Fashion Show!

For various reasons, some of which you are aware and some of which you are not, it has been a very worrying year for me so far. I considered dragging you all down with me, by going into detail about everything which has gone/is going wrong but, on reflection, I decided that none of you deserved that, so I have chosen to share one of the (rare) highlights of my year, instead!

I was more than thrilled, a few weeks ago, when one of my friends asked if I would like to go with her and her family to a fashion show, which would be part of Graduate Fashion Week at Earl's Court. I jumped at the chance and then spent an exciting, but, ultimately disappointing, few days looking round the shops for something unusual to wear. In the end, I decided against wearing something wild, opting instead to blend in, by wearing black trousers, a black, short-sleeved satin jacket, a bright pink top and a bit of jewellery. When we arrived at the show, I was relieved to discover that I had made the right decision. The majority of the people there were young fashion students, mostly dressed in dark colours, perhaps with the odd accessory to brighten things up here and there. In fact, they were almost wearing a uniform. As 2 of the oldest people there, my friend and I would have looked as if we had been having a midlife crisis, if we had turned up in something attention seeking. We did get a few funny looks, but I think that may have been something to do with my tiara ..........

I loved the show! It was amazing! Each graduate had produced 6 - 8 garments and a lot of the clothes were wild, some were outrageous and the majority of them were exciting! The first 3 garments, in the photos below, were amongst my favourites, particularly when I discovered that the young Italian graduate had designed and even printed her own fabric. If you can spare the time to click on the photos you will see how wonderful the fabric was.

Here are a few men's outfits

and a few women's:

These garments were amongst the most outrageous:

As far as I could gather, the flowery fabric used for the 3 garments directly above, must have been stretchy. It even fitted over the models' shoes and precariously high heels! I think I would have had a panic attack if I'd had that fabric all over my face. It seems that, as a fashion model, you have to be game for almost anything!

The whole show was more than I could have wished for. It is true to say that the designs were 'out of this world', but fashion is a competitive business and I suppose that young designers have to get themselves noticed. I was very impressed with the amount of skill which must have been necessary to put such unique creations together and to make the fabrics behave in such challenging ways! If I were young and daring again, I would happily wear any of the 3 outfits, designed by the Italian student. I also liked the cream 2 piece, with the cropped top and strangely shaped skirt.

What about you? How do you fancy the all in one grey jumpsuit, incorporating the orange knickers and orange stripes around the legs, or how would you feel about showing off your black stockings and suspenders by wearing no skirt and a short black jacket?

Showing My Pants

Whilst shopping with my parents and aunt, in their local supermarket last week, I bought half a dozen pairs of pants, paying for them at the till in the clothing section, instead of putting them on the conveyor belt with my food shopping, where they would have been on display for all to see.

After we'd all come through the checkout and paid for our other shopping, I walked through the first set of exit doors, with my relations, but the alarm went off, which resulted in the young security man quickly appearing behind us, to ask if anyone had bought any clothing. I replied that I had, automatically holding open my carrier, so that he could see what was inside. My aunt and father pretended that they didn't know me from Adam, whilst my mother instantly leapt to me defence. 'She's paid for them' my mother said, quickly.

The young lad, who couldn't have been above 20 years of age, replied 'Yes, I can see that, it's just that I don't want anyone to go home with security tags on their clothes.' He shrank back somewhat, when he saw that I had a bag full of undergarments, so I delved into the carrier and pulled out the receipt. He thanked me and initialled the receipt, explaining that the shop assistant must have forgotten to scan one of the bar codes.

'I'm upset, now,' I said solemnly, to my aunt and parents, 'because the young security chap's seen my pants!' We regarded each other for a split second, before we all roared with laughter, then, once my aunt had donned her rainhat, she took advantage of the rain slowing down a little and set off for the bus stop. I stood, with my parents, just inside the second set of exit doors, for a few minutes longer, as my mother insisted that my father should put on his raincoat and his cap, before we left the store. When we stepped outside, we could see that my aunt hadn't yet reached the bus stop, because she had stopped to talk to one of the other security men, whom she knew.

'I'm just saying how you had to show your knickers, before you could get out of the supermarket', she called, giggling, as we approached.

The security man threw back his head, guffawed loudly and shouted to me 'Yeah, show me your knickers!'

I was very close to doing as I was told, for a split second, but stopped myself just in time. After all, I didn't want this complete stranger imagining what I was wearing under my jeans the next time I was with my aunt and bumped into him! Feeling slightly embarrassed, I joined in with the laughter, ignoring the security man's second command for a peek at my newly purchased undergarments.

'She's not going to show me!' he said to my aunt, in a disappointed fashion, then, as he turned to go back into the store, he startled me considerably, by shouting to me 'I'll see your knickers, next time, then!'

Several bemused shoppers stared after me, as I hurried away, with my parents, my aunt and a bit of a red face!

I occaionally feel that I've wandered into some sort of parallel universe, when I shop in this supermarket. A lot of the staff are really friendly, but there is one young male shelf filler, aged about 18, who chats to my mother and aunt and likes to kiss the female customers on the cheek, whenever he gets the chance. He is, otherwise, very pleasant, but reminds me very much of the character PC Goody in the The Thin Blue Line, if anyone remembers the tv programme. He has, so far, managed to plant a smacker on my cheek, on 2 occasions. The first time I was unaware of his little habit, so he caught me by surprise and the second time I wasn't fast enough in getting out of his way!

Am I alone in finding the behaviour of some of the staff, in this store, a bit bewildering? Perhaps I'm just a bit of a prude and not much fun, but I can't imagine anything like this ever happening to me in the supermarket where I usually shop!

Would you have shown the second security man your new knickers? How would you feel if the young male shelf fillers at your local supermarket started stealing a kiss? Would your feelings depend upon how good looking they were? Do you feel that this sort of thing would enhance your shopping experience?

What Men Mean

Firstly, I would like to apologise for my absence. I have a lot of family problems at the moment - more than those I mentioned a couple of posts ago, unfortunately. I have been too preoccupied to comment and too distracted to put a post together, so I hope you will excuse me. Anyway........

There just had to be a follow up to 'Shock Poll Reveals What Women Mean' didn't there? Women are not alone in saying one thing, when they may mean another. Men can often be guilty of the same sort of thing. I've compiled a list of the most common things a man might say, in bold, along with what he might mean in italics. This post is tongue-in-cheek. Please don't take it too seriously. I won't be held responsible for any divorce proceedings instigated as a result of reading this post. ;0)

Before Marriage:

Would you like to go for a drink after work? I think you're really hot and I want to have sex with you, as soon as you'll agree to it.

Do you want to stay at my place this weekend? Do you want to bonk me stupid this weekend?

Shall we go on holiday together this year? Do you want to bonk me stupid for a fortnight?

Will you marry me? Will you have regular sex with me, until I get fed up of you and find someone younger?

After marriage:

Is your headache better darling? Are you well enough to have sex, yet?

Do you want any help in the kitchen? If I help in the kitchen, can we have sex later?

Let's have a cuddle. Let's have sex.

Of course I'm listening. I haven't been listening.

No I'm not lost. I'm lost.

You're wrong. It's essential that I'm right, so you must be wrong.

I can do it. I can't do it, but I would rather not do it than let you show/tell me how to do it.

All the men at work fancy Lisa. All the men at work fancy Lisa, including me.

I could give up drinking if I wanted to. I can't get through the day without alcohol.

It's far too hot in this room. Aren't you hot? It's too hot in this room. If you're not hot, there's something wrong with you. There couldn't possibly be anything wrong with me.

I've cut the grass. It's spring and I've cut the grass, so that's my bit of gardening done until the autumn, when I'll cut it once more. If you think it needs cutting in between, you'll have to do it yourself.

I haven't got time to finish this job in the house today. I'll do the rest next week. I'm never going to finish this job. If you want it finished, you'll have to do it, or get someone in.

Do you think that this DIY job looks OK? I know that this DIY job looks awful, but will you let me off the hook, because I can't be bothered to do it any better?

Yes, that dress looks great! That dress doesn't look too good on you, but I hate shopping and I want to get home in time to watch the rugby on tv.

There's nothing wrong with a man hiring a Harley Davidson at the age of 58, when he hasn't been on a motorbike for 33 years. Help! I'm having a midlife crisis.

Have you seen my car keys/screwdriver/mobile/wallet/brain? You've tidied away my car keys/screwdriver/mobile/wallet/brain. It's lost forever, my life is in ruins and it's all your fault.

I would like to point out that this information has been gathered from other women's experiences, or from my own experiences in previous (failed!) relationships. My own dearest darling husband is, of course, guilty of none of the above. Well, maybe just the odd one here and there .........

Anything you'd like to add from your own observations?

The Ideal Home

It's been 23 years since my husband and I last moved house, but when my eldest son left home, last summer, it suddenly occurred to me that we were entering a different phase in our lives and it was possible that, in a very short time, we could once more be enjoying the dubious pleasures of house hunting.

We haven't made a habit of moving house since our marriage in 1976 and, when we were looking for our first property, we didn't have many requirements. We were both living and working in the Midlands, before we married, so our choice was limited to something we could afford and which was within reasonable travelling distance of our places of work. We finally found an old bungalow, which needed a fair amount of modernisation, but we lived there happily enough, until my husband was promoted 4 years later, when we were obliged to move a bit further south.

We were a little more discerning, when we were searching for our second property. It was difficult to find the sort of house we wanted, however, at a price we could afford, because we were moving into a more expensive area. On this occasion, we were again looking for an older, detached property, but with 3 bedrooms and a decent sized garden, in a village location, preferably with fields beyond. After endless searching, we eventually bought a neglected Baptist manse, which met most of our needs, but required a lot of repair work, before we could move in. Our mortgage payments doubled in size, as a result of buying the property and we spent a lot of money on renovations during the 6 years that we lived there. Our 2 eldest sons were born during the first 5 years that we spent in the house, but, by the time Middle son was 12 months old, I had set my sights on moving to a nearby country town. I had tired of village life, feeling that the whole family would benefit greatly from the wider range of activities and facilities available in a small town.

This time we were looking for a more modern detached family home, with as much space as we could afford. We were aiming for 3 receptions, fitted kitchen, cloakroom, one en suite bedroom, 3 further bedrooms, a family bathroom, double garage and a front and rear garden. When we finally managed to buy the house we had set our hearts on, we stayed put and, for the last 23 years, our home has truly been ideal. I shall be sad to leave the house where we have raised our family and made so many memories, but it will be too large for us, once the rest of our family has moved out, rendering the running and maintenance costs disproportionate for just 2 people.

Our requirements for our next ideal home, will be vastly different from the last. We don't yet feel ready to consider a complex for the over 55s, with House Manager, communal gardens, on site laundry, security door entry system and emergency call facility. We will, however, almost definitely be seeking out either a 2 bedroomed bungalow, or a house boasting a ready fitted Stannah stair lift and a downstairs toilet. A walk in shower room will be an absolute necessity, as will extra large windows to the front of the house, so that I can keep an eye on local goings on from behind my nets. A courtyard style garden, no bigger than a postage stamp, will also be high on our list of priorities, plus a garage big enough to house 2 mobility scooters, or one mobility scooter, with sidecar. Does anyone manufacture those? That's a missed business opportunity, isn't it?

The position of the house will be much more important this time. Views from the front of the property will hopefully include a pedestrian crossing, a couple of bus stops and a double decker bus at regular intervals of no less than 10 minutes, in each direction. Views to the rear should include the local Health Centre and hospital, which needs to be no more than 2 streets away. The house should be within easy reach of an extensive range of amenities such as the Co-op, Boots, Specsavers, the post office, the library, an NHS dentist (OK, now you know that I'm winding you up!), a hearing aid centre, a shampoo and set, a hostelry and the Crematorium.

We won't be considering any property, which stands at the top of a hill, at this juncture of our lives, as we feel that it would be too problematical. Whilst we feel sure that the trip down to the Cock and Bull, on our mobility scooters, would be a speedy delight, the return journey, after one snowball too many, could be meandering and tedious in the extreme, particularly if we roll down the other side of the hill, before I've managed to retrieve the front door key, from the bottom of my capacious shopper, and insert it, carefully, into the lock.

Finally, there is just one more requirement for our next ideal home, which I haven't yet mentioned. It simply must be within easy tottering distance of a cash machine, due to the fact that I am seriously looking forward to spending my children's inheritance.

A Difficult Choice

Doc didn't c me bt saw nurse insted, they already given me usual injection 4 bloodclots - 1 that have been havin al wk, but he asked em giv me notha 1 much stronga! So just had that, gdnite mum + sleep wel, love Middle Son X.

I deciphered my 23 year old son's text speak with a frown instead of my usual wry smile. It was 10.30, on a Saturday evening, in the third week of March and I was concerned about my middle son, who had been admitted to the trauma unit of the local hospital almost a week ago. I wondered what the stronger injection could be. Perhaps one of the hospital doctors had finally taken the initiative to administer some treatment for the suspected blood clot in my son's right calf, instead of waiting for the results of an ultrasound scan, which wouldn't take place until Monday. There was no doubt that my middle son's pain had worsened since the scan had been requested on Friday morning, so it would surely have been a logical step to take.

Half an hour later, I lay in bed on my back, my novel discarded on the bedside table, staring at a 3 stranded cobweb, which had formed between the ceiling and the light shade. I mulled over the events of the past few weeks, not yet ready to turn out the light and settle down to sleep. 4 weeks previously, my 84 year old father had been admitted into hospital, at short notice, to have his right hip replaced. I had travelled up to my parents' house, in the Midlands, the day before he was admitted, so that I could look after my mother whilst my father was away. She was unable to manage alone due to her failing sight and occasional confusion.

After the operation, my father had suffered from low blood pressure and his wound had been slow to heal, so he had spent 3 weeks in hospital altogether. The Saturday before my father's discharge, my husband had travelled up to my parents' house to stay the night and at 6.40 am on the Sunday morning, our peaceful sleep had suddenly been disturbed by a telephone call from our middle son, to let us know that he was in A & E, awaiting an x-ray, because of a suspected broken leg. By mid afternoon, one of the hospital doctors had decided that Middle Son needed to have an operation the following day and would have to stay in hospital for at least a week. Shortly after hearing the news, my husband had left for the hospital, whilst I had remained with my mother, so my only contact with my son, over the next few days, had been by text.

My father had been discharged from hospital the next day and, after a kind offer from Student Son to take over my duties at my parents' house for a few days, I had finally been able to visit my middle son on the Wednesday after his admission into hospital. In fact, after visiting my son and seeing his x-ray, I had felt much worse. I had realised that my family hadn't fully disclosed the extent of the damage to my middle son's leg and it had occurred to me, for the first time, that he might not regain full use of it. I had become even more upset the following evening, when my son had found himself inexplicably suffering increasing and unbearable pain in his broken leg.

I returned to the present once more, my gaze falling upon my bag, packed and ready by the side of the bed, in case I needed to stay with my parents for a further week, after our Mother's Day visit, the next day. I hoped that it wouldn't be necessary, but I needed to assess the situation, once we arrived and to check with my student son, to see how well my parents had coped whilst he had been staying with them. I sighed, reaching out for my book, once more, succeeding, this time, in concentrating upon the plot long enough for my eyelids to grow heavy with sleep.

Mother's Day was a rather odd occasion, in the circumstances. I saw none of my sons in the morning. My eldest son and his girlfriend had visited the previous day, as my husband and I were anticipating a hectic Mother's Day visiting our relatives in different parts of the country. We intended to have lunch with my mother-in-law and my husband's family, in Staffordshire and then an evening meal with my parents in the West Midlands. My husband rang the hospital before we set off to enquire about Middle Son's condition and the Sister confirmed that the stronger injections being administered to him were clot busting injections, so we felt relieved that some action was finally being taken to try and deal with the problem in his calf.

We spent a couple of hours with my husband's family and then continued to my parents' house, as planned. My father was feeling very relieved to be without pain for the first time in 2 1/2 years. His wound had almost healed and he had managed a visit to the local supermarket without any major problem. Student Son reported that he felt that my mother and father were managing well and would be able to cope by themselves. When I told my parents that I was willing to stay another week, if they needed me, I could see that my mother would have preferred me to stay, although she stipulated that I should return home, so that I could be near to my middle son.

After a hurried meal, with my parents, I helped to load Student Son's belongings into the car with a heavy heart. I had decided to return home, but it had been a very difficult decision to make. I knew that my mother had become used to having me around and that she would miss my company and support. When everything was packed away in the car, we said our goodbyes, the slamming of the car doors confirming the finality of my decision. When we reached the main road, I leaned out of the window and caught one last glimpse of my parents framed in their front doorway, illuminated by the light behind them. I raised my hand as we headed off into the night, weeping silently under cover of the darkness, because of the decision I'd had to make.

A Foolproof Guide To Repelling Girls

Warning To All Bloggers: Keep a bucket handy, whilst reading this post.


It's fair to say that I kissed a few frogs, in my teenage years, before meeting my prince, in my early 20s. During the extensive search for my other half, I learnt a few things about the male sex and their habits and it recently occurred to me that I could draw up a modern day list, for my 3 sons, which could help them to avoid a few of the common pitfalls, in their own search for true love. I thought that my advice might be better heeded, if I used the title above and presented it as below:


If you arrange to go out with a girl, do it well in advance and don't shower any later than 7 days before you're due to meet up.

If you cleaned your teeth after breakfast, don't clean them again, prior to meeting up with a girl in the evening, as this could neutralise the effects of the raw onion salad with garlic mayo, which you ate for lunch.

Whenever you go out with a girl, don't bother changing the clean clothes you put on 2 weeks' ago. They should be just rank enough for her to notice.

Always make sure that you pick something, if you're in the company of a girl, such as your nose, ears, teeth or scabs. In fact - pick everything. It's best.

Never go to the gents, if you have itchy unmentionables, whilst you are out with a girl. Instead, produce your gentleman's ball scratcher, (pictured above) with a flourish and proceed to push it down the front of your trousers, with unnecessary enthusiasm, accompanied by an ecstatic expression.

When in the pub with a girl, ensure that you overindulge to the extent that you

a) barf all over the bar, when ordering the next round or
b) pick a fight with the only chap in the pub who's built like a brick s**thouse or
c) forget which girl you came in with and go home with someone else.

It is possible to repel your girlfriend early on in your relationship, by showing her your collection of scabs, toe nail clippings, railway magazines, bus tickets, and Kit Kat wrappers.

If you're having a night in, with your girlfriend and she attempts to speak to you, only drag your eyes away from the Xbox for a nanosecond, because those aliens can tell when you're not concentrating, you know.

Mention 'putting out' as often as possible, when in conversation with your girlfriend. All girls need to know that characters like those appearing in American Pie and Superbad, were not fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, was not purely coincidental.

Always blow your nose with enthusiasm. Try to sound as if you're in danger of dispelling your brains out of your ears. Open up your man-sized tissue, afterwards, and carefully examine any debris. There's always a chance that you'll discover something you thought was lost forever.

Eat as much crap as possible, whenever you're with your girlfriend. Try donner kebabs, or chips with cheese and curry sauce. If that fails, dip anything and everything in Hellmann's mayo.

If you burp, whilst in the presence of your girlfriend, never excuse yourself, politely. In fact, make sure that you furnish her with far too much information by screwing up your face and following up with 'Ugh! That was a sick burp!'

Never break off a kiss, just because you feel the need to burp. You may need to think about that one, for a second or 2.

Never mince outside, or to the gents, if you feel the need to let one go, whilst with your girlfriend. Instead, raise one leg and one arse cheek, emit a loud trumpeting sound, laugh like a maniac and say something similar to 'Ah! Can you smell that?', or 'Aw, that was a wet one!' or 'Ugh, I think I've followed through!'




Follow these guidelines to the letter, if you want to live with mommy and daddy forever and ever and ever........

What Are Your Earliest Memories?

My earliest memory is of waking in my cot, in the middle of the night and seeing snakes crawling all over the covers. I seem to remember that my sleep was disturbed more than once, in this way. Whenever I was ill, as a child, I often became delirious, if I had a high temperature, so I think that, I either saw snakes every time I suffered from delirium, or as a result of a recurring nightmare. Apparently, I slept in a cot until I was about 2 years old, so it isn't necessarily such an early memory as you might think!

My next memory is of sitting up in my pram, looking out, as my mother pushed me to the shops. Again, it isn't a particularly early memory, because I remember my mother telling me, on the day concerned, that it was raining much too hard for me to go into town in my pushchair, so I would have to go in my old pram. I was too big for the pram, of course, so I had to sit up, with the hood raised, because of the rain. Once again, I think that I was about 2 years old.

My next memories date back to when I started school, aged 4. I can vaguely remember my first day at school, feeling sick with anxiety when my mother went home, leaving me in the company of several other rising 5s, in a strange, but bright classroom, furnished with infant-sized desks and chairs. I was an only child and had had very little contact with other children, except for my cousins. I didn't take to school at all, at first and had to be dragged there, crying, a couple of times, during those first few days.

After a short while, I accepted the fact that I had to go to school and didn't mind quite as much. I particularly enjoyed learning to read and learning how to do simple sums. I always looked forward to Wednesdays, because Wednesday afternoons were known as 'choosing' afternoons and we were allowed to play with whatever toys we wished.

Another thing I enjoyed at school was learning how to use money. I don't know whether it was anything to do with the fact that the Bournville factory was situated just a few miles away from us, but we played shops with a wonderful selection of dummy Cadburys chocolate bars, which I found totally fascinating.

I made a few friends, spending most of my playtimes with the same group of girls, whose full names I can still recall, but I chose not to join in on the occasions when they played kiss chase with the boys, or went down to the end of the playground furthest away from the classrooms, so that they could play showing their knickers to the boys. I didn't start playing those sort of games until I was much older.

I did have a boyfriend, though, in those early days. We would walk in the playground, holding hands, at playtimes and we told our parents that we intended to marry each other, when we were older. The gentleman in question recently moved into a house very close to my mother, in the Midlands, with his wife and daughter, but I haven't seen him for a number of years. I sometimes wonder whether he remembers our plans from over 50 years ago!

During my last year, at infant school, when I was 7 years old, my class was taught by the headmistress. She was a dreadful woman - a proverbial spinster - tall, thin, bony and miserable, always dressed in black, wearing flat shoes and thick black stockings. When we painted pictures, she would run round, looking over our shoulders and shrieking 'More water! More water!' if the sky was too blue, or 'More blue! More blue!' if the sky was too pale.

During this last year, we were taught how to knit, if we didn't know already and then spent hours knitting dishcloths, with some sort of yarn, which closely resembled string. I have a vague idea that the boys went off to do something different, whilst the girls did this, but I'm not sure. It was very humiliating, when any one of us dropped a stitch, because we had to take our knitting to the headmistress, at the front of the class, who would generally unravel almost all of our hard work, down to the last 3 or 4 rows. She would then put the stitches back on the needles and thrust our depleted masterpiece back into our disappointed little hands, in a very disapproving and unsympathetic manner.

When we had PE (Physical Education), we had to strip down to our navy blue knickers and the headmistress would take the lesson in the playground, at the front of the school. I have no recollection of the boys' attire, at this time, but, the playground must have been a paedophiles' paradise, on those days, because the school was situated on a busy road, with plenty of traffic and people passing by.

After 3 years of attending infant school, I moved on to junior school, which was further to walk, being a 20 minute journey away from home, as opposed to 10. A few of the children, from my class, went with me to the same school, but the majority of them, I never saw again.

My old infant school was knocked down, many years ago and the whole area has since been totally rebuilt, leaving me unable to point to any place, in particular and say 'That is where my old school stood' because even the road it stood upon no longer exists. I can see the school in my mind's eye, as if it were yesterday. I tend to picture it, with my class standing in the playground in front, having a PE lesson, wearing nothing but our navy blue knickers!

How about you? What are your earliest memories?

St Valentine's Day Preparations

The more I thought about auntie gwen's post of 7th February, the more I began to feel that, quite often, the only way a girl can ensure that she gets what she wants on St Valentine's day is to organise everything herself!

I've already bought my dress! What do you think?

I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea, of course, so I'd better own up to the fact that I'm not a natural blonde!










Here is a picture of the style of boots I've bought to wear with my new dress. They've arrived just in time for the next fall of snow, I think. They'll certainly keep my legs warm and toasty!








I've ordered a special Valentine's meal to be delivered, on Saturday, just in case we have time to eat.










I've bought some bubbly,









but I wasn't sure whether that would be enough, so I bought a couple of bottles of wine, too.













I'm having a beautiful bouquet of red roses delivered












and a teensy weensy box of delicious chocolates

and I think that's me just about set up!

Oops! Just a minute. I forgot that I'd ordered one more essential item.

It's amazing what you can get on the internet, these days, isn't it? There's only one drawback, though. He's not self-inflatable!


How about you? Got any plans?

A Little Treat

I fancied a brisk walk into town and back, yesterday morning, but, unfortunately, it was pouring with rain. I didn't feel like walking in such miserable weather, so I decided, instead, to spoil myself with a long, luxurious bath, as opposed to my usual shower. I thought that I would do the housework first, whilst in my night clothes, rather than afterwards, so I didn't start preparing for my little treat until about 10.30am.

I began to collect together various products to pamper myself, as well as mixing up some olive oil and honey, so that I could moisturise my neck and face, whilst I soaked in the bath and relaxed. I lined up some 'decadently creamy, foaming bath soak', 'intensive, conditioning body lotion' and 'softening foot cream with shea butter' on the bathroom shelf, then went downstairs to make myself a Cappuccino. As soon as it was ready, I took it up to the bathroom, along with a Choco Leibniz, my digital radio and a new paperback.

After undressing, I stepped into the warm, foamy water and lowered myself into the bath, but just as my eager bum cheeks hit the surface of the water, the doorbell rang. I felt slightly irritated, but, assuming that it was the postman, even though I wasn' t expecting anything, I leapt out of the bath, threw on my dressing gown and raced downstairs to open the door. The postman thrust a fairly large parcel, addressed to my son, into my wet hands, followed by a pen, as he needed a signature. I ignored the rather meaningful, but disgusted glance he shot in my direction, as he realised that I was still wearing my night clothes at 11 in the morning, whilst he had been hard at work since 6. He turned abruptly, after retrieving his pen, dashing back towards his van, as if to convince me that his life was filled with a purpose, which mine evidently lacked. On my return to the bathroom, I smiled and lowered myself back into the bath, wincing slightly as my ample posterior bypassed the, by now, rather cool bath suds, to sink, once more, into the all-embracing warmth of the sweet-smelling water.

I brushed the honey and olive oil onto my face and neck, before reaching out for the chocolate biscuit, allowing my mouth to water, just a little, as I anticipated the smooth chocolate touching my excited tongue. The chocolate and crumbs combined into a delightful mixture, as I ate, but, regrettably and all too swiftly, the Choco Leibniz was gone. I reached for my coffee, then, just as I closed my eyes to savour the delicious, incomparable taste of the frothy Cappuccino, the telephone rang. I felt quite irritated, tensing for a moment, before deciding that the caller would have to leave a message, if it was anything of importance.

After draining my Cappuccino, I picked up my book with the intention of settling down to enjoy a good half an hour's read, but something caught my eye, before my glance fell upon the page. Hmm..... From my sitting position, I could see that the skirting board needed a coat of paint, as did the door. I'd forgotten that I hadn't had time to finish painting the woodwork in the bathroom, before I tidied everything away, when we had visitors at New Year. I felt very irritated.

I tried to return to my book, just as something else caught my eye. In the light from the window, catching the shower fitting and the wall tiles, I could see some limescale, which needed to be removed and some mildew, on the grouting. I began to feel exceedingly irritated. Averting my eyes, I attempted to focus, again, on the first page of my book, but I couldn't relax. My eyes darted from side to side, as I glanced around the room. From this particular angle, I could see the pedestal supporting the sink and the waste pipe behind. Both needed wiping. The floor tiles would have benefited from a good vacuuming, too. By this time, I was feeling exceptionally irritated.

I finished the rest of my bath, in record time, towelled myself dry, applied body lotion, foot lotion, dressed and immediately set about blitzing the bathroom, with a potentially explosive mixture of Limelight, Viakal and Dettol mould remover. I raced downstairs and back up again with the heavy, cumbersome vacuum cleaner in tow, then vacuumed the bathroom, followed by the other rooms, whilst I was up there, then finished with the stairs.

After putting the vacuum away, I stood in the hall, for a few seconds, to catch my breath. Phew! I was so hot and sticky, after expending so much energy, that I really needed a shower..........

Bloggers Make The Bestest Friends!

Aims published a post, on the 4th February, which referred to an article, about blogging, entitled Dangers Online. I read the article and found it quite interesting, if rather too much of a generalisation. I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of horror at the suggestion running throughout, however, that it would be better for all bloggers to return to face-to-face conversation, rather than continuing to interact through the medium of blogging. What an idea! I can hardly bear to consider it! Online friendships are infinitely preferable, in my opinion, for the following reasons:

My cyber friends never stare in disapproving disbelief, if I hit the bottle before the sun's over the yardarm and start slurring my comments.

They don't point and laugh cruelly, when I'm blogging and miss my mouth, whilst knocking back the Gordon's, or when the mayo oozes out of my lunchtime sandwich and trickles down my chin.

They don't appear to mind, in the least, if I tuck my paper napkin in the neck of my jumper, slurp my soup, or wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, whilst commenting on their posts.

They're not in the least bit bovvered when I realise that I probably can find room for a hot chocolate with whipped cream, after just downing a 12 inch pizza, all to myself, followed by a sticky toffee pudding.

They never blink an eye, if I giggle, whilst quoffing a bottle of bin end bargain, spraying droplets of gnat's pee and saliva all over my immediate surroundings, when I'm reading their posts.

My bloggy friends allow me the absolute freedom to scratch whatever I want, as frequently as I wish.

I can be anyone I want be, when I'm in their company - but don't panic, bloggy friends. Fortunately, I've never wanted to be anyone other than myself. No, really.

They never make me feel guilty, if I'm still blogging in my Dora The Explorer PJs, when they call in to comment, at lunchtime.

I don't have to get up off my lazy arse to make them a cup of coffee, if they do call by, or offer to share my last chocolate Hobnob.

It doesn't matter if they pay me a surprise visit when I'm waxing my legs, or soaking my feet.

They never count the cobwebs, or criticise the decor.

I don't have to drive, walk, or even get out of my cosy bed to interact with my bloggy friends.

They don't wince, or whip out their sunglasses, when I wear the hideous orange top I bought from Primark in the sale.

They never stare in shock horror, when I tell them I buy some of my clothes from Primark.

They never ask me to lend them a tenner till payday.

They never interrupt me, or shout me down, when I'm in the middle of a post.

They never ask me a question, then hi-jack the conversation again, before I've made my point.

I can moderate all of their comments.

Their eyes never glaze over, when I start to get boring.

They never laugh, when I forget the point of my story.

Now, why did I start relating all of this? Hold on. It'll come to me, in a minute........ You're not laughing, are you?

Do You Have Dry Winter Skin?

Well, I hope you're not suffering as much as the lady on the right, but I do bear a vague resemblance to her, at the moment, every time I venture out into the icy weather! Fortunately, unlike the brazen lady in the portrait, I always wear a coat, when going out, in winter, so only my face is affected.

I had no problem with my skin, until I was 13 years old. Quite suddenly, I developed spots and plenty of them. I worked my way through many products, before I finally realised that my skin was sensitive, as well as prone to spots. Any medical treatment for spots was generally too harsh for my skin and I was in my late teens, before my Doctor was finally able to prescribe something, which actually helped my condition.

After a lot of trial and error, I found some skin care products which suited me, but a couple of years later, the range was discontinued and I was forced to go through the whole frustrating process, of finding some suitable alternatives all over again. This pattern has been repeated throughout my life and it has caused a lot of expense at times.

My skin improved gradually, until my late twenties, when I became pregnant. Once more, I developed a lot of unsightly spots, but, after switching to Elizabeth Arden products, the condition of my skin improved considerably. Fortunately, many years passed by, before part of the range I used was discontinued and then, after floundering for a while, I found that I could use some of the Boots No 7 range, instead. I'm rarely sure exactly what causes my skin to react, of course, but, for anyone who seems to suffer in a similar way, I have compiled a list, below, of the products I can use, which seem to suit my sensitive skin:

Cleanser - Boots No 7 Soft & Soothed Gentle Cleanser, normal/dry skin.

Moisturiser - Elizabeth Arden Daily Moisture. (It's great but it costs more than I want to pay, even when I buy it from Superdrug.)

Moisturiser for cold weather - Elizabeth Arden Visible Difference Refining Moisture Cream Complex. (Even more expensive, but good.)

Foundation, face powder, eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick - Boots No 7. (I couldn't wear the mascara or lipstick every day, however and the lipstick does make my lips a bit dry!)

Lip balm - Vaseline Petroleum Jelly.

Deodorant - Vaseline Intensive Care (not the one with aloe vera) and Sanex dermo sensitive.

Shower Cream- Sanex dermo sensitive lactoserum for sensitive skin. (Not the others in the range.)

Hand and body lotion - Vaseline Intensive Care. (Not the one with aloe vera.)

Mouthwash - Dentyl.

I've suffered so many reactions to different cosmetics, in the past, that, for the last few years, I have sometimes turned to natural treatments instead. I've tried out various treatments recommended in magazine articles, or books and a few of these, which have proved effective for me are detailed below:

A tablespoon of honey, mixed with 2 of olive oil has proved a lovely moisturiser for
my neck. I brush it on with a soft brush, leave it for anything from 10 to 30 minutes, then rinse off with warm water. I have also used it on my decollete and face. I have never left it on my face for longer than 10 minutes, however and always avoid the delicate area under my eyes. I also find that the mixture is wonderful for dry hands, when massaged in and left for 10 minutes. This treatment shouldn't be used more than once a week.

A mixture of honey and yogurt makes a good face mask for my skin. I use half a carton of plain unsweetened yogurt and mix in 2 teaspoons of honey. I leave it on for 5 minutes, then rinse off with cold water.

I sometimes use a banana face mask for sore, dry, winter skin, which nothing else will soothe. The mask consists of a mashed banana mixed up with a teaspoon of honey and a little cream. I apply it to my face and leave it for about 10 minutes, before rinsing off with warm water.

An avocado mashed with a banana and 1 tablespoon of thick cream has proved an effective dry skin relief, on occasions, for my lower legs. I usually leave it on for about 10 minutes.

If you fancy trying any of the treatments mentioned above, for yourself, don't forget to bear in mind that my skin is mature, as well as sensitive. It would probably be best if you don't test out any of them the day before going out somewhere special, just in case they don't work for you. I know what it's like to wake up covered in spots on the day you're supposed to be going to a wedding or some other big event. I'm sure I hardly need to mention, either, that these treatments can be a little messy and are best applied in the bathroom! Don't forget to let anyone else in the house know, that you don't want to be disturbed for at least half an hour!

Do you have sensitive skin? Have you discovered a product range, which suits you? The products I currently use are bound to be discontinued eventually, so I would be grateful of any suggestions of others I could try, particularly if they are cheap! Do you have any favourite 'beauty' tips, you would like to share?

Note to Grumpy Old Ken: I do apologise for publishing such a girlie post, but it covers a subject, which is very close to my heart, particularly in winter. Please let me know how you get on with the banana mask!

Revisiting An Age-old Problem

Put cotton in your ears and pebbles in your shoes

Pull on rubber gloves

Smear Vaseline on your glasses

And there you have it; instant old age

Quote from Malcolm Cowley

I'm currently revisiting a problem I only thought I had about 12 months ago when a friend told me that she had bought concessionary tickets for our imminent theatre visit. It turned out that she was winding me up, but I did get a bit worried about the whole thing, because I was 6 years short of 60 at the time and some people had said that I didn't look my true age. (No, they didn't mean I looked 74! Cheeky! Or did they? Hmm...)

Well, this time she's gone and accidentally done it. She was distracted whilst booking the tickets over the telephone and now, I suppose I have a choice. Pick up my ticket from my friend and ring the theatre to explain the mistake, or hope that no one asks me for proof of my age, when I finally present my ticket at the theatre.

I'm considering putting cotton in my ears and pebbles in my shoes, to make myself appear older, for my theatre visit, but my dilemma has also led to me thinking about a few other things, this week, that can generally emphasize the more mature woman's age, or make her look older. So far, I've come up with the following:

1. Listening to Mario Lanza or Russ Conway on her MP3.

2. A toy boy.

3. Clubbing with her daughter.

4. Sending her pocket-sized packet of Rennie soft chews flying across the dance floor, whilst rummaging in her handbag for her embroidered handkerchief.

5. Possessing an embroidered handkerchief.

6. Exposing decollete and cleavage, which would benefit from frequent basting with half a pound of goose fat.

7. A fat face, or fat knees, arising from displacement, caused by prolonged use of her vice-like, but super-slimming bodysuit.

8. Breathing in, but not out.

9. HRT patches accidentally transferred to her face.

10. Matt black hair on the over 65s.

11. A dark tan on wrinkled skin.

12. Lurid make up only usually seen on the ugly sisters during the panto season.

13. False talons varnished bright red.

14. A belly bar or an eyebrow ring.

15. Wearing so much bling-bling that the manager of the local H Samuel stands eagerly on the doorstep of his establishment, whenever she is in the high street.

16. Earrings better suited to hanging from high, drawing room ceilings, rather than ears, combined with large specs.

17. A leotard.

18. Skinny fit clothes designed for supermodels on a diet of cocaine and crumbs.

19. A headscarf.

20. A little scarf, worn under her coat, to keep her neck cosy.

Now, just a minute. Mario Lanza, Rennies, handkerchief, matt black hair, dry skin, lurid make up, bling-bling, headscarf, little scarf. Yay! I'm nearly there! The only thing I'm short of is a toy boy! Any offers?

Silence can be deafening, you know. ;0(

I'm sure that none of you 'more mature' lady bloggers are guilty of any of the above, but feel free to fess up, if you are. There's no one else to hear. I'll admit to listening to Mario Lanza and loving my cosy little neck scarves. Oh, and then there's the belly bar of course and a few of the other things.......

Does anyone want to give me any advice about my dilemma? What would you do? Cough up the extra money or take no notice? How would you choose to look older?

Shock Poll Reveals What Women Mean!

An exclusive poll, conducted by Mean Moody Middle-aged Mom, based on telephone interviews with a remarkably small number of female adults, recently uncovered some shocking facts. Apparently, a tiny minority of women don't necessarily say what they mean in certain situations, when conversing with their partners! A teensy weensy number of the women polled even admitted to neglecting to mention niggling little details, which they considered unimportant and less than one woman openly admitted to the odd white lie!

The reasons behind this sort of behaviour varied considerably, in accordance with the woman's mood, the poll revealed, but included such things as a desire to appear virtuous, or to help her husband become more considerate, a reluctance to upset her partner, or a wish to avoid conflict. Below, in bold, are a few examples, gleaned from the poll, of the sort of things women might say, in some situations, which could have hidden meaning and a few light hearted suggestions of what they could mean in italics.

Going Out:

I'm nearly ready! I'm nowhere near ready.

I'm not ready yet. It's obvious that I'm not ready, yet, because I'm still drying my hair. Sitting in the car, on the drive, with the engine running won't make my hair dry any faster.

Would you check the doors and windows, before we go out, please? If you're sitting twiddling your thumbs and I'm obviously not yet ready to go out, why don't YOU check the doors and windows, instead of leaving it to me.

Shopping:

I'm just going into Accessorize to buy a pretty scarf for your sister, for her birthday. I'm just going into Accessorize to buy a pretty scarf for your sister, for her birthday and 2 for myself, whilst I'm there.

Don't buy that for me, for my birthday. It's far too expensive. I'll be absolutely thrilled if you buy that for me, for my birthday, in spite of the fact that it's so expensive.

I like both outfits. I can't decide which to have. Could we fast for a week, so that I could buy both of these outfits?

At Home:

Would you mash the potatoes, please? Don't stand doing nothing, in the kitchen, whilst I am running around like a blue arsed fly, trying to do 3 things at the same time.

Would you take the garden rubbish to the tip, please? It's supposed to be your responsibility to take the rubbish to the tip. It's been sitting there for about 4 weeks and it's starting to smell. You can see it and you can smell it as well as I can, so why do I have to nag, before you will do something about it?

It's OK, thanks, I can plug the lawnmower in. It's supposed to be your responsibility to cut the grass, whilst I look after the rest of the garden. If I decide that I ought to cut the grass, because you've not done it for 3 weeks, don't plug the lawnmower in for me. It's infuriating. If you do it again, I shall make you swallow the plug.

Can I have a glass of wine, now, please? When I said, half an hour ago, that I didn't want any wine, I didn't mean that you could instantly knock back the whole bottle, without pausing for breath.

No, I'm not blogging again. I'm just checking my emails. I was blogging, until you interrupted me. Now, I'm checking my emails.

Unavoidable Conflict:

There's nothing wrong. There's something wrong. I can't discuss it with you, yet, because I'm still simmering, but, believe me, I will discuss it, when I come to the boil.

I'm sorry I said that. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry I said that out loud.

It's OK. I know you didn't mean it, when you said that I was an ugly old cow. I'm having a headache, later, so don't bother suggesting any hanky panky. I haven't decided how long it will last, yet.

I forgive you. I'll remember what you did and bring it up in every argument, from now until dementia sets in.

Extra Marital:

Why are you so late home from work all the time? Are you having an affair?

No, I don't mind in the least if you go to watch the match, on Saturday and spend all day Sunday playing golf. I'm having an affair.

Mean Moody Middle-aged Mom would be interested in hearing from anyone, who has had first hand experience of such unscrupulous women. Perhaps your sister, or best friend suffers from such tendencies. Please leave a comment. Mean Mom would like to know.

Male readers please note: In no event will Mean Moody Middle-aged Mom be liable for any arguments or injuries arising, or divorce proceedings instigated, either directly or indirectly as a result of belief in the content of this post.

Memory Lane

I was listening to Brian Matthews, last weekend, when he suddenly played Catch A Falling Star, by Perry Como. I hadn't heard this song for many years and I was immediately transported back in time, to the living room of my parents' terraced house, in the Midlands, where I was brought up. My gaze was directed downwards. I was wearing my favourite dark blue trousers, hand made by my mother, on her old Singer sewing machine and pulling a plastic tipper truck along behind me. I recalled a time of safety and security, a time of open fires, outside toilets, linoleum and ice on the inside the windows in winter.

After a little research on the internet, I discovered that my flashback most probably went back to 1958, when I was just 5 years old. I found some interesting websites, whilst carrying out my detective work and came across some other songs, which also brought back vivid memories.

My parents bought me my first Dansette record player a few years later. We crowded around it, in the living room, on the day my father brought it home. By then, I must have been 9, because the first 45 I ever played was Lovesick Blues, by Frank Ifield and, apparently, it was a hit in 1962. In the following months, amongst others I added to my collection, were Venus In Blue Jeans, by Mark Wynter, Return To Sender, by Elvis Presley and The Night Had A Thousand Eyes by Bobby Vee. (If you have a few seconds to spare, the Bobby Vee video is quite comical!) By the time I bought Return To Sender, however, I had been banished to the draughty 'front' room to listen to my favourite pop singers.

By 1964, Liverpool had become the capital of popular music and I enjoyed the Mersey Sound as much as anyone. The Beatles' songs have been played so often, that, on the whole, they don't evoke many memories of the 1960s, for me. Other songs do, though, such as Anyone Who Had A Heart and You're My world, by Cilla Black. Whenever I hear these songs, I immediately recall my bedroom, in the same terraced house, back in 1964. The wallpaper has been completely obliterated by posters extracted from Fabulous, one of my favourite 60s magazines, but there is some evidence that my childhood hasn't been totally left behind, as my Tressy doll sits on the shelf, by the side of my bed, wearing clothes I have designed and hand sewn for her.

Many songs released in 1966/67 bring back bitter/sweet memories. Songs such as You Can't Hurry Love, by the Supremes, Reach Out I'll Be There, by the Four Tops, Hi Ho Silver Lining by Jeff Beck and Whiter Shade Of Pale by Procul Harum. I was 13/14 years old. It was a time of moods, tears, crossing boundaries and arguments with my father. A time of secrecy, first discos, first kisses, first dates and first cigarettes.

A lot of my recollections of 1968 are to do with traditional seaside holidays and day trips, with my best friend and our families. Songs such as This Guy's In Love With You, by Herb Alpert and Do It Again by the Beach Boys remind me of sun, sand, bikinis, transistor radios, knickerbocker glories and formica topped cafe tables. 1968 was a year of Dusty Springfield eyes, the ever shorter skirt, fun fairs, roller coasters, missed curfews and first real relationships.

My best friend and I often went out with our first boyfriends in a foursome. I can still recall the surprise I felt when she confessed that she felt Young Girl, by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap had been written especially for her. Contrary to the lyrics, however, she wasn't intending to run away from her situation. I couldn't believe that she was contemplating having sex, with her boyfriend, at fifteen, but she was and she did. I must have been a late developer.

My first relationship lasted 18 months. My friend married her first boyfriend, against her parents' wishes, at the age of 19 and had her first baby at the age of 21. I lost touch with her, at the age of 18, when we both left school, but I caught up with her news, a few years later, when I had a chance meeting with her next door neighbour. I sometimes wonder whether my friend is, now, a proud grandmother.

There are many other songs, from the years I have mentioned and subsequent years, which evoke strong memories, for me, but none as piercing as those I have just described. They were special years and special times, which have remained vivid in my memory, partly due to the popular music of the period.

Are there any songs, which cause waves of nostalgia to wash over you? Are you old enough to remember any of the songs I have mentioned? Do they bring back any memories for you?

A Foolproof Guide To Blogging!

1. Don't start a blog, if your only reason for doing so is that you're hoping for a book deal. Generally, statistics show that there is less likelihood of this occurring than a cold day in hell.

2. If you are a miserable old bat, or a dirty old git and you want to interact with young, attractive members of the opposite sex on your blog, find a photo of someone sexy, young and desirable and put it in your profile. When swapping comments or emails with young, attractive bloggers of the opposite sex, bear in mind that they may have pulled a similar stunt.

3. When publishing your first ever post, don't assume that the world is waiting, with bated breath, to comment. If you want to interact, you first of all have to let people know that you exist.

4. If you have a secret blog, don't open your big mouth, whilst chatting to your nosey friends and say something along the lines of 'I wrote a post about that, on my blog, the other day.' The ensuing silence may be deafening and those you looked upon as friends, may spend the next 3 weeks, singlemindedly scouring blogland, in a quest to uncover your most intimate thoughts and desires.

5. Those who are aware of your blog, are more than likely to view your fellow bloggers as imaginary friends. Never mention them, or their exploits, in conversation. It's comparable to a schizophrenic mentioning the voices in his head and it will provoke a similar reaction.

6. Don't make your posts long and complicated. Very few bloggers want to read a tome. If they do, they will go to the library and borrow something penned by a real writer, such as Les Miserables (unabridged), War and Peace, or Lord of the Rings. At last, I think I know where I'm going wrong.

7. Don't publish anything that you would feel uncomfortable with dirty old Tom, dirty old Dick, or dirty old Harry viewing. Unfortunately, they have access to Blogland, too.

8. If you're not bothered about dirty old Tom, Dick or Harry, and you are desperate for a disproportionate amount of anonymous hits on your site, write something smutty, with plenty of appropriate labels.

9. Try not to weep inconsolably when you publish a new post and you don't have any comments within the first 10 minutes. Unlike you, other bloggers may have a life.

10. Try not to be a blog tart. If you comment indiscriminately on 100 sites, within 5 minutes, in an attempt to drastically increase your comment count, you have a much higher chance of accidentally encountering the Superbitch From Hell, or the Devil's Spawn. Discriminate!

11. Don't waste time pouring over Site Meter, wondering why one of your favourite bloggers visited without leaving a comment. She may have been abruptly dragged away by a family member to conjure up some sort of nourishment, or she may have been coaxed away by the gardener, to the potting shed, for a little afternoon delight. A male blogger could have been dragged off by his other half to do a little grouting, or could have fallen from his chair, when he received a surprise proposition from Kelly Brook - in his dreams, naturally.

12. Switch off your monitor, if any of your offspring are spying on your blog, over your shoulder. Even your finest post will sound remarkably lame, when read out with pompous attitude, by one of your mischievous munchkins.

13. When choosing between looking after house and garden and blogging, choose blogging until the neighbours gang up and complain to the council.

14. Never blog unless you should be doing something much more important. The resulting pangs of guilt can only be described as exquisite.

15. If you are short of blogging time, buy a laptop, so that you can multi task. You can then brown your mince with one hand, whilst typing with the other, or watch The One Show with your left eye, whilst reading posts with your right.

16. If you blog naked, never let on. Some people are surprisingly put off by the thought of this.

17. When blogging naked, at least wear your glasses. Tipping mistekes can be very annoying for the weader. I wish someone had warned me about this.

18. Don't risk posting or commenting, if you're too drunk to maintain an upright position on your blogging chair. You could suffer serious repercussions next day, when offended bloggers wreak their revenge.

19. Don't sleep until you've blogged. Sleep is easier to catch up with.

20. Last, but not least, get your priorities right! If you are really determined to be a top blogger, never let real life interfere with regular blogging!