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.  

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.

THE MOUSE THAT ROARED

The newspapers and Mary Portas are on a mission to save the High Streets and preserve "reality" shopping; predicting that we shall shortly become a nation not of shopkeepers but of "clickers". Due to the economy, the recession and, indeed - lack of interest, the experience of shopping will fade into oblivion. Waiting in line to pay will be replaced by waiting at home to receive goods ordered on-line.

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

THE BUBBLE BURSTS

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.  

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.

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

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.      

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.
 

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.

 

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.