get on with it. Was she bovvered? No, she was not. Did she look bovvered? No, she did not. I definitely got the message: She. Ain't. Bovvered. Not her problem, apparently.

Now I am used to clearing up other people’s messes (of the administrative kind, thankfully. I would never have made it as a nurse) but I usually find that when a clerical balls-up such as this is discovered most people have the humility or decency to realise that they could have caused someone, somewhere, a lot of trouble. Or pain. Or anxiety. Or even harm. Usually they are very, very sorry and want to put things right as soon as possible. But not this girl. She just didn’t give a shit.

Now that really annoyed me.

Anyway, I won’t drone on about it any more. I am sure you can fill in the blanks. Just let it be said that she had her chance, she heard the four minute warning but chose to ignore it. Apparently the radio-active half-life of a nuked couldn't-care-less receptionist is about two trillion years, but frankly I think I’ve done humanity a service today if anything I said to her meant that from now on she’d be A BIT MORE BLOODY CAREFUL or, better still, go and work at Sainsbury’s. But somehow I doubt it. To borrow a phrase from a fantastically foul mouthed friend of mine, I think it would be easier to push butter up a porcupine’s arse with a red hot needle than get her to understand the enormity of the potential disaster her carelessness could have caused today.

Of course, tomorrow, someone’s going to tell me that she’s got terminal Shit-for-Brains disease or something similar, and then I’ll feel really, really bad.

Though, to be honest, I think I'd already guessed.

Back to work, work, work.

2007-10-05T08:18:00.000+01:00

Hmmm.... not sure I like this full-time working lark any more. Having had a taste of freedom in France I am finding it incredibly difficult to get back into the swing of things here in good old Blighty. And having experienced a distinctly different pace and priority of life whilst away, with shops closing at 12 noon for lunch and opening again at 3-ish, (maybe), office workers taking their breaks in a pavement cafe, le weekend feeling lasting until Tuesday and starting up again on Thursday, I discovered that we work far too hard over here. For far too many hours, too.

I am increasingly wondering what it's all about.

Work to live or live to work?

Give me your take on that one?

A starry, starry night.

2007-09-27T22:33:00.001+01:00

There’s something about the light in the South of France which intrigues me. Things which look dull and ordinary back in the UK take on a different character, brighter and more alive. A view through an open gateway suddenly reminds you of a famous picture – you may not be sure which one, but you know you’ve seen it before somewhere. The sight of the waiter bringing lunch, weaving through crowded tables, tray held high, makes you do a double take and wonder why this scene feels so familiar. A badly maintained front door, instead of looking scruffy and in need of attention, suddenly makes you want to paint it. And I don’t mean with two coats of Dulux, either. Everywhere you look, something is begging to be immortalized on canvas, and it's very likely that someone already has.

So although we’re not very au fait (get that, I can speak French now) with art history, I suppose the phrase “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like” could apply to husband and me. We both enjoy a bit of culture so along with the other essential holiday activities of relaxing, swimming, reading, eating and drinking we usually like to visit the odd art gallery or two, visit a historically significant site or just tour the area, sometimes stopping where the fancy takes us rather than making a proper plan. There's something wonderful about being able to call in at Renoir's house (he wasn't in, by the way), visit a world class modern art foundation or look out to sea from the same studio window that Picasso gazed through, all within a few minutes' drive, and still be back to catch the last of the afternoon sun by the pool.

So, after a tense start to the holiday (see previous post) I began to relax deeply, and was surprised to find myself awake at 3 a.m. one night, restless and fretful. Too much coffee after dinner, with a killer Cointreau on the rocks, was no doubt the problem. I lay in bed for a while, trying to get back to sleep, thinking about all the things we'd seen that day, mulling it all over. But it was no good, now I was wide awake with no sign of sleep coming my way. Getting out of a strange bed in an unfamiliar room in the dark, I tentatively felt my way to the bathroom to get a glass of water and, feeling a bit too hot, carefully opened the shutters to let in a bit of air. And what a surprise I got. Framed by the tiny bathroom window was the most wonderful night sky I have ever seen, the stars twinkling like a handful of blazing diamonds scattered over a cloak of inky blue velvet. I stood for a very long time just gazing upwards, totally in awe, thinking of one of my all-time favourite paintings by Van Gogh. It was absolutely stunning.

Like I say, everywhere you look, there's a masterpiece waiting to be painted.

I filled my glass and raised it to drink.

Here's to you Vincent.

Holiday Maker From Hell

2007-09-26T00:39:00.000+01:00

We were booked on an early flight to Nice, so having washed, ironed, selected capsule wardrobe*, packed, unpacked, repacked, burst into tears, decided I couldn't be arsed to go, had a row with my husband whilst simultaneously clearing out the fridge - I lay awake all night worrying about, well, just about everything. I may have told you before that I have managed over the years to turn worrying into a transcendental art form akin to tantric sex - the build up takes hours and hours culminating in one almighty explosion, not of ecstacy but of angst. Don't know why, but going on holiday, dinner parties and Christmas have roughly the same effect on me. Total panic. I am obviously a raving nutter.

Anyway, having worked myself into a frenzy and my husband into a fury, ("Bloody Hell, I'm taking you to the South of France, not the frigging guillotine") I finally flopped, exhausted, into bed at around 9 p.m. so that we would be awake and ready for 5.30 a.m., when our airport taxi was booked. Whose bloody stupid idea was it to get such an early flight? Not mine, obviously. We used two alarms, just to make sure we'd be up, but needn't have bothered with either one of them as I proceeded to lie awake all night long, wide-eyed with terror re the awful prospect of going away. Poor me.

But, with the true stoicism of a man who has lived with a very strange and infuriating woman for over thirty years, my husband just quietly carried on regardless, getting me a cup of tea and a piece of toast at some ungodly hour, reminding me how lovely it was going to be, that everything would be alright, there was no need to worry etc., etc., in a similar way to someone reassuring a loved one about to undergo a major operation. Without an anaesthetic.

That man deserves a medal.

But why do I do it? The only reason I can think of (apart from the fact that I am a bit mad) is that I am a Taurean, a person who is worried about change and not very adventurous at all, who given the chance would probably choose "home" over any other destination. Boring, but true. Plus, I am shit-scared of flying. I'm not particularly concerned about the prospect of crashing (though I would prefer not to, obviously), it's the whole claustrophobic airport experience I hate, from the anxiety of having my suitcase weighed right through to the clanging shut of the aircraft doors. Shudder. I have to be going somewhere really good to make it worth the effort. But the problem is, you don't know how good it's going to be until you've been, do you? What we need is more hindsight, sooner.

Anyhow, we got there in one piece, it was hot, it was wonderful, it was La Belle France. Having left the wet and chilly UK so early, by 1 p.m. we were sitting in the sun, eating lunch in the town square of the medieval perched village of Tourrettes, (yes I know about the syndrome, but for fear of causing offence I am not going to make any wisecracks about it being the ideal holiday location for someone who calls herself Swearing Mother).

"Ah, this is just SO lovely" says I to my long-suffering husband as we clink glasses. Breakfast in the UK and lunch in the South of France. What a good idea that early flight had been. Hadn't I said so all along?

He looks at me for a long moment. I am sure he is fighting the urge to push me face first into my salad Nicoise, and who can blame him?

But he just smiles and says "I am saying absolutely nothing."

Good man.

* for anyone not familiar with the phrase "capsule wardrobe" it's a term used to describe the clever selection of the minimal amount of co-ordinating clothes required to provide the largest number of different outfits possible - in reality it means that by day three of your holiday, everything smells or is covered in bits of food or wine stains, and you're bored with wearing navy blue and white anyway. Especially if you've accidentally packed brown shoes.

Women and Cake

2007-09-10T19:02:00.001+01:00

In a week's time I will be on holiday so today I continue on my diet, trying to lose a couple of pounds of excess blubber which are currently hugging my middle, spoiling the line of my new swimsuit (gave up on bikinis a long, long time ago), so this morning with true resolve I strode into the office carrying a bag with all the food I intended to eat today. It contained:

One banana.

One low fat yoghourt.

One can of low calorie, low salt, low taste soup.

One piece of crispbread with a thin film of low calorie spread.

Two satsumas.

A large bottle of water.

And that was it. That was definitely all I was going to eat today until dinner this evening.

And then I remembered it was someone's birthday today. In our office that means only one thing:

Cake.

Now, I have been known to be able to resist shop bought factory produced cake. Mr. Kipling does not tickle my (French) fancy. Swiss roll can keep on rolling for all I care. I can take them or leave them, more or less.

But not these cakes. They were home-made. And there were tons of them.

Flap-jacks, chocolate layer cake, strawberry Pavlova, lemon drizzle, carrot cake and Bakewell tart, to mention just a few. The birthday girl must have been baking all weekend, bless her. Within minutes of unveiling the wonderful spread, every woman in the place was clustering round that table, plate in hand, like it was the first day at Harrod's china sale.

So now my food list for today includes:

One piece of flapjack, plus the crumbs from the flapjack plate (these don't count, I was just tidying up).

Two very, very thin slices of lemon drizzle cake, then another bloody great huge one.

Only the strawberries from the Pavlova because I am on my diet. The meringue and cream just happened to be stuck to some of them.

A wafer thin piece of chocolate cake. Honestly, it was just a shaving.

Half a piece of carrot cake, no topping. Then the other half plus the topping from the first piece. But they were only very small, so that's OK.

A tiny piece of Bakewell tart, leaving the pastry edge because pastry is very fattening.

As you can see, I am a woman of true resolve and determination. It would have been so easy to have fallen off the wagon in the face of such temptation, but tonight for dinner we are having a salad because I am, as I said, on my diet. And I intend to stick to it.

Can't wait to see how much I've lost.

Baby You Can Drive My Car. Maybe.

2007-09-09T02:07:00.000+01:00

Holy shit, I've bought the little grey sportscar!! It was done with more than a small amount of help from my husband whose negotiating skills were sorely put to the test on Friday when we gave up and retreated, beaten by an intransigent salesman and my big gob. But what do you know, today OH sneaked off into his study whilst I was out of ear-shot (or more importantly, mouth-shot), phoned the car dealers and had another go. And guess what? The guy we tried to deal with before was out of the office, and could someone else help? So husband made an offer that could easily have been refused, but wasn't. Result! My hero! I am now the proud owner of one metallic charcoal grey MG covertible, including total valet and detailing, one year's free warranty and a full tank of petrol. I cannot believe it! After all my dithering, we've actually been and gone and done it. Fantastic. I am SO excited.

Husband's face was a picture when he delivered the news. "You will let me drive it, won't you?" he asked, after I'd released him from a bear hug and he'd had chance to breathe again.

"Of course I will" said I, once I'd put him down and stopped screaming with glee, "any time you like, darling."

That is, when you can find where I've hidden the keys, of course.

P.S. The old bat sitting in the car isn't really me - apparently one minute she was at home doing her ironing and the next she was sitting in my new car. Didn't even have time to re-do her lippy or brush her hair properly. Who the hell is she? Bizarre.

Deal Or No Deal?

2007-09-08T12:23:00.000+01:00

The sports car saga seems to be rumbling on and on, showing no signs yet of running out of fuel. Yesterday OH and I went back to see car number two (graphite metallic, yum) and took it for a test drive in near perfect conditions – lovely sunny day, roof down, did a bit of town driving and then out on the open road. Perfect. To be honest, it was pure magic. Apart from the bits where my husband was driving way too fast (lead foot) and I was shrieking “don’t scare me” the whole thing was a dream. He drove for a bit, stopped, we swapped and then I drove. We stopped again, took the hood down and I got out to check how good it looked. Foxy. He drove, stopped, and looked at the engine (oh, yes, check the engine, that’s a good idea). It had one, so that’s OK. I drove, stopped, played with the stereo and adjusted my sunglasses while he looked underneath the car. He drove again, this time finding a road away from the speed cameras and really revved the engine. I checked the makeup mirror and handbag storage. The conclusion of this exhaustive testing being: I WANT IT! WANT IT! WANT IT! WANT IT! Please.

So now to business and back to the dealer to haggle over price. We’d previously decided between ourselves that we wouldn’t make a decision there and then, we’d go home, have a cup of coffee, talk about it sensibly and then make him an offer. Play it cool. But now? Sod that, give me the keys and get out of my way, I WANT THIS CAR. Any luke-warm, wishy-washy, namby-pamby “I’m not sure if I should spend the money/do I really need it/will I look silly in it” thoughts have now evaporated with the blip of an accelerator pedal. It has now become a lerve thang. I don’t care about the money now, the car had me at “vroom vroom.” We are meant to be together.

As we drive back into the dealership forecourt I try not to look too keen, but it’s not easy as my face is flushed, my hair standing on end and I’m grinning widely, ear to ear.

“Wipe that smile off your face” says OH*. “You’re looking too keen. You’d make a terrible poker player.”

“OK, I’ll think about ironing” says I, looking glum instantly. I am not going to show my hand too soon.

We come to a smooth stop and the dealer swaggers over. He takes one look at us and it’s immediately obvious that there’s absolutely no bluffing him, he is reading me like a hand of marked cards and already has my number.

“That car really suits you” he schmoozes (he might as well have added “l’il lady”) and starts talking about warranties and delivery as if it's all a foregone conclusion and it's now just a matter of paperwork. By prior agreement, I am supposed to leave the financial negotiations to my husband as I am well known for being reckless when in love and tend to agree to anything, so I give him a look which says “well, go on then, get on with it.” I make a pretence of looking round the car, under the car, in the boot, etc., etc., while covertly watching the two men square up to each other like Wild West gunfighters settling a score.

“Well” says OH as an opening gambit, “we like it but there are one or two things that need attention. Can we negotiate on price?” Ah, how polite he is. But masterful. This is going to be easy. He'll win the contest without a shot being fired.

“Not really, it’s in immaculate condition and the money is about right” says dealer guy, lighting a cheroot and spitting on the ground. Ok, so he’s refusing to be drawn and is going to prove more of a challenge after all. This slightly surprises me.

“No room for a bit of negotiation then?” husband asks through narrowed eyes, gazing into the sun. We have already done our homework and know that they are asking top dollar and then some. Especially as it’s been such a terrible summer, it’s now nearly autumn and who but a total nutcase would buy a convertible at this time of year, apart from me of course.

“I don’t think so. We’ve had a lot of interest so far and I don’t think we’ll have any problem getting the asking price, so no. Sorry.” The dealer is standing his ground and not wavering at all. My husband just nods and shakes his head a little bit. So is that it then? They just look at each other in silence. A cold wind starts to blow and a ball of tumble weed drifts across the forecourt. Somewhere inside, there’s a guy whistling the tune from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. It’s not looking good.

They continue circling, getting ready for the next shot at each other, but say nothing. Like most women, I find silence is oppressive and needs filling. I cannot stand the tension any longer, despite our earlier agreement for me to let OH deal with it - I don’t like the way this is going along and am finding it impossible to hold my nerve . So, like a bar room floozy from the Last Chance Saloon who should really have stayed indoors and let the cowboys fight it out, I get in between the two of them to bring things to a head. Move over and let a woman in. Oh dear.

“Let’s cut to the chase shall we, we all know I like the car, so just how low are you willing to go?” They both look at me as if to say “Miss Daisy, git outta the way or you’ll durned well git hurt” but it’s too late, the damage has been done. I've upset the balance of power. It’s obvious I have annoyed the bloke and now he’s telling us that this is his price, take it or leave it. My husband won’t agree to that, so now we’re stuffed. Me and my big mouth.

So now neither of them are willing to back down and the only thing left is for OH and me to saddle up and head out of town, empty handed.

But I’m not ready to throw my hand in yet. I love that car.

(* Other Half or One's Husband, depending on how posh I feel at the time of writing).

Too many miles on the clock?

2007-09-02T07:57:00.000+01:00

Went to look at the bright red sports car yesterday. It was lovely, but I am having doubts about the appropriateness of the whole idea. Not chickening out completely you understand, just having second thoughts.

I was fine with all aspects until I actually went to the showroom to test drive it and noticed a few things going on with other potential buyers which I'm not sure I can live with, even to be the driver of this particular type of car.

For example:

1. My jeans do not reveal my bum crack. Or a thong. Or a tattoo of my boyfriend's name.

2. I don't have long blonde hair to riffle my hands through at traffic lights when I've got the roof down. Or a pierced navel.

3. White high heels would kill my feet.

4. I am at least twenty five years too damn old.

5. I look absolutely shit in a baseball cap.

That said, husband was still determined to get me to have a go in it.

Now, years ago I used to drive an Austin Healey Sprite, a sweet little sporty number, low on the ground, you had to lie down to drive it, so I know how to get in and out of a car like that with some level of decency. But back in those days, mini-skirted and in white PVC boots, I wasn't self conscious about giving any bystander a flash of leg. But now? Well, let's say I'd want to be a lot more careful and can I really be bothered? Am I now built only for comfort? Maybe.

I needed the advice of a man I can trust.

"Give me your absolutely honest advice. I promise I won't go into a sulk" says I to husband, who is really keen for me to buy a sports car again so he can drive it.

"Did I look stupid in it?" I ask.

"No" he replies, as usual a man of many words.

"You know, like those sad old bags who think they're still twenty-five or something?" I persist.

"No, you bloody-well didn't. You looked good. I think it suited you." Ahh, you can see why I love him can't you?

"But what about when I'm getting in and out, wearing a skirt? Would I flash too much flesh? And what about my varicose vein? Hardly goes with the bright red sports car image, does it?" Lots of negatives are popping into my mind now, I am depressing myself and need a bit of reassurance so I'm asking him every spurious question that comes into my head. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Doubts are definitely setting in.

"Only you would even think about that" he looks at me, totally mystified. He doesn't want to give up on the car, he can just see himself bladdering round the countryside with the roof down, listening to his Top Gear driving music CD, Ray-Bans on. So he persists and asks "and does it really matter, anyway?" Fair point I suppose. But I am increasingly talking myself out of it.

"Well I don't want to be silly about it but it's hardly an image I want to portray - y'know, bright red sports car, silly old woman driving it sort of thing?" The truth of the situation is beginning to dawn on me. Too damn old. And silly. And veiny. Bugger, bugger, bugger. My bottom lip is now so far out, you could rest a tray of drinks on it.

He has another go at reassuring me, bless him, but he's getting a bit fed up with it now. Understandably.

"Only you would come to test drive a sports car and then end up worrying about your sodding varicous vein." He thinks that this is reassuring, but to me it isn't. He himself has actually said the V. V. words and now we are DOOMED. Oh dear, this is all going to hell in a handcart, let alone a sexy little two seater convertible.

He gives it one last try, desperately trying to find his way out of the hormonal minefield he is inadvertently walking through. Carefully does it, one step at a time, mind where you put your foot......

"And anyway, who cares if you've got a varicose vein. I love your legs. And blue goes with everything, after all."

CABOOM!

Will let you know what's happening re the car when the smoke clears.

Mommy Dearest

2007-08-31T08:46:00.000+01:00

I think there’s something funny going on with me at the moment and I don’t quite know what it is. Whereas at one time I was content to be the eternal provider of all things domestic,(see previous post), these days yet another strangely different mind-set has begun to take over which I think would be best described as the “Me, me, me” syndrome. Perhaps it’s hormones. Although at my age I was convinced that they’d packed their bags and gone on a permanent holiday, I still get the occasional postcard from the edge to mix things up a little. If you are a women of, ahem, a certain age (how I HATE that phrase) you may know the sort of thing - one minute you have absolutely no confidence at all, don’t want to go out because you look such a mess (too fat/crap hair/nothing to wear/in a mood/would rather watch Eastenders, etc), then within the blink of a slightly wrinkly eye-lid you're suddenly hot to trot, a bit of a babe really despite the fact that your bus pass is looming ever nearer. Norah Batty versus Helen Mirren kind of stuff. (I'm not sure if blokes have similar age-related crises. Maybe they also suffer but just don't go on about it like women do. Too busy cleaning the Harley or something, I dunno). Confusing? I think so. Times they are definitely a-changing, and no more so than my attitude to life, the universe and everything. It’s quite exciting to discover the "sod the consequences, let's have fun" characteristic that I thought only the young and/or foolhardy possessed. Quite refreshing actually, and a bit of a surprise.

So what is all this leading to? The thing is, I've seen a bright red sports car and I quite fancy it, but there are several questions worrying me: Can I really justify it? Am I too old for it? Should I save the money and spend it on the family? And, most importantly, will I look good in it (told you I was shallow). I know you can't help me with the last question, but maybe you have a view on the other three.

I know I don’t have to justify being a bit self-indulgent after a life-time of working and taking care of a family, and I sure as hell don’t intend to be one of those grannies who live on fish-paste sandwiches, with no heating on, so that they can leave every penny to their kids who immediately go off and blow the lot on a state of the art B&O sound system. If anybody's having one of those, I want it to be me. But try as I might to rationalize this newfound selfishness, the old guilt trip still has a ticket with my name on it. Why do I still think that SELF is such a difficult four letter word (especially when I have so little trouble with all the others)? Maybe as time passes I’ll get used to it, but my conditioning has been life-long and a difficult habit to break, although as you can see I'm giving it a bloody good go.

Anyway darlings, it's been lovely chatting to you but must dash - off to SELFridges for lunch and a bit of light shopping. Via the hairdressers, obviously. Will worry about the self-indulgence aspect later.

And let me know what you think about the car?

It's Not All Rock and Roll, Believe Me!

2007-08-29T18:22:00.000+01:00

I was reading through my blog archives recently (how sad can a person get?) when I suddenly realised something. Apart from my obvious penchant for bad language (sorry about that) and habit of making an arse of myself, my posts do appear to reveal something else which made me wonder if I’m giving the right impression here.

First of all, I don’t actually spend all my time shopping, going out for meals and getting disgracefully drunk at parties and ROCK concerts. Oh no. It just looks that way. I also go to work (full time), do the laundry, shop for food and clean the house. I have been known to do a bit of gardening, although I absolutely draw the line at cleaning the car. That’s men’s work. And of course the ironing – who could forget that? It lies tutting and brooding in an ever increasingly crammed basket (in fact, I’ve got two baskets, which frankly is a big, big mistake) until we run out of clothes or husband is off on a business trip and begs for “work shirts”. I usually tackle it all on a Sunday afternoon (unless we’re out for lunch, of course) dashing away with the smoothing iron whilst watching an entire Eastenders’ Omnibus, a crappy old movie and, if I’ve really let it pile up, the Antiques Road Show too. And then we go out for dinner.

I wasn’t always like this, honestly. When the children were at home everyone regularly took the proverbial pee out of me for my diligence in all things housewifely. I would never go out until everything was clean and tidy, washing on the line, casserole in the oven and cake in the tin. I used to clean my skirting boards weekly. Frankly, it makes me tired now to think about it. And to be honest, a little bit bored. I definitely needed to get out more.

I suppose it’s inevitable that after several decades of caring and nurturing, my selfish gene has finally surfaced. The trouble is, it’s brought with it another one called guilt, so now instead of being driven by the need to scrub, cook endless meals and tidy up after everyone, I really can’t be bothered but I still worry about it. Husband constantly reminds me that the house still looks OK, we don’t ever starve and occasionally we get to wear crease-free clothes, so what more can anyone ask? Tell me, how can I stick to the straight and narrow with a partner in crime like that? It’s impossible, thankfully.

But to be honest, I actually like this new and liberated attitude to life which I have so recently discovered. I don’t quite know where it came from but I suspect the seeds were sewn when I stayed in my son’s student house for a week earlier this year. It was a tip. My fingers itched to clean it, and I did, just a bit. But then this sort-of attitude change hit me. Why clean the kitchen floor when you could be writing a blog or reading a book? Or sitting in the sun talking to your mates? Or watching Masterchef on TV? Now, I’m not saying that I can happily live in squalor but it did suddenly occur to me that there’s more to life than worrying about housework.

Like shopping, going out for meals, getting disgracefully drunk at parties and ROCK concerts.

OK, you got me there.

I Wish To Make A Complaint

2007-08-20T08:01:00.000+01:00

I guess we’ve all done it at some time. You're in a restaurant having a nice glass of wine or a gin and tonic, waiting for your food to come. It's taking ages but you console yourself with the thought that it should be worth the wait. Eventually, the meal arrives on a plate the size of a dustbin lid, the artfully arranged tower of chunks teetering in a shower of green dandruff (sorry, would that be herbs?) drizzled with jus and presented with a flourish. So far so good. A feast for the eyes. But how does it taste?

To be honest, it’s usually disappointing isn’t it? The build-up has led you to expect some sort of gourmet masterpiece, the massive size of the plate hints at culinary grandeur beyond your wildest dreams, and the price? Well let’s say you expected Gordon Effing Ramsay himself for that kind of money. But in reality it’s just reasonably OK food stacked up to look trendy and squirted with some brown stuff out of a squeezy bottle. Not exactly ”muck on a truck” but nothing special. Let’s face it, you have, in fact, been conned by an over-effusive description on the menu and the candle-lit gastro-pub decor. Better order another seventy-five quid bottle of wine to cheer yourself up.

So over comes the waiter and asks if everything’s alright with your meal and you of course just nod, your mouth being full of food at the time. His timing is immaculate but it doesn’t really matter if you say anything or not, the question is purely academic. No one ever complains here. When the bill eventually arrives you reflect that a family of four could be fed for a week on that amount of money and still have enough left over for a fish and chip supper. But not in this restaurant, obviously.

Compare and contrast, my fellow gourmands, with what we expect from a different type of eating experience – the “Sunday Lunch £8.99” offered at most pubs throughout the land. Are the potatoes properly roasted or merely deep fried? Has the meat been freshly carved, or pre-sliced and stuck under a hot lamp? Are the Yorkshire puddings soggy? Answer yes to any or all of the above and what do we do – we complain! After all it is nearly nine quid when all is said and done!

There seems to be a rather strange sliding scale of complaint to cost ratio going on here. My dear old Dad used to call it “The Emperor’s Suit of Clothes Syndrome” and you know what, I think he may have been right – the fancier the restaurant, the more intimidated we feel and the less likely we are to show ourselves up by questioning the quality of what we’re eating. But down at the pub for a bit of Sunday dinner? It had better be as good as we get at home, or else!

I Saw Her Standing There

2007-08-16T21:45:00.001+01:00

Went to a Rock Concert the weekend before last (did you notice how I said that SO casually, like I do it all the time?). Yeah, anyway, went to a Rock Concert two weekends ago (although husband says that, strictly speaking, it wasn’t a proper Rock Concert, more a Pop Concert, but I’m not letting him spoil it for me). So, as I was saying, went to a ROCK concert recently, but didn’t really want to go if the truth be told. I just felt a bit out of sorts one way and another – fed up with the rain/ got a bad back/ can’t be bothered/ what if it isn’t any good - that sort of stuff. The venue was Shugborough Hall in Staffordshire and there were Beatles, Queen, Commitments and Blues Brothers tribute bands on the bill, which was definitely our thing, so I don’t quite know what my problem was. As we say here in Brum, I’d just “got one on me”.

But you know how sometimes when you’re not looking forward to something it can turn out to be fantastic? Well this did. For one thing, it was sunny! Not bad for August. We took a picnic, not the sort where you prepare everything yourself and lovingly pack it and stack it into Tupperware boxes. Oh no. This was no ordinary home-made scotch egg and ham sandwich picnic, this was an M and S custom-built, posh music festival, rock ‘n roll type picnic - smoked salmon and cream cheese mini-bagels (OK but a little bit boring), chicken kebabs (delicious eaten hot or cold, apparently), frittata (not at all delicious eaten cold, believe me), sun-blush tomato and ricotta tartlets (yum) with a little pyramid of profiteroles (chocolate, and therefore can do no wrong) and a rustic cheese selection to follow (interesting). With grapes, obviously. Oh, and wine – lots of it, with a chilled bottle of champers to start. My friend and I had mounted a dawn raid on Marks and Spencer's Food hall early that morning having decided that we just couldn’t be arsed to DIY, and the most effort we wanted to put in would be ripping the tops off pre-packs. She is SO my kind of girl.

So there we were, not exactly Glastonbury but about as near to the mud, wellies and shorts experience as I really want to get. This was definitely the sophisticated side of outdoor music events, and as the sun set in glowing streaks of pink and dusky blue behind the looming grey of Shugborough Hall, and the music grew louder and louder (and we got more and more “relaxed”), any doubts I’d had earlier just melted away like butter on a hot waffle. Lanterns were lit, sparkly twinkly thingies were waved. First up was the Beatles tribute band who were FAB. Having drunk the champagne, a glass or two of dry white wine and now enjoying a rather pleasant red, I was definitely feeling no pain. My back began to feel much, much better. I tried to persuade husband and friends to leave their seats and come down to the front with me, to get a closer look, but they wouldn’t so I went on my own (sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do), weaving my way through the throng like a salmon swimming upstream. At first I stood on the edge of the crowd way back from the stage, gently swaying and singing along with everyone, but bit by bit I got closer until eventually, there I was, right at the front, just a short distance away from the band. Magic.

I looked around to see if either my husband or friends had followed me, but no. Ah well, I thought, it’s their loss. I was on my own in a huge sea of people, totally anonymous, and it suddenly occurred to me that no one in this crowd actually knew me and I was hidden from sight from anyone who did. And what a fantastically liberating feeling it was. So what did I do? What would any red-blooded, slightly pissed, middle-aged, off-the-leash woman do? Asked the two lads next to me if they’d dance, that’s what. Sang until my throat was sore, waved my arms in the air, staggered and fell over, that’s what. Made a complete and embarrassing fool of myself, that's what. But who knew me? No one. It was brilliant.

I was just thinking that I should really get back to our table before they all got really annoyed with me, when suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see my husband who’d come to find me.

“Sorry I’ve been down here so long” I shouted into his ear. He didn't look at all annoyed with me but I felt I had to apologise. “I just couldn’t resist. You must have wondered where I’d got to. Sorry about that. You been looking for me for long?”

“No, came straight to you” he smiled at me, looking highly amused. “We knew exactly where you were.”

“Ah yes, everyone knows I’m a Beatles fan. Where else would I be?”

“No, it wasn’t that. We’ve been watching you on the big screen."

”What big screen?” I felt the colour drain from my face. He pointed to the side of the stage behind me. Shit. That would be it then, about twenty feet high, with a picture so big you could probably see it from outer space.

Bloody hell, you can’t get away with anything these days, can you?

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=4s-R6b5h9Ns

Ten Things You Ought To Know About Me:

2007-08-15T18:41:00.001+01:00

I love chocolate.

I hate escalators.

I can worry myself into a state of total immobility.

I swear a lot (no shit, Sherlock).

I was once told by someone that I was “frightened of my own potential” but was too scared to ask her what she meant by that.

I love, love, love clothes. And shoes. And having my hair done (I know that’s three things but they are all related). And another thing. I can be totally shallow. Yet somehow deep. Oh bollocks, who am I kidding?

I’m very observant and intuitive.

I really, really want to write magazine articles but no one will let me. I’d even stop swearing.

I have a very long fuse, but there’s a nuclear arsenal at the end of it.

I look a bit like Barbra Streisand, already.

Now, let’s talk about you shall we?

People Who Talk Loudly in Restaurants

2007-08-13T16:14:00.000+01:00

Picture the scene. Sunday lunchtime in a lovely country pub, tables outside in the sun, charming views across the village green, cool music in the bar. Perfect. We go inside hoping they can feed us, having just driven back from Lancashire where we’d been to yet another friend’s fantastic 60th birthday party, and we are pleased to find that yes, they have a table for two available immediately, which is a very good thing as we’d been too hung over to eat breakfast and we are now STARVING.

We’ve been to this pub before, it has good food, trendy interior, friendly staff and very importantly, no riff-raff. Now don’t take issue with me here, I like a bit of riff-raff when it suits me, and in fact I possess many riff-raffish tendencies myself, as you know, but sometimes you just want to chill, don’t you? So no screaming babies, no kids roaring around pretending to be Spiderman or whoever, no blissfully unaware parents ignoring the little swine while they themselves enjoy their own meal, no football on Sky TV. Just a quietly sophisticated English country gastro-pub. Nice.

So we get our drinks and sit down, order our free range, organic, chef-cooked Sunday lunch and sink gratefully back into the soft brown leather chairs to wait. What a perfect way to round off our lovely weekend. I even take off my shoe and play footsie with my husband under the table, such is my total contentment. He is so relaxed he even lets me. Wonderful.

And then, in they come. One by one I clock the immaculate Sloaney clothes, the Berkin bags (tan of course, it IS summer after all darling), the perfectly ironed slacks, cashmere sweaters casually knotted around the shoulders, shirt collars turned up – yes, dear friends, it’s the invasion of the Hooray Henries and Henriettas.

What is it about some posh folk that makes them think they are the only people in the world who matter? That it’s OK to talk at a million decibels louder than anyone else? Or to continually lean back on the chair of a total stranger (aka my husband) who is trying to enjoy his lunch, and keep elbowing his head because they are standing TOO BLOODY CLOSE, whilst “entertaining” the whole bar with tales of how they’ve been out shooting and had “blown the bloody head right orf” a partridge, or skinned a rabbit with their sodding penknife. Big deal. I’m as interested as the next person (probably a bit more so, to be honest) in other people’s conversations but not when it totally puts a stop to everyone else’s within a five mile radius. And actually, Tarquin, I don’t really want to hear how annoying it is that your au pair won’t clean windows or how your holiday in Tuscany was such a bore this year because Jemima didn't like the heat, and by the looks on their faces neither do the rest of the pub either. The fact that the well behaved children of the family next to us are looking a bit worried about the rabbit skinning story seems to have escaped you. Which upsets me, quite a lot.

We eat the rest of our lunch in silence – well, I say silence but what I really mean is that the H.H’s are so brayingly loud that husband and I get fed up with lip-reading in order to communicate between ourselves, so decide to take our coffee outside. How bloody rude are they? The waitress comes out to ask if we’d like anything else and I resist the temptation to order a twelve-bore shotgun and a spare box of ammo to take back inside with me. That would sort the buggers out, and show them how the partridge must have felt at the same time.

We pay the bill and walk to our car which is now surrounded by open top Mercs, BMWs and Audi’s. Jealous, I am not. Furious, I am. My husband tells me not to over-react but they’ve spoiled our good time, and if I could rub a magic lamp at this very moment, you know what I’d wish for?

A particularly scarey chapter of Hell’s Angels to turn up, starving hungry and looking for trouble.

Oh yes.

A Sincere "Thank You For Not Smoking"

2007-08-07T23:34:00.000+01:00

At the risk of opening up an entire catering pack of worms, not just the one solitary can, I want to talk about the smoking ban. OK, OK, OK – don’t throw things at me, please - I know that over one month into it you’re probably sick and tired of the subject and so am I, but the heated debate seems to be smouldering on and on. The smoking population still think they’re being persecuted and anti-smokers are continuing to wave two non-nicotine stained fingers as if they were the victors at Agincourt. Both sides think they have rights, and neither can understand the other’s point of view, and it doesn’t surprise me at all that there has been the occasional punch-up between the two factions. As a person who can resort to violence if someone pinches my last Rolo, I know all about addiction and how difficult it is to live without something that gives you pleasure. However, I have noticed a lighter side to all of this.

Firstly, it makes me smile every time I go past a “Thank-you For Not Smoking” sign because it’s usually surrounded by a sea of fag-ends in an “up yours” kind of way. I’ve also noticed that there’s often far more frivolity going on inside those “designated smoking shelters” than there is inside the pub. Does this say something about smokers? Are they more fun? Or are they living fast and loose because they fear that their nicotine habit might eventually do for them, so time is short and they’d better make the most of it? There’s a kind of camaraderie developing among the shunned partakers of what non-smokers sanctimoniously call “the filthy weed” and a bit of bravado is definitely creeping in. Whereas at one time rebels without a cause needed a black leather jacket, white t-shirt and moody look to establish their chosen identity, now all you have to do is put a Silk Cut in your mouth and, hey presto, YOU ARE A DOWNRIGHT FILTHY RENEGADE. Job done. And you don’t even have to light it.

I know the very serious side-effects of smoking aren't a joking matter and cannot be ignored. You only have to look at the sad crowds of smokers cowering in the rain outside hospital entrances to realise how strong their dependence must be if it can force people to hang around outdoors in their nightwear, attached to drips or in wheelchairs. But whilst some of us are rejoicing because we can now spend an evening in the pub without our clothes, hair and skin stinking of fags and are victoriously going on about how thrilled we are that we’re not being forced to passively smoke other people’s cigarettes any more, I think it needs to be acknowledged that this has been achieved by denying the pleasure of another group of people, and I for one appreciate that.

For us non-smokers, there is just one unexpected downside though. Has anyone noticed that now smoking is banned, all the pubs and clubs smell of stale beer, drains and BO?

Maybe I’ll take my drink outside.

Downloading My Head:

2007-08-02T12:00:00.000+01:00

There are two sorts of people in this world, those who read instructions and those who don’t. It may not surprise you to learn that I am one of those who don’t, hence my exclusion from the finer points of IT, fancy features on my mobile phone, digital camera and blog. I also have a bit of a thing about iPAQs. And iPODs, come to mention it.

To be honest, to start with it was a bit of a statement – I think I was making a stand for those of us who still use a paper diary and pen, who add up and do percentages in our head and can find our way home without a sat-nav. For my generation, TomTom meant a set of drums, not a high-tech method of finding out how lost we are. Of late, my technophobia has become a real pain – I realise that however resistant I’ve been to change and hated being dragged kicking and screaming into the technological age, I really do need to get to proper grips with it all and I am now making the effort to learn. So I give in. I was being silly. But there are still times when that little renegade voice in my head makes me behave like a total technophobe and it’s usually when people are being patronising to me that my awkward gene kicks in, big-time.

A young IT engineer visited my office yesterday and along with other things which horrified him about my lack of computer literacy, he was stunned to find that I wasn’t using the electronic diary on my computer. He looked about fourteen years old, cocky and confident, and obviously didn’t realise that diaries don’t always come with batteries or a three-pin plug. Bless him.

“How do you manage to get to your appointments on time then, if you don’t use the diary facility?” he asks in a shocked voice with a scandalised expression on his face.

“I use my own diary facility” say I, waiting for the usual reaction. I’ve been here before. In a household full of technical whiz-kids I am the family dinosaur. I am used to being mocked, but I can handle it. I fix a smile and the thought “don’t mess with me, sonny” wafts across my mind.

“But there’s nothing in your diary.” He might as well have added, “you stupid woman” and he’s shaking his head.

“That’s because I use this diary instead.” I scrabble in my bag and drag out a small, stylish (of course) brown leather diary with a tiny little pen. It matches my bag and purse, obviously.

He looks as if he’s viewing an Egyptian artefact exhumed from the tomb of a long-dead Pharaoh. The guy is shocked. He has never seen anything like it in his life.

“It’s made of paper” – there’s no getting past this bloke, he is observant.

“Yes, I find it easier.” I know what’s coming next. He is shaking his head again and I can almost hear him thinking ‘Poor old girl. She should be at home watching day-time TV and sucking humbugs with her feet in a big slipper.’

“But what if you lose it, how would you know what you’re supposed to be doing then?” he challenges, triumphantly slapping down what he thinks is his trump card of computer logic.

“The same thing I’d do if the the computer system went down (I am thinking "which it does all the time, YOU CONDESCENDING LITTLE TIT") - I'd use my onboard computer." I am definitely getting tired of explaining myself to him.

“Your onboard computer?? Where’s that then?” Is he patronising me? Was that a snigger I heard? Is he actually laughing at me? I can feel my hackles rising.

“Here, in my head” says I, tapping my forehead and smiling benignly, somehow resisting the temptation to unleash my inner Rottweiler.

He is now totally confused, and is obviously getting a bit worried that he’s dealing with an escaped mad woman or someone who’s been in a coma for the last twenty years and has just woken up in this office, dazed and confused. I can almost hear him thinking “I’ve got a right one here, can’t wait to tell the lads back in the Department. Oh how they’ll laugh.”

“So you keep all your appointments in your head?”

“No, in my diary. My paper diary.” I’m definitely thinking of savaging him.

He looks at me and wearily shakes his head, obviously relieved that although very odd, I appear to be harmless. “You really need to transfer all of that stuff into the computer. What would happen if you were off unexpectedly and someone else had to cover your job?”

“They’d look in that big desk diary, the one your coffee’s standing on?”

“I see.” He obviously doesn’t, but is humouring me. “Would you like me to transfer those appointments into the electronic diary while I’m here?” He’s definitely not giving up and maybe he has a point. Perhaps it’s time for me to conform.

“Ok then, that’s fine. Carry on. Thanks.” He had better not be smirking.

He taps away furiously for a few seconds, the whizzing mouse tracing crop-circles on the mat. He looks confused, worried, exasperated. He phones his Mothership, the IT Department, has a conversation in an alien techno-language I don’t understand and slams the phone down. He looks a bit sheepish.

“Got a problem?” I ask, trying not to sound triumphant.

“System’s down, I can’t get into the right screen. They say it’ll be off for another hour or two. I’ll have to come back later. How about 2.30?”

I open my little brown leather diary. The irony of the situation is not passing him by. “Yes, that should be fine, but I have to be out of here by 4.00 for an appointment.” – I wanted to add “which I have here, on paper, written in pen, accessible to me instantly. Right now, as we speak” but you’ve got to know when to back off , haven’t you?

With a face like thunder, he picks up his coffee mug, armload of electronic gadgetry, briefcase and pen. Exit one extremely annoyed IT engineer, stage left, muttering something I didn’t really want to hear. I can just imagine what he thinks of me, but I'll get over it.

I put my little leather diary back in my bag and get on with my work, humming a happy tune. Oh, but life can be so sweet sometimes.

Here Comes the Sun?

2007-07-27T08:44:00.000+01:00

If the sun shines today, please thank me personally, for yesterday dear friends I bought a mac. From M and S, reduced from nearly a hundred quid to twenty-nine, it’s black and white check and very stylish (obviously). I look quite foxy in it, for an old bird.

The reason I’m telling you this is because me buying a mac is the sartorial equivalent of doing a rain dance in reverse. In the same way as it's all my fault we’ve had weeks of rain because of several sleeveless t-shirts and a wrap-over linen dress bought at the beginning of July (sorry about that) since when it has persistently pissed down, and if my previous history is anything to go on, buying a showerproof coat now should certainly put a stop to this hideous wet weather. I'm hoping I won’t need to wear it but I’m not taking it back for a refund until we’ve had a bit of sun.

So while you’re out walking the dogs, pottering in the garden, or sun-bathing in the park with your iPOD earphones plugged in – just send me a vote of thanks. And a quid towards the mac.

Does My Bum Look Big in This?

2007-07-23T23:35:00.000+01:00

We have these little rituals. I think it’s what happens when you’ve been married to the same person for 150 years. For a week or two before any important social event, I start whingeing that I’ve got nothing to wear. I go on a crash diet in order to lose those vital 2lbs which will, of course, make absolutely no difference to anything except what’s going on in my head. I have my hair done (“spikey like Lulu’s please”). I might have a manicure and a pedicure. I might even have a rejuvenating facial (always the optimist, me). My better half calls this procedure “putting up the scaffolding” prior to the immense rebuilding task ahead of me. Believe me, Windsor Castle was restored with less attention to detail.

Then, having gone as far as I can to whip the undisciplined bag of tripe that is my body into shape with Magic Knickers (from neck to ankle), found a suitable outfit from the sad array of rags I laughingly call my wardrobe (or more likely bought something new), buffed, plucked, polished and preened – then, and only then am I ready to face the world. Or at least give the husband a quick reminder of what he first liked about me all those aeons ago.

"What do you think?” says I, striking a pose.

“You look bloody fantastic” says he, not looking up from the computer screen.

“No, really. Do I look OK?”

“Yes, you look really, really lovely.” This time he has a proper look.

“You sure?”

“I’ve told you once already, you look absolutely great.”

Hmm…….is he saying that to shut me up, or is he taking the ….?

“You’re not just saying that are you, to shut me up or something?”

“What?”

“You’re not just…..”

“No, of course not, you look OK”

“Only OK?”

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake, I already said you look great, what more can I say?
YOU. LOOK. BLOODY. GREAT.”

I pull a face at him “No need to be arsey.”

So this time off we go, me done up like a dog’s dinner and husband looking the dog’s bollocks, suave and handsome in something he pulled out of his wardrobe in about five seconds flat after his rigorous grooming routine which lasted, oh, maybe all of three minutes. Shower, shave, shampoo. But somehow he looks brilliant (Bryan Ferry eat your heart out) and I feel OK(ish).

In the car I have one last go at finding the confidence I need to face the evening ahead.

“You sure I don’t look fat in this?”

This time, he just looks at me and says absolutely nothing. I know that look so well – it’s the “you are seriously pissing me off now” look. Best not mention it again.

So anyway, in we go, hello, hello, hi, how are you? Mwah, mwah (I HATE that bloody double kissing, so boring and time consuming when all you really want is a gin). Polite conversation. Check out the room. Look for anyone I know. Aha, with relief I spot my close friend Julie. Over she comes.

“Hi Julie, you look lovely” I gush.

“So do you honey, but what’s with the shoes? Brave choice if I may say so.”

I look down. I am wearing my lime green gardening flip-flops instead of the sparkly Kurt Geigers I’d bought especially to go with my outfit. Not wanting to mess them up, I’d quickly slipped them off and put on the flip-flops to fetch a bit of washing in from the garden just before we left and then had obviously forgotten to change back again. The lime green flip-flops came free with a magazine last year and cost nothing. The KGs came from Selfridges last week and cost more than my first car. They are currently on the mat in the kichen. Bugger.

I glare over at my husband. He is talking to a stick-thin blonde woman with fabulous shoes. The bitch.

He smiles at me encouragingly, totally oblivious to the full horror of it all.

I smile back through gritted teeth with a look which says “boy oh boy, you are SO in trouble when we get home.”

It is, of course, all his fault.

Bringing Home The Bacon

2007-07-18T07:23:00.001+01:00

I was wondering recently about what stage in life you get to before you suddenly think “Sod it, don’t care what people think of me, from now on I’m doing what I like” and start eating with your mouth open (not doing that yet), or chasing pigeons (considered that), talking to yourself loudly on public transport (done that already) or scratching yourself in intimate places (husband's been doing it for ages) etc., etc.

On holiday last week whilst at breakfast in our hotel, I noticed an ancient couple merrily chatting away to themselves at the table next to us – not to each other, you understand, just to themselves. Frankly, their simultaneous but solo conversations were a whole lot more interesting than ours because my husband was refusing to come out from behind his newspaper, in protest, as he was annoyed with me for having finally banned the iPAQ from the table (actually I hid it and then forgot where). Bored, I listened in to our neighbours for a bit, then gave the husband a nudge so he could tune in too.

Him: “She never passes me anything. All I want is the black pepper”

Her: “I wonder if the dogs would like a bit of sausage?”

Him: “All I wanted was the black pepper.”

Her: “I could wrap it up in my hanky.”

Him “You’d think a bloke could get some black pepper if he wanted it, wouldn’t you?”

Her: “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Wrap it up in my hanky.”

Whereupon, out comes a pack of Kleenex, down goes the sausage which gets carefully wrapped up and popped in the handbag.

Him: “Still haven’t got any black pepper.”

Her: “Think I’ll take them some toast. They like toast.”

Him: “Can’t enjoy my breakfast without the black pepper.”

Toast arrives, it gets buttered and both buttered sides put together sandwich style. Out come the tissues, toast gets neatly wrapped up, down it goes into the handbag.

Him: “Next time I’m bringing my own black pepper.”

Her: “Maybe they’d like a bit of bacon. Yes, I’ll take some bacon for the dogs”

And so on. Bacon. Tissues. Handbag.

At this point, my husband catches the waiter’s eye, beckons him over and whispers something into his ear.

Me: “What did you say to the waiter?”

Him: “I asked him for something for the old couple”

Me: "Aah, you’re so sweet. That’s so nice of you. Did you ask for some black pepper for the old boy?”

Him: “No I bloody didn't. I asked for a bowl of porridge for his wife.”

He can be so mean sometimes.

Ma, get outta my facebook!

2007-07-16T18:30:00.000+01:00

One is feeling a little low today - I don't know why. Maybe it's because we've just come back from holiday, first day back at work and all that. Let's just say I've got the blues and even chocolate hasn't helped.

On the way home from darn sarf we called in to see our son who, at the age of twenty-one, buggered off "to be independent" and live in Devon. I think he just couldn't stand my cooking really, which is understandable. He's just finished at university now, doing fine, but I still haven't got over the fact that he's living two hundred miles away from me so I don't have access to him as often as I would like. I suppose I always thought he'd come back to live at home one day. I try not to stalk him but it's really hard when he doesn't answer his phone, never rings up unless he's broke and doesn't come home unless we throw a sack over his head and kidnap him. With chloroform.

So it's not my fault if I've found a way of seeing what he's up to whenever I want. I've discovered Facebook. I sneakily get in (don't ask how) and have a look at his photos. He has about two thousand friends. And guess what else I've discovered? He smokes. He gets incredibly drunk. He has a lot of women hanging around his neck a lot of the time. He occasionally dresses up in women's clothes and wears makeup. He dances on tables. He chases sheep across fields, and many many other activities too dodgy to mention. He doesn't do much studying. But the thing I've discovered which shook me most of all?

The reason why he doesn't want to live at home ever again. It's called freedom.

Bloody hell, we might as well rent out his bedroom.

Dartmouth Rocks

2007-07-14T22:28:00.000+01:00

We've just come back from my favourite place, Dartmouth in Devon. Even when it's chucking it down I love it there, for so many reasons, but there are some rules which must be obeyed if you're to get the full benefit of the place:

CLOTHES: Don't dress up. You'll look like a tourist if you wear high heels or brogues because the locals and visiting snotty-yachties all sport espadrilles, ancient boat-shoes or flip-flops. If your jeans are new and hole-free, cut them off at the knees with a pair of nail-scissors (unevenly of course) and try to get them to fray. If your shins are covered in scars which look as if they could have been caused by bumping your legs against the side of your boat, so much the better, and if you haven't got one already, invest in a gold tooth, preferably one at the front. It looks very nautical.

PUB ETIQUETTE: Don't expect to get a table all to yourself in any pub as many are small and very cosy with table space at a premium. Sometimes there's live music which increases the squeeze. If you are the stand-offish type, best stay at home, because the people are very friendly and it may annoy you when total strangers constantly engage you in conversation. It's not unusual to find yourself talking to everyone in the pub at some stage and getting falling-down drunk by the end of the evening. But you will make friends and they will make sure you get home OK.

HEALTH AND SAFETY: Wear a balaclava or bee-keeper's hat at all times because there are lots of seagulls and they get to eat some very rich food (for possible perils, see previous post "Shit Happens"). Dartmouth has some fantastic restaurants, pubs, coffee shops and even a trattoria (hi everyone at Alf Resco's), but occasionally one does feel the need to scoff a bag of chips (how common) or an ice-cream on the quayside whilst watching the endlessly fascinating river scene. However, at the merest hint of a rustling paper bag you will suddenly begin to feel like a film extra from Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" - DO NOT FEED THE SEAGULLS. Many tourists have not yet learned that this is an anti-social thing to do, as feeding anything that flies with bits of curried parsnip pasty is bound to have an especially disasterous effect.

BE CONSIDERATE: Do not stand in front of the big glass window of the very posh "New Angel" restaurant and stare through it like you are a starving vagrant. It puts people off their lunch.

LEARN TO RELAX: If you haven't got the patience to negotiate the single car's width roads in reverse to let other drivers through who are bigger or more persistent than you, the streets will drive you mad. Best to park up somewhere and leave the car locked up for your stay and do what we call the walking pub crawl, or the crawling pub walk, whichever is appropriate in your case.

SHARE YOUR WEALTH:Don't just browse in the shops, buy something, so next time you go they'll still be there.

AND FINALLY:

However many Plymouth Gins or pints of Doom Bar he has had, and however curious he may be about the RN night manoeuvres which frequently occur on the River Dart, do not let your husband approach the Cadets from the Royal Naval College with the question -

"Hey, Navy-boys, was that you pissing about on the river last night?"

The outcome can be very embarrasing.

That bloke just sniffed my doughnut.

2007-07-11T06:39:00.000+01:00

Fellow caffeine junky (my husband) and I had dropped into the sleek, posh and trendy Michael Caine's coffee bar on Cathedral Square in Exeter (by the way, not Michael Caine as in world famous actor, but Michael Caine as in world famous chef. Not a lot of people know that). Only for a plain black coffee you understand, nothing too naughty, but the urge for sugar coated calories was strong upon us and I was soon inevitably drawn over to the glass display counter - just to look, you understand, only to look.

A handsome young waiter glanced up at me and smiled (down, grandma) "see anything you fancy?" (I've told you before granny, down I say). "No thanks, only looking. Those doughnuts really do look good though".

He smiled at me in that sort of "ah, bless" type of way I'm getting used to. It's only one stage away from being patted on the head or helped across the road. "Yes, they're home made and really good. If you take a seat, I'll come and get your order."

Over he came with his notebook, "I'll have a plain black coffee and my husband would like a cappucino". Handsome lad smiled back.

"Sure I can't tempt you to anything more?" (someone throw a bucket of water over me, please).

"Erm, maybe I'll have one of those doughnuts after all. And a home-made pastry for my husband".

You will notice that I am the mouthpiece of our organisation, and as such will do the ordering for both of us unless it entails a) speaking French b) ordering wine, or c) if the waitress is young, female and pretty, in which case husband asserts his rights and becomes incredibly smooth and attentive. Anyway, in this case he was busy with his stupid bloody pocket organiser and totally oblivious to everything happening around him, but THAT subject is for another day.

"Apple or jam?"

"Sorry?"

"Your doughnut - apple or jam?"

"Oh apple, please, it's a bit healthier being fruit" - oh for fuck's sake woman, get a grip. You're considering eating a dollop of deep fried dough, covered in sugar with a half teaspoonful of sweet pureed apple injected into and you're calling it healthy. You silly, silly woman. Stop it now.

He smiled at me indulgently and went off to get our stuff. Husband continued to catalogue the phone numbers in his iPAQ which is bloody rude and he knows it annoys me. It's a high-tech version of hiding behind the newspaper at the breakfast table. I reflected on how pathetic I am getting and how annoying he is and waited for my sugar-rush to arrive.

"That bloke's just sniffed my dough-nut!"

Husband looked up from iPAQ, momentarily. "What?"

"The waiter is sniffing my doughnut - look!"

Sure enough, held up with serving tongs, behind the counter my doughnut was being well and truly sniffed.

Gorgeous waiter-boy arrived with our tray. I know at this point I should have kept my mouth shut, but that just isn't my style.

"You sniffed my doughnut. Is there something wrong with it?"

Stunningly goodlooking waiter goes red.

"Oh, sorry, it's because the labels have fallen off and I couldn't tell apple from jam, and didn't want to give you an unhealthy jam one, you being health conscious and all."

"Oh, that's OK then, I just thought it was a bit strange."

Smirking waiter-boy goes off.

"What do you think of that then?" says I to husband, who has returned to reading War and Peace on the sodding iPAQ. "He actually admitted to sniffing my doughnut. Couldn't work out which was which, apparently".

"Stupid sod"

"Is that all you can say about it? Some bloke sniffing my doughnut in public?"

"Good job you didn't order a muffin".

You couldn't make it up.

Gym'll fix it.

2007-07-09T07:22:00.000+01:00

Forgive me Fitness First, for I have sinned. It's been nine long weeks since my last gym session. There's no real excuse - I haven't lost my gym kit, I don't have my period (ever) and, sadly, I can't bring in a note from my mother asking if I can be excused because I have a verucca. No, it's down to me and my total lazyness.

In my defence, the weather has been totally rubbish and I am sick and tired of getting wet and smelling slightly of mould, but even under these circs it seems vaguely ridiculous driving down to the gym to spend an hour walking on the treadmill and then driving the mile back home again. I blame global warming and patio heaters.

Reassuringly though, muscles do apparently have a "memory" and I'm hoping mine are eventually going to recall all the work I put in last year in an attempt to get into (if I say so myself) a rather fantastic mother-of-the -bride outfit which is now hanging in my wardrobe laughing at me. We shall see. It appears that the default setting for my figure is permanently set at "sack of potatoes" rather than "gym toned" - maybe if the sun shone, ever, it would give me the impetus to get off my fat lard-arse and do something about it.

In the meantime I'm wondering about a bacon sandwich, if I omit the butter and slice the bread really, really thin? Any maybe lose the bacon? What do you think?

I've seen the future and I don't like the look of it.

2007-07-08T19:55:00.000+01:00

I am writing this in a state of shock combined with deep depression. Went to a 60th birthday party last night and came back absolutely stone cold sober, both of us, and not just the one who was driving. We didn't dance. There was no music. No one fell over pissed or made an arse of themselves doing a Mick Jagger impersonation to the deafening strains of Brown Sugar. All of the women kept most of their clothes on all of the time (there's a mercy I suppose). People sat around in polite groups nursing the same drink all night (on medication), avoided the buffet (type 2 diabetes) and only went upstairs to pee (for which I suppose we should have been grateful, given the possible alternative). Sigh.

So what the hell is happening? Doesn't everyone know that WE ARE THE BABY BOOMERS, and as such WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO GET OLD? I don't think the message is getting through somehow, despite pictures of the lovely Lulu, fantastic Joanna Lumley and gorgeous Bryan Ferry. Instead of chatting about work, kids, holidays and house prices like we used to, the conversation was of retirement, pensions, downsizing and (horror) ailments.

I may hang myself.

I'm not sure now how to handle this situation. Do I carry on in my own sweet way eating, drinking and being a bit too merry? Is it still OK to continue having fun over fifty with clothes, hair, makeup and music? Or am I in denial? Given the choice between slowly shuffling into the sunset in a comfy pair of Footgloves or falling off my platforms at Hobbs' sale, I know which one I'd choose, given the opportunity. But then, of course, I am nowhere near being 60 yet (yeah, right).

Shit happens

2007-07-07T16:55:00.000+01:00

Well, have just come back from a quick trip into Birmingham City Centre to return most of the stuff I bought last week whilst on a shopping trip with my daughter. It's all her fault. She eggs me on. I think it's because she doesn't like the thought of me getting old, so she encourages me to buy clothes which aren't really suitable and a bit too young for me. Either that or she's planning to raid my wardrobe sometime soon.

Anyway, we nearly didn't go because I was worried about the heightened security alert we've all been under since last week's scarey terrapin* episodes in London and Scotland, but my husband (whose message is "bollocks to that, I'm going") taunted me with an offer of lunch at Selfridges Noodle Bar which I considered to be worth the risk so off we went with me still a bit nervy. He gave me a pep talk all the way into town about how we mustn't be intimidated or be frightened to live our lives because some people were trying to force their views upon us, etc., etc., and that I was more likely to be hit by something dropping out of the sky than be blown up whilst shopping, and so on (and on). Lecture over, he dropped me off at the back of Rackhams (please note, if you are from Birmingham, this does not mean that I am a prostitute) and went to park the car, so I walked through the sunny Cathedral square, picking my way carefully through the two million pigeons who have squatters' rights there.

What is it with pigeons? Why do they wait for you to politely skirt around them, then suddenly fly up into your face all feathers and flutter? I hate the bloody things. The feeling is obviously mutual because today one actually pooped on me - although judging by the huge acrid dollops that hit me this could well have been a case of formation-pooping by the pigeon tribute version of the Red Arrows. Yes, something actually did fall out of the sky and it definitely wasn't a bit of space debris.

If you've never been crapped on by a pigeon, I can honestly not recommend it - it reeks. It's hot, acidic and burns like hell. You feel so stupid with pigeon-shit highlights and a liquid brown handbag charm when only one minute earlier you thought you looked quite good, actually. No amount of Chanel Number 5 is going to hide this stench. You just know your rope-soled suede wedges are going to be a bugger to clean. It also tends to put a dampener on your enjoyment of beef in blackbean sauce at the Noodle Bar although I can guarantee you'll definitely get an empty seat beside yours where you can put your coat.

Am off to wash my hair, clothes, shoes and bag now so must dash. There must be a moral to this story somewhere though for the life of me at the moment can't think of what it is.

*not using the proper word in case I set off a bloody great hooter at the Anti-Terrapin HQ or something.

Whatever happened to photo albums?

2007-07-06T08:19:00.000+01:00

We've had a digital camera for some time now, but I can't say I've really bonded with it. We haven't become friends in that I still don't know all the stuff it can offer me, I just know it's there when I need it and produces good pics. What is still a mystery though is what to do with those photo's once uploaded (or it is downloaded, never sure).

I know it's great being able to bore the arse off people universally by emailing your holiday snaps to all and sundry and I suppose it saves long-suffering friends the pain of having to come round for an evening of "there's me, about to fall backwards into a ravine, and there's Jo phoning the emergency services" etc., but frankly, I miss photo albums, and I don't mean the virtual kind.

There was something quaint and lovely about coming back from your hols or some other memorable event and immediately hoofing it down to the local chemist with your film and waiting eagerly for your packet of photos to come back, sitting in the car and having a sneak preview, hiding all the ones where you accidentally took a picture of your foot or nostrils as you loaded the camera, etc. You'd get home, put the kettle on and settle down for your own private show. Great. You could take a packet of pictures to work, weed out all the unflattering ones and just show the select few where you looked a)thinner or b) younger or c) the backdrop made everyone bilious with jealousy, and pass them round human-chain style. Loved it.

I know you can print your digital photos out, but why don't we, ever? Husband keeps saying "choose the ones you want and I'll print them" - but we never do, it's just another thing we don't get round to.

Ah, progress.