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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.