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Thursday 22 December 2011

E-eeeeeeek!

Mimi rant. The total weird pointlessness of e-Xmas cards. What is that all about??? They all go into my Spam and then eventually one opens them....and? Do they fill one with joy? No. Do they make one feel warm and fuzzy inside? No. Are they annoying in their thoughtlessness? Yes. Sod green-ness and eco-friendly wishes, I actually think they are an impertanance.

SAVE THE DATE - AFTER CHRISTMAS

There are some assumptions that ought to be put on the back-burner. Preferably to burn. I have an allergic reaction to being asked to "save the date" at this time of year. Firstly - who are these uber-organised busy bodies that are already forward-planning dinner parties in March 2012 when most mortals are at the epicentre of the social storm known as Christmas? I can't be alone in focusing on the next ten days and treating them as a military operation, can 1? Also I don't own a diary ( yet). I'm rather hoping Santa is going to bring me one. An blank one, devoid of any commitments  whatsoever. The joy of a new diary to me is its emptiness. The promise of expectation and hope over experience. Please "save the date" until after Christmas, then any invitation will be gratefully received. Any that are issued right now I'm treating as a threat to my sanity.  

Friday 16 December 2011

THE VULGARITY OF CHRISTMAS

Is there anything worse than good taste at Christmas? Those manicured, perfectly groomed, colour-co-ordinated trees that never seem to do anything as common as shed their needles are the anthesis of all that is   great about this time of year. They are the anti-Christ of decorations. Christmas trees by definition should be slightly gaudy. They should twinkle and be a little lop-sided and laden down unevenly with ornaments collected over time, never bought in a smash-and-grab frenzy. Ideally they should never have a theme either. I hate "themed" trees. Never trust anyone who says " this year I'm decorating my tree only in red". Not only do these people need to get a life, they need to find their inner child, their soul and they need to let go of all pretencions. Tis the season to be jolly. Don't underplay the decorations; unleash the over-the-top-genie.

Wednesday 14 December 2011

THE MOUSE THAT ROARED

As a shopkeeper myself ( I have owned a children's shop in Ebury Street for a decade) these are my thoughts: If governments want to keep shops going they have to address rent issues. No landlord that I know of ever puts rent down, or links it ( like some do in America) to profits. Rates are extortionate. Getting rid of commercial waste at the end of a working day costs a fortune. The rise in VAT has made a massive difference. Most Independent shop owners like myself are passionate about what they do. They put their heart and soul into their business, often foregoing their own wages in these troubled times just so they can keep going. It is totally dispiriting. Independent shops do not benefit from the advantages of chain stores, for their stock cannot be shifted from one end of the country to another. You have to rely on your taste and that of your customers when ordering. You have to be confident you are selling what it is people want to buy. Get it wrong; and you are buggered. The only thing small shops have to offer is service. For  Diana (my shop partner) and myself everyday is a new challenge. We try to make Semmalina-Starbags as inviting and as seductive as we possibly can, and will go out of our way to assist customers. We give old-fashioned, personal service.
Most High Street shops don't have this advantage. Staff are transient and the incentive to serve and serve well is minimal. Big chain shops are bound up in ridiculous rules - you "can't" buy the coat you want in the window even though it's the last in your size, as "company policy" does not allow goods to be removed from the window. Why? Why not? I've never understood ridiculous rules like this. In America a member of staff would willingly risk life and limb to undress a mannequin if it meant selling the garment. British shop staff seem to fall into three distinct categories: They either Serve and do it extremely well - Waitrose/Peter Jones/M&S/lots of small boutiques and bookshops spring to mind,  Stalk - and here I'm going to name-and-shame - The Gap, French Connection, ALL beauty departments, or else they Slack and just pointlessly mooch about and shrug when you ask for help, seemingly taking pleasure if something is out of stock ( Sainsbury).
We have to tackle this retail problem at ground level. Lobby councils and landlords, train staff properly and above all, take pride in what we do.
www.starbags.info

Saturday 10 December 2011

SHAKE,RATTLE AND HEADS WILL ROLL

Mr Sarkozy has secured his place in history as being small. Very small. Not only in stature, but in style. He's the Polly Pocket of statesmen. By refusing to shake hands with David Cameron yesterday at the EU summit he proved nothing except that he's a loser. Basic manners cost nothing. They may not always be heartfelt, they may not always be justified, but they matter. I've never understood the turmoil that must exist within people who refuse to say sorry or refuse to admit they're in the wrong. Sarkozy threw a petulant hissy fit with Dave yesterday and just looked like an ill-mannered jerk for doing so.  

Friday 9 December 2011

FESTIVE BRAG-BOOKS

I've received six Christmas cards so far this year and five of them are photo-cards. Festive brag-books. I'm have to confess I'm not a massive fan of "Look At My Beautiful Kids" cards. I remember making a note to myself when one plopped on our doormat about eight years ago. It was a from one of my daughters friends parents and it was a glossy, mounted 8x6 of a rather geeky girl ( their daughter ) smiling awkwardly at the camera with a silly hat on. My heart bleed for this kid. I could only begin to imagine the sniggering she would have to put up with at school. Not fair. I did it once. My kids were all under five and we were living in Los Angeles. I was too broke to do it properly so made a collage which I then photocopied. It was very home-spun and lame. I just know my children would have had me sectioned if I'd continued. I don't really know how this trend first began... When did we replace glittery stagecoaches and Father Christmases and wise men trekking across the desert towards a stable with happy snaps?
I think picture cards are just about ok if they are treated with disrespect and healthy dose of irony. Posed and primped they just come across as faux-Royal and a wee bit smug and pretentious. And ever-so-slightly odd.

Wednesday 7 December 2011

A ROSE IS A ROSE IS A LOUSY ROSE

Heathrow airport. Terminal Five. Deeply excited. Off to collect my eldest daughter arriving from New York. I lovingly buy her a cheese and ham toasty and an iced coffee from Costa Coffee and stand waiting, hips pressed up against the barrier . One hand ( coffee hand)  freezing cold, the other ( toasty hand) burning. I'm always amazed why anyone arrives at airports with a fossilised rose. What freak wants to be greeted off an 11 hour flight with a rose - ONE rose - to carry with their hand luggage, with their suitcase  - all the way to an NCP car-park? In reality one needs a colonic, a facial, breath-freshner and a Sherpa. Get back to basics. Cut out the cheesy-romantic shit. Once home, what the hell do you do with a dead rose? Separate the baby-breath and spiky fern and put it in a milk bottle? Those roses never bloom, they just fold over and die for they are tainted with recycled air and the false promise of Clinton Card emotion. They are completely inappropriate yet an entire industry seems to have sprung up targeting travellers returning home from a big adventure. Save the roses for later. Give a kiss and a coffee instead

Tuesday 6 December 2011

FOR ONE DAY ONLY

I'm a huge traditionalist. It's unfashionable, un-politically correct and probably punishable to come out and say so, but I want Christmas to be 100% Christian. I don't mind embracing other religious celebrations, acknowledging other feasts, eating other foods, singing different hymns but for one day a year I want Christmas to feel like it belongs. I want a virgin Christmas, not the bastardised version we're so often dished up. This means no weird, deeply modern hymns. No Heston Blumenthal puddings. No Peppa Pig advent calendars. No Disney-themed Christmas lights. No clever Christmas cards that say things like " Keep Calm it's Only Christmas" and definitely no designer-decorated Christmas trees. It's all just wrong.
Christmas properly observed is one of those holidays that needs no improvements -  ideally it provides a benchmark to family life, reflecting the ebb and flow of time. It's a rite of passage.
For not only is Christmas a story as old as time, how we celebrate it should reflect a lifetime of family traditions. The decorations, like the memories, should be acquired through the years. The crumpled angel made at nursery school so long ago is a sweet reminder that the 6 foot young man still asleep upstairs was once the blonde toddler that fearfully posted a huge sign on his bedroom door saying " Don't come in Father Christmas. And NO ho, ho, ho's.....". The frail father that you help to his seat was the same man that once made the magic work for you, the certain knowledge that no bread sauce tastes quite as good as your mothers, and the fact it's absolutely imperative a Quality Street be eaten before breakfast on Christmas morning are all little scraps of certainty in an uncertain world.
It's the monotony of Christmas that makes it wonderful. We can all go off-piste every other day of the year. It's great to embrace new cultures, to be alternative, to try different things -  but for one day only I like  time to stand very, very still.      

Monday 5 December 2011

MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS

This one is a rant. It's an observation as well, but it's mainly a rant.
 It's raining. Chucking it down. Obviously I'm wearing totally inappropriate clothes, as when I left for work it was lovely and Autumnal and now, eight hours later, it's Arctic, and rain is coming at me sideways. I'm worried about my suede boots. I'm rushing. I'm rushing to get out of my car and into my house whilst carrying a laptop, two flimsy bags of groceries, my handbag, and a large Christmas present that is made of glass. I want to do this in one journey, not just because there is a Tropical storm but because I have that in-built determination and bloody-mindedness that is synonymous with being a multi-tasking mother and wife. Everything must be done in as short a time as possible: it's like having an internal stop-watch. If I get out of the car and into the house in one go, hurl food into fridge, turn on oven, dump laptop on counter, rush to hide Christmas present, switch on heated rollers, run a bath I'll have enough time to make a tomato sauce for tomorrows lunch ( whilst watching the news) before going out to dinner.
A bedraggled young man who looked a bit like a fair-haired Clarke Kent hovered anxiously by my car. A tiny part of my brain thought he was going to offer to help me with my bags.
" Excuse me," he said politely. By this time I was out of the car, juggling my bags and getting soaked.
I had my car keys between my teeth and was kicking the car door closed. I think my glasses were at such a strange angle I probably looked like a female Eric Morcambe.
" Yes?" I muttered, my inner voice screaming " HURRY UP."
" I noticed you drove over the hump," he said, nervously fiddling with his coat.
" Really," I said.
" Yes. You were the third car I saw do that in the last twenty minutes."
" And?" I snapped impatiently.
" I don't think you're allowed to do that," he continued.
I dropped my keys from between my teeth onto the pavement.
" Says who?" I asked.
" I say," he said.
" And who are you? An undercover policeman or something?"
" No," he stammered. " I live nearby and I like everyone to observe rules."
And that's when I lost it.
" I suggest you get a life," I snarled. " Grow up, get a life and get inside. It's raining, it's the end of the day and unless you intend to grow up and have a career that allows you to arrest people, you need to mind your own business."
I staggered off towards my front door slightly nervous he might follow me.
" And for your information," I shouted, " A police car has just driven over your so-called cycle hump. You missed that one."
Live and let live I say. Especially when it's raining.
 

Saturday 3 December 2011

THE ONLY WAY IS TIGHTLESS

My walking girlfriend ( from henceforth called Female Walker)  has a wealth of wonderful adages. She's one of those fabulous women that effortlessly oozes style, so the moment she sprouts an adage one strives to emulate. It's like having a schoolgirl crush - suddenly my previously set-in-stone opinions get wobbly and uncertain. Walking with her every morning is a bit like being back in school. I want to impress the Prefect. When she cast a dubious eye over my electric blue, waterproof Nike jacket last year I wanted to torch it. Just like that. I hated it.
The other morning ( and remember, we're talking early, bleary-eyed, pre-caffeinated mornings) we were discussing tights. Female Walker asked me what I thought of tights. Black tights.
" Good, I think they're good," I replied with confidence. I mean what could possibly be WRONG about black tights? Black tights in winter are a no-brainer, surely?
" Mmmmn,"  pondered FW. " Silly of me I know, but for some reason I try very hard not to wear them until Christmas."

My legs swum before me, like a flicker photo book in reverse. I tried to remember Tights I Have Worn. And I sort of slightly dropped my walking pace. Because I suddenly saw the light. Thick black tights belong post-Christmas. They suit the long, dark days that follow when one is plunged into involuntary mourning for Spring. They are too try-hard for December; especially a mild one like this. They marry beautifully with chunky sweaters and boots; furry coats and layers. They need cold air and crunchy grass. Worn with mid-weight dresses and a cardigan they look clumsy.
" So what's the solution?" I ask tentatively.
"Tough it out," FW replies with authority. " Long skirts, trousers - perhaps a fine woollen tight if desperate. But not black."
" Not black," I mutter in agreement as we carry on with our walk the morning mist starting to rise.
Obviously, the only way is tightless. Until Christmas. I pray for mild weather.

 

Friday 2 December 2011

I WANT MY VERY OWN BOB THE BUILDER FOR CHRISTMAS

Sometimes I fantasise that I'm married to Bob The Builder. Or wish I could get a real life Bob for Christmas. Or borrow one from next door (much like one "borrows" sugar) with no real intension of ever returning him. It's sometimes taxing living with a man who should really reprint that "Make Do and Mend" poster to read " Make Do and DON'T Ever Fix". I'm not a rabid feminist, but it would be awfully nice to be married to a man who actually owned a tool kit - even if it was missing bits. Johnnie has a 6-screwdriver thingie from Muji which looks like it should hold Tampax, a very old hammer, a lethal ( and completely pointless ) saw, hundreds of random nails, a decaying selection of raw plugs and a defeatists attitude towards DIY. It's virtually his only flaw. He is brilliant at puffing up cushions nicely, bed-making, flower arranging et al, but give Johnnie a household chore and he goes into free-fall. It's just not "his thing".
First goes into total denial. This is the hardest part to live with. He pretends it's "normal" for a door to be coming off its hinges/a light to flicker/a loo to sound like a Jumbo jet is revving-up for takeoff every times it's flushed. Then he plays what I privately refer to as the "anti-entitlement" card. He mumbles that only "spoilt" people ( i.e. me ) care about mould growing on bedroom walls or split wooden loo-seats that snap at your crutch every time you pee. Next up is the avoidance phase where he half-heartedly flicks through an incredibly old telephone book and makes a desultory call to someone called Dave - and they nearly always are called Dave - and eventually gets hold of Dave's wife. Dave's wife never passes on a message ( except perhaps to tell her husband that "that bloody nightmare man has called you again. Remember? The one who didn't realise the cleaner had plugged the Hoover into the Sky plug. Yeah - that loony one) and after waiting a week I call someone from the Yellow Pages. Johnnie is so insanely impressed with this stranger's skills he virtually invites him to spend Christmas with us. Which come to think of it - is not such a bad idea.

Wednesday 30 November 2011

THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH

I've come to the conclusion that pedicures are ultimately the work of the devil. They're fabulous, they're pampering, they're girlie, they're relaxing - but tragically, unless one is blessed with the type of chaffeur-driven,baby-soft feet that spend most of their days walking in white sand, a bi-monthly pedi can do more harm than good. I've just come from an appointment at the chiropodist, and basically they told me what I always knew but never dared to admit.
The quick soak in an an up-market washing-up bowl, a savage nail clipping,  a scrape-down with sandpaper before the gouging-out of the side of ones nails is all well and good, but years of it buggers up your feet.

For 7 years I have suffered from excessive hard skin on my feet coupled with night-time, eczema-style itching.I've been to dermatologists, G.P.'s, podiatrists,been tested for allergies to leather, nylon, plastic and washing-up detergents. I've plastered my feet with cortisone cream; worn white cotton socks to bed , cut out wheat, dairy, taken anti-histamines yet nothing and no-one has cured me. I've had the Seven Year  Itch.
Then I found a local chiropodist. Nothing fancy; nothing swanky. Somewhere that looks like a medical establishment trapped in a 1960's time-warp with nice ladies that actually love your feet enough to take care of them.
I've spent years reading back-issues of Closer magazine whilst anonymous, under-paid foreigners with one eye on a plasma screen playing continuous  MTV chatted to their fellow workers and discussed which pot-noodles to eat for lunch. A chiropodist offers no frills, and no Rouge Noire reward. Instead, they're interested in which Nike's you're wearing to exercise in. They don't talk; they tut. Walk-in nail bars have the same dialogue the world over:
"You want foot massage?"
"You go on holiday?"
" You want French?" And then The Killer Question:
" You need blade to remove skin?"
I probably never NEEDED a blade, but like the sword of Damocles out it would come. And like a true beauty-junkie, I'd let a cheap-and-cheerful (and quite possibly, unqualified) hacker mutilate my trotters.
The moment the recession hit and I stopped, my feet looked fabulous.
" Pedicures generate and regenerate hard skin," explained the chiropodist, gently using an electric sander for all of 30 seconds to buff away surface hard skin. " It creates a vicious circle. And for someone with feet like yours that's not a wise move."
So no more pedicures for me unless they're medicinal ones. I occasionally treat myself to a professional varnish but I've given up getting the quick-fix and as a consequence no longer suffer from being hacked. What a result.  


   

Tuesday 29 November 2011

SHOW AND TELL

Just an observation on being a mother and a wife: does anyone else have to go through show-and-tell when their husband/boyfriend/son goes out to do the grocery shopping?
When I go to the supermarket, I simply get the food, pack it into bags,into the car,out of the car, into the kitchen and into the fridge with no fanfare. I do it on auto-pilot - albeit sometimes with very little grace - but I do it without expecting ( or receiving) applause.
My husband shows me everything he's bought; rather like a cat laying down a dead mouse and expecting an extra bowl of Whiskers as a reward.
" I got these apples," he'll say with barely disguised pride and a healthy dose of wonder.
" Great," I'll reply.
" And the milk. I got the milk."
" Brilliant," I'll say.
" And this cereal," he'll continue,undaunted.
By now our kitchen counter looks like the conveyor belt on The Generation Game.
" Is this the right chicken?" he'll ask.
"Yup," I reply by now losing interest in this endless show-and-tell display.
" I got Nescafe."
"Johnnie," I snap ungratefully. "I'm thrilled you did the shopping, but I'm afraid I'm not a nice enough person to admire it. I just don't have it in me. I'm sorry."
It's usually at this point my son wanders in.
" Mum, I've unloaded the dishwasher for you. Look."
Next time they do it I may be tempted to take them on a "laundry outing".
" Come, let me show you all the boxer shorts I washed earlier. And the socks. Oh, and before I forget - the sheets...."

THE WORD

I hate team games like Monopoly ( too endless) but simply adore anything that involves a mental challenge. I managed to conquer my fear of flying entirely because of Suduko ( and a shot of neat vodka pre-take-off) and my idea of total relaxation is to spread out a 500 piece wooden jigsaw on the table and methodically finish it without once looking at the picture for guidance. I love crosswords, but most of all I love Scrabble. Playing Scrabble on-line is the sticky plaster of sanity for insomniacs. Any-time, any place - and across multiple time-zones - anonymous opponents are waiting to play. Result. No more staring up at the ceiling listening to the muffled alarm clock tick-ticking towards dawn; it's up to kitchen for a cup of mint tea for me..... and a quick round of wordplay.
Scrabble satisfied me for about a year. I liked playing with imaginary friends, messaging them the mandatory on-line introduction: "Hi there. Good luck!" before getting down to the serious business of playing the game. One night I found myself playing against an opponent who kept putting down the most extraordinary words, and it wasn't until I'd been playing for over 20 minutes and messaged a tentative " Where are you from?" that I realised I was pitting myself against a gentleman in China who spoke ( nor wrote) not a syllable of English.
Then I was introduced to Words With Friends. Word with Friends knocks Scrabble out of the water. It takes no hostages and doesn't allow all those ridiculous two-letter combinations on-line Scrabble encourages. Words like KY are simply not tolerated by Word. Nor do they allow much slang or swearing. It's a purists game. It's also a bit like belonging to a secret society, for although the app will happily search for random opponents, it's also much easier to search for people you actually know. I'm currently thrashing my daughter in New York, being beaten in two simultaneous games by an old schoolfriend and in the midst of a deeply competitive dual that's gone on for two weeks with a businessman travelling in Dubai.
It's good to talk but sometimes it's even better to try and have the last word.

 

Sunday 27 November 2011

SLEEPING BEAUTIES


I went to the Frock Me vintage clothes fair today in Chelsea. It was packed with rails of the most covetable clothes and I was suddenly struck by the volume and beauty of nightdresses on sale. There were silk, satin, cotton nightdresses of such sensuous appeal. All second-hand survivors from as long ago as the 20's. Delicately embroidered, bias-cut, bosom-hugging, hip-skimming made from fabrics as light as butterfly wings. Many were stunning enough to wear as summer dresses - indeed I lusted after a pale blue floral one which wafted around my shins and would have looked fabulous with a pair of white laceless converse and a cotton cardigan. It made me realise what a massive cultural change has taken place in the way we dress for bed. 70,60,50 years ago women obviously put much more care and effort into their night-time attire than we do now. I don't know many women of my age (and under) that sleep in anything note-worthy. We all stumble off to bed and sling on an old kaftan or a pair of ill-fitting pajama bottoms or an over-sized t-shirt. Or we sleep naked. My mother buys me "pretty" nightdresses, possibly because she belongs to a generation that placed importance on such things. I could be wrong ( and I'd love to hear your views) but could it be because we've become culturally impervious to spending serious money on things only our husbands/boyfriends/lovers see? Or are we simply too multi-tasking, too time-starved, too tired and too lazy to make an effort?    

Saturday 26 November 2011

TOO POSH TO POLITELY SAY PUSH OFF

The Guardian weekend magazine features a celebrity Prime Ministers Question Time article where the good and the great get to ask Cameron whatever they damn well please. First up is comedian David Mitchell who asks " Do you wish you were less posh?" It's such a boring question. No child is afforded the luxury of choosing which school their parents send them to, any more than one gets to choose the colour of ones skin. It's beyond ones control. As a kid there may be times you physically don't want to go to school but you don't mince about like some little dictator telling your parents where you're going to be educated. It's beyond your control. When you are a minor, parents inevitably hold all the cards. It must be galling to grow up and be forced to endlessly justify and defend a decision you had no control over. How ironic that  receiving a good education is now often publicly used as a weapon to tease and humiliate. It's the dunces cap of the 21st Century.
One of the many things Cameron's parents chose to give him was good manners. When asked if he wishes he was less posh, he doesn't reply "Sod off."

Friday 25 November 2011

TIS THE SEASON TO LOOK STUPID

Holiday themed clothes scare me. Fine to snuggle down on Christmas Eve and wait for Father Christmas to come down the chimney in reindeer p.j.'s but grown men in boxer shorts that have snowmen on? Who wears clothes like these? Who actually buys them? Why does The Gap have so many? Amusing is never a good adjective to apply to clothes. Think about it. Be totally honest. Search the your entire memory bank and name me one person over the age of 7 that has EVER carried off a snowman sweater or tie emblazoned with chirpy little robins. It's just wrong. And vaguely weird.

MANNERS MAKETH MAN

My husband discovered Facebook late in life. In fact he's a relatively recent convert to all things technical, including mobile telephones. He's always maintained that if people wanted to get hold of him badly enough they'd eventually reach him on the house phone. That theory didn't really work because people would try the house phone, and getting no reply would then call my mobile in order to reach him. Johnnie didn't see this as a problem initially. Nor did he appreciate how counter-productive it was for me to have to telephone him at home to relay some deeply complicated message. Not to mention annoying.We reached a vague impasse. I would taunt him with texts and photographs I'd received from our children in an effort to seduce him into joining the 21st Century. Eventually he capitulated and got a Dickensian mobile and learnt how to text. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Our children gently convinced him that a mobile was different from a walkie-talkie and it therefore wasn't necessary to shout to be heard. After a year he upgraded to an iPhone and with remarkable alacrity has embraced the whole "being-on-call-and-available-24/7" ethos. He loves his phone. He has even bought a bright pink rubber sleeve for it.
Facebook is another story. Johnnie wanted to join Facebook in order to self-promote his one-man Noel Coward show, and (with help) has successfully downloaded, linked and alerted friends to upcoming concerts.
However he has never quite grasped the concept of "status update" and normally bypasses direct interaction with his FB friends. Until yesterday. The latest layout doesn't ask one for a status update anymore, instead it poses the question "what's on your mind?" Johnnie assumed this was a question directed specifically to him.. So he replied. Honestly.  "Staggeringly little."
I suddenly noticed a hive of activity on his feed with various acquaintances posting comments. " You're not little," was one. "How tall are you?" asked another.
He replied to each and every one. It made my day. And for the record he's 5.10.
    

Thursday 24 November 2011

BACK OFF FROM BLACK

In a certain light I can't distinguish between black and blue. It's fine. And if that's the only curve ball life is throwing, who am I to complain? Except recently I bought myself a pair of black boots. They're fabulous, they're comfortable, they were expensive and it took me a long time to find them. Having welded them to my feet and worn them with pride for three days, I was complimented.
" Love your navy boots," purred my girlfriend admiringly.
"Black," I replied.
" Um... blue," she said. "They're blue. Albeit dark blue, but blue."
So now I am the proud owner navy boots. Now I happen to love dark navy worn with black - I think it's a bit anarchic and off-centre but I have to confess I was a mite irritated by my own sartorial ineptitude.
My staple winter wardrobe ( 60 dernier M&S tights, black skirt/dress/sweater) had to go. And I realised that sometimes God works in mysterious ways. Navy boots have made me reassess the way I dress  in the winter. Black is no longer my Bible. Head-to-toe black looks sensationally chic on very young women. It looks reassuringly smart on thirtysomethings. It looks groomed and effortlessly cool on forty year olds. BUT....... But.  And here's the rub. I actually think it can look ageing and draining on those of us "slightly" older women. It wipes all colour from ones face, and unless one is a stupid sun-bed slave or kissed by the Autumn or pre-Xmas sunshine holiday fairy one looks a bit Goth-like. This is not a flattering look. One's skin takes on a weird pallor.... the kind of tone that makes friends ask if you're tired.
Thanks to my navy boots mishap I've embraced grey. Grey is just black for those of us with vaguely impaired eyesight. It's winsomely kind against the skin because it's soft-focus and is a colour that happily snuggles up to black, navy, white and beige. It's classy. It's flattering and it never gets boring. And it goes well with navy. It goes particularly well with my navy boots. Actually, it has no choice. In my wardrobe grey, is definitely the new black.      

TAKING IT ON BOARD

Came back from my morning walk this morning to find my husband having a "lively discussion" with our local councillor about Westminster's proposal to eliminate free parking in the West End after 6.30pm and at weekends.
" I have taken your concerns on board," was the councillors weak response after Johnnie's quite vociferous tirade.
"Taking it on board" means nothing - we all know that. It means jack shit. It's verbally throwing the hot potato out of the window into the dustbin. It's rubbish.
How often have we been mid-arguement and used the phrase in order to stop the conversation and placate? " I take what you're saying on board," is a euphemistic pause button. It means "Stop talking".

Wednesday 23 November 2011

CHAIN MAIL FRIENDS



The older I get the more I realise that
hooking up with some acquaintances is just plain stressful. It’s not fun.  Agreeing to meet is like opening unwanted chain mail. You unwittingly unleash the genie of unsustainable (and more often than not, undesired) friendship. You can’t live up to their insatiable demands on your time, energy and efforts so just end up feeling monumentally guilt-ridden. What should have been a jolly, bi-annual gossip in Starbucks turns into a diary inquisition. These vampire-acquaintances have the tenacity of a lepidopterologist when it comes to pining one down. They imagine that by taking you hostage they can force you into developing Stockholm Syndrome. “Now that I’ve finally got you here, when can you come to dinner/Cornwall/lunch?” they ask before you’ve had time to even cover your upper lip in milky froth. “ I’m sure you’re very busy but I want you to meet a great friend of mine, what are your plans over Easter?” It’s knackering; for ultimately it’s completely one-sided.
It’s a bit like going on a blind date with a bloke that starts planning where he wants to take you on honeymoon. It’s too much. True friends take no for an answer. They understand if you’re sometimes non-committal, they appreciate when you’re busy, they anticipate when you’re running on empty, they visualize the effort of juggling various balls in the air and they allow for small pauses in a relationship. Chain-mailers don’t. They really don’t want to meet twice a year for a coffee. No. What they want is a full blood-transfusion. Your blood. And unless you are prepared to selflessly give it, don’t go there in the first place. Break the chain and concentrate on real friends. 

Tuesday 22 November 2011

IRONING OUT THE WRINKLES

Ever wondered WHY men generally look better at 50 than their female counterparts? I reckon it's because they ( hopefully) don't use foundation on their faces. Yesterday I found myself hypnotically scanning faces and realised that so many women my age resort to wearing more and more make-up the older they get. As eyesight declines and delusion sets in it creates the "perfect cosmetic storm". Cover those wrinkles and fine lines and they'll go away. Wrong. Foundation actually emphasises lined imperfections - it's like damp spots on a basement wall. Just as wearing overly tight clothes as one gets older ( see previous blog) is misguided, so is succumbing to the myth that it's possible to roll back the years by applying a "faux" skin of youth. Moisurize, give your skin some glow with a bit of blusher and smile. Unless you are planning on appearing on HD television you will look fabulous. Just don't ever encourage men to moisurize....

Monday 21 November 2011

THE CIRCLE OF LIFE


The circle of life often starts and ends with Empire line dresses. And if it doesn’t, it probably should. Confronted last week by a photograph of Vanessa Feltz extolling her gastric-band weight loss I was struck by how much better she would look – not to mention thinner – if she embraced a new age smock. The Empire, body-skimming "frock" that begs a little forgiveness ( fitted on bust, gently flowing over stomach) is just miles more flattering. Instead Vanessa chooses, like many a disillusioned fool, to cram her body into a sausage-like sheath. For some reason, women in their 40’s and 50’s imagine this is a good look. They’re wrong. Just as their bodies are beginning to fall apart, they gather it up in some misguided last-ditch attempt to hold it all together. 

THE WORST HOSPITAL DISEASE

Two weeks ago I had to drive my son to Chelsea and Westminster for an operation on his knee. He was in a lot of pain and on crutches. I parked my car in the car park - no choice. I don't have Res Parking in that area, couldn't pull up and deposit him on the pavement and if I'd used a Pay and Display I'd have been fretting I'd have exceeded my 2 hour limit. So I used the Hospital Car Park. The Hospital Car Park ( one assumes) is for doctors, nurses, consultants, patients and visitors. It's not situated adjacent to a vast hospital just for the shits and giggles, nor for the convenience of going to the reception area to get a coffee - it's there so that people using the medical facility can get out of their cars and either trundle off to start work or else for patients to attend appointments and for visitors to visit those that are ill.
Let's face it:- no-one parking their car is there for a jolly day out. One is frazzled, worried, nervous and inevitably loses track of time. Shit happens. Labour takes days, not hours. The elderly relative wants comfort. The sick child needs their parent. The appointment runs late. The scanner is broken. The x-ray showed a break that needs surgery.
My son had to wait seven hours for a hospital bed. He was in pain. I am his mother and I waited with him. It cost me close to £40. NHS medical service - private car park prices. Someone is having a laugh at the patients expense. There was an elderly woman, struggling through tears to pay for the hours she clocked up holding her husbands hand while he died. It broke my heart.


I find it offensive that these car parks are basically profiting from disaster and disease.... Thought? Comments?      

CAR BOOT CHRISTMAS

I've decided to be really enterprising this Christmas and am going to attempt to make all my presents thoughtful and quirky - without spending a fortune. I had the great good fortune to find three really pretty  pressed glass cake stands at a recent car boot fair for £6 each and I have made three Christmas Cakes for my time-starved (or non-culinary!) girlfriends. Decorated, placed on top of a cake stand, extravagantly tied up with cellophane, wired ribbon and a couple of vintage glass decorations ( also found at a car boot fair for 50p each) they look a million bucks. There reaches a time in ones life when one really doesn't welcome pointless or superfluous "stuff". As one gets older I find "amusing" joke presents all end up in the bin, clothes are impossible to successfully buy for other people and if one isn't careful, Christmas present giving becomes just a list-ticking chore which defeats the real sentiment. Children know EXACTLY what they want - God knows they are targeted on television and actively encouraged to release every ounce of festive avariciousness - but grown-ups ( perhaps more mindful of the recession and unable to ever harness their REAL wish-list ) get all feeble about what they'd like to be given and instead waft on about non-specifics. So many times I've heard myself replying " I'd love a new nightdress, some black boots, books and bath oil." No-one is going to fulfil that list in the way I'd like it filled - and nor would I expect them to; for what I REALLY want is a Cath Kidson nightdress, Christian Louboutin boots with a 6 inch heel, the collected letters of Nancy Mitford and Basil and Lime bath oil from Jo Malone. So this year what I'd really, really like is something either joyous, or original or edible. Preferably all three. And  inexpensive.  

Wednesday 9 November 2011

STILL STANDING


Having written weekly columns (on fashion) in the Saturday Telegraph and (on life) in The Spectator it's frustrating to suddenly not have the discipline of deadlines and a steady outlet for all my gripes and observations.
Most mornings I go for an hour long stomp around Battersea Park with a girlfriend and we invariably end up giving one another short, breathless monologues about life/family/husbands/work/diets/fashion. It's free therapy, exercise and a Starbucks at the end and a great start to the day. At least once a week she tells me to blog. I keep promising I will but never do. Instead I tweet and have internal conversations with myself and use the excuse that I'm a hopeless Luddite and would need an "enabler" to post and upload and guide me. They are all just excuses. She's worn me down. I'm starting. This is it.