05 FebMake It Snappy

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 It’s not worth my brain space I know, but I am fascinated that David Beckham bought Posh a £24,000 crocodile skin Birkin handbag for Christmas. One that ’snaps’ shut, I’m guessing.

I am a veggie so the thought of toting around a dead crocodile has no appeal. And the idea of spending £24,000 on any bag, animal vegetable or mineral,  makes me giddy.

It’s a Birkin.  I thought a Birkin was a pubic hair wig until a friend corrected me, that item is, in fact, called  a merkin. Get that right before you hit Harvey Nichols.

But take heart. Birkins hold their value and even second hand, oops sorry, that would be ‘vintage’ bags can sell for double their original cost.

This gets crazier because some shops which sell these exclusive bags insist that they will only permit  them to go  non smoking homes. Apparently having a fag near such a bag  is…… Birkin abuse.

Category(s): Everyday life
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02 FebLorna’s Angels

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Last night I went to hear Lorna Byrne, author of the best selling book ‘Angels in my Hair’ talk about her life as a ‘mystic’.

Twelve people I know also bought tickets and when we got together after the event not one of us agreed on whether or not,or how much,  we believed Lorna’s claims that she had been convening with the angels since she was a baby. The only thing there was a general consensus  on was that we were afraid to damn her as a charlatan in case what she claimed  was true.  We were scared to offend the Angels that Lorna claimed were teeming around, above and below us.

The woman’s knees were visibly knocking as she stood centre stage last night. A  pleasant, mild mannered person she was both inarticulate and very short on information about what the Angels look like and what say and do. Even though she claims to have been in communication with them for over forty years.

And yet, should her  lack of sophistication in the delivery of the message make me doubt it’s truth or sincerity? Or trust it even more so ?

Her claims that she sees Angels everywhere and they give her constant messages and instructions are almost too daft to invent. And if she was a liar surely she would do a better job by speaking clearly, coherently and having prepared answers for the most obvious of questions, at least. But Lorna didn’t,  she stumbled through the session and said “I don’t know” countless times when pressed for explanations. 

At least a hundred people had their hands up to try and speak to Lorna in the post talk Q&A session, including me.  I am ashamed of my question so am partly relieved that I didn’t get to  ask it in public. It was”What are you doing with the rivers of cash flowing your way from film rights and book sales.Have the Angels indicated that any of it should go to charitable causes?”

Category(s): Everyday life
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31 JanWhite or Wrong ?

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I had a big ding dong on the radio last night with Julian Bennett from the TV programme ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’. His views on what women MUST do to stay attractive for their men were yabadabadoo stone age stuff.

Julian’s Eleventh Commandment decrees that furry pits, hairy legs, getting old, not dyeing grey hair and generally  ’letting yourself go’ are mortal sins – but only if you were born with a fanny. 

 His argument imploded when he claimed that David Gest, Paul McCartney and Andrew Neil all look fandabadozi with their assorted hair dye disasters. And George Clooney and Tom Jones are silver foxes. But any woman with grey hair - unless she is Julian’s mum because it really suits her – is an old dog.

Julian was a jolly and likeable misogynist.  Our verbal rut was so spirited that the presenter Stephen Nolan was able to enjoy an unscheduled cup of coffee as we slugged it out and afterwards suggested the pair of us should get our own show…down.

Category(s): Everyday life
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27 JanHit Man

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Frozen basil, raspberries, carrots, olives with chilli, a pack of pentel pens, smoked cheese with bits of ham in it and stool softeners. That’s what I  unpacked from my basket and put on the conveyor belt yesterday in Sainsburys. Oh, and the woman on the till had such enormous long breasts that they were down there with my shopping, too.

“My My , what interesting shopping you have” came a deep,  posh voice from behind me in the queue. He was a Howard Keel lookie-likey and I decided he couldn’t be dangerously bonkers because he  was wearing shoes and socks - plus his flies were fully zipped. Yes, those are the qualities I check for first in a man.

He went all husky and said, “May I come home with you so we can enjoy them together?” . My eyes were drawn to the stool softeners, he was gazing at my raspberries.

The woman on the till winked at me and said “OOOooooo!” This could have meant she thought he was dishy and urbane. Or it could have been amazement that I can still lure ‘em in at my advanced age without make-up and with a hairdo like a collie dog’s bum surround.

“I have interesting shopping because my husband and four kids all have different preferences.”  I thought this was a gentle enough rebuff. He clearly admired my animal magnetism so I had to be kind didn’t I ?

He was a smooth, and fast,  operator. He turned to the woman behind him in line. She was wearing two pairs of glasses and had a zimmer frame with a wire shopping basket resting on top of it. He peeked into it and said, ” Mmmmm, marshmallows, my favourite…..May I come home with you and help you to toast them?” 

“OOOoooooooo!” said the woman behind the till again, dragging back her breasts which had travelled along to the bagging section. Her eyebrows were working overtime.  I packed my shopping feeling like a woman spurned.

Category(s): Everyday life
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21 JanWhose Bed Is It Anyway ?

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A UK hotel chain is employing human bedwarmers to heat up beds before their guests climb in for the night. The Daily Telegraph says so -  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/newsbysector/retailandconsumer/7009900/Hotel-chain-offers-human-bed-warmers.html 

I have questions.

Firstly – gissa job? I could definitely do that. Although I can see the potential for conflict when the paying guest told me to get out of their bed when I was all warm and comfy womfy in there and had done all the hard work to get that way.

Secondly, perhaps the hotel  should go one step further and get celebrity lookalikes to make the bed hot, hot , hot. I’d book George Clooney and Hugh Jackman to loll on my mattress every time.

Thirdly, do they screen for lice, fleas and crabs, yellow dandruff,  belly button fluff ,nose debris and anything wet  that human bedwarmers might leave behind between the covers ?

And lastly,  do they have a bespoke service for menopausal women who require bedchillers to counteract hot flushes ?

Category(s): Everyday life
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18 JanGlobes and Wiggles

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It’s 1.15 am and I can’t go to bed because the 67th Golden Globes Awards Ceremony is live on TV. I am pigging out on botox and cleveage and teeth bleach.

My Irish mother gene makes me want to scream at Mariah Carey “Keep your chest warm!” Her dress has got to be on back to front, right ?

Nicole Kidman has taken to wearing vintage Austrian blinds in toilet roll colours to awards, but her husband Keith Urban looked very dishy and sober and adoring - so good for her.

Jeremy Irons is dry as dust and if there was a special award for being an up yourself ageing lothario it would be his in perpetuity. Ralph Fiennes can be his deputy.

The question I most want to be asked in the coming week is “Who are you wearing?”  I plan to reply ‘Robert Dyas’ or ‘William Hill’ because I have gleaned from the red carpet interviews that it’s not what you say but the WIGGLE that goes with the answer that counts.

Category(s): TV critic
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17 JanIs there a Doctor in the Kitchen?

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One of my daughters is a medical student and living at home for 3 months while she does her general surgery placement at our local hospital.

That’s why I found a pair of surgical scrubs in our laundry basket. I boil washed them and  put them on the drying rack to air. So far, so boring.

Until my husband saw them, and decided to do some  dressing up . I came home from Tesco to find a very puzzled border collie on his back on the kitchen ( or ‘operating’)  table whilst my husband listened to the dog’s  heartbeat with my daughter’s stethoscope. She was busy photographing Dr Dad.

 I couldn’t believe the pair of them had started to play without me, but I didn’t sulk. Instead I put my shopping down on the far end of the operating table and shouted “Blood Screen, Chem 7, pethidine, portable Xray and a Lemsip!” Mostly because they always say that on ER.

As for how he looked in the scrubs…….. I would have to say…… very George Clooney-esque.

And terrific news - the dog pulled through!

Category(s): Everyday life, Family life

11 JanHot and Cross and Cake

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Christmas cakes are a sore subject in my house.

I once made my own by steeping dried fruit in booze beginning in February and squishing it monthly with my feet until November  to make it good and moist and potent.  I grew  my own marzipan for it, and actually signed up for  an evening  class called “Decorating Your Christmas Cake”. That might be the most embarrassing fact I have ever admitted about myself on this blog.

This ‘class’ turned out to be a care in the community event for Bonne Marche enthusiasts and hormonal homemakers who had been banned from the  Women’s Institute. It was run along military lines by a woman called Moira who was wearing a plaid car blanket shaped into an ankle length frock, and black glasses with such enormous frames I thought they were a dressing up joke. But to give Moira her due she could make reindeers with little testicles and robins with teeny eyelashes and anything at all out of icing that would make a Christmas Cake memorable.

She tut tutted when she saw my very best effort which she described, cruelly I thought, as a ” Oh! A Snowman-slash -Alien”. My children piddled themselves laughing when I showed it to them and my husband forgot what it was decorated with because he was pissed after half a slice.

Anyway, that rebuff is why I have since  bought  Christmas Cakes. This year I paid Tesco £12 for one. It came out of the cupboard yesterday and looked very nice on the plate. I took a knife to cut a slice but couldn’t. The icing was like cement. I handed the knife to my big strong husband who broke a sweat trying to get into the thing. A la wedding we tried to do it together, four hands one knife,  but  still no joy. Finally, using a knife, his Leatherman and an electric screwdriver he got a bit of the icing off by climbing onto the worktop and attacking it from above. We put a little it in our mouths and it was like trying to eat a bit of paving slab.

Today in Tesco the Customer Services Assistant told me that I couldn’t have a refund because there was some icing missing off the cake, which she took as evidence that it had been eaten. I had a mini fanny attack (arm waving and speed talking) and she realised she needed to get rid of me – quick. I was offered credit vouchers because I had no receipt.”Who keeps grocery receipts?” I shouted and she pointed at the queue behind me, all holding them.

I growled that the cake was faulty and that I wanted my money, the same money I had paid for the concrete cake, returned. She asked when I had bought the Christmas cake. 22nd December was the correct answer but to prove how pissed off I was  I told her “Easter.”  She typed ‘Easter’ into her computer thingy and handed me £3, the cake cum doorstop’s current selling price. I was £9  down.

Pointed sarcasm is wasted when you can buy Hot Cross Buns in January.

Category(s): Everyday life

07 JanBig Spender Small Seat

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Went to the Menier Chocolate Factory to see the musical  ’Sweet Charity’ which is tipped for a transfer to the West End.

My seat cost £27 and was a plank of wood so low to the floor that I sat with my cheekbones between  my knees. Numb-bumitis would have been a pleasure. I suffered maximus painius in my gluteus. Sitting there was like being in an advanced yoga position that had to be held for two and a half hours. Sting would have loved it.

Tamzin Outhwaite played Sweet Charity and she was willing - but not able. Too old for a start. Not ancient like Elaine Paige was in the last Palladium production of The King and I (dubbed The King and His Mum by one friend of mine who saw it) but too old to be cutesy and springy which is what’s needed for the ingenue Charity.

The ensemble were terrific and took my mind off my throbbing bum, but when Tamzin was donkey dancing around the stage on her own I was cringing for her.

Seats nought of of 10, production overall 5 out of 10.  Charity should stay at home.

Category(s): Everyday life
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05 JanPostman Prat

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Happy New Year to you all – may it be your best ever.

2010 -  the number of tears I cried as we drove away from our family Christmas holiday at a Luxury Health Spa.When we arrived there on Christmas Eve for this first in a lifetime experience there was a brief wardrobe malfunction when the white wrapover dressing gown they provided didn’t. A quick call to reception got a jumbo sized one delivered within minutes, and I was good to go, or in truth NOT to go,  for the next four days.

What can I tell you?  The rubbing was first class – face and body. The food that I didn’t shop for, prepare, dish up or wash up after was made in heaven and the entire break  proof positive that my family are the world’s best company. I didn’t log on to my laptop, watch TV or even read for the entire duration. I stared into space, dozed. ate and  laughed - a lot.

Since getting home I have done a couple of radio interviews.  This morning’s was on BBC Radio London with Vanessa Feltz and all about Kirsty Young’s recent high handed comments about how to bring up children http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1240650/The-modern-disease-pushy-mothers-Kirsty-Young.html .  Ms Young says pushy parents make her puke.   Millionairesses who don’t need to juggle paid work with bringing up their babies and who can easily afford to pay for a world class education for their little darlings, but  preach to less fortunate mums make ME puke. I get it Kirsty – you are too rich and posh to push.

Her timing is choice because many mums in the UK are currently worried sick waiting to hear whether they got their first, second, third or fourth choice of state school for their sons and daughters. It’s oh so  fascinating to know what  autocue automaton Kirsty thinks about real life education matters for other people’s children.

Vanessa Feltz led the discussion. She  is a fast talker and thinker, and to to keep up with her in a discussion requires full concentration. Midway through our live radio chat about pushy mums my postman turned up. Because the interview was arranged at short notice it was via phone from my home and not in the studio. This house is a black hole for telephone reception and the only place where it’s guaranteed is in the middle of the front bay window. 

The postman was puzzled. He could clearly see me ignoring him, so he abandoned the front door and approached the window and started hammering on that instead to get my attention. I had no choice but to turn my back on him to keep the thread of the debate on the other end of the line. He shouted, jumped up and down and banged on the glass for several minutes before he walked away making rude gestures with his free hand. The parcel I hadn’t let him deliver was in the other. 

A while after it was all done  I spotted the postman back delivering on the other side of the street. I forgot I was wearing a dressing gown, walking boots (very warm), a scarf  and flourescent pink earmuffs AND I had Sudocrem dabbed on the numerous spots on my face, cheeks and chin. Dashing  across the road I apologised to him that I couldn’t answer the door or acknowledge him and explained (why did I do that?)   I had been doing a live radio interview with Vanessa Feltz.

He considered for a moment and looked me up and down before  answering. “I’m sorry, too” he said. “ I meant to get  to you earlier but I was getting a signature from Brad Pitt for his giro.”

Category(s): Everyday life, TV/radio
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