Patronising Claptrap

I'm sorry. I should have posted ages ago but sometimes I'm a lazy cow and so I, er, haven't.

Last time I posted on this blog was to bore you all to death with tales of my birthday. Still on that subject - you can tell not a lot happens to me - I received lots of lovely presents, and one not so lovely. Shane Watson's book.

The irony of this is that I had written about her book before and I wasn't too complimentary about it either. There is just so much about this book that I dislike. The title, for one thing. How To Meet a Man After Forty. The multitude of assumptions in this title infuriates me and I can only assume I was given the book by a well-meaning (married) girlfriend because I, as far as she is concerned, fall into the the correct demographic.

I looked over what I had written earlier this year and I haven't changed my opinion at all, so here is an only slightly modified version of my original review.

What you first need to know is that the author, Ms Watson, is actually a Mrs, having finally hooked her own bloke three years ago. (I'm sorry to say, the poor sod is referred to as The One. No pressure then.) Now happily validated by society, she is free to fret in a particularly smug manner at the plight of her single, aged sisters. Yes, this book is for those of us for whom the bloom of youth is now but a distant memory, or would be if only the ageing process hadn't robbed us of so many brain cells.

I'm sure Ms Watson means well - or at least, means to make a lot of money, which may be the same thing - but this sort of patronising claptrap really gets my goat. The assumption underlining every word of this magnum opus is that a woman is incomplete without a man. A man who is married. To you.

For those of us who have dithered about, unsure as to what characteristics constitute "The One", Ms Watson has helpfully compiled a "list". This list has on it seven, absolutely immoveable, non-negotiable conditions:

- Must be kind. If you have heard him be vile about anyone, seen him be cruel to animals, children or boring hostesses, then this man is not kind.

- Must like women. You think this goes without saying. Of course every man you've ever been out with has loved women. But are you absolutely sure? Did they like it if you contradicted them in public? Were there many women they found attractive who were a) over 50, b) large, or c) noisy? Thought not.

- Must adore you.

- Must be smarter than you, or at least as smart. Smarter, probably, or you will keep looking for that Achilles heel.

- Must have bigger feet than you. Obviously. And must be hairier.

- Must be able to make you laugh in all situations, including when you get to the airport and discover he has no passport.

- You must fancy him unconditionally.

What I find particularly offensive about this list is the requirement that "The One" must be cleverer than you are. Or, to put it another way, you must be a silly little woman if you are to bag your bloke.

It is, therefore, not enough that we must be pea-brained fools with size two feet who laugh like a drain. If we are to nail our hairy, clown-footed Oxford don with a great line in knock-knock jokes, personal grooming must be attended to. Every hair below eyebrow level must be napalmed into submission and the resultant hairless limbs must be spray-tanned. All of this is fairly pedestrian advice and rather assumes that a single woman hasn't got time for a spray tan as she's too busy teaching her cats to sing and knitting her pubic hair into a sporran.

There are more sage words to come, however. "If you want sex, then you need to dress with sex in mind." And our super-successful sex kitten authoress has very firm, if unexpected, views about what turns men on. If we wish to get our man, then we must choose from "a bias-cut floral dress and kitten-heel slingbacks, wrap dresses worn with cashmere cardigans, and pastel ballerina tops over slinky skirts". One can only sit, slack-jawed in amazement, at her ability to see into the minds of men. Why, at this very moment, chaps up and down the country are simply begging their wives: "Please, PLEASE take off that black satin babydoll negligee and matching crotchless knickers darling. Can't you slip into that gorgeous bias-cut floral dress, just for me? Aaaaaaaaaaaah. Not the kitten-heel slingbacks. I cannot resist........"

And yet, and yet. As we hairless, perma-tanned creatures, all wearing pastel ballerina tops the better to disguise our dowager humps, prepare to launch ourselves on the multitude of available, hirsute, quantum physicists out there, we are unable to dispell the nagging feeling that there is something missing from our ensemble. What can it be?

Fear not. Ms Watson has already thought of this, and on our behalf turned to international fashion icon Isabella Blow. "Once, a long time ago, the brilliant Isabella Blow told me I must wear a hat if I wanted to find The One. You have to stand out in a crowd. You have to let them see you," she said. "And men love a hat. They see the hat and they want to meet the girl."

Alas, Ms Blow does not reveal what kind of hat will clinch the deal. Perhaps it does not matter, and any one that comes to hand will do. I have an old riding hat somewhere in the house. I shall wear it, safe in the knowledge that it will definitely make me stand out in a crowd, particularly at a drinks party.

A plague on this asinine book. Nobody can really be this shallow. Or desperate.

Fag Hags and Glad Rags

Today is my birthday. Yay! I've given up caffeine, chocolate etc for the moment, so after much behind closed doors discussions, the Teens (who don't really have any money of their own) bought me a box of my absolute favourite, but too expensive for everyday drinking, Bettys "Special Rare Green Tea". It is, as the blurb on the box says, a "light delicate blend of rare green teas, with pale pink rose petals." Isn't it lovely?








Sometimes my teens are capable of the greatest sweetness.


This came with my present:






The slim, wrinkle-free, top bird is, apparently, me. I WISH. Mind you, when they want to, they can certainly put me in my place. I remember one occasion, several years ago now, my daughter had a nightmare and wanted to sleep for the remainder of the night in my bed. The next morning, I turned to her sleepily and looked at her lovely little face, flushed pink with sleep, and I smiled gently at her. She smiled back and said: "Your face is all wrinkly, like Granny."

Actually on that subject I have just this minute bought from Boots.com their latest "miracle" cream, No7 Protect & Perfect Intense Beauty Serum. In four weeks, I fully expect to look, ooh, at least six months younger. Man, I hope it works. I've got frown lines that make me look like Evil Edna.










Remember Willo The Wisp?



I'm also going to take the opportunity of saying huge thank you to all the wonderful people on Twitter who wished me a happy birthday. Many of them asked me what I would be doing to celebrate my birthday and I told them all that I would be going to Hales Bar in town for their Stars in your Eyes competition with a bunch of friends, most of whom are gay. Henri is coming with me. She'll be meeting everyone - including me - for the first time, so I hope to God it's a good night and everyone behaves. Having been informed about the planning revelries, Carrie asked if she was allowed to refer to me as a "fag hag" (saying she was one herself). I rather think I am. But are you?

Answer the following questions:

Your significant other dumps you. What do you do?

* Cry hysterically for a week, refuse to get out of bed and check your mobile for signal every 30 seconds

* Indulge in a spot of retail therapy, then go out with your mates and get blind drunk

* Invite your friends round to bitch about what a loser your ex is, drink copious amounts of champagne and finish the evening performing a selection of Broadway musicals

Speaking of musicals, what is your favourite Julie Andrews show?

* Mary Poppins

* The Sound of Music

* Who the hell is Julie Andrews?

Have you ever had a boyfriend who later turned out to be gay?


* Don’t be ridiculous

* Not that I’m aware of, but so what anyway?


* So that’s what happened to my shimmering cleavage enhancer after we broke up


Your local gay bar is:

* Against God’s law

* Really good fun, actually

* About to name a cocktail after you

When you go out on a Saturday night, your aim is to get:

* Drunk

* Laid

* Arrested

Answer yes or no:

* Has a friend ever left you alone in a strange city in the middle of the night because he met someone cute and had to have sex immediately? (Award yourself an extra bonus point if he was dressed as a woman and had all your money in his purse.)

How did you do?

Oh Grow Up

Returning from one of my regular, shrill lectures to my teen son about being of an age (16) where he ought to start taking responsibility and understanding that it is about time he started to grow up and revise for his very important GCSE exams, I expect a thunderbolt to crash through my kitchen ceiling any minute, striking me down as punishment for my appalling hypocrisy. I'm happy to harp on, insisting that preparation is everything, yet I wait until a deadline is breathing down my neck before I do anything myself. It took the advent of Google Street View to frighten me into sanding down and re-painting the rusted railings outside my house, and pulling out all of last year's withered, brown and crispy bedding plants from the variety of knackered terracotta pots that reside in the tiny "area" that is definitely not a garden. Is it a terrace? Er, an outdoor "space"? Whatever, it was a mess and it was only the thought of this fetid mush of bin bags, rust and dead foliage being photographed for publication on the Net that made me sort it out.

What else should I do to set a good example to the Spawn? They're not accepting, biddable little toddlers any more. They're capable of making their own, considered judgements now and are quite happy to interrupt my rants with completely irrefutable remarks regarding my own failings. My previous fallback position of: "Never mind what Mummy does, that's not your concern," just doesn't cut it.

I have therefore vowed that from now on, I will:

Work with neglected children. Preferably my own, although guarantees cannot be given.

Open my bank statements when they arrive, not file them down the back of the hall table.

Ditto credit card statements.

Develop a lasting friendship with at least one man who isn’t gay (re guarantees: see first point).

Hand my mobile phone to a trusted friend before embarking on a night out, to stop me from ringing old/ex boyfriends when I am cocooned in a happy cocktail-induced haze.

Expunge from my mobile phone all the numbers that I either never call or have no idea who they are, but only keep in my phone to reassure myself that I have the acceptable number of friends.

Tolerate fools better, provided this does not encourage them to take up more of my time.

Stop correcting people’s grammar and pronunciation (with one exception: anyone who says “pacific” instead of “specific” must be punished ruthlessly).

Give up drinking alcohol.

Except at parties.

And when having dinner with friends.

And when I’ve had a hard day.

Empty the cat litter tray on a regular basis instead of waiting until it looks like an IRA dirty protest.

Stop spending hours on Twitter whilst pretending it is "work”.

Stop dating men who have no recollection of Charles and Di's wedding because they weren't born then.

It's over to you now, people. What will you vow to do in future?

I have been asked to publish the following anonymously. Read it and I think you will see why...

I vow never again to clean the rim of the en suite toilet with husband's toothbrush - unless under extreme provocation - for heaven's sake it's not unreasonable of me to expect him not to say hello.

I will not feign how much I will miss him whenever he travels away from home. I will not plot & plan dastardly things I could do whenever he is away from home. (Sadly these only ever stay at the plotting and planning stage - but infidelity is a state of mind, is it not?)

I vow never to swear again (however elegantly, relevantly and indeed, in received pronunciation) and then tell my child that it would be quite wrong to copy Mummy

I will not encourage my child to read books or watch programmes that are way out of his age group because I need someone intelligent to discuss them with & husband doesn't come into that category.

Never again will I allow myself to play the drunken dialling game. No-one wants to hear from me at 3.00am no matter how much they profess to love me.

I will never visit any of my inlaw's homes again and deliberately break something.

Easier actually just never to visit any of my inlaw's homes again.

I will never again express surprise when my child finds nefarious substances in my office drawer and then say "What a silly place for Mummy to have put her herbal tea". (I vow to find a safer hiding place).

I vow never again to have a period that lasts for three solid months and will revert to trusted method of telling my husband that I have a headache like normal women do.

I will never again speak to ex boyfriends when husband is at home. They do not like to be called Susan or Hermione.

I vow never again to mark letters from banks or building societies and then send them back with the advice that I refuse to respond to them until they start to write in proper English.

I will not giggle uncontrollably at funerals.

I will not make a stye look much worse than it is by adding purple & green eye make up.

I will be honest when books arrive for me from Amazon & will stop telling husband how lovely it is of best friend to have sent gifts to me.

I will generally become a much nicer person and will stop being sarcastic.

I will try hard to stop lying about becoming a nicer person and not being sarcastic.

Local shops for local people

The thing about blogging is that one is suppposed to blog, not faff around thinking "I'll write it tomorrow," and then not writing it. I respond best to deadlines, as the graph below illustrates:

So, following on my from post about shopping at Lidl I thought I would tell you about the place where I shop most frequently: Kings Road (no apostrophe). It is a lovely place and only a short cycle ride from my home. However, the route to Kings Road involves two hills (well, they're hills to me) and I don't like cycling up hills. Neither are very steep, but but I am not yet fit enough to cycle up both in one go. I make it to the top of the first one, then I have to get off and prat around with the wheels of my cycle in order to give passing traffic the impression that I have only stopped to check something important, not because I am a purple-faced slob with burning thighs.

This is the second hill:

Call that piffling incline a hill, you say? Well yes, I do. It is a hill, I tell you. Not steep, admittedly, but a long, slow incline that when you're cycling feels like it will never end. I set myself little goals, such as "keep going till you reach the first hotel," - there are tons of little hotels and bed and breakfasts on Kings Road - and "see if you can keep breathing normally till you reach the doctors' surgery", which is handily placed at the top of the hill where each day I fully expect to gasp my last.

It's worth it though. For when you reach the shops, there is everything you could possibly want. There are two beauticians for example, both excellent, one now offering "Hollywood Lashes" for the frankly bargain price of £50:

Just as soon as I can lay my hands on a spare fifty quid I'm getting them. Goodbye to looking like a mole blinking in the sunlight, hello to batting my eyeslashes like Cheryl Cole. Just along from "Kingsgrove Hair and Beauty" is the "Ramus Seafood Emporium". This is a place of wonder, selling everything from oysters to Sauvignon Blanc, from Hollandaise sauce (made on the premises) to Monkfish tails. It is deservedly famous in Yorkshire and attracts the well-off (there is always at least one mahoosive 4x4 parked outside it).

Sometimes I just wander around it, just looking at the glistening piles of crayfish and helping myself to the whatever is piled high on their "taster" plates on the counter, chewing thoughtfully and looking as though any minute I will definitely be buying a whole side of smoked salmon.

Saturday mornings are always particularly busy in Ramus, because this is when Harrogate wives come to buy for that night's dinner party. Raffish looking gentlemen, usually wearing pale pink sweaters over yellow corduroy trousers - or it could be pale yellow sweaters over pink corduroy trousers - stand patiently beside their Boden-ed wives as they pick over the sea bass and point their manicured nails at the assistants: "No not that one, THAT one. Tsk."

None of these couples know the meaning of discreet conversation, used as they are to having to raise their voices in order to be heard in their vast, many-roomed palatial homes. "Heff you checked with Joyce if Bodger's complaint has cleared up, daahling?", yells the corduroyed husband. "Oh do shut up Geoffrey," bellows Mrs Boden. "If it flares up again I shall simply never invite them to another dinnah potty."

My favourite shop is the grocers, "Regal Fruiterers". Everything you could possibly want is there, and if you buy, for example, some coconut milk, red chillis, coriander and cashew nuts, they will ask you if you are making a Thai curry and make informed and incredibly useful suggestions for other ingredients, methods of cooking and suchlike. I love that shop.

As you can see from the photo, next to Regal is "Archimboldo's", an Italian delicatessen that sells the most divine bread, pasta, proscuitto and a wide variety of dishes they cook themselves, including Lasagne, Tuscany Beef Stew, Melanzane alla Parmigiana - you get the picture. Of course, the downside to this is that any Harrogate wife who serves an Italian dish at her dinnah potty is immediately suspected of having bought it from Archimboldo's and passed it off as their own work.

If you haven't stuffed yourself with the bits of bread and cubes of smoked meat on their counter, you can wander along to Swanky Pants and buy yourself some sensational undies or swimwear (I ignore the Couture Bride section, for obvious reasons).

I missed out the butchers, cycle shop (very handy when I don't know how to adjust my brakes or gears, they always help and don't charge when it's just something small), the teeny Sainsburys that is open till 10pm, the off-licence, the French bakery, the interior design shop......... ooh I nearly forgot. Shine. Shine sells lovely, inexpensive jewellery, most of it hand-made. I at the moment, I covet all of these:

especially the leather cuffs with the roses on the bottom shelf.

Kings Road is not in the centre of Harrogate. Yet is has every shop - and more - that anyone could want. Sadly, we lost the post office last year when our lovely Government closed so many of them around the country. Still, it is a five minute cycle ride from my house and apart from my regular bus trips to Lidl, this is where I shop. We should all support our local shops because once they're lost, we won't get them back.

You Know You're Getting Old When......

A “roast” isn't some sort of sordid, Premiership footballer thing, it is a dinner that comprises a joint and all the trimmings

You’re more excited about being invited to the above on a Sunday than going out the night before

When you open the pages of your weekly local newspaper, you go straight to the “Planning Permission Granted” column to spy on your neighbours rather than read the court round-up to spy on your friends

You cry at Britain's Got Talent

You see someone else's point of view - first

At any sporting occasion, you leave early to “beat the rush”

Rather than throw a knackered pair of trainers out, you decide to keep them because they’ll “do” for the garden

You buy Birkenstocks because they’re comfy, not because they’re fashionable

You only go to bars where they have comfy seats, because, you know, you like to sit down

You use words like “comfy”

You buy t-shirts without anything written on them

You need "something sweet" to finish off a meal

At night time, you like to "get settled"

Sometimes when your teen children are playing loud music, you say "I remember this the first time round”

You punctuate your conversation with meaningless phrases such as “believe you me”

After five minutes in a club you leave, not because you’ve had enough but because you can’t stand having to shout “WHAT?” and, God help you, cupping your ear every time someone speaks to you

You start to see the point of boxed wine

You always have eggs and milk in

You don’t think there’s anything boring about a four-door car

The kids you once babysat for are now fighting in Afghanistan

That pair of tummy-flattening Spanx you bought is getting a lot of mileage

After sex you wonder if it would be inappropriate to put the bottom sheet straight into the wash

You watch The Apprentice and blather on to anyone who will listen about how you wouldn’t employ any of them and anyway, not one of them knows how to draw up a decent marketing plan blah blah

When you get up in the morning and look in the bathroom mirror, you see your Mother looking back at you

You realise that your mother was right about most things (dammit)

You go to bed at 11pm, as opposed to thinking about getting ready to go out at 11pm

You raise the median age of your Pilates class by your mere presence

You start to wonder who on earth you’re keeping in shape for – it’s not like your cats are bothered

You have cats



(With thanks to Twitter friends AnotherJulia, Clareharryruby, Gibbzer, Kirstieh and ClareH)

On Line, Off Message

I am single. This is a particulary delicious state to be in when one is in one's early twenties, with the glorious freedom to do what you want, when you want and yet still have the very real possibility that you will meet your soul mate tomorrow. And when you do, you will live together in a fabulous house, have tons of money and the biggest problem you will ever face will be whether or not to invite the Hendersons to dinner again, after that unfortunate episode with the loo roll and the chocolate mousse. It's not the same a couple of decades later though. Ho. You are officially on the shelf, and not getting dusted either.

When I was newly single a few years ago, I rather expected things would carry on as before, only with one less person, yet I found myself shunned by the married community. Friends - good friends - who would previously include me in their dinner parties, trips to the theatre, holidays even, completely and utterly dropped me. If I extended an invitation, they were mysteriously busy. The only conclusion I could draw from this mean-spirited behaviour was that they thought I would, without question, go after their troglodyte husbands. This was confirmed when I got myself a boyfriend (a ridiculous term when one is 40, but what else to call him?) and I was back on the invitation list. Two years later when we split up, I was dropped again.

Anyway, this whingeing is for the purposes of scene-setting only, as my married friends are not my friends any longer (and half of them have got divorced themselves now, HA) and I move in different circles.

No, I'm telling you this because a while ago, when I was moaning about my single state, a fellow single friend suggested internet dating. I didn't like the sound of this. All the match.com ads have an air of of both superiority and desperation about them ("What? Not found your soul mate after six months? Tsk. Go on then. Have the next six months' membership free, you LOSER.")

Unless you're a member, you're only allowed a sneak preview of the goods on offer. If I wanted the full low-down, I would have to join one. But which one? There's tons of them. Some, judging by the photographs, seemed to specialise in people who had recently been released into the community. Others suggested you submit yourself to a personality test in order to ensure compatibility. (A brief side note here: surely the point of dating is to hide all your ghastly faults until you’ve successfully ensnared your prey?) Some were right out there on the fringes of ‘dating’, dedicated to nothing more refined than a couple of hours of, ahem, activity.

These sites, although populated with photographs of upstanding members, they weren’t the kind of members I had in mind. In the end, I chose to join the dating website of one of the UK’s most reputable broadsheets. This dating website would, I was confident, present me with a gorgeous man who had no hang-ups, issues, baggage, bizarre fetishes or crushing debt. How wrong can a girl be?


I looked through the photographs first (yes, I'm shallow, I know). Each photograph had a jaunty alias attached, usually along the lines of “Funkindaguy” or “Happy2shag”. “Made4luvinU” leered at me unpleasantly from his photograph, the shoulder of his girlfriend still clearly in shot. One very good-looking chap had given himself the rather startling moniker of “Tinseltits”, although with hindsight I suspect he hadn’t paid close enough attention to which box he had ticked in the Sexual Preferences section.

Some less confident candidates clearly felt their looks didn’t quite cut it, and so included a photo of themselves with their car, a Ford Focus presumably counting as the clincher should any fair maiden be dithering about. A large number of men posted photographs of themselves in Thailand, usually pictured with an elephant, or, more worryingly, a small boy. At the less glamorous end of the destination market was a hopeless-looking chap photographed in his garden, his face best described as plain but his begonias, magnificent.

And who is to say any of these chaps would want me? Nope, I don't want to do it. I just don't like the whole arranged marriage atmosphere of dating websites and anway pretty much everyone says the same things about themselves. If these people are to be believed, it is one of the great mysteries of our time as to why the centre of every town, city, hell - VILLAGE, in Britain isn't absolutely deserted at the weekend, as all declare themselves to be lovers of fresh air, long country walks, fireside chats, red wine and watching old movies.

It might work for some - indeed, it must work for some - but it's not for me. I shall carry on as before. And tell you about it.

I'm just going to label these - what were you thinking?

Today, I don't much want to write about myself. Instead, I want to laugh at celebrities.

Top of my list is the strange mixture of eccentricity and banality that is Gwyneth Paltrow. Through the auspices of her website, Goop, I learn that Ms Paltrow is returning to her "day job". Ironically, Oscar-winner Gwyneth feels she has to enlarge on what this day job actually entails "(filming a movie)" in case I have forgotten what it is she does, apart from wear ovary-skimming dresses and have lunch with Madonna.

I like to think Gwyneth writes Goop herself, because if she doesn't, she needs to sack her copy editor pronto. She's had a good look through the Spring collections, has Gwyneth, and she's not noticed anything particularly revolutionary. Indeed, "They are still selling gladiators that are almost identical to the ones I got last spring." Really? Gladiators like, you know, Spartacus? Or the kind that wears a leotard? Frustratingly, Gwyneth does not say.

However, she is prepared to share one or two insider tips for her readers' Spring wardrobes, tips which I will be following the minute I have any money. What should I wear to cater for the warm/cool/changeable Spring weather, Gwyneth? Like a fashion confucius, she is on hand to set us on the right track. Trenchcoat, jeans and a pair of flats. Who knew?

She's on less sure ground though when she tells us that jumpsuits "work well with any shape". What shapes would those be, Gwyn? Twiglet? Toothpick? And Gwyneth models a jumpsuit for us herself, her botoxed face failing to expunge the embarrassed gleam in her eye that says "Uh-oh. I look crap, don't I?"







[Photo: GOOP.com]


Oh, Drew Barrymore. Heidi meets Racing Stripes.

But look! She's not the only one!

Only Gwen Stefani looks comfortable, as indeed she should, the dress being her own L.A.M.B. label. Thandi's mouth is smiling but her eyes suggest that the minute she gets home, that Giles Deacon frock is going straight on E-bay. And as for Sienna's Calvin Klein ensemble: the whole outfit smacks of indecision. "Do I pull the dress up a bit? What about pulling the shoulders down a bit? Up a bit? Down a bit? Just, sort of, you know, crumple it a bit? Oh crap. There's no time to blow-dry my hair now."