They say that money can’t buy happiness but where’s the empirical evidence for this? Strangely, then when I Googled ‘money can’t buy happiness’ it turns out that there are a number of scientific studies that appear to demonstrate just that. However, never one to be put off by evidence, fact, science or the truth I have decided that money will buy me happiness and have done it again. Subscribed to Guardian Soulmates.
But this time it’s going to be different. This time I’m not going to sit there and hope that my well-worded (or wordy anyway) profile and glamorous picture will bring the Soulmates flooding in. Or trickling in. Or thank you the person who emailed me last time. Nor am I going to believe that simply ticking ‘Any’ for all the boxes in ‘my ideal mate’ will attract Mr Right. Or that adding all the cute guys who are way out of my league to My Favourites will mysteriously make them in my league. This time I’m being proactive. I’m taking control. I’m actually emailing people.
I have a technique. This is what I do:
I find a man I fancy. Or a man.
I carefully read what he’s written.
I then craft a cunningly worded sentence or two to say how interesting and sexy they sound. Examples include:
‘You sound interesting.’
‘You look nice.’
‘I read your profile.’
And
‘I fancy you.’
I then craft a cunningly worded sentence or two that lets them know just how interesting and sexy I am. Examples include:
‘I have written a load of bollocks on my profile.’
‘I can catch a ping-pong ball on my nose.’
‘I know how to read.’
And
‘My shoulders match.’
Then, finally, and this is the important part, I craft a cunningly worded question so they can answer my email without the awkwardness of not knowing what to say. Examples include:
‘How do you come to be living in Iceland/London/The World?’
‘Why have you put up that appalling photograph?’
‘Can you direct me to the Caves of Redemption?’
And
‘How?’
So far three people have replied. One of them didn’t have a subscription yet, one of them had let their subscription lapse and the other was the man who emailed me last time. And they say money can’t buy happiness. Pah!
Showing posts with label Why men fancy me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Why men fancy me. Show all posts
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Monday, 7 July 2008
How Not to Internet Date
I’ve fallen off the wagon. Yes, for some whole weeks I stayed off internet dating. But, somehow, possibly without my knowledge, I’ve signed up to Match.com. It’s not that I had anything against Guardian Soulmates, they were fine, cute and moderately dandy. It’s just that, well, if I signed up to that one again then all my ex-dates would see that I was back and it would be revealed just how really sad, terminally foolish and obsessed I am.
Also, my friend, whom I met through Soulmates, would realise that all my swearing off internet dating and swearing on being single was a complete, utter and overwhelming sham.
The problem seems to be that it might be addictive. Like any good drug it is the promise of some high that is better than some low or medium elevation. Just click on this man and your life will be better.
This time, however, I have it all under control. I’ve got it sussed. No more disappointingly unanswered emails, winks, nudges, adding to favourites. Rejection is not on the agenda. There will be no more lying in bed at night wondering why WhiteKnight34 hasn’t contacted me, why HeavenGuy11 doesn’t want to have sex with me, why Wnaker26 hasn’t proposed yet.
I have a cunning and infallible plan.
This is it:
I won’t email anyone, or wink at them, or nudge them, or poke them in the bollocks.
It will be like coffee. The smell will be better than the tasting. For I am simply a voyeur. I will read the profiles but not touch the keyboard. I will fantasise but not indulge. I am not addicted.
Also, my friend, whom I met through Soulmates, would realise that all my swearing off internet dating and swearing on being single was a complete, utter and overwhelming sham.
The problem seems to be that it might be addictive. Like any good drug it is the promise of some high that is better than some low or medium elevation. Just click on this man and your life will be better.
This time, however, I have it all under control. I’ve got it sussed. No more disappointingly unanswered emails, winks, nudges, adding to favourites. Rejection is not on the agenda. There will be no more lying in bed at night wondering why WhiteKnight34 hasn’t contacted me, why HeavenGuy11 doesn’t want to have sex with me, why Wnaker26 hasn’t proposed yet.
I have a cunning and infallible plan.
This is it:
I won’t email anyone, or wink at them, or nudge them, or poke them in the bollocks.
It will be like coffee. The smell will be better than the tasting. For I am simply a voyeur. I will read the profiles but not touch the keyboard. I will fantasise but not indulge. I am not addicted.
Friday, 30 May 2008
Donny!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Something very exciting happened. I’ve been to see the Osmonds.
I was innocently eating dinner, or as innocently as I ever eat dinner. My mobile rang. ‘Are you an Osmonds fan?’ my friend asked.
‘Are you at the pub quiz?’ I asked.
‘Can you name five Osmonds songs?’
‘Am I a woman in my forties?’
‘They come on in half an hour I have a spare ticket.’
My heart raced. It was only puppy love. I dashed upstairs and changed into my best flares, paper roses, shiny top and floppy peaked hat, grew my hair down to beyond my shoulders and broke out in a display of colourful acne. Crazy horses couldn’t keep me away.
Half an hour later I was sitting in the Cardiff International Arena with most of the mid-forties female population of the world. Waiting. In anticipation. In an anticipation only those who have known the unrequited love of the world’s premier heart-throb can anticipate.
We chatted to our mates and wondered if we had time to nip to the loo before they came on.
Soon the waiting became too much. We nipped to the loo. Then the waiting and lack of heart-throb became too much. Hysteria was setting in. We stamped. We clapped. We shouted ‘We want the Osmonds’.
And there, like a miracle, they were, all very many of them.
My friend shouted:
Alan!
Wayne!
Merrill!
Virl!
Tom!
Donny!
Jimmy!
I shouted:
Donny!
Strangely no one shouted:
Marie!
Much swooning and general middle-aged hysteria went on.Thus:
And it all made me realise that I had missed out a very essential part of growing up. As a teenager I never did the hysteria thing. And frankly thought the Osmonds a soppy, pathetic, time-wasting, drippy lot who were only good for dentistry adverts.
‘Donny I love you!’ I shouted. Hysteria is a lot better than it’s made out to be.
I was innocently eating dinner, or as innocently as I ever eat dinner. My mobile rang. ‘Are you an Osmonds fan?’ my friend asked.
‘Are you at the pub quiz?’ I asked.
‘Can you name five Osmonds songs?’
‘Am I a woman in my forties?’
‘They come on in half an hour I have a spare ticket.’
My heart raced. It was only puppy love. I dashed upstairs and changed into my best flares, paper roses, shiny top and floppy peaked hat, grew my hair down to beyond my shoulders and broke out in a display of colourful acne. Crazy horses couldn’t keep me away.
Half an hour later I was sitting in the Cardiff International Arena with most of the mid-forties female population of the world. Waiting. In anticipation. In an anticipation only those who have known the unrequited love of the world’s premier heart-throb can anticipate.
We chatted to our mates and wondered if we had time to nip to the loo before they came on.
Soon the waiting became too much. We nipped to the loo. Then the waiting and lack of heart-throb became too much. Hysteria was setting in. We stamped. We clapped. We shouted ‘We want the Osmonds’.
And there, like a miracle, they were, all very many of them.
My friend shouted:
Alan!
Wayne!
Merrill!
Virl!
Tom!
Donny!
Jimmy!
I shouted:
Donny!
Strangely no one shouted:
Marie!
Much swooning and general middle-aged hysteria went on.Thus:
And it all made me realise that I had missed out a very essential part of growing up. As a teenager I never did the hysteria thing. And frankly thought the Osmonds a soppy, pathetic, time-wasting, drippy lot who were only good for dentistry adverts.
‘Donny I love you!’ I shouted. Hysteria is a lot better than it’s made out to be.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
How Not to Formicate
My internal body thermostat is broken. It’s a problem. This is what happens:
Mostly I’m fine
Then
My feet freeze from the toes inwards in a sensation reminiscent of a paddling in the North Sea not wearing sufficient Wellington-ness.
Then
My face becomes rosy and generally glowing like an embarrassed lady from a Victorian novel.
I glow like and embarrassed lady from a Victorian novel.
My breasts decide that since they are the most important part of me they’ll go on double-glow duty, and since there are two of them they decide to go on quadruple glow duty like a collection of ladies in a Victorian novel gossiping about the size of their husbands’ cummerbunds.
Meanwhile my knees and upper shins are fine, a sort of balmy spring afternoon Edwardian novel about the great outdoors manner of fine.
My toes continue to freeze like a novel of unspecified vintage about polar exploration.
I’ve told the doctor. Her solution was to remove some blood. I’m assuming that she felt that all this glowing and Victorian-ness was due to an excess of blood. And the removal thereof was a Victorian style solution. She had no leeches. I’m quite glad about that.
It all makes it difficult to know what to wear of a morning. This is what I’ve come up with (working up from the floor region) :
Twenty pairs of thermal walking socks (on each foot)
Jeans or legwarmers (rainbow striped)
A cummerbund and bustle
Nothing
A pair of pre-cooled coconut shells
nothing
A scarf
A gel-filled face mask
A balaclava
A straw hat with a jaunty collection of peonies and a puce ribbon.
The doctor believes that it is a case of Raynaulds Syndrome meets PMS meets the Perimenopause. I’ve just looked it up on Wikipedia and it informs me that it might be a case of formication. If only.
Mostly I’m fine
Then
My feet freeze from the toes inwards in a sensation reminiscent of a paddling in the North Sea not wearing sufficient Wellington-ness.
Then
My face becomes rosy and generally glowing like an embarrassed lady from a Victorian novel.
I glow like and embarrassed lady from a Victorian novel.
My breasts decide that since they are the most important part of me they’ll go on double-glow duty, and since there are two of them they decide to go on quadruple glow duty like a collection of ladies in a Victorian novel gossiping about the size of their husbands’ cummerbunds.
Meanwhile my knees and upper shins are fine, a sort of balmy spring afternoon Edwardian novel about the great outdoors manner of fine.
My toes continue to freeze like a novel of unspecified vintage about polar exploration.
I’ve told the doctor. Her solution was to remove some blood. I’m assuming that she felt that all this glowing and Victorian-ness was due to an excess of blood. And the removal thereof was a Victorian style solution. She had no leeches. I’m quite glad about that.
It all makes it difficult to know what to wear of a morning. This is what I’ve come up with (working up from the floor region) :
Twenty pairs of thermal walking socks (on each foot)
Jeans or legwarmers (rainbow striped)
A cummerbund and bustle
Nothing
A pair of pre-cooled coconut shells
nothing
A scarf
A gel-filled face mask
A balaclava
A straw hat with a jaunty collection of peonies and a puce ribbon.
The doctor believes that it is a case of Raynaulds Syndrome meets PMS meets the Perimenopause. I’ve just looked it up on Wikipedia and it informs me that it might be a case of formication. If only.
Friday, 18 April 2008
How Not to Impress – Or Compost is Sexy
It came to pass that I was showing someone that didn’t know me very well around my garden. Someone I quite wanted to know better. Sometimes I should know better.
This is what my garden usually looks like:
A pastoral idyll
A woodland glade
Sissinghurst
A garden
You know how it’s easy to take for granted what you see every day. Until you find yourself seeing it through someone else’s eyes.
It turned out that this is what my garden consisted of:
Paths with broken dragons who wanted to be real dragons when they grew up but remained stolidly concrete.
A compost heap.
An unmown lawn that had turned into a purple meadow.
Another compost heap.
An artefact made of breezeblocks and red render that wanted to be a bench in the Gaudi style but never quite achieved its ambition.
Dandelions.
A garden structure made of old ladders and guttering that wanted to be a Zen Japanese Tea House but had long since passed its ambition.
Another compost heap.
A greenhouse housing not greens but a thousand demi-johns with gross mysterious algae floating about in them in the post-post-modern grunge style.
Another compost heap.
More compost heaps in the art nouveau/vieux style.
A tin bath filled with mouldy water and old leaves in the Emin style.
Another compost heap.
Erosion.
Corrosion.
Exposition.
A compost heap.
I’ve just consulted Wikihow as to how to make a good impression on a man. Strangely there was no mention whatsoever of dandelions, compost heaps or mould.
I’ve also just consulted Google as to how to tell if a man fancies you. There was an awful lot of mention of me. And no mention of compost.
Since many people set such store on internet expertise I thinking that a bit of reverse experteeism could work here:
The most attractive thing a woman can have is a great number of compost heaps.
Sexiness and the ability to compost are practically synonymous.
This is what my garden usually looks like:
A pastoral idyll
A woodland glade
Sissinghurst
A garden
You know how it’s easy to take for granted what you see every day. Until you find yourself seeing it through someone else’s eyes.
It turned out that this is what my garden consisted of:
Paths with broken dragons who wanted to be real dragons when they grew up but remained stolidly concrete.
A compost heap.
An unmown lawn that had turned into a purple meadow.
Another compost heap.
An artefact made of breezeblocks and red render that wanted to be a bench in the Gaudi style but never quite achieved its ambition.
Dandelions.
A garden structure made of old ladders and guttering that wanted to be a Zen Japanese Tea House but had long since passed its ambition.
Another compost heap.
A greenhouse housing not greens but a thousand demi-johns with gross mysterious algae floating about in them in the post-post-modern grunge style.
Another compost heap.
More compost heaps in the art nouveau/vieux style.
A tin bath filled with mouldy water and old leaves in the Emin style.
Another compost heap.
Erosion.
Corrosion.
Exposition.
A compost heap.
I’ve just consulted Wikihow as to how to make a good impression on a man. Strangely there was no mention whatsoever of dandelions, compost heaps or mould.
I’ve also just consulted Google as to how to tell if a man fancies you. There was an awful lot of mention of me. And no mention of compost.
Since many people set such store on internet expertise I thinking that a bit of reverse experteeism could work here:
The most attractive thing a woman can have is a great number of compost heaps.
Sexiness and the ability to compost are practically synonymous.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
How to Tell if a Man Fancies You Using Superstition Alone
There are days on which science just doesn’t work. Those sort of days where cats fall upwards, quanta are visible to the naked eye, and naked men are invisible. Or possibly not there.
These are the sorts of times where one has to turn to superstition alone the answer the big questions in life, like 'Why am I here?' 'Why do I hear?' 'Can one hear y’s?' And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me?’
Although, just so you don’t think that the above chestnut is the only form of nut people google to discover my blog, recent queries have included:
‘How to hoover woodlice.’ (I’ve referred that to Anthea)
‘Does everyone have a G-spot?’ No. And, as of the moment they turn the Large Hadron Collider on, no one will.
‘How do you to find a G-spot?’ OS maps are traditional, modern folk use Sat Nav, I advise thoroughly searching the entire body as it’s simply more entertaining that way. Whatever the method you use do it soon before they make the black hole. Not that black hole, include that one in your search.
‘What to do in the sauna?’ Not break your foot.
‘Morreau naked.’ If you really want to see me naked I’m on public view in the changing room of the gym most nights, on the book cover and if you require a private viewing please make an appointment. Reciprocosity expected/anticipated.
And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me’.
The thing about superstition, as opposed to science, as a method of discovery is that it is a lot more straight forward.
Here are the top ten ways of discovering if a man fancies you using superstition alone:
1. If he crosses your path wearing black (especially black pyjamas, underwear, a black condom or a darkish colour negligee)
2. If he ties knots in his handkerchief, or his trousers look like they’ve got a large knotted handkerchief down them.
3. If he walks under a ladder carrying a penny that he’s just picked up (it also shows that he knows how to balance evil with good if that’s your sort of thing)
4. If he has a foot like a rabbit or a rabbit like a foot long.
5. If he is standing at the foot of a rainbow (a small warning here – leprechauns are infamously bad lovers)
6. If you see him shooting stars (again, a warning, if he is shooting very famous stars in a public place it really doesn’t bode well for a long-lasting relationship)
7. If he is 13
8. If he gets into the wrong, or even the right, side of your bed
9. If he itches your palm (or possible anywhere else)
10. If he breaks mirrors (of course you might not fancy him then)
11. If he knocks on wood (ok, wood fetishists may not be your cup of tea but at least he fancies something)
12. (my personal favourite) If he’s a chimney sweep and says ‘cor lurve, I really fancy you’ in a fake cockney accent.
These are the sorts of times where one has to turn to superstition alone the answer the big questions in life, like 'Why am I here?' 'Why do I hear?' 'Can one hear y’s?' And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me?’
Although, just so you don’t think that the above chestnut is the only form of nut people google to discover my blog, recent queries have included:
‘How to hoover woodlice.’ (I’ve referred that to Anthea)
‘Does everyone have a G-spot?’ No. And, as of the moment they turn the Large Hadron Collider on, no one will.
‘How do you to find a G-spot?’ OS maps are traditional, modern folk use Sat Nav, I advise thoroughly searching the entire body as it’s simply more entertaining that way. Whatever the method you use do it soon before they make the black hole. Not that black hole, include that one in your search.
‘What to do in the sauna?’ Not break your foot.
‘Morreau naked.’ If you really want to see me naked I’m on public view in the changing room of the gym most nights, on the book cover and if you require a private viewing please make an appointment. Reciprocosity expected/anticipated.
And, of course that old chestnut ‘How Can I Tell if a Man Fancies Me’.
The thing about superstition, as opposed to science, as a method of discovery is that it is a lot more straight forward.
Here are the top ten ways of discovering if a man fancies you using superstition alone:
1. If he crosses your path wearing black (especially black pyjamas, underwear, a black condom or a darkish colour negligee)
2. If he ties knots in his handkerchief, or his trousers look like they’ve got a large knotted handkerchief down them.
3. If he walks under a ladder carrying a penny that he’s just picked up (it also shows that he knows how to balance evil with good if that’s your sort of thing)
4. If he has a foot like a rabbit or a rabbit like a foot long.
5. If he is standing at the foot of a rainbow (a small warning here – leprechauns are infamously bad lovers)
6. If you see him shooting stars (again, a warning, if he is shooting very famous stars in a public place it really doesn’t bode well for a long-lasting relationship)
7. If he is 13
8. If he gets into the wrong, or even the right, side of your bed
9. If he itches your palm (or possible anywhere else)
10. If he breaks mirrors (of course you might not fancy him then)
11. If he knocks on wood (ok, wood fetishists may not be your cup of tea but at least he fancies something)
12. (my personal favourite) If he’s a chimney sweep and says ‘cor lurve, I really fancy you’ in a fake cockney accent.
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
How Not to Get a Man to Fancy You
I have realised that I’ve been jumping the gun. All this time when I’ve been asking ‘How to Tell if a Man Fancies You’ I should really be starting somewhere near the beginning (traditional I know) and asking ‘How to Get a Man to Fancy You.’
I’ve done some research.
Looking at some basic Newtonian laws of the universe, I have discovered this:
‘Every point mass attracts every other point mass by a force pointing along the line intersecting both points.’
Obviously points are important.
As is mass.
It goes on to say
‘The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.’
So, we also discover that proportionality and distance and squares are fairly crucial.
Therefore (and I worked this out all by myself using extrapolation, logic and absolutely no calculus), according to Newton, the real trick of being attractive to the opposite mass is:
Be a large, comely ballet dancer on tip-toes and stand very near your target person holding an upside-down square.
I have actually been out in the field testing this hypothesis.
This is what happened:
I had trouble being large so I opted for being full instead. Part of the logic was that if sports people do carb loading then surely it would work for lonely people too. So I ate a large meal of pasta, roast potatoes and toast.
The comely bit didn’t come quite naturally either. Not to be defeated I settled for comedy as it was only one letter different and after all, it was possible, nay probable, that my target mass was short-sighted. Well I am anyway.
I had a tutu. Pink. Fucking spot-on perfect.
The tip-toes was slightly prohibitive because of the boots but I did my best by standing on a couple of willing molluscs.
The target bit was actually the most difficult as he simply didn’t seem to be around. This didn’t worry me because on a Newtonian Gravitational Scale nearby could be up to a couple of hundred light-years away.
My upside-down square was easy. I held, in my most sexy manner, a road-sign depicting a man with a large umbrella-shaped penis.
I waited. In the field. Wearing my tutu, my wellies, my red nose. Holding my sign. Waiting. Not very much happened aside from the snails becoming uncomfortable and deciding to go off for a bonk without me standing on them.
After a bit (about five hours) I realised what the problem was.
On a Newtonian Gravitational Scale, even if I was (and I was) stunningly attractive and exerting a quite frankly irresistible pull, the distance (which could be up to a couple of light-years away) my prospective target mass needed to travel was going to take some time. Possibly days. And that’s if he was running. Fast.
I am still waiting. But at least I’m not hungry. And the sheep like pink.
I’ve done some research.
Looking at some basic Newtonian laws of the universe, I have discovered this:
‘Every point mass attracts every other point mass by a force pointing along the line intersecting both points.’
Obviously points are important.
As is mass.
It goes on to say
‘The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.’
So, we also discover that proportionality and distance and squares are fairly crucial.
Therefore (and I worked this out all by myself using extrapolation, logic and absolutely no calculus), according to Newton, the real trick of being attractive to the opposite mass is:
Be a large, comely ballet dancer on tip-toes and stand very near your target person holding an upside-down square.
I have actually been out in the field testing this hypothesis.
This is what happened:
I had trouble being large so I opted for being full instead. Part of the logic was that if sports people do carb loading then surely it would work for lonely people too. So I ate a large meal of pasta, roast potatoes and toast.
The comely bit didn’t come quite naturally either. Not to be defeated I settled for comedy as it was only one letter different and after all, it was possible, nay probable, that my target mass was short-sighted. Well I am anyway.
I had a tutu. Pink. Fucking spot-on perfect.
The tip-toes was slightly prohibitive because of the boots but I did my best by standing on a couple of willing molluscs.
The target bit was actually the most difficult as he simply didn’t seem to be around. This didn’t worry me because on a Newtonian Gravitational Scale nearby could be up to a couple of hundred light-years away.
My upside-down square was easy. I held, in my most sexy manner, a road-sign depicting a man with a large umbrella-shaped penis.
I waited. In the field. Wearing my tutu, my wellies, my red nose. Holding my sign. Waiting. Not very much happened aside from the snails becoming uncomfortable and deciding to go off for a bonk without me standing on them.
After a bit (about five hours) I realised what the problem was.
On a Newtonian Gravitational Scale, even if I was (and I was) stunningly attractive and exerting a quite frankly irresistible pull, the distance (which could be up to a couple of light-years away) my prospective target mass needed to travel was going to take some time. Possibly days. And that’s if he was running. Fast.
I am still waiting. But at least I’m not hungry. And the sheep like pink.
Friday, 14 March 2008
How Not to Flush
I’ve fitted a Delchem Flapper Flush Valve. Life is full of new experiences.
This is what happened:
It was Saturday. Generally a day of rejoicing jollity and joy for I had retrieved the Physicist and all her worldly goods from the clutches of academia to be once more clutched to the bosom of her loving parent.
(a word of advice to loving parents – don’t clutch your Physicists to your bosom in front of the assembled Oxford masses – it embarrasses them and has a dishevelling effect on both your outfits)
However, whilst I was enjoying the joys of the M4 and the mass movement of the undergraduate masses an evil force was at work in my house. That very evening things began to take on a life of their own. Or rather give up a life of their own.
The remote control had lost control.
The lights in the sitting room no longer lit.
The DVD player refused to play.
The TV screen took on a suspicious shade of green.
And, worse, the toilet refused to flush.
Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I can cope without TV, DVD and anything that involves a capital V (including HMV, Henry V and VD) but, after a while, a non-flushing toilet becomes uncomfortable, smelly and Anthea wouldn’t approve.
Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I set about the thrilling task of mending the toilet. This is what happened:
To access the cistern I had to remove-
22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling
Attached by 66 screws.
2 lengths of skirting board
Attached by 14 nails.
The carpet
Attached by magic.
And
Most of the skin on my fingers.
This is what I discovered-
The flushing mechanism was broken.
Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I continued on my quest and removed –
6 litres of water
A ball cock (yes that was the highlight)
3 pipes
A flushing mechanism.
This is what I discovered-
The flushing mechanism was broken.
I showed the flushing mechanism that was broken to the physicist. She agreed. Broken. Those Oxbridge educations are certainly outstanding.
But never fear, all is almost well. We went to the shop and bought a wonderful new invention in toilet flushery – The Delchem Flapper Flush Valve.
With a name like that who could fail? Only ten hours later I flushed excitedly. I intend to contact Mr Delchem and propose as soon as I have reassembled the bathroom.
This is what happened:
It was Saturday. Generally a day of rejoicing jollity and joy for I had retrieved the Physicist and all her worldly goods from the clutches of academia to be once more clutched to the bosom of her loving parent.
(a word of advice to loving parents – don’t clutch your Physicists to your bosom in front of the assembled Oxford masses – it embarrasses them and has a dishevelling effect on both your outfits)
However, whilst I was enjoying the joys of the M4 and the mass movement of the undergraduate masses an evil force was at work in my house. That very evening things began to take on a life of their own. Or rather give up a life of their own.
The remote control had lost control.
The lights in the sitting room no longer lit.
The DVD player refused to play.
The TV screen took on a suspicious shade of green.
And, worse, the toilet refused to flush.
Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I can cope without TV, DVD and anything that involves a capital V (including HMV, Henry V and VD) but, after a while, a non-flushing toilet becomes uncomfortable, smelly and Anthea wouldn’t approve.
Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I set about the thrilling task of mending the toilet. This is what happened:
To access the cistern I had to remove-
22 pieces of tongue and groove panelling
Attached by 66 screws.
2 lengths of skirting board
Attached by 14 nails.
The carpet
Attached by magic.
And
Most of the skin on my fingers.
This is what I discovered-
The flushing mechanism was broken.
Now, being a woman of resourceful resource I continued on my quest and removed –
6 litres of water
A ball cock (yes that was the highlight)
3 pipes
A flushing mechanism.
This is what I discovered-
The flushing mechanism was broken.
I showed the flushing mechanism that was broken to the physicist. She agreed. Broken. Those Oxbridge educations are certainly outstanding.
But never fear, all is almost well. We went to the shop and bought a wonderful new invention in toilet flushery – The Delchem Flapper Flush Valve.
With a name like that who could fail? Only ten hours later I flushed excitedly. I intend to contact Mr Delchem and propose as soon as I have reassembled the bathroom.
Monday, 3 March 2008
My True Identity Revealed
I have discovered my true identity. This is groundbreaking stuff.
Much research, meditation, trips to India, ashramming, pursuing of religious fervour and hiring of Life Coaches goes on in the world for people to discover their true identity. I used none of the aforementioned methods. I had a revelatory moment. In the changing room of the gym.
All the pieces of my disparate personality began to make sense. Things like:
My fondness for large bags and umbrellas
Why snapping my fingers is so effective
My knack of bursting into song at any given moment
My winning ways with children
Why I am revered by penguins
How I can understand fake cockney accents
My general ability to defeat gravity
The cut of my coat
My charming cloche hat
Why sometimes my feet might turn outward
Why I am practically perfect
This is what happened:
I was in the gym changing rooms preparing to leave. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I am the spitting image of Mary Poppins. I am Mary Poppins.
I said to the Lawyer – ‘Look! See there!’ I pointed at the mirror, ‘I am Mary Poppins!’
She said ‘I know, but I didn’t like to mention it.’
Much research, meditation, trips to India, ashramming, pursuing of religious fervour and hiring of Life Coaches goes on in the world for people to discover their true identity. I used none of the aforementioned methods. I had a revelatory moment. In the changing room of the gym.
All the pieces of my disparate personality began to make sense. Things like:
My fondness for large bags and umbrellas
Why snapping my fingers is so effective
My knack of bursting into song at any given moment
My winning ways with children
Why I am revered by penguins
How I can understand fake cockney accents
My general ability to defeat gravity
The cut of my coat
My charming cloche hat
Why sometimes my feet might turn outward
Why I am practically perfect
This is what happened:
I was in the gym changing rooms preparing to leave. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I am the spitting image of Mary Poppins. I am Mary Poppins.
I said to the Lawyer – ‘Look! See there!’ I pointed at the mirror, ‘I am Mary Poppins!’
She said ‘I know, but I didn’t like to mention it.’
Sunday, 2 March 2008
How Not to Talk to the Birds – Or Mother’s Day Revisited
Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed. I am a mother so it was my day.
The sun was shining, God was in her usual abode, all was as right in the world as it ever is.
I was conducting a scientific experiment. For it is the duty of us mothers to discover things and thus pass wisdom unto our offspring, the world, the scientific community in general and anyone who would care to listen (that anyone is yet to be discovered).
It was an experiment in linguistics and biology. To settle a question long questioned (well since the other night). A question that effects us all in our day-to-day dealings with the natural world.
This was the question:
Can we talk to birds?
The sub-questions were –
If so, should we talk in English, Welsh or Bird? (we take as a given that I am addressing Welsh Birds) (Obviously if I was addressing birds of another denomination the corresponding denominative would apply)
And should we find ourselves actually communicating, what are the favourite topics that birds like to discuss?
And why?
And wherefore?
Never mind the whys and wherefores we must also ask is talking to birds morally correct.
This is what happened:
I went into the garden to find a bird. I detected a singular lack of feathered creatures. Almost simultaneously I noticed a plethora of furred friends. I am a scientist. I can recognise cause and effect when they are purring around my ankles.
I sent Cause and Effect back indoors with a sharp word or two about interfering with cutting edge science.
I sat and tweeted and said ‘hello birds’ and ‘bora da Robin/Blue Tit/Sparrow/etc’ (I didn’t know the Welsh for ‘bird’).
And this is what I discovered:
Birds never speak English.
If birds speak Welsh they do it in a heavy Bird accent.
They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds.
They like to talk about strange women who think they are birds because they are bored of talking about the bloody cat problem.
I never answered the wherefore problem. No one ever has.
And finally yes, it is morally correct to talk to birds as long as your six-year-old neighbour doesn’t see you. Because when she does see you it leads her to believe that you are very brave and should now rescue her from a plague of wasps (3) that are infesting her play house.
Today was Mother’s Day. I expect you noticed us talking to the birds.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
How Yoga Might Not Improve Your Sex Life
They say that yoga can improve your sex life. I’m an avid follower of They. So this was promising stuff.
I looked into it in detail. On the internet. I have books but they were on tall shelves and I couldn’t stretch up that far.
This is what happened:
I breathed in.
I breathed out.
So far so good, no problem really.
I practiced some specific yoga postures:
Vibhadrasana – I can’t pronounce it but essentially you have both feet on the ground and your arms in the air. I did that.
Parsvakonasan – same sort of thing but with one hand on the ground. I did that.
Things began to improve significantly because suddenly the postures had names I understood.
In quick succession I performed the ‘upward facing dog’, the ‘downward facing dog’ the ‘camel’ and the ‘fish variation’.
My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova after Swan Lake, or possibly Pavlov after ‘the dog’.
But improving my sex life was a goal worth struggling for. I struggled on, performing a shoulder stand, a head stand, a hand stand, a stand.
My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova. Without the meringue. And perhaps this is what they were getting at.
You know that feeling – after a really good orgasm – how one’s body and brain feel sort of like whipped cream? I was beginning to suspect that maybe there was some truth in this whole yoga/sex life thing. It was working.
A glanced around the room (my bedroom appropriately enough) for my dream lover. I checked under the bed (the Beloved might have mislaid his glasses/teeth and was looking for them). I glanced out of the window for the usual white steeds and metal-clad hunks.
Nothing.
Ah, but I then discovered that I hadn’t finished the important yoga stuff. There was one final posture that was vital.
The ‘corpse’.
I lay down and waited.
I still am.
I looked into it in detail. On the internet. I have books but they were on tall shelves and I couldn’t stretch up that far.
This is what happened:
I breathed in.
I breathed out.
So far so good, no problem really.
I practiced some specific yoga postures:
Vibhadrasana – I can’t pronounce it but essentially you have both feet on the ground and your arms in the air. I did that.
Parsvakonasan – same sort of thing but with one hand on the ground. I did that.
Things began to improve significantly because suddenly the postures had names I understood.
In quick succession I performed the ‘upward facing dog’, the ‘downward facing dog’ the ‘camel’ and the ‘fish variation’.
My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova after Swan Lake, or possibly Pavlov after ‘the dog’.
But improving my sex life was a goal worth struggling for. I struggled on, performing a shoulder stand, a head stand, a hand stand, a stand.
My body was beginning to feel like Pavlova. Without the meringue. And perhaps this is what they were getting at.
You know that feeling – after a really good orgasm – how one’s body and brain feel sort of like whipped cream? I was beginning to suspect that maybe there was some truth in this whole yoga/sex life thing. It was working.
A glanced around the room (my bedroom appropriately enough) for my dream lover. I checked under the bed (the Beloved might have mislaid his glasses/teeth and was looking for them). I glanced out of the window for the usual white steeds and metal-clad hunks.
Nothing.
Ah, but I then discovered that I hadn’t finished the important yoga stuff. There was one final posture that was vital.
The ‘corpse’.
I lay down and waited.
I still am.
Thursday, 14 February 2008
How Not to Meet Mr Right on Valentines Day
It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 35 minutes left.
This is what happened:
I received something red in the post.
Some twelve hours later I discarded it as I really do have loads of those elastic bands that the postman uses already. We have a ball of them even. Called Cyril. The ball. Not the postman. Although the postman might be called Cyril. I’ll ask him tomorrow.
So, today was Valentines day. It still is. But luckily there’s only 33 minutes left. A day for finding love.
This is what happened:
After a lengthy discussion with my mother as to where all the handsome rich men with cute children hang out I decided to go to the gym. Because it was a good a place as anywhere to start on my search for Mr Right.
And obviously any sexy blokes, or even just ok blokes, or even just blokes with all their tackle intact, who were in the gym on Valentines night were bound to be single. Or in serious trouble. Thus my arrival on Valentines night (as opposed to my arrival on every other night this week) would cunningly lead to my knowing exactly which of those sweating regulars were, or were not, single. Cunning eh?
I went to great lengths to look good, wearing my new M&S gym trousers – ‘cotton fresh’. ‘Feel me’ the label said. I left it on. As well as the label ‘£12.99 fantastic value’ in case any of the men I was about to meet happened to have £12.99. I washed, brushed, put on several bras (needing all the support I could get) (especially whilst running) (which I might have to do) (if I met Mr Right and he tried to run away).
With a jaunty step and a J-Lo like wiggle to my bottom I stepped into the gym. And glanced around. And peered around some corners. And under some running machines.
There were no men.
There were lots of women.
Like me. Except without the labels.
None of the men whose physique I’ve been admiring all these weeks are single.
This is disappointing.
It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 25 minutes left.
This is what happened:
I received something red in the post.
Some twelve hours later I discarded it as I really do have loads of those elastic bands that the postman uses already. We have a ball of them even. Called Cyril. The ball. Not the postman. Although the postman might be called Cyril. I’ll ask him tomorrow.
So, today was Valentines day. It still is. But luckily there’s only 33 minutes left. A day for finding love.
This is what happened:
After a lengthy discussion with my mother as to where all the handsome rich men with cute children hang out I decided to go to the gym. Because it was a good a place as anywhere to start on my search for Mr Right.
And obviously any sexy blokes, or even just ok blokes, or even just blokes with all their tackle intact, who were in the gym on Valentines night were bound to be single. Or in serious trouble. Thus my arrival on Valentines night (as opposed to my arrival on every other night this week) would cunningly lead to my knowing exactly which of those sweating regulars were, or were not, single. Cunning eh?
I went to great lengths to look good, wearing my new M&S gym trousers – ‘cotton fresh’. ‘Feel me’ the label said. I left it on. As well as the label ‘£12.99 fantastic value’ in case any of the men I was about to meet happened to have £12.99. I washed, brushed, put on several bras (needing all the support I could get) (especially whilst running) (which I might have to do) (if I met Mr Right and he tried to run away).
With a jaunty step and a J-Lo like wiggle to my bottom I stepped into the gym. And glanced around. And peered around some corners. And under some running machines.
There were no men.
There were lots of women.
Like me. Except without the labels.
None of the men whose physique I’ve been admiring all these weeks are single.
This is disappointing.
It was Valentines Day today. It still is. But luckily there’s only 25 minutes left.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
How Not to Shop for Valentines Day
I’ve just been to ASDA. It’s 11pm Feb 13. The supermarket was very full. Of bewildered and confused men.
This is what happened:
The supermarket was very full. Of bewildered and confused men.
I tried to help by standing next to the flowers and coughing politely at the men buying the cheap chrysanthemums whilst gently fingering some blood-red roses. I then stood dreamily by the very largest and most expensive chocolates licking my lips in what I imagined to be a seductive manner (I fear it may have been misinterpreted as my having a bad cold). I indicated helpfully towards Tom Jones CDs and wiggled my hips to the memory of ‘What’s New Pussycat’.
All in vain I fear. I’d like to apologise to the women of Cardiff for my lack of influential powers.
The queues were long and sinuous. And male. I closely observed the nature of the purchases. This is what the average (I suppose they were average for I didn’t have my x-ray specs on) ASDA shopping man thought would turn their loved ones on:
Man 1: A single sad lily and a box of frozen fish-fingers.
Man 2: Cheap chrysanthemums and some batteries.
Man 3: Milk.
Man 4: A card of the most hideous nature depicting kittens and little hearts
Man 5: Air freshener, toilet cleaner, hoover bags, rubber gloves, champagne, roses, black forest gateaux a bumper box of condoms, and (I kid you not) a kit for moulding your own chocolate bunnies.
Naturally, after having paid for my bananas and kiwi fruit, I followed Man 5 home.
This is what happened:
The supermarket was very full. Of bewildered and confused men.
I tried to help by standing next to the flowers and coughing politely at the men buying the cheap chrysanthemums whilst gently fingering some blood-red roses. I then stood dreamily by the very largest and most expensive chocolates licking my lips in what I imagined to be a seductive manner (I fear it may have been misinterpreted as my having a bad cold). I indicated helpfully towards Tom Jones CDs and wiggled my hips to the memory of ‘What’s New Pussycat’.
All in vain I fear. I’d like to apologise to the women of Cardiff for my lack of influential powers.
The queues were long and sinuous. And male. I closely observed the nature of the purchases. This is what the average (I suppose they were average for I didn’t have my x-ray specs on) ASDA shopping man thought would turn their loved ones on:
Man 1: A single sad lily and a box of frozen fish-fingers.
Man 2: Cheap chrysanthemums and some batteries.
Man 3: Milk.
Man 4: A card of the most hideous nature depicting kittens and little hearts
Man 5: Air freshener, toilet cleaner, hoover bags, rubber gloves, champagne, roses, black forest gateaux a bumper box of condoms, and (I kid you not) a kit for moulding your own chocolate bunnies.
Naturally, after having paid for my bananas and kiwi fruit, I followed Man 5 home.
Thursday, 7 February 2008
The Resolution Problem Resolved
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday. Did I mention that? I’m not a person of a religious bent. Or any bent really. Well, my mind is a tad off the straight and narrow on occasion. Occasions like Ash Wednesday. And Wednesdays in general. And often days that end with the letter ‘y’.
I’d like to report that I’m sticking to my resolutions very well. But I’ve discovered a problem. A resolution problem which I am attempting to resolve.
This is what happened:
I got up when Terry Wogan told me to, because I had resolved to do so. I continued with my list of ‘Things I Must Do Every Morning’ because I had resolved to do so. This included –
Making nourishing packed lunch for the Lawyer. (15 minutes)
Taking Lawyer to train station. (20 minutes)
Remembering to eat breakfast. (1 minute)
Remembering to wash, and brush bodily parts as appropriate (and trying not to confuse bodily parts). (45 minutes due to a lot of thinking)
Doing an hour of yoga. (90 minutes)
Cleaning house. (a great deal of minutes)
Putting things in baskets. (183 minutes)
Taking coat out of freezer (73 minutes)
Not think about sex (198.46 minutes)
You are beginning to see the problem. All these minutes begin to add up to hours, days, weeks. By the time I have finished ‘Things I Must Do Every Morning’ we have reached the latter stages of April. And I haven’t even started on ‘Things I must do every Afternoon’ (lunch, emails, not thinking about love, reconstructing the shed, untangling kittens from baskets….). Let alone ‘Things I Must Do Every Evening’ (dinner, blog posts, swimming, gymming, feeding Lawyer, finding car, not thinking about love or sex, putting the coat in the freezer in order that I might remove it the following day…).
So, I then discover I have no time left to run our publishing company, our website company, write my novel, write our sitcom, create the cybernauts’ guide to the mirthverse, learn how to use Flash, have a wee or breathe. (I’ve given up on ever doing the accounts).
So here is what I’ve decided to do to overcome these difficulties:
I have resolved that every day I must remember to - publish one book, make three websites, write 10,000 words, 12 scenes, Mostly Life-ify, give up on Flash, give up weeing and breathing.
Fucking sorted. Except the fucking. Aye, well, tomorrow is another couple of dozen days.
I’d like to report that I’m sticking to my resolutions very well. But I’ve discovered a problem. A resolution problem which I am attempting to resolve.
This is what happened:
I got up when Terry Wogan told me to, because I had resolved to do so. I continued with my list of ‘Things I Must Do Every Morning’ because I had resolved to do so. This included –
Making nourishing packed lunch for the Lawyer. (15 minutes)
Taking Lawyer to train station. (20 minutes)
Remembering to eat breakfast. (1 minute)
Remembering to wash, and brush bodily parts as appropriate (and trying not to confuse bodily parts). (45 minutes due to a lot of thinking)
Doing an hour of yoga. (90 minutes)
Cleaning house. (a great deal of minutes)
Putting things in baskets. (183 minutes)
Taking coat out of freezer (73 minutes)
Not think about sex (198.46 minutes)
You are beginning to see the problem. All these minutes begin to add up to hours, days, weeks. By the time I have finished ‘Things I Must Do Every Morning’ we have reached the latter stages of April. And I haven’t even started on ‘Things I must do every Afternoon’ (lunch, emails, not thinking about love, reconstructing the shed, untangling kittens from baskets….). Let alone ‘Things I Must Do Every Evening’ (dinner, blog posts, swimming, gymming, feeding Lawyer, finding car, not thinking about love or sex, putting the coat in the freezer in order that I might remove it the following day…).
So, I then discover I have no time left to run our publishing company, our website company, write my novel, write our sitcom, create the cybernauts’ guide to the mirthverse, learn how to use Flash, have a wee or breathe. (I’ve given up on ever doing the accounts).
So here is what I’ve decided to do to overcome these difficulties:
I have resolved that every day I must remember to - publish one book, make three websites, write 10,000 words, 12 scenes, Mostly Life-ify, give up on Flash, give up weeing and breathing.
Fucking sorted. Except the fucking. Aye, well, tomorrow is another couple of dozen days.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
How Not to Solve All One’s Problems
I have made a resolution. A post New Year, sort of a bit later in the year, February sort of resolution.
This is what happened:
I was swimming. Up and down. Down and up. And generally along.
The problem with swimming, aside from all the usual chlorine issues, struggles with possible drowning, attempting to move one’s legs so fast that no one notices that one’s forgotten to shave one’s legs and time spent tucking spare pubes back into one’s costume in order to pretend one isn’t middle-aged, is that it gives one too much time to think.
Thinking is dangerous stuff. Questions like ‘What’s happened to my life?’ ‘What is sex?’ and ‘Is it possible to get Bromide on prescription?’ knock incessantly at one’s consciousness like a minor fleet of lion-shaped door knockers on especially strong espressos.
You may think that in these circumstances I might have resolved to give up swimming, or possibly black out my goggles or my mind. You would be very wrong. For I resolved to answer some of the other questions that were arriving like a fleet of lost 134 buses in a chlorinated and badly-lit flood.
These were the other questions –
Why aren’t I sufficiently rich to buy my own Bromide?
Should Bromide be spelt with a capital B?
If I were a celeb would my sex life improve?
How should I become a celeb?
If Big Brother was an invention of the media rather than an Orwellian concept would it have ever worked?
Why did I ask that last question seeing as it didn’t work?
Why don’t I have a column in the Guardian?
Yes, it’s all stunningly obvious isn’t it? The solution to all the above questions. I should be a writer. And that’s what I resolved. But not just a writer of any old nonsense. No, a writer of specific nonsense. This very nonsense you are reading now.
I resolved to remember to write my blog. Everything else will obviously and naturally follow – I will get a column in the Guardian (if you are the person in charge of the Guardian please call asap), I will then be able to afford Bromide and a dictionary. I will be celeb, ergo a proper regime of depilation, ergo people in the swim lane will fancy me and, super-bonus, the whole of the first lot of questions will no longer need answering.
Fucking sorted. Literally too if all goes according to plan.
PS - if I forget please nag me, for obviously my future life and happiness depends upon it.
This is what happened:
I was swimming. Up and down. Down and up. And generally along.
The problem with swimming, aside from all the usual chlorine issues, struggles with possible drowning, attempting to move one’s legs so fast that no one notices that one’s forgotten to shave one’s legs and time spent tucking spare pubes back into one’s costume in order to pretend one isn’t middle-aged, is that it gives one too much time to think.
Thinking is dangerous stuff. Questions like ‘What’s happened to my life?’ ‘What is sex?’ and ‘Is it possible to get Bromide on prescription?’ knock incessantly at one’s consciousness like a minor fleet of lion-shaped door knockers on especially strong espressos.
You may think that in these circumstances I might have resolved to give up swimming, or possibly black out my goggles or my mind. You would be very wrong. For I resolved to answer some of the other questions that were arriving like a fleet of lost 134 buses in a chlorinated and badly-lit flood.
These were the other questions –
Why aren’t I sufficiently rich to buy my own Bromide?
Should Bromide be spelt with a capital B?
If I were a celeb would my sex life improve?
How should I become a celeb?
If Big Brother was an invention of the media rather than an Orwellian concept would it have ever worked?
Why did I ask that last question seeing as it didn’t work?
Why don’t I have a column in the Guardian?
Yes, it’s all stunningly obvious isn’t it? The solution to all the above questions. I should be a writer. And that’s what I resolved. But not just a writer of any old nonsense. No, a writer of specific nonsense. This very nonsense you are reading now.
I resolved to remember to write my blog. Everything else will obviously and naturally follow – I will get a column in the Guardian (if you are the person in charge of the Guardian please call asap), I will then be able to afford Bromide and a dictionary. I will be celeb, ergo a proper regime of depilation, ergo people in the swim lane will fancy me and, super-bonus, the whole of the first lot of questions will no longer need answering.
Fucking sorted. Literally too if all goes according to plan.
PS - if I forget please nag me, for obviously my future life and happiness depends upon it.
Sunday, 13 January 2008
How I Didn’t Become My Mother but Became Someone Else Entirely
Something terrible has happened. Life has gone seriously awry. I was always led to believe that eventually, sooner or later, and certainly by the time I am of any given age over 30 (which I am) I would become my mother. I looked forward with a certain amount of eager anticipation to the day I would be normally deranged artist who has little interest in cooking, cleaning and the whereabouts of any of her belongings. Surely I was destined to understand the great masters, have an inside-out knowledge of Greek myths and leave coffee cups in my studio until they moulded sufficiently to become art?
But no, events of the last week have revealed that I have become someone quite different.
This is what happened:
Christmas was over (as usually tends to happen this time of year) and thus I was impelled to remove Christmas and all its incumbent trappings from the sitting room. After the usual amount of indoor gardening (taking the chainsaw to the Christmas tree in order to dissolve it into small enough pieces to remove it from the room) I stood back to admire my now de-Christmased space.
It was a mess.
Had I been ever destined to become my mother I would simply have got out my sketch book and drawn the interesting shapes and textures that now inhabited the aforementioned space.
But instead I went to shopping. And bought baskets. Little baskets, medium sized baskets, large baskets and baskets that defied size categorisation. I was particularly pleased by the fact I only spent £6.
Into these receptacles I put:
books,
videos (not ‘Love Actually’ because I burnt that for making me cry) (you know, the scene with Emma Thompson) (if you don’t – don’t watch it) (well you can’t because it’s all melty and charred)
homework,
physics notes (the physicist was home and busy making copious notes that only Niels Bohr, Einstein and she understand),
hair bobbles of dubious vintage,
hair brushes of dubious functionality,
dirty plates of dubious heritage,
clean plates (probably only clean by the virtue of having been licked by kittens),
the tv,
a number of sofas
my life of celibacy
banal questions about the meaning of love,
and
most of my sanity.
I stand back to admire my work. ‘Wait!’ I cried, ‘insufficient soft furnishings!’ (this is strictly a girls house now so any of the Beloved’s objections to things soft are now irrelevant) (or at least not my problem)(we won’t delve further into the subject of the Beloved and things soft). So, I throw throws, I plump cushions, I range rugs, I place kittens strategically around the room, I tie little bows around things that might need little bows.
I stand back to admire my work. ‘Wait!’ I cried, ‘Dust!!!’ I put on my white gloves and wipe surfaces with feather dusters, kittens and damp rags made of old tights.
I stand back to admire my work. ‘Wait!’ I cried, ‘something terrible has happened!’
I haven’t become my mother.
I have become the polar opposite to my mother. I have become Anthea Turner.
But no, events of the last week have revealed that I have become someone quite different.
This is what happened:
Christmas was over (as usually tends to happen this time of year) and thus I was impelled to remove Christmas and all its incumbent trappings from the sitting room. After the usual amount of indoor gardening (taking the chainsaw to the Christmas tree in order to dissolve it into small enough pieces to remove it from the room) I stood back to admire my now de-Christmased space.
It was a mess.
Had I been ever destined to become my mother I would simply have got out my sketch book and drawn the interesting shapes and textures that now inhabited the aforementioned space.
But instead I went to shopping. And bought baskets. Little baskets, medium sized baskets, large baskets and baskets that defied size categorisation. I was particularly pleased by the fact I only spent £6.
Into these receptacles I put:
books,
videos (not ‘Love Actually’ because I burnt that for making me cry) (you know, the scene with Emma Thompson) (if you don’t – don’t watch it) (well you can’t because it’s all melty and charred)
homework,
physics notes (the physicist was home and busy making copious notes that only Niels Bohr, Einstein and she understand),
hair bobbles of dubious vintage,
hair brushes of dubious functionality,
dirty plates of dubious heritage,
clean plates (probably only clean by the virtue of having been licked by kittens),
the tv,
a number of sofas
my life of celibacy
banal questions about the meaning of love,
and
most of my sanity.
I stand back to admire my work. ‘Wait!’ I cried, ‘insufficient soft furnishings!’ (this is strictly a girls house now so any of the Beloved’s objections to things soft are now irrelevant) (or at least not my problem)(we won’t delve further into the subject of the Beloved and things soft). So, I throw throws, I plump cushions, I range rugs, I place kittens strategically around the room, I tie little bows around things that might need little bows.
I stand back to admire my work. ‘Wait!’ I cried, ‘Dust!!!’ I put on my white gloves and wipe surfaces with feather dusters, kittens and damp rags made of old tights.
I stand back to admire my work. ‘Wait!’ I cried, ‘something terrible has happened!’
I haven’t become my mother.
I have become the polar opposite to my mother. I have become Anthea Turner.
Friday, 4 January 2008
The Babe Year
They say that every woman has her peak in life. Her ‘Babe Year’. This is the year that one is thought of by sundry men (and boys) as a ‘Babe’. The time in life when codicils such as ‘for your age’, or ‘considering you have given birth to two large and hungry infants who are now Babes themselves’, or ‘discounting the stretchmarks/wrinkles/immense bagginess’ are not attached to the phrase ‘sexy’.
I have discovered mine. 1976. The long hot summer when I was hot and many a boy had urges to, untangle my hair and share my tent and get into my stylishly cut speedo swimming costume.
These recently unearthed photographs prove my point:
I have discovered mine. 1976. The long hot summer when I was hot and many a boy had urges to, untangle my hair and share my tent and get into my stylishly cut speedo swimming costume.
These recently unearthed photographs prove my point:
(I'm the one without the beard)
This is what happened:
‘Look at these photos we found,’ my Mum says.
My sister looks. ‘You were a Babe.’
I look. ‘Ah those were the days when boys were boys. Plentiful and totally lacking in technique.’
My brother looks. ‘What did you ever do with my orange tent?’
It is yet another example of life’s great injustices. I was a Babe, the boys were queuing, and when they reached the end of the line and into the Babe the sex was crap. It took another ten years for the quality of the sex to improve, at which point I was engrossed in a life of fidelity.
Now that my life of fidelity appears to be over (probably because the Beloved didn’t actually know me in my Babe year) (and therefore doesn’t actually realise that I was a Babe) I glance over my shoulder in a spirit of hope and desire. The queue appears to have disappeared. I am justly surprised. My Babe year appears to have been 31 years ago. I am justly surprised.
I see what must have happened. The members of the queue, some of whom sported the above terrible facial hair, have starved to death standing in line. Or possibly it was dehydration that did them in. Or they waited until 1977 and joined punk bands, had terrible piercings and expired from bad music and dubious taste.
Still, I may have been a Babe in 1976 but my 2008 bum is now a famous book cover:
Please form an orderly queue.
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