Oh blog. I've neglected you. I have my reasons, of course. Well, reason. I've had a lot to deal with and I'm as miserable as sin. Here's why.
My beloved son did not do as well in his GCSEs as I and indeed he, hoped. He was away on holiday with his father when the results were issued so when I called the school for his results, I was told I would have to attend an interview as the powers-that-be weren't convinced they would allow him to join their Sixth Form.
I duly went to be interviewed the next day and did my level best to persuade them to allow him into their Sixth Form. One of the panel remained unconvinced and so I had to wait for their decision. Four days later my son returned (I might add that his father was reluctant to take any of my calls or increasingly worried emails as to what the alternatives would be) and went into the school to meet said unconvinced teacher. Again, this teacher wouldn't give him a decision. By this stage, most pupils were starting the new term. I didn't know what to do. I asked my ex-husband if perhaps we should consider a school in Hertfordshire which is where he lives. Hmmn.
Anyway, long story short, a school was found down there, my son visited it, loved it, they offered him a place and more importantly they said he could study the exact subjects he wanted for A Level. His current school remained silent until three days before their term was due to begin and said he COULD come back, but with some fairly rigorous provisos. My son said no and the next thing all of us knew, he'd gone to spend term time with his father, but of course returning to me at least two weekends a month and every half term and school holidays. Or so I thought.
Not only has my son been told that now he is staying with his father he is not to go "running back to Yorkshire" because "his family is HERE now", but the maintenance payments I receive from my ex-husband for my son are to stop with immediate effect. All my pleas fell on deaf ears. I'm struggling to make ends meet and keep a roof over our heads as it stands even with this monthly sum of money, so I asked if some compromise could be made, say, I still received a proportion of the maintenance to cover when my son would be with us. No dice. He put it plainly. He "didn't need the money" but it was the "principle". Apparently his latest wife thinks that I am "robbing" her. Considering that the amount I receive(d) wouldn't even cover the monthly fuel bill for her new Aston Martin, this was a tad hard to swallow.
Anyway, funds, or lack thereof, being what they are, getting myself a solicitor was out of the question. I don't qualify for Legal Aid (not many people do unless they're on Job Seekers' Allowance, I discovered via the Citizens' Advice Bureau) but I did get a free half hour's consultation with the firm that handled my divorce nine years ago and thank God I did. I was given a copy of the Consent Order that categorically states I am to receive this maintenance, or periodical payment as it's known, unless either party went to Court and requested it to be stopped or varied.
I managed to speak to my ex-husband and told him this. I was told that unless I accepted his decision to stop paying, then he would take my son out of the school he had just started, send him back to Yorkshire and he could "take his chances". In other words, it was the Hertfordshire school (which is fee paying) or no school. I'd already investigated the possibilities of a place at the two state schools in Harrogate which are excellent, by the way, but was told they were full and that I should have applied for a place last March and they wouldn't let him study the A levels he wanted either. Well, I'm not going to jeopardise my son's happiness at his new school so - there it is. He's there and we're here.
I am, however, going to take my ex-husband to Court. You can do it without a solicitor. The various people I've spoken to at Harrogate County Court couldn't have been more helpful and I am eternally grateful for their patience and understanding. he's definitely got a case for reducing the maintenance but you've got to go through the Courts to do so. In the meantime, however, I have no idea how I'm going to meet all the bills but even more importantly I miss having my son at home. I know I should get over it and everyone's children leave home eventually and he's not gone for good etc, but man: it's hard.
Friday, 18 September 2009
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Shanewatch (an ongoing series)
She's at it again. You may recall my trashing of Shane Watson in a previous post and I'm afraid to report she's at it again.
In her latest must-read column in The Times she's back on the subject of WHAT MEN WANT. Oh yes. And what do they want? Shane, in her infinite wisdom, is able to tell us:
"We know that smudgy eyes and Balmain jackets and snakeskin heels are hot, even if men insist they prefer us in bias-cut dresses with shiny wavy hair and a pair of flip-flops.
Ah, how right she is. Men are forever poring over the Boden catalogue, suggesting that their girlfriends/wives buy that nice little bias-cut dress and then jump artfully over the nearest puddle/rock pool.
How would we ever get dressed without her?
In her latest must-read column in The Times she's back on the subject of WHAT MEN WANT. Oh yes. And what do they want? Shane, in her infinite wisdom, is able to tell us:
"We know that smudgy eyes and Balmain jackets and snakeskin heels are hot, even if men insist they prefer us in bias-cut dresses with shiny wavy hair and a pair of flip-flops.
Ah, how right she is. Men are forever poring over the Boden catalogue, suggesting that their girlfriends/wives buy that nice little bias-cut dress and then jump artfully over the nearest puddle/rock pool.
How would we ever get dressed without her?
The Magic Finger
I'm going to cut to the chase today. I cut through my finger, right down to the knuckle, last week. See, I'm not mincing my words, am I? I minced my finger though. Well, not minced exactly, more sort of sliced, but that wouldn't work, would it, saying I'm not slicing my words and I don't have a sub-editor to go all Giles Coren on.
Anyway, the finger slicing happened because some months ago the ceiling underneath my bathroom collapsed, all due to something and nothing really; running a bath and then, er, pratting around on Twitter and forgetting all about it.
The plasterer (lovely chap) has been and gone, and the decorators are due to start work this week. This led me to stare speculatively at what I believe is called "the paintwork". You know, skirting boards, banisters, door frames, doors etc. I didn't need to be the impossibly rude Ann Maurice to recognise that all of the aforementioned needed re-painting. The doors in particular have taken rather a lot of abuse. A shouty mother and two teens makes for rather a lot of slamming.
Funds being non-existent, I decided to brave the hell hole that is my utility room and see what half-used tins of paint might be lurking in the cupboards and could be pressed into service. Who cares if the various shades of white (china/chalk/cotton) don't match? Pish. Eventually Homes and Gardens will catch up with me and recognise that not-quite-matching shades of white are interior design's new black.
The search for suitable paints took rather longer than I'd anticipated, as the utility room is a repository for all kinds of crap. I have inherited my mother's thrifty gene, which means I am afraid to throw stuff out. Unfortunately, I haven't inherited her concomitant practicality, which would mean I actually do something with the object, instead of shoving it in a cupboard in case it "comes in" later.
So, after I'd waded through mountains of guarantee certificates and instruction booklets for various appliances that broke down years ago and were sold on via car boot sales (don't judge me, I needed the money)I found a plastic tin of paint that looked entirely suitable for the job. If I liked the colour, I'd start with that. Only I couldn't get the lid off, could I. Not even with my special paint tin lid remover gadget thingy. So I moved onto kitchen knives (nope), forks (bent in Uri-Geller fashion), screwdrivers (nope again) and finally my son's Swiss Army pen knife. I don't know exactly how I did it, but the plastic lid bent, the knife blade closed back on itself and seconds later I was clutching the knuckle of my right index finger, screaming "Arrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhh!" and trying to stem the flow of blood with dishclothes, tea towels and anything else I could reach.
About an hour later, when I'd stopped blubbing, I peeled off the makeshift bandages and had an experimental wiggle of my finger (bad idea of the week). Blast. Still bleeding. I couldn't ignore this, I would have to go to A&E. Now, I enjoy four hours of sitting in a waiting room looking at children with pans stuck on their heads as much as the next person, but I had a meeting to go to in a couple of hours and I couldn't afford to miss it (collecting payment). On the other hand, I was in rather a lot of pain, and it was a weekday morning, so surely Casualty couldn't be that busy? Pausing only to secure my bloodstained, tea towel-bandaged finger with a scrunchie, I got onto my bicycle and started the long cycle to the hospital.
For a mercy, the roads weren't busy, and you'd be amazed at how quickly one stops when one brakes only with one hand, although there is a certain amount of skidding involved. Free-wheeling downhill, the scrunchie failed to hold everything together and my now bright red tea towel unravelled, flapping gaily in the wind and scattering droplets of blood on startled passers-by.
When I arrived at the hospital and went to park my bike, I realised that in my panic, I hadn't brought my bike lock. The Hospital Reception staff greeted my pleas for some sort of substitute with blank stares. Eventually one bored charmer looked up from her computer monitor and called behind her to her equally bored colleague: "We haven't got anything that would do, have we Leanne?" Leeane dragged herself away from the no doubt thrilling occupation of gazing into space and replied "What?...............No."
I was then treated to a gripping lecture on the hospital's policy of parking at one's own risk, cannot be held responsible, more than my job's worth etc, and decided to cycle back home and patch my finger up myself, rather than face the distinct possibility of having my bike stolen for the sake of an elastoplast.
The following night I went round to a friend's house for dinner and one of the guests was a male nurse, who kindly gave the offending digit the professional once-over, asked me what I'd done to fix it (sprayed a bit of antiseptic spray on the wound, applied a couple of steri-strips, a dressing and covered the lot with a finger bandage) and said I done exactly what he would have done and not to worry.
And where did I find such professional wound dressing supplies? You'll never guess. The utility room.
Anyway, the finger slicing happened because some months ago the ceiling underneath my bathroom collapsed, all due to something and nothing really; running a bath and then, er, pratting around on Twitter and forgetting all about it.
The plasterer (lovely chap) has been and gone, and the decorators are due to start work this week. This led me to stare speculatively at what I believe is called "the paintwork". You know, skirting boards, banisters, door frames, doors etc. I didn't need to be the impossibly rude Ann Maurice to recognise that all of the aforementioned needed re-painting. The doors in particular have taken rather a lot of abuse. A shouty mother and two teens makes for rather a lot of slamming.
Funds being non-existent, I decided to brave the hell hole that is my utility room and see what half-used tins of paint might be lurking in the cupboards and could be pressed into service. Who cares if the various shades of white (china/chalk/cotton) don't match? Pish. Eventually Homes and Gardens will catch up with me and recognise that not-quite-matching shades of white are interior design's new black.
The search for suitable paints took rather longer than I'd anticipated, as the utility room is a repository for all kinds of crap. I have inherited my mother's thrifty gene, which means I am afraid to throw stuff out. Unfortunately, I haven't inherited her concomitant practicality, which would mean I actually do something with the object, instead of shoving it in a cupboard in case it "comes in" later.
So, after I'd waded through mountains of guarantee certificates and instruction booklets for various appliances that broke down years ago and were sold on via car boot sales (don't judge me, I needed the money)I found a plastic tin of paint that looked entirely suitable for the job. If I liked the colour, I'd start with that. Only I couldn't get the lid off, could I. Not even with my special paint tin lid remover gadget thingy. So I moved onto kitchen knives (nope), forks (bent in Uri-Geller fashion), screwdrivers (nope again) and finally my son's Swiss Army pen knife. I don't know exactly how I did it, but the plastic lid bent, the knife blade closed back on itself and seconds later I was clutching the knuckle of my right index finger, screaming "Arrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhh!" and trying to stem the flow of blood with dishclothes, tea towels and anything else I could reach.
About an hour later, when I'd stopped blubbing, I peeled off the makeshift bandages and had an experimental wiggle of my finger (bad idea of the week). Blast. Still bleeding. I couldn't ignore this, I would have to go to A&E. Now, I enjoy four hours of sitting in a waiting room looking at children with pans stuck on their heads as much as the next person, but I had a meeting to go to in a couple of hours and I couldn't afford to miss it (collecting payment). On the other hand, I was in rather a lot of pain, and it was a weekday morning, so surely Casualty couldn't be that busy? Pausing only to secure my bloodstained, tea towel-bandaged finger with a scrunchie, I got onto my bicycle and started the long cycle to the hospital.
For a mercy, the roads weren't busy, and you'd be amazed at how quickly one stops when one brakes only with one hand, although there is a certain amount of skidding involved. Free-wheeling downhill, the scrunchie failed to hold everything together and my now bright red tea towel unravelled, flapping gaily in the wind and scattering droplets of blood on startled passers-by.
When I arrived at the hospital and went to park my bike, I realised that in my panic, I hadn't brought my bike lock. The Hospital Reception staff greeted my pleas for some sort of substitute with blank stares. Eventually one bored charmer looked up from her computer monitor and called behind her to her equally bored colleague: "We haven't got anything that would do, have we Leanne?" Leeane dragged herself away from the no doubt thrilling occupation of gazing into space and replied "What?...............No."
I was then treated to a gripping lecture on the hospital's policy of parking at one's own risk, cannot be held responsible, more than my job's worth etc, and decided to cycle back home and patch my finger up myself, rather than face the distinct possibility of having my bike stolen for the sake of an elastoplast.
The following night I went round to a friend's house for dinner and one of the guests was a male nurse, who kindly gave the offending digit the professional once-over, asked me what I'd done to fix it (sprayed a bit of antiseptic spray on the wound, applied a couple of steri-strips, a dressing and covered the lot with a finger bandage) and said I done exactly what he would have done and not to worry.
And where did I find such professional wound dressing supplies? You'll never guess. The utility room.
Wednesday, 27 May 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
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?
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?
Monday, 27 April 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
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.
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