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“If I had another baby,” said my 70-year-old mother as I swept into her house from work to collect son number two, “would you give up work to look after it for me?”
My head shot round to face hers, agog with horror, only to watch her convulse into hoots of laughter. “Well, a 70-year-old in India has just had a baby girl, why not me?” she continued, warming to her theme. “A bit of IVF and I could be a mum again – maybe of triplets. And as I’ve helped to look after your kids for years, it’s payback time.”
A weird image of my mum nursing a baby sister 42 years my junior leapt into my head and I couldn’t help chortling at the improbability of it all.
This week the world discovered that Rajo Devi had given birth to her first child at 70. She is believed to be the oldest new mum in the world. Husband Bala Ram, 72, is said to be thrilled at finally conceiving. Apparently, in their community, there is a stigma attached to a couple’s failure to have a child.
Rajo, a delicate white-haired woman with the biggest new-mum smile imaginable, has beaten the previous oldest birth record held by a Romanian who had a baby at 67.
It’s all left me momentarily dumbstruck, not least because the moment I gave birth, at the tender age of 30, I felt as if I was 70. A combination of illness during pregnancy, blood pressure problems and intense fatigue caused by countless sleepless nights, left me looking like a worn-out yeti.
But like many mothers I went through it all again three years later because I dearly wanted another. And despite the motherly exhaustion, stresses and strains, wrinkles and crow’s feet, I have to say it’s the best thing I have ever done.
But would I do it again at 70? Absolutely not. Another baby would about kill me off now, never mind then. In fact, I am amazed that, though medical breakthroughs can make babies so late in life, ageing mothers are able to carry them without causing themselves severe health problems.
Then, of course, there’s the three score years and 10 argument. Should anyone be allowed to have a baby around the age we’re supposed to be nearing the end of the road?
In India, of course, the way of life is very different. Raho will reap the benefits of a joint family arrangement, which means all will rally round to care for the child come what may.
In Britain we are not so well blessed so age does matter, especially when you’re up half the night with a screaming baby or tearing around after a toddler with no sense of danger.
Nevertheless, I still felt my shackles rise when a male chum started ranting: “It’s disgusting. No woman over 50 should be having babies. It’s totally irresponsible. The menopause happens for a reason.”
Quite true but why, then, have men, for generations, been making babies well into their twilight years without anyone batting an eyelid?
It should come as no surprise to learn that, when it comes to geriatric parenting, a man holds the world record.
Nanu Ram Jogi, a farmer in the Indian state of Rajasthan, fathered his 21st child at the age of 90 last year.
Nanu could not remember exactly how many children he had produced with his four wives, but estimated that he had 12 sons, nine daughters and at least 20 grandchildren. Well, some people do get forgetful at that age.
“Women love me,” he said. “I want to have more children. I can survive another few decades and want to have children ‘til I am 100. Then maybe it will be time to stop.”
Nanu sparked quite a debate but I can’t recall him being attacked for his “disgusting behaviour”.
In fact there was a good-on-yer-son tendency to pat him on the back. One blogger commented: “Way to go man!”
And instead of lambasting him for his selfishness in being unlikely to see his kid grow up, there was discussion about his fertility success. Camel milk and a meaty diet of lamb, chicken and rabbit played their part, apparently.
There’s still no way I could give birth at 70, though. No, I’ll wait until I’m 91 - and kick Nanu’s record into touch. That will give everyone something to moan about. Now where can I buy some camel milk?
Thursday, 11 December 2008
Thursday, 27 November 2008
No money, wise old folk and Kilroy
To anyone shell-shocked by a redundancy notice or struggling in mountains of debt, the idea that the recession may be good for them could cause them to rip this column into tiny shreds.
A senior Tory who said just that this week has had a severe rollicking in these sensitive times.
Apparently he wrote on his blog: “I’ve been reading up on the impact of previous economic downturns on our health. Interestingly, on many counts, recession can be good for us. People tend to smoke less, drink less alcohol, eat less rich food and spend more time at home with their families.”
The latter being inevitable if you’ve just been made redundant, meant his comments went down about as well as a wichetty grub.
Nevertheless, I’m not about to jump on the Tory-bashing bandwagon. That’s because a colossal shift in the way we think, act and pay is taking place – and some of it is definitely for the better.
You may be familiar with star silver surfer geriatric1927, otherwise known as Peter Oakley, a Derbyshire 80-year-old who gained worldwide popularity and fame when he started posting video clips on YouTube.
His first posting was such a huge hit he received 4,000 e-mails. Since then, his thoughts have been read by millions, he has fans all over the world and he is courted by the media.
It’s all a bit much sometimes for a quiet pensioner who, when asked what his goal was for 2008 said: “It would just be nice to stay alive.”
Not asking for too much is the norm for Peter, an attitude described as refreshing by his fans.
They love the fact that he couldn’t give a monkeys about being a celebrity – are you listening jungle embarrassment Robert Kilroy-Silk? – and the fact that he is an old-fashioned gentleman – are you listening smut-aholic Jonathan Ross?
For me, Peter epitomises an honourable, sensible state of mind that is, I am glad to say, beginning to take a firm hold again.
He has something in spades that the entire world needs badly, especially Kilroy, Ross and American mortgage lenders – common sense.
The following is one of Peter’s many gems of wisdom: “In my day, at 21 you were considered to be a man, your wage was fixed and you cut your cloth according to your purse. You didn’t say: ‘What do I want’, you considered: ‘What do I need?’ ”
Isn’t that the fundamental principal, long since tossed aside, that is costing us so dear now?
Banks loaned money wrecklessly to those who couldn’t afford it. People took out mortgages that were way beyond their means.
And, when it all goes wrong, instead of recognising our own stupidity, we blame the money men for “encouraging us” – anyone, in fact, except ourselves.
Considering what we need rather than rushing out to buy what we want has suddenly become de rigueur again. It’s all about make-do-and-mend, shopping around – cutting your cloth to fit our purse. Peter was talking about a bygone age – the 20s and 30s – but his comments are as relevant today as they have ever been.
No wonder he has so many fans. For a man ostensibly just stating the obvious, it seems incredible to Peter that people find his take on life so thought-provoking.
One net reponse he received said: “The world is rotten. Pollution, corruption, crime, drugs – the news is filled with more and more bad news. But again, this week, you pulled me up Peter. And you’ve done it many times before. Your wise words have shown me there’s still hope in this world.”
If we all take a leaf out of Peter’s book, especially world leaders and East Midlands Euro MPs who prefer to build up their celebrity status than serve their constituents, I guess there is.
A senior Tory who said just that this week has had a severe rollicking in these sensitive times.
Apparently he wrote on his blog: “I’ve been reading up on the impact of previous economic downturns on our health. Interestingly, on many counts, recession can be good for us. People tend to smoke less, drink less alcohol, eat less rich food and spend more time at home with their families.”
The latter being inevitable if you’ve just been made redundant, meant his comments went down about as well as a wichetty grub.
Nevertheless, I’m not about to jump on the Tory-bashing bandwagon. That’s because a colossal shift in the way we think, act and pay is taking place – and some of it is definitely for the better.
You may be familiar with star silver surfer geriatric1927, otherwise known as Peter Oakley, a Derbyshire 80-year-old who gained worldwide popularity and fame when he started posting video clips on YouTube.
His first posting was such a huge hit he received 4,000 e-mails. Since then, his thoughts have been read by millions, he has fans all over the world and he is courted by the media.
It’s all a bit much sometimes for a quiet pensioner who, when asked what his goal was for 2008 said: “It would just be nice to stay alive.”
Not asking for too much is the norm for Peter, an attitude described as refreshing by his fans.
They love the fact that he couldn’t give a monkeys about being a celebrity – are you listening jungle embarrassment Robert Kilroy-Silk? – and the fact that he is an old-fashioned gentleman – are you listening smut-aholic Jonathan Ross?
For me, Peter epitomises an honourable, sensible state of mind that is, I am glad to say, beginning to take a firm hold again.
He has something in spades that the entire world needs badly, especially Kilroy, Ross and American mortgage lenders – common sense.
The following is one of Peter’s many gems of wisdom: “In my day, at 21 you were considered to be a man, your wage was fixed and you cut your cloth according to your purse. You didn’t say: ‘What do I want’, you considered: ‘What do I need?’ ”
Isn’t that the fundamental principal, long since tossed aside, that is costing us so dear now?
Banks loaned money wrecklessly to those who couldn’t afford it. People took out mortgages that were way beyond their means.
And, when it all goes wrong, instead of recognising our own stupidity, we blame the money men for “encouraging us” – anyone, in fact, except ourselves.
Considering what we need rather than rushing out to buy what we want has suddenly become de rigueur again. It’s all about make-do-and-mend, shopping around – cutting your cloth to fit our purse. Peter was talking about a bygone age – the 20s and 30s – but his comments are as relevant today as they have ever been.
No wonder he has so many fans. For a man ostensibly just stating the obvious, it seems incredible to Peter that people find his take on life so thought-provoking.
One net reponse he received said: “The world is rotten. Pollution, corruption, crime, drugs – the news is filled with more and more bad news. But again, this week, you pulled me up Peter. And you’ve done it many times before. Your wise words have shown me there’s still hope in this world.”
If we all take a leaf out of Peter’s book, especially world leaders and East Midlands Euro MPs who prefer to build up their celebrity status than serve their constituents, I guess there is.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
Derbyshire's first street shooting
Derby, the place I have always been so proud of, the city I have defended to the hilt, shopped, worked and played in, has suddenly been plunged into the mean streets league in my eyes.
The death of a 15-year-old, gunned down in Caxton Street, brought a tear to this mother’s eye and, I am sure many more parents, shocked by the savage act. Like me, a thought for their own children’s future safety may have flitted through their minds, too.
As for the youngster’s family and friends, their pain must be unbearable. How I feel for them.
I feel for Derby as a whole, too. This incident sets a new crime low for the city.
No longer can I boast that I could never bring my children up in a place like London because of the gang warfare and brutal murders among young people.
Liverpool, another place often in the news for gun crime, always felt a million miles away from Derby’s leafy streets.
When 11-year-old Rhys Jones, was shot in Croxteth on his way home from football practice, dying in his mother’s arms, I was horrified but comforted myself with the fact that it would never happen in Derby.
Of course I was being naive. But sometimes the only way to save your sanity is to push the truth to the dark recesses of your mind.
I know Derby has gangs, I know it will also have people without reason, conscience or the ability to conquer violent tendencies. No place is immune from that.
But this killing, this mindless act is so awful for us. It comes on top of another dreadful child-related news story that made my heart bleed this week. A 17-month-old boy, seen some 60 times by the authorities, died after enduring eight months of unimaginable torture.
The toddler suffered 50 injuries including a broken back, eight fractured ribs and ripped fingernails. His own mother and two men caused the death.
While a witch-hunt to blame the authorities goes on, I can only think about the depths of evil displayed by the perpetrators.
They appear to be devoid of human kindness or basic standards of decency, not to mention intelligence. If they were incapable of offering love, care and support to a child, they should have handed him over to people who could.
Like every sane parent out there, I am left in aching despair that anyone is capable of causing such dire harm to a tot too young to do anything other than cry for help – in this case only heard by those poised to snuff out his life.
And this all comes in a week when on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we stopped what we were doing to honour the war dead on Armistice Day.
Two minutes to think about all the people, so often young men with their whole lives ahead of them, taken from us by a bomb or gun shot.
Whenever I hear the poignant notes of The Last Post I recall my history teacher at school crying as she told us about the misery endured by so many in the First World War trenches.
Some 20 million people died in the 1914-18 war, a whole generation lost.
It was regarded as the cull of the innocent. Unfortunately the cull of the innocent is still going on, but, mindlessly, without a call to arms being necessary.
Today’s cull is taking place in our own streets and behind closed doors.
In recent months, we’ve watched the world plunged into financial chaos, with all thoughts turned to rescuing our economy.
Perhaps, with equal passion and determination, all thoughts should be turned to restoring basic standards of human decency in every strata of society.
Or is that simply asking too much?
For all our sakes, I hope not.
The death of a 15-year-old, gunned down in Caxton Street, brought a tear to this mother’s eye and, I am sure many more parents, shocked by the savage act. Like me, a thought for their own children’s future safety may have flitted through their minds, too.
As for the youngster’s family and friends, their pain must be unbearable. How I feel for them.
I feel for Derby as a whole, too. This incident sets a new crime low for the city.
No longer can I boast that I could never bring my children up in a place like London because of the gang warfare and brutal murders among young people.
Liverpool, another place often in the news for gun crime, always felt a million miles away from Derby’s leafy streets.
When 11-year-old Rhys Jones, was shot in Croxteth on his way home from football practice, dying in his mother’s arms, I was horrified but comforted myself with the fact that it would never happen in Derby.
Of course I was being naive. But sometimes the only way to save your sanity is to push the truth to the dark recesses of your mind.
I know Derby has gangs, I know it will also have people without reason, conscience or the ability to conquer violent tendencies. No place is immune from that.
But this killing, this mindless act is so awful for us. It comes on top of another dreadful child-related news story that made my heart bleed this week. A 17-month-old boy, seen some 60 times by the authorities, died after enduring eight months of unimaginable torture.
The toddler suffered 50 injuries including a broken back, eight fractured ribs and ripped fingernails. His own mother and two men caused the death.
While a witch-hunt to blame the authorities goes on, I can only think about the depths of evil displayed by the perpetrators.
They appear to be devoid of human kindness or basic standards of decency, not to mention intelligence. If they were incapable of offering love, care and support to a child, they should have handed him over to people who could.
Like every sane parent out there, I am left in aching despair that anyone is capable of causing such dire harm to a tot too young to do anything other than cry for help – in this case only heard by those poised to snuff out his life.
And this all comes in a week when on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month we stopped what we were doing to honour the war dead on Armistice Day.
Two minutes to think about all the people, so often young men with their whole lives ahead of them, taken from us by a bomb or gun shot.
Whenever I hear the poignant notes of The Last Post I recall my history teacher at school crying as she told us about the misery endured by so many in the First World War trenches.
Some 20 million people died in the 1914-18 war, a whole generation lost.
It was regarded as the cull of the innocent. Unfortunately the cull of the innocent is still going on, but, mindlessly, without a call to arms being necessary.
Today’s cull is taking place in our own streets and behind closed doors.
In recent months, we’ve watched the world plunged into financial chaos, with all thoughts turned to rescuing our economy.
Perhaps, with equal passion and determination, all thoughts should be turned to restoring basic standards of human decency in every strata of society.
Or is that simply asking too much?
For all our sakes, I hope not.
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Who needs Gok, Trinny or Susannah?
I confess, I’m not a Heat magazine reader and only pick up Hello magazine when I’m in the doctor’s surgery, but the British infatuation with celebrity infects us all a little.T
hat’s why I found myself sitting open-mouthed on my settee watching Katie Price on TV having around four sets of cosmetic surgery in as many days in LA.
Her desperate desire? Well, among other slight irritations tainting the body beautiful was the fact that her belly button stuck out a bit – and she hated it! Stoical hubby watched in despair, begging her to make this her last bout of surgery.
“I’ll do what I want,” she snapped. And she did. But I got that Whacko Jacko feeling as I looked at her strangely altering features. Constant surgical tweaking on the super attractive has a negative affect in my humble, plain Jane opinion.
And that’s when I started feeling relieved that I am ordinary. Relieved that I couldn’t give a stuff about my baby belly, flabby thighs, spot on my chin or the fact that the wrinkles are starting to blend into one giant network of cracks and bumps – a bit like the Grand Canyon.
Strangely, I have never scrutinised my belly button and felt waves of nausea at any perceived deformity, though I did find some fluff there once. Heaven help me!
Clearly, I am no glamour model relying on my looks to make a living, but the thought “too much money and time can make you completely barmy” did flash through my mind as I watched Katie positively enjoying yet another anaesthetic.
Years ago, when I went to my GP about having a bit of a lump removed she said: “Think long and hard because there is an element of risk with every operation. If you don’t really need it, if it’s only for cosmetic reasons, my advice would be don’t bother.”
Try telling that to image-obsessed celebrities as they head off for their fifth boob job.
I like to think that if I won the lottery tomorrow I’d stay completely grounded. Though I’d definitely buy a car to make Robbie Savage’s latest motor look dull, I wouldn’t jet off to LA for a Demi Moore-style makeover.
Take me as I am, lardy thighs an’ all. Plus, the fat keeps me warm in the South Stand at Pride Park.
What all women fail to realise until they are old and grey is that, actually, when they were young they looked pretty damn good – even without a scrap of make-up.
In the meantime, women of all ages appear far too ready to expose every inch of their bodies to scrutiny on national TV in the name of yet another makeover show.
Quite why the programme makers find it necessary to get, for example, lots of ladies with fuller figures to bend over in their undies to show us how big their backsides are is quite beyond me. Why women do it leaves me even more baffled. Everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame but naked bottoms!
I note that there is no male equivalent to this plethora of vanity-based shows. Instead the lads stick to watching the football or rugby. How wise they are. They don’t waste precious hours listening to Gok Wan telling women how to look good naked.
Now, conversely, Gok is presenting Miss Naked Beauty, a programme which gets women back to basics, stripping off the make-up to discover the beauty underneath together with that other vital key to attraction – personality.
The hunt is on for confidence, spirit, sex appeal, brains and beauty. Look no further Gok. You’ll find me in the South Stand at Derby County next Tuesday night, lardy thighs an’ all. Join me there and I’ll give you personality all right. No mascara necessary. In the meantime fellow women, young and old alike, do remember you are all brilliant. And you don’t need Gok, Trinny, Susannah, or even me, to tell you so.
hat’s why I found myself sitting open-mouthed on my settee watching Katie Price on TV having around four sets of cosmetic surgery in as many days in LA.
Her desperate desire? Well, among other slight irritations tainting the body beautiful was the fact that her belly button stuck out a bit – and she hated it! Stoical hubby watched in despair, begging her to make this her last bout of surgery.
“I’ll do what I want,” she snapped. And she did. But I got that Whacko Jacko feeling as I looked at her strangely altering features. Constant surgical tweaking on the super attractive has a negative affect in my humble, plain Jane opinion.
And that’s when I started feeling relieved that I am ordinary. Relieved that I couldn’t give a stuff about my baby belly, flabby thighs, spot on my chin or the fact that the wrinkles are starting to blend into one giant network of cracks and bumps – a bit like the Grand Canyon.
Strangely, I have never scrutinised my belly button and felt waves of nausea at any perceived deformity, though I did find some fluff there once. Heaven help me!
Clearly, I am no glamour model relying on my looks to make a living, but the thought “too much money and time can make you completely barmy” did flash through my mind as I watched Katie positively enjoying yet another anaesthetic.
Years ago, when I went to my GP about having a bit of a lump removed she said: “Think long and hard because there is an element of risk with every operation. If you don’t really need it, if it’s only for cosmetic reasons, my advice would be don’t bother.”
Try telling that to image-obsessed celebrities as they head off for their fifth boob job.
I like to think that if I won the lottery tomorrow I’d stay completely grounded. Though I’d definitely buy a car to make Robbie Savage’s latest motor look dull, I wouldn’t jet off to LA for a Demi Moore-style makeover.
Take me as I am, lardy thighs an’ all. Plus, the fat keeps me warm in the South Stand at Pride Park.
What all women fail to realise until they are old and grey is that, actually, when they were young they looked pretty damn good – even without a scrap of make-up.
In the meantime, women of all ages appear far too ready to expose every inch of their bodies to scrutiny on national TV in the name of yet another makeover show.
Quite why the programme makers find it necessary to get, for example, lots of ladies with fuller figures to bend over in their undies to show us how big their backsides are is quite beyond me. Why women do it leaves me even more baffled. Everyone wants their 15 minutes of fame but naked bottoms!
I note that there is no male equivalent to this plethora of vanity-based shows. Instead the lads stick to watching the football or rugby. How wise they are. They don’t waste precious hours listening to Gok Wan telling women how to look good naked.
Now, conversely, Gok is presenting Miss Naked Beauty, a programme which gets women back to basics, stripping off the make-up to discover the beauty underneath together with that other vital key to attraction – personality.
The hunt is on for confidence, spirit, sex appeal, brains and beauty. Look no further Gok. You’ll find me in the South Stand at Derby County next Tuesday night, lardy thighs an’ all. Join me there and I’ll give you personality all right. No mascara necessary. In the meantime fellow women, young and old alike, do remember you are all brilliant. And you don’t need Gok, Trinny, Susannah, or even me, to tell you so.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
A very merry credit crunch Christmas
Credit crunch and Christmas, both begin with ‘C’ – and the similarity doesn’t end there.
Christmas, a happy time? In fact, it sees a frighteningly high suicide rate, it’s the Samaritans’ busiest time and mountains of marriages hit the rocks come January 1.
Likewise, the credit crunch has seen calls to the Samaritans spiral and it has killed off many a marriage.
Divorce rates in London rocket when the spouses of high-earning city workers see the cash cow in trouble. Quietly breathe the word redundancy and I’ve-only-married-you-for-the-money partners are out of the house, designer bags packed, before they hear the dreaded words “stop spending”.
On the plus side (sort of), the credit crunch is preventing some warring couples from divorcing because they cannot afford to separate.
So much for festive – and credit crunch – cheer. Better, then, that we contemplate the coming season of goodwill like Scrooge – complete with miser gloves, miserable faces and a determination not to waste a penny.
After all, redundancies are 10 a penny, home energy and food bills are rocketing and if you’re not growing your own veg and walking round the house in six jumpers and a bobble hat to save on heating, you’re not playing ball.
Anyone who boasts an inner Scrooge is definitely coming into their own right now.
I feel a wartime, batten-down-the-hatches mentality emerging. What’s wrong with bread and dripping sandwiches anyway? Rationing? Bring it back and we can fight obesity at the same time.
Anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom, some people like the credit crunch. Ryanair chief executive Michael O’Leary says it’s good for business and reckons his low-cost airline will reap the benefits of the current economic gloom.
“We are not just looking at a recession but a depression,” he said cheerily.
Meanwhile, as our belts are pulled in so tightly we almost crush out vital organs, it’s good to see frugality return.
Aldi and Lidl are awash with new amateur bargain hunters struggling with that crazy race at the tills to shove everything into the trolley at breakneck speed. Help with your packing? Get a grip. View it more like a Krypton Factor challenge.
Other discount retailers are thriving, too. The East Midlands Designer outlet was so packed last Sunday people were parked bumper to bumper on the pavements outside. Not shopping? We’re shopping more, just in different places.
For example, Domino’s pizzas are doing a roaring trade as people are cutting back on eating out but – despite Jamie Oliver’s best efforts – still can’t be bothered to cook. The compromise? Order in a pizza. Not exactly Scrooge-like but it saves a few bob.
In addition, Domino's has been a rise in the sale of potato wedges. In the last recession supermarkets saw sales of rice and potatoes surge, which means we all comfort eat on starch when times are tough.
Meanwhile, meat and organic food sales are down but sales of Tupperware and plastic sarnie bags are up because we’re buttering our own cobs to take to work.
Apart from the starch obsession, that all seems fairly sensible to me but market analysts say that we are not reacting to the credit crunch in a rational way.
Perhaps not but when, day and night, we’re told that the world economy is crashing around our ears, it’s hard not to rush into the kitchen for a giant baked potato served with rice, chips and a Domino’s pizza. The starch overload sends us to sleep and, for a few hours at least, we can stop worrying about the credit crunch.
As for me, a sensible girl when it comes to money, I have to confess that I have changed my buying habits this Christmas. Weirdly, I’ve stockpiled a pile of presents. Strange indeed for someone who normally dashes out to buy gifts at 2pm on Christmas Eve. I have no explanation for this, or my obsession with rice and potatoes.
As for Christmas Day, I’m wondering if Domino’s will be delivering. I can only hope...
Christmas, a happy time? In fact, it sees a frighteningly high suicide rate, it’s the Samaritans’ busiest time and mountains of marriages hit the rocks come January 1.
Likewise, the credit crunch has seen calls to the Samaritans spiral and it has killed off many a marriage.
Divorce rates in London rocket when the spouses of high-earning city workers see the cash cow in trouble. Quietly breathe the word redundancy and I’ve-only-married-you-for-the-money partners are out of the house, designer bags packed, before they hear the dreaded words “stop spending”.
On the plus side (sort of), the credit crunch is preventing some warring couples from divorcing because they cannot afford to separate.
So much for festive – and credit crunch – cheer. Better, then, that we contemplate the coming season of goodwill like Scrooge – complete with miser gloves, miserable faces and a determination not to waste a penny.
After all, redundancies are 10 a penny, home energy and food bills are rocketing and if you’re not growing your own veg and walking round the house in six jumpers and a bobble hat to save on heating, you’re not playing ball.
Anyone who boasts an inner Scrooge is definitely coming into their own right now.
I feel a wartime, batten-down-the-hatches mentality emerging. What’s wrong with bread and dripping sandwiches anyway? Rationing? Bring it back and we can fight obesity at the same time.
Anyway, it’s not all doom and gloom, some people like the credit crunch. Ryanair chief executive Michael O’Leary says it’s good for business and reckons his low-cost airline will reap the benefits of the current economic gloom.
“We are not just looking at a recession but a depression,” he said cheerily.
Meanwhile, as our belts are pulled in so tightly we almost crush out vital organs, it’s good to see frugality return.
Aldi and Lidl are awash with new amateur bargain hunters struggling with that crazy race at the tills to shove everything into the trolley at breakneck speed. Help with your packing? Get a grip. View it more like a Krypton Factor challenge.
Other discount retailers are thriving, too. The East Midlands Designer outlet was so packed last Sunday people were parked bumper to bumper on the pavements outside. Not shopping? We’re shopping more, just in different places.
For example, Domino’s pizzas are doing a roaring trade as people are cutting back on eating out but – despite Jamie Oliver’s best efforts – still can’t be bothered to cook. The compromise? Order in a pizza. Not exactly Scrooge-like but it saves a few bob.
In addition, Domino's has been a rise in the sale of potato wedges. In the last recession supermarkets saw sales of rice and potatoes surge, which means we all comfort eat on starch when times are tough.
Meanwhile, meat and organic food sales are down but sales of Tupperware and plastic sarnie bags are up because we’re buttering our own cobs to take to work.
Apart from the starch obsession, that all seems fairly sensible to me but market analysts say that we are not reacting to the credit crunch in a rational way.
Perhaps not but when, day and night, we’re told that the world economy is crashing around our ears, it’s hard not to rush into the kitchen for a giant baked potato served with rice, chips and a Domino’s pizza. The starch overload sends us to sleep and, for a few hours at least, we can stop worrying about the credit crunch.
As for me, a sensible girl when it comes to money, I have to confess that I have changed my buying habits this Christmas. Weirdly, I’ve stockpiled a pile of presents. Strange indeed for someone who normally dashes out to buy gifts at 2pm on Christmas Eve. I have no explanation for this, or my obsession with rice and potatoes.
As for Christmas Day, I’m wondering if Domino’s will be delivering. I can only hope...
Friday, 15 August 2008
Random (Female) Rams fan
I've always wondered why it's always blokes pontificating about football in newspapers, online and at matches so, in an effort to redress the balance, I am starting my own Random (female) Rams Fan blog.
As someone who has been watching Derby County since the age of eight, one of the fist things I'd like to mention is the most irritating comment ever heard at football matches: "We mustn't swear, there's ladies present."
Seeing as every football chant includes every swear word known to man and we're surrounded be people venting their spleen in gay abandon, it's a bit late and, frankly, pretty patronising, to suggest that they should protect our pretty little ears from bad language. Who do you think you are? Darcy?
Secondly, can the man with the squeaky duck mobile ringtone in the South Stand at Pride Park switch it off. Or get something decent.
Finally, can all Rams fans PLEASE give the team a chance to gel before they start turning on the boys? They never built Rome in a day and they're certainly not going to rebuild the Rams in five minutes.
The team were way out of their depth in the Prem and the cash, or will, to keep them up was sadly lacking. At least PJ and Adam Pearson are trying, without breaking the bank, to give us a new young team.
I met Adam recently and was well impressed with what he had to say. As he points out, a £5m player is never going to come to Derby because they want to be with a Prem team. So we have to think out of the box to find hidden or unknown talent.
PJ is clearly doing that. I for one wish him all and the lads all the best for the season.
May Nathan's hat trick be the first of many!
As someone who has been watching Derby County since the age of eight, one of the fist things I'd like to mention is the most irritating comment ever heard at football matches: "We mustn't swear, there's ladies present."
Seeing as every football chant includes every swear word known to man and we're surrounded be people venting their spleen in gay abandon, it's a bit late and, frankly, pretty patronising, to suggest that they should protect our pretty little ears from bad language. Who do you think you are? Darcy?
Secondly, can the man with the squeaky duck mobile ringtone in the South Stand at Pride Park switch it off. Or get something decent.
Finally, can all Rams fans PLEASE give the team a chance to gel before they start turning on the boys? They never built Rome in a day and they're certainly not going to rebuild the Rams in five minutes.
The team were way out of their depth in the Prem and the cash, or will, to keep them up was sadly lacking. At least PJ and Adam Pearson are trying, without breaking the bank, to give us a new young team.
I met Adam recently and was well impressed with what he had to say. As he points out, a £5m player is never going to come to Derby because they want to be with a Prem team. So we have to think out of the box to find hidden or unknown talent.
PJ is clearly doing that. I for one wish him all and the lads all the best for the season.
May Nathan's hat trick be the first of many!
Mad happy campers!
“I lurrrvvve you,” sang out the drunk. “You fill me up...”
There were a few precious moments of silence, followed by a large burp, then he started again, warbling like Simon Cowell’s worst X-Factor nightmare: “Youuu fillllll me up.”
I still haven’t worked out which song he’d wrenched these lyrics from to “serenade” his wife in “Brit-on-hols-drunk style.
She wasn’t impressed. She told him to “shut it” in no uncertain terms but, encouraged by the mobile home decking, which in his drunken stupor he mistook for a stage, he couldn’t stop himself making a complete idiot of himself.
It was then that the thought “never again” imprinted itself on my brain.
Never again would I spend my precious holiday time with a bunch of happy campers on a giant Euro site.
Because, the happier they are, the more miserable they make the people who go about their lives quietly.
You know, the sort who don’t turn up the TV or music full blast just in case their neighbours are in.
The sort who don’t start mowing their lawn at 7am or 9pm.
The sort who pop a note through the door if they have a big party coming up to apologise for any parking inconvenience.
I am among the thoughtful one, which is why I hate noise abuse. That’s what I call it.
Never mind you, Jack, I’m drunk, I’ve paid for this holiday and I’m flamin’ well going to enjoy it by singing like a tuneless moron into the early hours of the morning.
Never mind if you or your kids want to sleep, you’re going to have to listen to me.
Bricks and mortar would struggle to block the sounds, never mind a scrap of canvas or a thin mobile home wall. If you get bad neighbours on a camping/caravan holiday, you’re done for.
A chum admitted the very same thing had happened to her on a campsite in France.
“A load of people next to us were talking and drinking late into the night. It went on and on. Eventually my children were crying because they just couldn’t get to sleep,” she recalled, with a helpless grin.
“So, I went round in my nightie and, very politely, said I was sorry to spoil their fun but could they quieten down. They apologised and said yes but as I walked away the shrieking laughter started again. Then I fell over a hedge.”
Need I say more? Camping has some major drawback. And yet it’s all the rage thanks to the credit crunch.
Brits, from every walk of life, are heading for life under canvas this summer in a massive cost-cutting exercise.
In fact, just by going abroad, I broke the mould because this year the “stay-cation” is de rigueur.
The Benidorm bars are half empty while British campsites are turning people away.
Holidaying in the UK is all very laudable, and surprisingly sensible on our part.
But let’s be logical about this. Every year, millions of us leave gorgeous, lovingly cared for homes and all mod cons to sleep on a mat under canvas in a field. Why?
Alternatively, as in my case, we swap the squishy settees and pillow-soft beds of home for a static van with about as much appeal as a garden shed.
We give up dishwashers in favour of communal dish-washing sinks and leave our en suite bathrooms behind to queue up in our jim-jams for shared showers covered in body hair from the previous occupant.
We eat al fresco, come rain or shine, and feast on blackened barbecued food, served up by the man of the van/tent in some strange male ritual. Man never cooks but must do barbecue to protect cave woman from fire.
It is mystifying. OK, I know I am being a bit harsh here. Some of my best friends are campers – and my father’s the proud owner of a caravan. But I really have had my fill of chemical toilets. And the next drunken karaoke slob to stumble across my path could find himself throttled with my Derby County scarf.
Next year’s UK stay-cation is definitely going to take place within bricks in mortar, preferably in my own home!
There were a few precious moments of silence, followed by a large burp, then he started again, warbling like Simon Cowell’s worst X-Factor nightmare: “Youuu fillllll me up.”
I still haven’t worked out which song he’d wrenched these lyrics from to “serenade” his wife in “Brit-on-hols-drunk style.
She wasn’t impressed. She told him to “shut it” in no uncertain terms but, encouraged by the mobile home decking, which in his drunken stupor he mistook for a stage, he couldn’t stop himself making a complete idiot of himself.
It was then that the thought “never again” imprinted itself on my brain.
Never again would I spend my precious holiday time with a bunch of happy campers on a giant Euro site.
Because, the happier they are, the more miserable they make the people who go about their lives quietly.
You know, the sort who don’t turn up the TV or music full blast just in case their neighbours are in.
The sort who don’t start mowing their lawn at 7am or 9pm.
The sort who pop a note through the door if they have a big party coming up to apologise for any parking inconvenience.
I am among the thoughtful one, which is why I hate noise abuse. That’s what I call it.
Never mind you, Jack, I’m drunk, I’ve paid for this holiday and I’m flamin’ well going to enjoy it by singing like a tuneless moron into the early hours of the morning.
Never mind if you or your kids want to sleep, you’re going to have to listen to me.
Bricks and mortar would struggle to block the sounds, never mind a scrap of canvas or a thin mobile home wall. If you get bad neighbours on a camping/caravan holiday, you’re done for.
A chum admitted the very same thing had happened to her on a campsite in France.
“A load of people next to us were talking and drinking late into the night. It went on and on. Eventually my children were crying because they just couldn’t get to sleep,” she recalled, with a helpless grin.
“So, I went round in my nightie and, very politely, said I was sorry to spoil their fun but could they quieten down. They apologised and said yes but as I walked away the shrieking laughter started again. Then I fell over a hedge.”
Need I say more? Camping has some major drawback. And yet it’s all the rage thanks to the credit crunch.
Brits, from every walk of life, are heading for life under canvas this summer in a massive cost-cutting exercise.
In fact, just by going abroad, I broke the mould because this year the “stay-cation” is de rigueur.
The Benidorm bars are half empty while British campsites are turning people away.
Holidaying in the UK is all very laudable, and surprisingly sensible on our part.
But let’s be logical about this. Every year, millions of us leave gorgeous, lovingly cared for homes and all mod cons to sleep on a mat under canvas in a field. Why?
Alternatively, as in my case, we swap the squishy settees and pillow-soft beds of home for a static van with about as much appeal as a garden shed.
We give up dishwashers in favour of communal dish-washing sinks and leave our en suite bathrooms behind to queue up in our jim-jams for shared showers covered in body hair from the previous occupant.
We eat al fresco, come rain or shine, and feast on blackened barbecued food, served up by the man of the van/tent in some strange male ritual. Man never cooks but must do barbecue to protect cave woman from fire.
It is mystifying. OK, I know I am being a bit harsh here. Some of my best friends are campers – and my father’s the proud owner of a caravan. But I really have had my fill of chemical toilets. And the next drunken karaoke slob to stumble across my path could find himself throttled with my Derby County scarf.
Next year’s UK stay-cation is definitely going to take place within bricks in mortar, preferably in my own home!
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Why the Quiet Ones CAN get on in llife
IT was like reading my old school report: “Jill doesn’t talk enough in lessons...Jill doesn’t contribute in class...Jill is a very nice but quiet girl”.
My nine-year-old son’s school report had arrived home and that feeling of deja vu hit home with a vengeance.
Replace my name with his, and it could have been my report from 1975.
I had to laugh, though. This is a lad who, due to his foghorn vocal chords, I am forever telling to pipe down. He never stops talking, rattling away like a machine gun as soon as he wakes up at 6am.
Nevertheless, as I read through his school report, that same old comment, once aimed at me, came home to roost. And I had to ask, for the umpteenth time, what’s wrong with keeping stum? What’s wrong with listening while the gobby ones dominate the show? They talk rubbish most of the time anyway.
As a kid, I hated sticking my hand up to answer a question in class. If you got it wrong, the other kids smirked. If you got it right you were labelled a swot. And, when you did pluck up the courage to put your hand up, the teacher never noticed and let gobby answer it yet again.
To be honest, I’d rather crawl under a stone than have all eyes turned on me.
A few years ago, when I had the opportunity to be hypnotised, I asked to be cured of my fear of public speaking. And I’m not just talking about a major speech in front of hundreds. I crumple if faced with talking in front of no more than half a dozen or so. If asked to speak at the tiniest WI meeting I would be keeling over with nerves and vomiting in the public loos.
I have, and always will be, mouse-like but, as I said to my son last night as he looked glumly at his otherwise good report, when it is truly necessary to open my mouth I can do so – with gritty determination.
Like when I wanted a job, for example. After leaving school, I put university on hold for a year and, by the end of the summer holidays, had managed to land a cub reporter position on a local paper. I made a call, wrote a letter and talked myself into my dream job.
On seeing my byline, my old sixth form tutor rang me up in amazement to ask why I wasn’t at university and how on earth I’d managed to get a job. “The gift of the gab,” I replied. He was stunned. The Quiet One had used the power of speech.
Another place where I make myself heard with great clarity is Pride Park, the home of Derby County. Now there I am stripped of all inhibitions and will yell quite happily until I am blue in the face. It’s therapy, truly. Roll on August 9 when the news season kicks off.
And I never shy away from making a difficult phone call or saying what I think in a tricky situation - especially when faced by forceful, nasty, gobby people.
When I have to talk, I will. But, if there is nothing of major importance to say, why bore people stupid?
At least I don’t suffer from AMOC (Automated Mouth Overload Control), a defect which prevents some individuals from knowing when to stop rattling.
You must know one of these? They just don’t know when to shut up. They chitter-chatter endlessly, killing you softly with their sounds. A one-legged sloth would hare off like a rocket, if they so much as ventured in their direction.
AMOC is particularly prevalent among women, apparently.
Researchers have no idea what produces the defect but, as far as I am aware, it has nothing to do with the inability to speak in front of classmates during your formative years.
So, if like me or my son, you freeze in front of crowds, go suddenly shy and look at your shoes, never fear. All is not lost. The best people know when to shut up.
My nine-year-old son’s school report had arrived home and that feeling of deja vu hit home with a vengeance.
Replace my name with his, and it could have been my report from 1975.
I had to laugh, though. This is a lad who, due to his foghorn vocal chords, I am forever telling to pipe down. He never stops talking, rattling away like a machine gun as soon as he wakes up at 6am.
Nevertheless, as I read through his school report, that same old comment, once aimed at me, came home to roost. And I had to ask, for the umpteenth time, what’s wrong with keeping stum? What’s wrong with listening while the gobby ones dominate the show? They talk rubbish most of the time anyway.
As a kid, I hated sticking my hand up to answer a question in class. If you got it wrong, the other kids smirked. If you got it right you were labelled a swot. And, when you did pluck up the courage to put your hand up, the teacher never noticed and let gobby answer it yet again.
To be honest, I’d rather crawl under a stone than have all eyes turned on me.
A few years ago, when I had the opportunity to be hypnotised, I asked to be cured of my fear of public speaking. And I’m not just talking about a major speech in front of hundreds. I crumple if faced with talking in front of no more than half a dozen or so. If asked to speak at the tiniest WI meeting I would be keeling over with nerves and vomiting in the public loos.
I have, and always will be, mouse-like but, as I said to my son last night as he looked glumly at his otherwise good report, when it is truly necessary to open my mouth I can do so – with gritty determination.
Like when I wanted a job, for example. After leaving school, I put university on hold for a year and, by the end of the summer holidays, had managed to land a cub reporter position on a local paper. I made a call, wrote a letter and talked myself into my dream job.
On seeing my byline, my old sixth form tutor rang me up in amazement to ask why I wasn’t at university and how on earth I’d managed to get a job. “The gift of the gab,” I replied. He was stunned. The Quiet One had used the power of speech.
Another place where I make myself heard with great clarity is Pride Park, the home of Derby County. Now there I am stripped of all inhibitions and will yell quite happily until I am blue in the face. It’s therapy, truly. Roll on August 9 when the news season kicks off.
And I never shy away from making a difficult phone call or saying what I think in a tricky situation - especially when faced by forceful, nasty, gobby people.
When I have to talk, I will. But, if there is nothing of major importance to say, why bore people stupid?
At least I don’t suffer from AMOC (Automated Mouth Overload Control), a defect which prevents some individuals from knowing when to stop rattling.
You must know one of these? They just don’t know when to shut up. They chitter-chatter endlessly, killing you softly with their sounds. A one-legged sloth would hare off like a rocket, if they so much as ventured in their direction.
AMOC is particularly prevalent among women, apparently.
Researchers have no idea what produces the defect but, as far as I am aware, it has nothing to do with the inability to speak in front of classmates during your formative years.
So, if like me or my son, you freeze in front of crowds, go suddenly shy and look at your shoes, never fear. All is not lost. The best people know when to shut up.
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
The RIGHT Apprentice!
So wacky pterodactyl impersonator Lee McQueen won The Apprentice. What a huge relief.
Common sense triumphed over the intensely clever stupidity so often displayed by people who are super bright but, somehow, don’t live in the real world.
Hard work and effort triumphed over a fistful of academic qualifications.
It makes the heart sing, because after Lee’s CV rumpus, I thought he was out for the count.
For those not addicted to one of the most gripping TV shows of the year, Lee told a fib on his CV. I say fib because lie seems too harsh. He said he’d spent two years at college when in fact he dropped out after four months.
It was a fib born out of embarrassment. Lee thought he wouldn’t stand a chance without a list of academic qualifications as long as his arm. So, he reinvented himself, ever so slightly, like countless others before him.
He could have done far worse, like claiming he was an Oxbridge grad.
I don’t condone what he did but I do understand why. So did Sir Alan.
What Lee failed to realise was that if anyone was not going to judge him on academic results alone, it was the multi-millionaire tycoon.
Like so many of Britain’s top entrepreneurs, he came from a humble background and left school at 16. The hard work started there – not five or more years later after partying on down at uni for three years,
Sir Alan saw beyond that CV slip-up and recognised that in Lee a bright, loyal grafter with passion, enthusiasm and good humour was waiting to be moulded.
Nevertheless the holier-than-thou brigade have been casting their eyes heavenwards at Lee’s CV faux pas.
But, it’s not as bad as stealing from your employers, surely? Shirking on the job? Having more academic qualification than you know what to do with but being utterly hopeless?
In fact, while I’m motoring on this theme, Derby City Council’s corruption allegations spring to mind.
Is lying on your CV as bad as using your employees’ materials and joinery shop to build stuff for private homes?
Telling a white lie on your CV can hardly rank alongside theft, misuse of company property or just being a complete waste of space in the workplace.
After more than 20 years in half a dozen different jobs, I’ve pretty much seen it all. Graduates who, like Lee, struggle to spell; shirkers who got away with doing as little as possible, a couple of alcoholics and a thief – not at the Evening Telegraph I hasten to add.
Talking of shirkers, my favourite was the woman who insisted on having her hair cut in works’ time – because it grew in works’ time.
For all of these reasons and because like Sir Alan Sugar, I am crusty, old and wise, I am chuffed to bits for Lee.
He displayed more energy and enthusiasm than the rest of the apprentices put together and was that rare thing – a good team player but also a great leader.
He’s also good fun, a vastly underrated strength in the workplace. Who wants to be surrounded by an army of high maintenance whiners?
Attitude and hard work count for everything in my humble opinion. And if you smile along the way, hallelujah!
Yes, you need to be bright but degrees don’t guarantee that, especially these days as youngsters are pushed into higher education whether it suits them or not, because so few jobs are available.
And why on earth don’t we value practical intelligence, a much rarer commodity than a degree?
It was Lee who led The Apprentice team who located the Jewish quarter in Marrakech to buy a kosher chicken during a bizarre task for Sir Alan – unlike a lad with a degree from Edinburgh who went to the halal butcher.
Lee, if you don’t like it at the Sugar empire, you’re hired.
Common sense triumphed over the intensely clever stupidity so often displayed by people who are super bright but, somehow, don’t live in the real world.
Hard work and effort triumphed over a fistful of academic qualifications.
It makes the heart sing, because after Lee’s CV rumpus, I thought he was out for the count.
For those not addicted to one of the most gripping TV shows of the year, Lee told a fib on his CV. I say fib because lie seems too harsh. He said he’d spent two years at college when in fact he dropped out after four months.
It was a fib born out of embarrassment. Lee thought he wouldn’t stand a chance without a list of academic qualifications as long as his arm. So, he reinvented himself, ever so slightly, like countless others before him.
He could have done far worse, like claiming he was an Oxbridge grad.
I don’t condone what he did but I do understand why. So did Sir Alan.
What Lee failed to realise was that if anyone was not going to judge him on academic results alone, it was the multi-millionaire tycoon.
Like so many of Britain’s top entrepreneurs, he came from a humble background and left school at 16. The hard work started there – not five or more years later after partying on down at uni for three years,
Sir Alan saw beyond that CV slip-up and recognised that in Lee a bright, loyal grafter with passion, enthusiasm and good humour was waiting to be moulded.
Nevertheless the holier-than-thou brigade have been casting their eyes heavenwards at Lee’s CV faux pas.
But, it’s not as bad as stealing from your employers, surely? Shirking on the job? Having more academic qualification than you know what to do with but being utterly hopeless?
In fact, while I’m motoring on this theme, Derby City Council’s corruption allegations spring to mind.
Is lying on your CV as bad as using your employees’ materials and joinery shop to build stuff for private homes?
Telling a white lie on your CV can hardly rank alongside theft, misuse of company property or just being a complete waste of space in the workplace.
After more than 20 years in half a dozen different jobs, I’ve pretty much seen it all. Graduates who, like Lee, struggle to spell; shirkers who got away with doing as little as possible, a couple of alcoholics and a thief – not at the Evening Telegraph I hasten to add.
Talking of shirkers, my favourite was the woman who insisted on having her hair cut in works’ time – because it grew in works’ time.
For all of these reasons and because like Sir Alan Sugar, I am crusty, old and wise, I am chuffed to bits for Lee.
He displayed more energy and enthusiasm than the rest of the apprentices put together and was that rare thing – a good team player but also a great leader.
He’s also good fun, a vastly underrated strength in the workplace. Who wants to be surrounded by an army of high maintenance whiners?
Attitude and hard work count for everything in my humble opinion. And if you smile along the way, hallelujah!
Yes, you need to be bright but degrees don’t guarantee that, especially these days as youngsters are pushed into higher education whether it suits them or not, because so few jobs are available.
And why on earth don’t we value practical intelligence, a much rarer commodity than a degree?
It was Lee who led The Apprentice team who located the Jewish quarter in Marrakech to buy a kosher chicken during a bizarre task for Sir Alan – unlike a lad with a degree from Edinburgh who went to the halal butcher.
Lee, if you don’t like it at the Sugar empire, you’re hired.
The joy of being a frugalista (tight!)
Careful with your money? Harshly dubbed tight? Not any more, you’re a funky new frugalista.
You’re so stylish, Madonna would kill for just a fraction of your money know-how.
I bet she wishes she had a Home Bargains store close by, stuffed with cut-price toiletries and packs of 18 toilet rolls – yes, I said 18 – for an astonishing £2.99.
Yep, the credit crunch is biting hard. Thanks to the mighty media’s scare stories about rocketing gas and electric bills, plummeting home values and rising fuel and food costs, we’re all cutting back.
Phew! What a relief. I no longer feel guilty for being a frugalista (OK, tight), something I have been all my life.
It all started in 1972 when, clutching my 10p pocket money tightly, I walked to the sweet shop and thought long and hard for half an hour before buying a bag of chocolate tools for 1p each. Mmm... those hammers and spanners tasted good. Whatever happened to chocolate tools?Though just a tubby tot, I knew then that money definitely didn’t grow on trees. I had to make every penny count. When I bought my first house at 21 for £13,000 I felt like I’d borrowed a million. The mortgage seemed huge and it was compared to my measly salary.
My first job paid £40 a week.
Despite the cash shortfall I managed to run a car, though its rickety doors flew open when I rounded a bend, and I never, ever got into debt.
As a student I used thrift shops. I made Amy Whinehouse look like the epitome of chic. As long as I averted my gaze when I passed a mirror, it really didn’t bother me.
As I grew older and started to earn more money, cash pressures eased but that frugal nature never went away.
I’d never go out and blow £300 on a handbag, my mobile phone’s like Del Boy’s brick and I drive a battered Peugeot 106 that rattles when I round a bend. At least the doors don’t fly open!Friends have goaded me over the years, especially a couple who I dub “the princesses”.
One refuses point blank to shop anywhere where they don’t pack your groceries for you. One almost passed out in horror a few years ago when I dragged her into Kwik Save. It was as much as she could do not to vomit.
When we get together they show off their designer buys, Burberry is a favourite make. In fact, I fell off my bar stool when one revealed the purse she’d just bought – for £295.
More money than sense is the phrase that springs to mind as I quickly decide in my head what I would have bought for the same amount of money – a new bathroom suite maybe, or flights for a holiday.
But now, despite their laughter at my expense, their hoots of derision when I confess that my new dress cost a fiver in New Look’s sale, I am in tune with current thinking and they are so 1980s, so bling.
Even the London luvvies are having lessons in how to save cash. I saw one on telly this week being introduced to the delights of Aldi.
Shopping around, she discovered – surprise, surprise – could save hundreds of pounds a year on her groceries. It was a total revelation to her. “Their bacon is incredibly cheap,” she gasped in awe.
It is indeed. Come to Derby, love, and you’ll really bag a bargain. Where have these people been? Bathing in vats of £50 notes?
Now, suddenly, they are realising how incredibly stupid they are. As a fellow frugalista said: “ I hear people whining about being poor and in debt while feeling like they’re too good to lower themselves to ‘that level’ of hard-core frugality. Screw that. Party like it’s 1959 – or 1929 if you’re really on a tight budget. Live on a smaller income, think like our grandparents and great-grandparents. I'd rather clip money-off coupons than be an indentured servant to Mastercard for the rest of my life.”
Me too. Frugal and proud – and oh so fashionable! This credit crunch thing isn’t so bad after all.
You’re so stylish, Madonna would kill for just a fraction of your money know-how.
I bet she wishes she had a Home Bargains store close by, stuffed with cut-price toiletries and packs of 18 toilet rolls – yes, I said 18 – for an astonishing £2.99.
Yep, the credit crunch is biting hard. Thanks to the mighty media’s scare stories about rocketing gas and electric bills, plummeting home values and rising fuel and food costs, we’re all cutting back.
Phew! What a relief. I no longer feel guilty for being a frugalista (OK, tight), something I have been all my life.
It all started in 1972 when, clutching my 10p pocket money tightly, I walked to the sweet shop and thought long and hard for half an hour before buying a bag of chocolate tools for 1p each. Mmm... those hammers and spanners tasted good. Whatever happened to chocolate tools?Though just a tubby tot, I knew then that money definitely didn’t grow on trees. I had to make every penny count. When I bought my first house at 21 for £13,000 I felt like I’d borrowed a million. The mortgage seemed huge and it was compared to my measly salary.
My first job paid £40 a week.
Despite the cash shortfall I managed to run a car, though its rickety doors flew open when I rounded a bend, and I never, ever got into debt.
As a student I used thrift shops. I made Amy Whinehouse look like the epitome of chic. As long as I averted my gaze when I passed a mirror, it really didn’t bother me.
As I grew older and started to earn more money, cash pressures eased but that frugal nature never went away.
I’d never go out and blow £300 on a handbag, my mobile phone’s like Del Boy’s brick and I drive a battered Peugeot 106 that rattles when I round a bend. At least the doors don’t fly open!Friends have goaded me over the years, especially a couple who I dub “the princesses”.
One refuses point blank to shop anywhere where they don’t pack your groceries for you. One almost passed out in horror a few years ago when I dragged her into Kwik Save. It was as much as she could do not to vomit.
When we get together they show off their designer buys, Burberry is a favourite make. In fact, I fell off my bar stool when one revealed the purse she’d just bought – for £295.
More money than sense is the phrase that springs to mind as I quickly decide in my head what I would have bought for the same amount of money – a new bathroom suite maybe, or flights for a holiday.
But now, despite their laughter at my expense, their hoots of derision when I confess that my new dress cost a fiver in New Look’s sale, I am in tune with current thinking and they are so 1980s, so bling.
Even the London luvvies are having lessons in how to save cash. I saw one on telly this week being introduced to the delights of Aldi.
Shopping around, she discovered – surprise, surprise – could save hundreds of pounds a year on her groceries. It was a total revelation to her. “Their bacon is incredibly cheap,” she gasped in awe.
It is indeed. Come to Derby, love, and you’ll really bag a bargain. Where have these people been? Bathing in vats of £50 notes?
Now, suddenly, they are realising how incredibly stupid they are. As a fellow frugalista said: “ I hear people whining about being poor and in debt while feeling like they’re too good to lower themselves to ‘that level’ of hard-core frugality. Screw that. Party like it’s 1959 – or 1929 if you’re really on a tight budget. Live on a smaller income, think like our grandparents and great-grandparents. I'd rather clip money-off coupons than be an indentured servant to Mastercard for the rest of my life.”
Me too. Frugal and proud – and oh so fashionable! This credit crunch thing isn’t so bad after all.
Tuesday, 29 April 2008
My Rams fan shame...
The Arsenal game on Monday night was sadly marred by what can only be described as racist chanting. I am usally proud to be a Rams fans. Everyone has commented on our supporters' loyalty in this most dire of seasons.
But the tendency, almost through boredom, to wind up star Premiership players in the opposing team actually works against us in every way. In fact, it fires them up to score hat-tricks. Not so clever, then.
Come on Rams fans. Support your team, don't just get bitter and twisted with our opponents. Roll on next season and some opposition we can actually beat!
But the tendency, almost through boredom, to wind up star Premiership players in the opposing team actually works against us in every way. In fact, it fires them up to score hat-tricks. Not so clever, then.
Come on Rams fans. Support your team, don't just get bitter and twisted with our opponents. Roll on next season and some opposition we can actually beat!
Sir Alan Sugar and Me
SIR Alan Sugar’s down to earth attitude of mind would mean we would get on just fine. I am sure of that.
Nevertheless, in the unlikely event of me ever getting onto BBC’s hit show The Apprentice I would be sacked in the first week.
That’s because I failed to get a degree in back stabbing, a Masters in bitchiness or even an A* GCSE in selfish survival at all costs.
“You’re out of your depth, love,” Alan would say with a sorry glint in his eye. “You show compassion for goodness sake. You need to be a right cow to survive with this lot.”
Apologies for a rare TV addiction but right now The Apprentice is the only programme I make time to watch – along with more than seven million others.
And, though I know I shouldn’t as the language can get pretty ripe, I let my sons watch it, too. It’s an education.
“Watch and learn lads,” I say. “This is how horrible people can be at work sometimes.”
But the most revealing lesson in life that The Apprentice proves with a vengeance is my mediocre theory.
Many moons ago a fellow news reporter and colleague on the smallest daily paper in the country landed himself as a job on The Guardian in London, the sort of rag that would eat itself if it was chocolate.
“Aren’t you intimidated?” I ventured as he prepared for the big move.
“Jill,” he said in his lovely Geordie twang. “If there is one thing I have learned in life, especially at university, is that everyone is mediocre.”
How right he was. It’s just that the mediocre people who shout the loudest often get on. If there is one thing The Apprentice triple underlines it is that even arrogant know-it-alls are pretty useless, it’s just that they never admit it. Either that are they are hopelessly deluded.
We see this with amazing clarity thanks to fly-on-the-wall TV. The cream of Britain’s entrepreneurs and go-getters come together to do a task and a battle of egos emerges.
The project managers are undermined by members of their so-called team, everyone thinks they could do things better and they always make giant errors. Like trying to sell ice cream to shops that make their own, or offering a washing service and getting everyone’s clothes hopelessly mixed.
And when it comes to facing the steely gaze of Sir Alan in the boardroom afterwards, the blame shifting and blatant lying is incredible to behold.
Women, of course, are the worst. Men can stick the knife in but never with the intensity that some members of the fairer sex display. They plunge the knife through the shoulder blades at a rate of knots and give it a few sharp twists for good measure.
Their attacks get personal and their character assassinations ferocious.
They make each other cry for goodness sake, eyes ablaze with bitterness, mouths belting out bitter vitriol.
They stitch each other up, let each other down and are hopelessly indiscreet.
“Listen and learn lads,” I say to my sons. “Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you’re never stuck in a job where you’re just working with women.”
Us girls can’t help stirring it, can we? Men, bless ‘em, just stand on the sidelines, mouths agape, looking confused.
They might give each other a thump of they have a fall out but then it’s all forgotten and they start talking about football. But the conversation will never last too long. Men also know when to button it.
Women, on the other hand, sometimes don’t.
A chum was trying to get away from work on time earlier this week but her female boss demanded a word just as one of her friends passed in the corridor.
Instead of a swift “cheerio, see you tomorrow” a conversation was struck up while my pal stood on the sidelines, blood pressure building as she needed to pick up her son.
Though the first thing the women said to each other was “I only have a minute” more than 20 minutes of tittle tattle followed. They discussed, among other things, the unexpected death of a pet rabbit and its effect on the entire family; what colour pegs they used to hang out the washing (they should be the same, apparently); hair appointments; what they were having for tea and the fact that Delores (name changed, of course) had had a two-and-half hour lunch break with Jack.
My chum, being a little like me, was too polite to interject. Our parents brought us up to have manners, something now sadly lacking in society according to a recent survey.
Manners, kindness and compassion do not seem to get you very far these days.
Nevertheless, I’ll still teach all three traits to my sons – with a little help from Sir Alan.
Hard man he may be, but I detect a touch of compassion – and he still got to the top.
Nevertheless, in the unlikely event of me ever getting onto BBC’s hit show The Apprentice I would be sacked in the first week.
That’s because I failed to get a degree in back stabbing, a Masters in bitchiness or even an A* GCSE in selfish survival at all costs.
“You’re out of your depth, love,” Alan would say with a sorry glint in his eye. “You show compassion for goodness sake. You need to be a right cow to survive with this lot.”
Apologies for a rare TV addiction but right now The Apprentice is the only programme I make time to watch – along with more than seven million others.
And, though I know I shouldn’t as the language can get pretty ripe, I let my sons watch it, too. It’s an education.
“Watch and learn lads,” I say. “This is how horrible people can be at work sometimes.”
But the most revealing lesson in life that The Apprentice proves with a vengeance is my mediocre theory.
Many moons ago a fellow news reporter and colleague on the smallest daily paper in the country landed himself as a job on The Guardian in London, the sort of rag that would eat itself if it was chocolate.
“Aren’t you intimidated?” I ventured as he prepared for the big move.
“Jill,” he said in his lovely Geordie twang. “If there is one thing I have learned in life, especially at university, is that everyone is mediocre.”
How right he was. It’s just that the mediocre people who shout the loudest often get on. If there is one thing The Apprentice triple underlines it is that even arrogant know-it-alls are pretty useless, it’s just that they never admit it. Either that are they are hopelessly deluded.
We see this with amazing clarity thanks to fly-on-the-wall TV. The cream of Britain’s entrepreneurs and go-getters come together to do a task and a battle of egos emerges.
The project managers are undermined by members of their so-called team, everyone thinks they could do things better and they always make giant errors. Like trying to sell ice cream to shops that make their own, or offering a washing service and getting everyone’s clothes hopelessly mixed.
And when it comes to facing the steely gaze of Sir Alan in the boardroom afterwards, the blame shifting and blatant lying is incredible to behold.
Women, of course, are the worst. Men can stick the knife in but never with the intensity that some members of the fairer sex display. They plunge the knife through the shoulder blades at a rate of knots and give it a few sharp twists for good measure.
Their attacks get personal and their character assassinations ferocious.
They make each other cry for goodness sake, eyes ablaze with bitterness, mouths belting out bitter vitriol.
They stitch each other up, let each other down and are hopelessly indiscreet.
“Listen and learn lads,” I say to my sons. “Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you’re never stuck in a job where you’re just working with women.”
Us girls can’t help stirring it, can we? Men, bless ‘em, just stand on the sidelines, mouths agape, looking confused.
They might give each other a thump of they have a fall out but then it’s all forgotten and they start talking about football. But the conversation will never last too long. Men also know when to button it.
Women, on the other hand, sometimes don’t.
A chum was trying to get away from work on time earlier this week but her female boss demanded a word just as one of her friends passed in the corridor.
Instead of a swift “cheerio, see you tomorrow” a conversation was struck up while my pal stood on the sidelines, blood pressure building as she needed to pick up her son.
Though the first thing the women said to each other was “I only have a minute” more than 20 minutes of tittle tattle followed. They discussed, among other things, the unexpected death of a pet rabbit and its effect on the entire family; what colour pegs they used to hang out the washing (they should be the same, apparently); hair appointments; what they were having for tea and the fact that Delores (name changed, of course) had had a two-and-half hour lunch break with Jack.
My chum, being a little like me, was too polite to interject. Our parents brought us up to have manners, something now sadly lacking in society according to a recent survey.
Manners, kindness and compassion do not seem to get you very far these days.
Nevertheless, I’ll still teach all three traits to my sons – with a little help from Sir Alan.
Hard man he may be, but I detect a touch of compassion – and he still got to the top.
I'm an internet dunce
I’VE just discovered – not that it should be any surprise – that I am an online dunce with an internet age of seven.
This shocking revelation was made to me after I tackled a questionnaire on website www.myinternetage.com.
Launched by communications company Orange, it gauges your internet experience to work out your ‘internet age’ and was built to quantify different generational attitudes to the internet.
The site is on track to become one of the UK’s largest ever studies into internet use. I followed in the hallowed web-steps of 16,000 people, including Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry, who, no doubt, scored a little better than me.
The website told me in a gentle teacher-to-child way, that “I’m doing well but I have a lot to learn”.
My problem soon became apparent. I don’t download or upload, use instant messenger, talk to anonymous online punters, parade my private pictures across Facebook or make funky video clips for You Tube. In fact, I am so out of touch the computer survey could only assume I was a child.
Bit patronising really. Most seven year olds are more computer literate than their parents. For example, my high-tech, switched on, internet-savvy kids (aged nine and 12 but with a joint internet age of 182) wanted a Facebook page. I said no but (and this is probably illegal) said they could create a site for me. It kept them quiet for all of five minutes.
Consequently a web page exists in my name plastered with rotating Burton Albion and Derby County logos. It also states that my favourite TV programmes are The Simpsons and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the person I would most like to meet is Robbie Savage “because he’s a real character”. So far, the sophisticated online community – with respectable online ages – have not cottoned on to the fact that an ancient mother-of-two is living in a 12-year-old’s world.
And that says it all for me. The internet is a make believe wonderland, where people sit for countless hours escaping from reality when they should be doing the garden, housework, essential DIY or at least cooking the tea.
Me? I’m too busy doing the washing to bother with it all. Just coping with oodles of e-mails and text messages is enough for me.
This morning I had 600 spam e-mails in my work inbox. The vast majority were utter junk but, irritatingly, I had to flick through the lot as genuine stuff gets trapped amid the rubbish.
To my tender, seven-year-old- internet-age sensibilities, the online world seems to be obsessed with replica watches, cheap viagra and men’s privates.
Tempting subject lines among this hefty batch of spam included: Playboy bunnies in beach photo shoot; No woman can resist you; Express your masculinity better!; Nominated for an MBA; Safe natural way to size up; Very CheapPrice Bacheelor, MasteerMBA, and Doctoraate dip1omas eklyvjxa yq33rp3 (that’s how it read, by the way) and Be as attractive as 007.
All laudible pursuits, no doubt. I’d love to look like Daniel Craig but I am not sure his macho muscles would look so good on me. These spam machines really should learn to differentiate between the sexes!
Anyway, those waste-of-space e-mails have been sent to the great recycling bin in the sky – but still used up valuable minutes of my day. They underlined to me yet again what a complete waste of time the web world can sometimes be.
Yes, it’s great for shopping, football news and booking holidays but, beyond that, I can’t help feeling it’s seducing a generation of people into being obsessed with the virtual world rather than the real one.
For example, a chum practically married to his PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) spent his entire weekend downloading a whole series of the Sopranos. He hasn’t actually watched any of it yet. When time allows, he can enjoy countless hours of fun glued to a screen as big as the palm of his hand. Whatever lights your fire...
Personally, I haven’t got the time to download that lot, let alone watch it. Perhaps I’m spending my time stupidly doing mundane stuff like washing the car, shopping for food and scrubbing the bog. I’m going to be left behind, a technological dinosaur, unable – or unwilling – to embrace the digital age with the passion it demands.
The trouble is I have hit 42 – the official age when your brain gives up the ghost when it comes to learning anything new, or so the experts say. I’m sure anyone reading this who is beyond that age will beg to differ.
I certainly do. What age has taught me, however, is that life is too short to spend countless hours glued to a computer screen.
If that means I’ve got an internet age of seven, so be it. I’m rather proud of the fact. Because at last it means I’ve got a life.
This shocking revelation was made to me after I tackled a questionnaire on website www.myinternetage.com.
Launched by communications company Orange, it gauges your internet experience to work out your ‘internet age’ and was built to quantify different generational attitudes to the internet.
The site is on track to become one of the UK’s largest ever studies into internet use. I followed in the hallowed web-steps of 16,000 people, including Jonathan Ross and Stephen Fry, who, no doubt, scored a little better than me.
The website told me in a gentle teacher-to-child way, that “I’m doing well but I have a lot to learn”.
My problem soon became apparent. I don’t download or upload, use instant messenger, talk to anonymous online punters, parade my private pictures across Facebook or make funky video clips for You Tube. In fact, I am so out of touch the computer survey could only assume I was a child.
Bit patronising really. Most seven year olds are more computer literate than their parents. For example, my high-tech, switched on, internet-savvy kids (aged nine and 12 but with a joint internet age of 182) wanted a Facebook page. I said no but (and this is probably illegal) said they could create a site for me. It kept them quiet for all of five minutes.
Consequently a web page exists in my name plastered with rotating Burton Albion and Derby County logos. It also states that my favourite TV programmes are The Simpsons and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the person I would most like to meet is Robbie Savage “because he’s a real character”. So far, the sophisticated online community – with respectable online ages – have not cottoned on to the fact that an ancient mother-of-two is living in a 12-year-old’s world.
And that says it all for me. The internet is a make believe wonderland, where people sit for countless hours escaping from reality when they should be doing the garden, housework, essential DIY or at least cooking the tea.
Me? I’m too busy doing the washing to bother with it all. Just coping with oodles of e-mails and text messages is enough for me.
This morning I had 600 spam e-mails in my work inbox. The vast majority were utter junk but, irritatingly, I had to flick through the lot as genuine stuff gets trapped amid the rubbish.
To my tender, seven-year-old- internet-age sensibilities, the online world seems to be obsessed with replica watches, cheap viagra and men’s privates.
Tempting subject lines among this hefty batch of spam included: Playboy bunnies in beach photo shoot; No woman can resist you; Express your masculinity better!; Nominated for an MBA; Safe natural way to size up; Very CheapPrice Bacheelor, MasteerMBA, and Doctoraate dip1omas eklyvjxa yq33rp3 (that’s how it read, by the way) and Be as attractive as 007.
All laudible pursuits, no doubt. I’d love to look like Daniel Craig but I am not sure his macho muscles would look so good on me. These spam machines really should learn to differentiate between the sexes!
Anyway, those waste-of-space e-mails have been sent to the great recycling bin in the sky – but still used up valuable minutes of my day. They underlined to me yet again what a complete waste of time the web world can sometimes be.
Yes, it’s great for shopping, football news and booking holidays but, beyond that, I can’t help feeling it’s seducing a generation of people into being obsessed with the virtual world rather than the real one.
For example, a chum practically married to his PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) spent his entire weekend downloading a whole series of the Sopranos. He hasn’t actually watched any of it yet. When time allows, he can enjoy countless hours of fun glued to a screen as big as the palm of his hand. Whatever lights your fire...
Personally, I haven’t got the time to download that lot, let alone watch it. Perhaps I’m spending my time stupidly doing mundane stuff like washing the car, shopping for food and scrubbing the bog. I’m going to be left behind, a technological dinosaur, unable – or unwilling – to embrace the digital age with the passion it demands.
The trouble is I have hit 42 – the official age when your brain gives up the ghost when it comes to learning anything new, or so the experts say. I’m sure anyone reading this who is beyond that age will beg to differ.
I certainly do. What age has taught me, however, is that life is too short to spend countless hours glued to a computer screen.
If that means I’ve got an internet age of seven, so be it. I’m rather proud of the fact. Because at last it means I’ve got a life.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Rams fan signs up for another season
"Hey! You've got a text message!"
My trendy (!!) phone alerted me to an incoming text and this one was from none other than Rams player Alan Stubbs. Yes, really.
Unfortunately my monentary hope that he'd spotted me inthe South Stand and just wanted to know me a little bit better, was soon quashed. I swiftly realised that I was just one of around, perhaps, 20,000 people who got the same message urging them to go online to see a special video Stubbsy had made for us.
In it, the poor bloke, clearly embarrassed in front of camera, urges Rams season ticket holders to cough up the sheckles for another season - "I've committed myself to the Rams for another season, I hope you will, too."
Well, of course I will Alan! In fact, unbeknown to you, I'd signed up for the new season that very day. Always intended to. Only the fact that I don't earn Prem wages made me drag my feet.
But I had to smile as I watched Stubbsy's semi-tortured performance in front of a video camera. Good on the Rams for getting so high-tech with their promotions but why, oh why have we all got to become video stars? You Tube has got a lot to answer for.
I've even been urged to put mini video clips of myself on this blog. "What do you want me to show 'em?" I ask."Me pegging out the washing or scrubbing the bogs?"
Any ideas warmly welcomed...
My trendy (!!) phone alerted me to an incoming text and this one was from none other than Rams player Alan Stubbs. Yes, really.
Unfortunately my monentary hope that he'd spotted me inthe South Stand and just wanted to know me a little bit better, was soon quashed. I swiftly realised that I was just one of around, perhaps, 20,000 people who got the same message urging them to go online to see a special video Stubbsy had made for us.
In it, the poor bloke, clearly embarrassed in front of camera, urges Rams season ticket holders to cough up the sheckles for another season - "I've committed myself to the Rams for another season, I hope you will, too."
Well, of course I will Alan! In fact, unbeknown to you, I'd signed up for the new season that very day. Always intended to. Only the fact that I don't earn Prem wages made me drag my feet.
But I had to smile as I watched Stubbsy's semi-tortured performance in front of a video camera. Good on the Rams for getting so high-tech with their promotions but why, oh why have we all got to become video stars? You Tube has got a lot to answer for.
I've even been urged to put mini video clips of myself on this blog. "What do you want me to show 'em?" I ask."Me pegging out the washing or scrubbing the bogs?"
Any ideas warmly welcomed...
Parks rule OK
MOVING house to live near a park has changed my children’s lives beyond belief – for the better.
So I was perplexed to see that Derby City Council is contemplating closing 10 play areas to save money.
Being close to a park was a key reason why I chose my new house.
After years of living in a quiet but dull road with nowhere to play (we had a field behind us but the owner put up barbed wire and sent residents a stiff letter informing them that they we could not use it), I was chuffed to spot a small but well maintained park opposite the house I liked.
It was so close I knew that I would finally be able to give my sons a taste of the freedom I enjoyed as a youngster.
Nevertheless, I could never have anticipate the total transformation of their childhoods which the park has brought about. From day one, the local lads included my sons in their daily football matches. Two or three times a day a youngster arrives at our house on his bike, a ball stuck up his jumper, and asks: “Are you coming to the park?”
It’s a jumpers-for-goalposts mentality which I thought had vanished forever. On long summer evenings the matches last for hours. And it’s safe, too. A glance out the window assures me that they are fine.
That small neighbourhood park has improved all of our lives tenfold.
House builders should be forced to incorporate them into every major development instead of squeezing houses with practically no gardens into every square inch of space.
And they moan that children don’t exercise enough.
Lose parks? We should be making more of them.
So I was perplexed to see that Derby City Council is contemplating closing 10 play areas to save money.
Being close to a park was a key reason why I chose my new house.
After years of living in a quiet but dull road with nowhere to play (we had a field behind us but the owner put up barbed wire and sent residents a stiff letter informing them that they we could not use it), I was chuffed to spot a small but well maintained park opposite the house I liked.
It was so close I knew that I would finally be able to give my sons a taste of the freedom I enjoyed as a youngster.
Nevertheless, I could never have anticipate the total transformation of their childhoods which the park has brought about. From day one, the local lads included my sons in their daily football matches. Two or three times a day a youngster arrives at our house on his bike, a ball stuck up his jumper, and asks: “Are you coming to the park?”
It’s a jumpers-for-goalposts mentality which I thought had vanished forever. On long summer evenings the matches last for hours. And it’s safe, too. A glance out the window assures me that they are fine.
That small neighbourhood park has improved all of our lives tenfold.
House builders should be forced to incorporate them into every major development instead of squeezing houses with practically no gardens into every square inch of space.
And they moan that children don’t exercise enough.
Lose parks? We should be making more of them.
The oldest friends are the best
Like two cackling old dears, we put the world to rights over the cheapest pub round known to man – 65p!
“They only charged me for the crisps,” laughed my all-time best mate. “They didn’t charge for the water! That’s the cheapest round ever.”
Exactly the same cheeky grin I remembered from school lit up her face. We both giggled like schoolgirls.
Deep down, we still are.
We hadn’t laid eyes on each other for two years but that doesn’t matter a jot to hardcore old mates.
You can tell new friends about the past but they did not live it with you. They can never truly understand.
They didn’t see how ridiculous you looked in your denim jacket with Status Quo daubed on the back in felt tip (that was me) or the stripy bubble bee jumper with giant punk rocker holes (that was her).
They never saw the boys you fancied – Elsie, Bunny, Nobbie, Crispie – or knew their daft nicknames.
They never went to Rolleston Youth Club and sat in the punk room trying to look pale and interesting while appearing to enjoy screechingly bad music on vinyl. And they quite possibly never went to the Saturday Night Fever dance lessons. (At least, our musical tastes were varied!)
Our friendship blossomed at 13. We hit it off playing football hangman during rainy school lunch-breaks. She supported Man U (glory fan!), I backed my home team, Derby County.
Chalk and cheese, the phrase must have been written for us. She’s into astrophysics, I’d struggle to describe astroturf. She’s vegan, I eat rump steak.
She’s never married or had children, I’ve done both.
But our differences are the making of us. And our values are the same. That compatibility, common ground, good humour and understanding of the world that linked us as teenagers has never dimmed – nor has our sense of fun.
She was a swine when it came to hangman. At that time, my knowledge of footie was on a par with any football pundit’s but she scoured the globe to come up with obscure foreign players – Outa Mongolia’s centre forward, that sort of thing.
At 40-odd, despite some time apart (too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in our chaotic lives), we met again and proved the irrefutable truth. Women are brilliant at friendship.
The years can roll by, the ups and some terrible downs can roll by, the faces can become etched with lines and the odd grey hair rear its silvery head.
But meet up with an old friend and it’s as if the decades fall away, taking you right back to the person you were all those years ago – the happy-go-lucky kid full of hopes for the future, ambitions and dreams.
The child in yourself never truly goes away.
When I was 17 a woman of around 50 (she was probably only 35 but looked ancient at the time) told me that she remembered exactly how it felt to be as young as me.
“I feel 17 inside,” she said. “You feel exactly the same you know, love.”
Now the years have piled on, I understand completely. I still feel as daft as I did at 14, as does my buddy.
Back together again, we howled with laughter for four hours solid. And neither of us needed alcohol to fuel the fun.
The best things in life are free – or, if you’re lucky, only cost 65p.
“They only charged me for the crisps,” laughed my all-time best mate. “They didn’t charge for the water! That’s the cheapest round ever.”
Exactly the same cheeky grin I remembered from school lit up her face. We both giggled like schoolgirls.
Deep down, we still are.
We hadn’t laid eyes on each other for two years but that doesn’t matter a jot to hardcore old mates.
You can tell new friends about the past but they did not live it with you. They can never truly understand.
They didn’t see how ridiculous you looked in your denim jacket with Status Quo daubed on the back in felt tip (that was me) or the stripy bubble bee jumper with giant punk rocker holes (that was her).
They never saw the boys you fancied – Elsie, Bunny, Nobbie, Crispie – or knew their daft nicknames.
They never went to Rolleston Youth Club and sat in the punk room trying to look pale and interesting while appearing to enjoy screechingly bad music on vinyl. And they quite possibly never went to the Saturday Night Fever dance lessons. (At least, our musical tastes were varied!)
Our friendship blossomed at 13. We hit it off playing football hangman during rainy school lunch-breaks. She supported Man U (glory fan!), I backed my home team, Derby County.
Chalk and cheese, the phrase must have been written for us. She’s into astrophysics, I’d struggle to describe astroturf. She’s vegan, I eat rump steak.
She’s never married or had children, I’ve done both.
But our differences are the making of us. And our values are the same. That compatibility, common ground, good humour and understanding of the world that linked us as teenagers has never dimmed – nor has our sense of fun.
She was a swine when it came to hangman. At that time, my knowledge of footie was on a par with any football pundit’s but she scoured the globe to come up with obscure foreign players – Outa Mongolia’s centre forward, that sort of thing.
At 40-odd, despite some time apart (too busy, too tired, too wrapped up in our chaotic lives), we met again and proved the irrefutable truth. Women are brilliant at friendship.
The years can roll by, the ups and some terrible downs can roll by, the faces can become etched with lines and the odd grey hair rear its silvery head.
But meet up with an old friend and it’s as if the decades fall away, taking you right back to the person you were all those years ago – the happy-go-lucky kid full of hopes for the future, ambitions and dreams.
The child in yourself never truly goes away.
When I was 17 a woman of around 50 (she was probably only 35 but looked ancient at the time) told me that she remembered exactly how it felt to be as young as me.
“I feel 17 inside,” she said. “You feel exactly the same you know, love.”
Now the years have piled on, I understand completely. I still feel as daft as I did at 14, as does my buddy.
Back together again, we howled with laughter for four hours solid. And neither of us needed alcohol to fuel the fun.
The best things in life are free – or, if you’re lucky, only cost 65p.
Friday, 7 March 2008
Oh for a drive in Robbie Savage's Merc
Robbie Savage, bless his cotton (Armani) socks. The Rams star may not have quite found his form on the pitch but when it comes to grabbing headlines you just can’t keep this boy down.
Quite why Beckham’s made more of a global impact than our Robbie with his lovely, blond flowing locks, gawd only knows.
I mean, whatever you may think – and everyone’s got an opinion on Robbie – he’s just brilliant.
First, after taking stick from national press nasties just for having a posh new car when Derby are in the doldrums (the rest of the lads in the Prem are driving Ladas, of course), he comes up with the brainwave of turning his new Merc – reputedly worth anything between £95,000 and £160,000 – into a free matchday taxi.
The golden boy pulled up his “flash” motor alongside two fans waiting at a bus stop on the A52 last Saturday and offered them a lift to the ground.
The lucky blighters were then whisked to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, in the very car which allegedly riled fellow players when he turned up to training in it.
Mmmm, I can understand why they were might have been upset. I’ve noticed their battered, ageing motors parked outside the ground on match days next to all those Aston Martins, Hummers, Mercs and Bentleys. They must belong to the cleaning staff, I guess.
When Derby are doing badly all the players should, it seems, be driving eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel hatchbacks (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the nationals, who just love to put the boot into our team (I stopped reading snide, London-based rags ages ago), I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity in my lucky Rams knickers.
However, I have to admit that, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy a Ferrari.
Anyway, as if our Sav had not dished out enough good turns, he has now given a huge lump sum to the Wish Upon A Star charity. It is, we are told, a gift to say sorry to Rams fans for not playing particularly well since his arrival at the club in January. The four-figure donation was so generous, news got out.
As a season ticket holder at Pride Park, I thank him very much. My 11-year-old son, also a season ticket holder, pondered this generous gift for a moment and then said: “If he wants to say sorry to the fans, shouldn’t he be giving all season ticket holders a tenner each?”
He was only joshing Sav. He thinks you’re great. As far as we are concerned, you could not have donated to a better cause.
In this season of doom and gloom, Robbie brings a smile to my face. Larger than life, bold as brass, he is a true character in every sense. And, as far as I am concerned, you can’t have enough of that in today’s bland society. That’s a key reason why Rams gaffer Paul Jewell wanted him.
Chatty, wacky Sav is a man who can lift spirits – and frighten opposition. When Jewell signed him he said: “You don’t want to play against him but it’s great when he’s on your side.”
Everyone, it seems, has a Sav tale to tell. Shy is not a word you associate with him. When Googling images to print off a picture of him for my sons, my eye was drawn to a shot of him wearing only white underpants – on a football pitch! Or did I imagine it?
And Sav’s house has been on TV’s Footballers’ Cribs, which explores the pads of the rich and famous. A vision in white, I understand.
But away from the glitz and glam of being a Prem player, a person who cares deeply about others is emerging. Sav is also honest and sensitive.
“I am not making excuses, I have been poor,” he told our sports team. “When I’m finished I don’t want people to say ‘Robbie Savage at Derby was rubbish, he was slow, he had gone’. I am proud to play for Derby County and all this makes me more determined to lead this club to promotion.”
God bless you Sav. I’ll be cheering you all the way. In the meantime, I hope to be the next person to be on the receiving end of some Sav generosity
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!”
I’d just love a spin in that Merc - preferably behind the wheel!
Quite why Beckham’s made more of a global impact than our Robbie with his lovely, blond flowing locks, gawd only knows.
I mean, whatever you may think – and everyone’s got an opinion on Robbie – he’s just brilliant.
First, after taking stick from national press nasties just for having a posh new car when Derby are in the doldrums (the rest of the lads in the Prem are driving Ladas, of course), he comes up with the brainwave of turning his new Merc – reputedly worth anything between £95,000 and £160,000 – into a free matchday taxi.
The golden boy pulled up his “flash” motor alongside two fans waiting at a bus stop on the A52 last Saturday and offered them a lift to the ground.
The lucky blighters were then whisked to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, in the very car which allegedly riled fellow players when he turned up to training in it.
Mmmm, I can understand why they were might have been upset. I’ve noticed their battered, ageing motors parked outside the ground on match days next to all those Aston Martins, Hummers, Mercs and Bentleys. They must belong to the cleaning staff, I guess.
When Derby are doing badly all the players should, it seems, be driving eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel hatchbacks (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the nationals, who just love to put the boot into our team (I stopped reading snide, London-based rags ages ago), I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity in my lucky Rams knickers.
However, I have to admit that, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy a Ferrari.
Anyway, as if our Sav had not dished out enough good turns, he has now given a huge lump sum to the Wish Upon A Star charity. It is, we are told, a gift to say sorry to Rams fans for not playing particularly well since his arrival at the club in January. The four-figure donation was so generous, news got out.
As a season ticket holder at Pride Park, I thank him very much. My 11-year-old son, also a season ticket holder, pondered this generous gift for a moment and then said: “If he wants to say sorry to the fans, shouldn’t he be giving all season ticket holders a tenner each?”
He was only joshing Sav. He thinks you’re great. As far as we are concerned, you could not have donated to a better cause.
In this season of doom and gloom, Robbie brings a smile to my face. Larger than life, bold as brass, he is a true character in every sense. And, as far as I am concerned, you can’t have enough of that in today’s bland society. That’s a key reason why Rams gaffer Paul Jewell wanted him.
Chatty, wacky Sav is a man who can lift spirits – and frighten opposition. When Jewell signed him he said: “You don’t want to play against him but it’s great when he’s on your side.”
Everyone, it seems, has a Sav tale to tell. Shy is not a word you associate with him. When Googling images to print off a picture of him for my sons, my eye was drawn to a shot of him wearing only white underpants – on a football pitch! Or did I imagine it?
And Sav’s house has been on TV’s Footballers’ Cribs, which explores the pads of the rich and famous. A vision in white, I understand.
But away from the glitz and glam of being a Prem player, a person who cares deeply about others is emerging. Sav is also honest and sensitive.
“I am not making excuses, I have been poor,” he told our sports team. “When I’m finished I don’t want people to say ‘Robbie Savage at Derby was rubbish, he was slow, he had gone’. I am proud to play for Derby County and all this makes me more determined to lead this club to promotion.”
God bless you Sav. I’ll be cheering you all the way. In the meantime, I hope to be the next person to be on the receiving end of some Sav generosity
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!”
I’d just love a spin in that Merc - preferably behind the wheel!
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Waiting at the bus stop for Robbie Savage
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!”
Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday.
The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car.
When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot.
If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity.
As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.
Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday.
The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car.
When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse.
I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot.
If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity.
As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.
Beauty secrets of an ageing siren
It was one of those stomach-churning moments, the like of which I hadn’t had since 1979 when a teacher asked an atrociously difficult question, cast her evil eye around the room and said:“Jill, what’s the answer?”This time the question came from a bubbly woman from Decleor, the ultra posh skincare company.“What do you use on your skin?” she asked an assembled group of women.“Clarins,” chirped one. “I love their Flash Balm.”“Elemis,” said another. “I love the smell.”“Clinique,” volunteered the third. “My mum loves it too.”“Emu oil,” I offered, with an embarrassed but truthful shrug.There was a momentary stunned silence. Did I imagine the disdainful stares? Were women half my age with skin so perfect a quick rub with a dishcloth was all they needed to achieve a healthy glow, assessing my mental state?I started babbling: “The thing is, I did this story on this Derbyshire woman who sells emu oil products. I tried her moisturiser (www.naturesnaturalbeauty.com) and it was really good. They melt the fat of the emus you see. It’s got medicinal properties. The Aborigines swear by it.”I’m not sure when everyone’s eyes started to glaze over but the Decleor lady moved swiftly on, and I am sure she was thinking: ‘Is she totally mad?’ Not mad, just open to ideas. And emu oil is good. As well as the moisturiser, I have a little pot of pure emu oil which eases my son’s eczema.When I’m 90 and some fresh-faced kid asks me the secret of my baby-soft skin I’ll tell her: “Emu oil, a nightly tot of rum and yelling my head off in the south stand at Derby County.”From this you may decipher that I do not take my skincare routine terribly seriously. I confess, I am a little dubious about age-defying products.Let’s face it, if the ravages of time have taken their toll it takes more than a good moisturiser to restore your zing. I’m thinking more along the lines of Sharon Osborne-style plastic surgery myself.When feeling ultra craggy, I head to the caring hands of Susy Jacob at Advanced Laser Care in Duffield. She is just brilliant. I am not revealing my beauty secrets, but suffice to say, after a visit to Susy, I no longer feel that I could be mistaken for Ozzie Osborne’s great grandmother.According to Susy, sun damage is the worst thing she comes across and it costs nothing to stop baking yourself in the Med every summer.So that’s it in a nutshell. My beauty secrets revealed. That and splashing my face with cold water every morning, as taught to me by my mother and her mother before her.I still wake up looking like Ozzie Osborne most mornings but a couple of hours at my dressing table can soon put that right. When 20-something myself I remember regaling people with the story about an ageing aunty who got up an hour before everyone else on a family holiday so that no-one would ever see her without make-up. I am now that aunty. I would rather streak through Derby’s streets than go out without full slap – because I’m worth it.
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!” Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday. The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car. When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse. I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity. As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.
But, the older you get, the harder it gets to stop the rot, prevent the creaking boat from sinking. As a 20-something, I recall telling people how my aunty had to get up an hour before everyone else on holiday to avoid being seen without make-up. I am now that aunty. I would rather streak naked through the streets of Derby than be seen without full slap.
For the last four days I’ve spent every spare moment standing at a bus stop on the A52, wearing my Derby County scarf and shirt and a sign on my back saying “Gissus a lift Sav!” Sadly, however, I still haven’t drawn the attention of Rams player Robbie Savage, who stopped to pick up a couple of Derby fans in his brand spanking new flash Merc last Saturday. The lucky blighters were driven to Pride Park Stadium by the man of the moment, who received some stick in the nationals the week before for turning up to training sessions in a flash car. When Derby are in the doldrums they should, apparently, be driving an eight-year-old Peugeot 106 diesel (with dents) and taking part in ritual self-flagellation sessions en masse. I can help Robbie there, not with the self-flagellation but with the Peugeot. If he wants to further turn the tables on the national press, who love to put the boot into our team, I am quite happy to swap my 106 with his Merc for a whole day – a week if he prefers – and pose for a photo opportunity. As for me, if I was a Prem player earning loadsa money, I’d never splash out on a Merc, particularly if the team were doing badly. I’d buy an Aston Martin.
But, the older you get, the harder it gets to stop the rot, prevent the creaking boat from sinking. As a 20-something, I recall telling people how my aunty had to get up an hour before everyone else on holiday to avoid being seen without make-up. I am now that aunty. I would rather streak naked through the streets of Derby than be seen without full slap.
Friday, 29 February 2008
The Mother's Day Reality
My Mother's Day last year ...
7am: "Can I have breakfast mum?"
7.10am: "MUM. Can I have breakfast?"
7.15am: Drag myself out of bed looking like wild wonga woman. Black mascara smudged under eye. Hair like a scarecrow.
7.20am: Make bacon butties for sons. Attack the mighty pile of washing. Start cleaning.
10.15am: Stop cleaning to take son number two to football training and son number one to football match. Both at opposite ends of town. Car is making funny noises again.
12-ish: Gather boys back from footie and stare in horror at two pairs of football boots caked with enough mud to keep a Turkish spa going for a year... not to mention the bedragled kits. More washing.
Just past 12-ish: Make lunch before attacking mud on boots.
12.45pm: Still cleaning boots...
1pm: Quick cuppa before the ironing, washing sorting. Endless trips with assorted soaks, trousers, boxer shorts and footies shirts to different rooms in house. Put away my one item in the washing, a single pair of knickers.
3pm: Still sorting washing and ironing...
4pm: Start making dinner and shout "have you got any homework lads?"
4.15pm: Start homework. Battle through French verbs and help son number two write a speech about his favourite hobby, football.
5pm: Start to feel ridiculously tired. Sort schoolbags and uniforms for the next day.
6pm: Finally sit down on sofa for a bit but notice everywhere needs dusting. Get cloth...
7pm: Friend (minus children) rings to tell me she's spent the day in Brum buying loadsa clobber. I stifle a yawn.
8pm: Bedtime for boys - and me. I can't wait!
8.30pm: Cuddle both my boys and chat for ever about nothing in patrticular. Love this time. Love them.
9pm: Nod off thinking that Mother's Day... is just another day.
But I wouldn't swap my kids for the world.
7am: "Can I have breakfast mum?"
7.10am: "MUM. Can I have breakfast?"
7.15am: Drag myself out of bed looking like wild wonga woman. Black mascara smudged under eye. Hair like a scarecrow.
7.20am: Make bacon butties for sons. Attack the mighty pile of washing. Start cleaning.
10.15am: Stop cleaning to take son number two to football training and son number one to football match. Both at opposite ends of town. Car is making funny noises again.
12-ish: Gather boys back from footie and stare in horror at two pairs of football boots caked with enough mud to keep a Turkish spa going for a year... not to mention the bedragled kits. More washing.
Just past 12-ish: Make lunch before attacking mud on boots.
12.45pm: Still cleaning boots...
1pm: Quick cuppa before the ironing, washing sorting. Endless trips with assorted soaks, trousers, boxer shorts and footies shirts to different rooms in house. Put away my one item in the washing, a single pair of knickers.
3pm: Still sorting washing and ironing...
4pm: Start making dinner and shout "have you got any homework lads?"
4.15pm: Start homework. Battle through French verbs and help son number two write a speech about his favourite hobby, football.
5pm: Start to feel ridiculously tired. Sort schoolbags and uniforms for the next day.
6pm: Finally sit down on sofa for a bit but notice everywhere needs dusting. Get cloth...
7pm: Friend (minus children) rings to tell me she's spent the day in Brum buying loadsa clobber. I stifle a yawn.
8pm: Bedtime for boys - and me. I can't wait!
8.30pm: Cuddle both my boys and chat for ever about nothing in patrticular. Love this time. Love them.
9pm: Nod off thinking that Mother's Day... is just another day.
But I wouldn't swap my kids for the world.
The Mother's Day Dream
Ask any mother what they would most like for Mother’s Day and, chances are, they will say “time”.
Just a guilt-free hour to flick through a magazine, go shopping on their own or have someone else prepare a meal for them – and do the clearing up – would be nice.
But, in reality, if they are at home, me-time is about as likely as finding David Beckham in their lounge, in a pinny, doing the hovering.
No, to give your mum a real treat you have to take her away, get out of town and lavish her in the kind of pampering and luxury celebrities take for granted but the average British mother enjoys once in a blue moon.
Take her to The Chesterfield Hotel in Mayfair, London.
Just one night will do - one night of sheer, five-star bliss.
How do I know? Because I am a mum and I have just spent 24 hours in this achingly atmospheric, elegant, luxury hotel where nothing is too much trouble.
I am getting a princess-and-the-pea reputation for being fussy, liking the good things in life. I confess, with age, that has occurred.
In younger days, I roughed it in Munich station, spent a night in a Rome ‘hotel’ with stomach-churning stains on the sheets and endured a Blackpool B&B room which had ashtrays full of fag ends dotted around it – when I was shown into it!
Never, ever again. Free time is precious and where I spend it has become incredibly important. That’s why I picked The Chesterfield. It’s one of a group of Red Carnation Hotels, all renowned for their excellence.
Tripadvisor rates it as the ninth best hotel in the world and the fourth best hotel in Europe.
So, what’s it like? Well, imagine rich antiques, glistening chandeliers, polished wood, marble floors, extravagant drapes, a subtly-lit bar with cosy booths and a pianist playing gentle, mood-enhancing music.
Imagine staff who can’t do enough for you, smile rather than grimace, actually enjoy the art of serving people well.
Imagine a unique room (all are different to match the
traveller) with sumptuous furnishings – all rooms have been refurbished - superb bathroom and every conceivable extra from luxury Elemis toiletries to flat-screen TV and tea and coffee-making facilities.
A hotel room should be so good you don’t want to leave it. Instead, run a warm bath, pop on the thick bathrobe and slippers (complimentary of course), choose a couple of the free magazines laid out neatly on the polished desk, Red and Woman and Home should do it, and smile broadly.
No housework, no mouths to feed, just you and sheer luxury.
When thoroughly chilled out, take a stroll around the hotel, where Sven Goran Erikksen stayed just a few days before me.
I can imagine it appealing to the quiet Swede. Like many of the best hotels in London, The Chesterfield was formerly a wealthy gentleman’s residence and has the feel of a private, exclusive, and typically English, club.
And you don’t even have to stay there to enjoy it. Its restaurant, famed for its Dover sole, is open to anyone and lunch is reasonably priced at around £20-£25 per head. Alternatively, feel like the Queen and enjoy high tea. I can certainly vouch for its pastry chef, who makes the sweet treats served. He made the most amazing birthday cake for my travelling companion. It arrived with a bottle of Champage on ice and was so gorgeous I stared at it with my mouth gaping open for 10 minutes.
It also demonstrated just how good the service at The Chesterfield is. You see, I hadn’t told them about the birthday. However, the previous year I stayed at another Red Carnation Hotel at the same time to celebrate the very same birthday. They remembered! We were both knocked out by the faultless attention to detail.
Now you can probably understand why, for 24 hours, I never wanted to leave it. I soaked up every second there.
Wrapped in fluffy robe, I did nothing more strenuous than paint my nails and order room service.
Yes, London has a multitude of entertainment on offer but for worn-out mothers it’s good, just now and then, to do absolutely nothing. The ultimate treat? You bet.
Getting there: We travelled by car and parked at an NCP car park five minutes away from the hotel but train fares to London are great value from Derby if booked in advance.
Where to stay: The Chesterfield is exceptional but the Red Carnation group also has other top-notch hotels in the Capital, such as The Milestone and The Egerton.
How much: The Chesterfield has some great weekend deals including its value Mayfair weekend package, from £310 for two. For that you and a companion enjoy a two-night stay, full English breakfast, a complimentary bottle of Champagne, high tea and a 6pm check-out. Pet lovers may also be interested to know that The Chesterfield welcomes dogs.
To find out more, visit www.chesterfieldmayfair.com or www.redcarnationhotels.com.
__________________________________________________________
Just a guilt-free hour to flick through a magazine, go shopping on their own or have someone else prepare a meal for them – and do the clearing up – would be nice.
But, in reality, if they are at home, me-time is about as likely as finding David Beckham in their lounge, in a pinny, doing the hovering.
No, to give your mum a real treat you have to take her away, get out of town and lavish her in the kind of pampering and luxury celebrities take for granted but the average British mother enjoys once in a blue moon.
Take her to The Chesterfield Hotel in Mayfair, London.
Just one night will do - one night of sheer, five-star bliss.
How do I know? Because I am a mum and I have just spent 24 hours in this achingly atmospheric, elegant, luxury hotel where nothing is too much trouble.
I am getting a princess-and-the-pea reputation for being fussy, liking the good things in life. I confess, with age, that has occurred.
In younger days, I roughed it in Munich station, spent a night in a Rome ‘hotel’ with stomach-churning stains on the sheets and endured a Blackpool B&B room which had ashtrays full of fag ends dotted around it – when I was shown into it!
Never, ever again. Free time is precious and where I spend it has become incredibly important. That’s why I picked The Chesterfield. It’s one of a group of Red Carnation Hotels, all renowned for their excellence.
Tripadvisor rates it as the ninth best hotel in the world and the fourth best hotel in Europe.
So, what’s it like? Well, imagine rich antiques, glistening chandeliers, polished wood, marble floors, extravagant drapes, a subtly-lit bar with cosy booths and a pianist playing gentle, mood-enhancing music.
Imagine staff who can’t do enough for you, smile rather than grimace, actually enjoy the art of serving people well.
Imagine a unique room (all are different to match the
traveller) with sumptuous furnishings – all rooms have been refurbished - superb bathroom and every conceivable extra from luxury Elemis toiletries to flat-screen TV and tea and coffee-making facilities.
A hotel room should be so good you don’t want to leave it. Instead, run a warm bath, pop on the thick bathrobe and slippers (complimentary of course), choose a couple of the free magazines laid out neatly on the polished desk, Red and Woman and Home should do it, and smile broadly.
No housework, no mouths to feed, just you and sheer luxury.
When thoroughly chilled out, take a stroll around the hotel, where Sven Goran Erikksen stayed just a few days before me.
I can imagine it appealing to the quiet Swede. Like many of the best hotels in London, The Chesterfield was formerly a wealthy gentleman’s residence and has the feel of a private, exclusive, and typically English, club.
And you don’t even have to stay there to enjoy it. Its restaurant, famed for its Dover sole, is open to anyone and lunch is reasonably priced at around £20-£25 per head. Alternatively, feel like the Queen and enjoy high tea. I can certainly vouch for its pastry chef, who makes the sweet treats served. He made the most amazing birthday cake for my travelling companion. It arrived with a bottle of Champage on ice and was so gorgeous I stared at it with my mouth gaping open for 10 minutes.
It also demonstrated just how good the service at The Chesterfield is. You see, I hadn’t told them about the birthday. However, the previous year I stayed at another Red Carnation Hotel at the same time to celebrate the very same birthday. They remembered! We were both knocked out by the faultless attention to detail.
Now you can probably understand why, for 24 hours, I never wanted to leave it. I soaked up every second there.
Wrapped in fluffy robe, I did nothing more strenuous than paint my nails and order room service.
Yes, London has a multitude of entertainment on offer but for worn-out mothers it’s good, just now and then, to do absolutely nothing. The ultimate treat? You bet.
Getting there: We travelled by car and parked at an NCP car park five minutes away from the hotel but train fares to London are great value from Derby if booked in advance.
Where to stay: The Chesterfield is exceptional but the Red Carnation group also has other top-notch hotels in the Capital, such as The Milestone and The Egerton.
How much: The Chesterfield has some great weekend deals including its value Mayfair weekend package, from £310 for two. For that you and a companion enjoy a two-night stay, full English breakfast, a complimentary bottle of Champagne, high tea and a 6pm check-out. Pet lovers may also be interested to know that The Chesterfield welcomes dogs.
To find out more, visit www.chesterfieldmayfair.com or www.redcarnationhotels.com.
__________________________________________________________
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Rap on the knuckles for Derby County
"I must be mad," said the bloke queuing behind me queuing for autographs at Pride Park, the home of Derby County.
Rams boss Paul Jewell and players Robbie Savage and Tito Villa had very kindly put an hour aside to meet the fans at the club shop.
Trouble was, an hour was not enough. Not in a million years.
But I waited, and I waited. An hour went by. It was sub-zero. My feet and hands were frost-bitten and, I reckon, close to dropping off.
After an hour, a bit like queuing for Wembley tickets, you think you might as well stick it out. Plus, if I failed to go home without the autographs from my Rams-mad sons I would be lambested beyond belief.
So I waited. Like a loonie. The queue snaked round the side of the ground and there was about 30 people behind me. The queue had an end.
We edged forward, painfully slowly. At last I could see the club shop door, but there must have been at least 100 people patiently waiting their turn before me.
That's when the woman with a helpless smile said: "Sorry ladies and gents, but they are all leaving in five minutes so it's unlikely you'll get an autograph."
Unlikely! I had more chance of conquering the North Pole. Though the lack of sensation in my frozen feet made me feel as if I had.
I was beaten. Frozen and miserable, I scurried back to my car. An hour wasted. I felt even more sorry for the children who, with patient mums and dads, had braved the icy weather just for one of Sav's smiles. So much for a half term treat.
Surely one of the players could have stayed behind? Just for a bit.
I'll never know for sure what happened of course. I had to leave. Defeated. My late lunch hour autograph plan had failed dismally. And, I felt, DCFC, had failed me, a season ticket holder, and rather a lot of other diehard fans too.
I'm told that these autograph sessions are hugely popular so why not organise them better? Have four players working in half-hour shifts (but only tell us fans we have an hour to get those signatures), then no-one will go home disappointed.
I'd made a lovely collage of Sav, Tito and Jewell for them to sign for my lads. Hope you don't mind gents, but I forged your names! Providing they don't read this, they'll never know!!
Rams boss Paul Jewell and players Robbie Savage and Tito Villa had very kindly put an hour aside to meet the fans at the club shop.
Trouble was, an hour was not enough. Not in a million years.
But I waited, and I waited. An hour went by. It was sub-zero. My feet and hands were frost-bitten and, I reckon, close to dropping off.
After an hour, a bit like queuing for Wembley tickets, you think you might as well stick it out. Plus, if I failed to go home without the autographs from my Rams-mad sons I would be lambested beyond belief.
So I waited. Like a loonie. The queue snaked round the side of the ground and there was about 30 people behind me. The queue had an end.
We edged forward, painfully slowly. At last I could see the club shop door, but there must have been at least 100 people patiently waiting their turn before me.
That's when the woman with a helpless smile said: "Sorry ladies and gents, but they are all leaving in five minutes so it's unlikely you'll get an autograph."
Unlikely! I had more chance of conquering the North Pole. Though the lack of sensation in my frozen feet made me feel as if I had.
I was beaten. Frozen and miserable, I scurried back to my car. An hour wasted. I felt even more sorry for the children who, with patient mums and dads, had braved the icy weather just for one of Sav's smiles. So much for a half term treat.
Surely one of the players could have stayed behind? Just for a bit.
I'll never know for sure what happened of course. I had to leave. Defeated. My late lunch hour autograph plan had failed dismally. And, I felt, DCFC, had failed me, a season ticket holder, and rather a lot of other diehard fans too.
I'm told that these autograph sessions are hugely popular so why not organise them better? Have four players working in half-hour shifts (but only tell us fans we have an hour to get those signatures), then no-one will go home disappointed.
I'd made a lovely collage of Sav, Tito and Jewell for them to sign for my lads. Hope you don't mind gents, but I forged your names! Providing they don't read this, they'll never know!!
Tribute to bad cooks everywhere
Let’s hear it for Delia Smith, a woman who, for the first time ever has made me contemplate buying a cookery book.
Her idea to conjure up a bagful of tasty recipes using convenience foods is a brainwave that leaves me in dumbstruck awe – while chuckling as I picture Jamie, Gordon and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall fighting it out over food ethics by bashing each other over the head with battery-farmed chickens.
Good old Delia, a humble kitchen maestro without Nigella’s suggestive pout or Jamie’s trendy youth-speak, has stayed in the shadows for years while a multitude of celebrity chefs have risen to prominent glory, pontificating about what we should and shouldn’t eat, making us feel guilty if we haven’t got an allotment, herb garden and free range chickens hurtling around our gardens. Making us feel – or it is just me? – that we are hopeless cooks.
Being a Norwich City supporter it is hardly surprising that Delia has kept her head down for a while, but she has risen like a phoenix to knock Jamie and co off the top spot. Move over Gordon, 66-year-old Delia is head chef again, master of the apron strings, top dog in the kitchens.
And it’s all thanks to Delia’s How To Cheat At Cooking. Everyone is talking about it, even me.
And food manufacturers are rubbing their hands together with glee as Delia names the best convenience foods to cook up a storm. For example, to make a quick spinach tortelloni with leeks and Gorgonzola, she recommends fresh spinach and ricotta tortellini from either Tesco or Sainsbury’s, and dried ciabatta breadcrumbs and grated Parmesan from Tesco.
Such recommendations are expected to produce the “Delia effect” – a term included in the Collins English Dictionary in 2001 after she sent sales of cranberries through the roof after using them on television. Customers also bought 54 million extra eggs after she showed the nation how to boil or fry them.
Among recommendations in her book are Fratelli Camisa, an Italian fine food supplier that stocks Martelli pasta, spices from Seasoned Pioneers, Marks and Spencer’s roasted red and yellow peppers in oil and jalapeno peppers from the Cooks’ Ingredients range by Waitrose. Even Aunt Bessie’s instant mashed potato gets a look in.
Pre-orders on the book alone have made it a best-seller and it’s obvious why. Time. We don’t have enough of it. Yes, it would be wonderful to wander off to our vegetable patches, hand-pick lunch and rustle up a vitamin-packed dinner for the kids. But, in all reality, many of us struggle to find time to buy food, let alone cook it – let alone grow it!
The likes of Jamie Oliver make it look so easy but cooking is their job. We have jobs too, but they generally don’t involve us performing culinary miracles in front of a TV camera. After a day’s grafting, we have houses to clean, washing to cope with, families to care for, chores to do – then we have to cook. Big difference.
Of course there are those who like to cook. I see them on Master Chef every week and watch in humble admiration.
But I’m from the Delia Smith school of thought. If it’s got more than five ingredients and takes more than half an hour to cook, forget it.
Having said that, I try to cook healthily. Pasta is my staple diet. Taught by the Italians, I know who to make a tomato sauce to die for and this has served me well for more than 20 years.
I’ve amazed friends, impressed at dinner parties and managed to keep my kids well fed and happy with one basic recipe. Perhaps I should write a book about it.
In case you can’t wait that long, here’s what you do. Dollop some olive oil in a pan and fry some bacon bits (Aldi’s are good) until crispy. Keep the heat low and add some crushed garlic (TV chefs tell you not to use a crusher but what do they know?).
Give it a stir and, after a couple of minutes, add a carton of rich tomato sauce (every supermarket has some). Stir from time to time, add a bit of pepper and leave to gather flavour while you chuck any pasta of your choice into boiling water.
By the time the pasta is ready the sauce should taste delicious. Drain your pasta, add some of the sauce and give it all a good stir to stop the pasta sticking. Serve in a bowl with more sauce on top and sprinkle with hand-grated Parmesan (Aldi’s Parmesan is a great buy). Hey presto, good healthy food.
Now that, to me, is sensible cooking. I can also make a mean cappuccino and my banana and yoghurt sundaes are superb.
Aside from that, my cooking is so awful my sons let out a cheer every morning if I manage to produce boiled eggs that are runny as opposed to rock hard.
Three more cheers please – for hopeless cooks and Delia.
Her idea to conjure up a bagful of tasty recipes using convenience foods is a brainwave that leaves me in dumbstruck awe – while chuckling as I picture Jamie, Gordon and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall fighting it out over food ethics by bashing each other over the head with battery-farmed chickens.
Good old Delia, a humble kitchen maestro without Nigella’s suggestive pout or Jamie’s trendy youth-speak, has stayed in the shadows for years while a multitude of celebrity chefs have risen to prominent glory, pontificating about what we should and shouldn’t eat, making us feel guilty if we haven’t got an allotment, herb garden and free range chickens hurtling around our gardens. Making us feel – or it is just me? – that we are hopeless cooks.
Being a Norwich City supporter it is hardly surprising that Delia has kept her head down for a while, but she has risen like a phoenix to knock Jamie and co off the top spot. Move over Gordon, 66-year-old Delia is head chef again, master of the apron strings, top dog in the kitchens.
And it’s all thanks to Delia’s How To Cheat At Cooking. Everyone is talking about it, even me.
And food manufacturers are rubbing their hands together with glee as Delia names the best convenience foods to cook up a storm. For example, to make a quick spinach tortelloni with leeks and Gorgonzola, she recommends fresh spinach and ricotta tortellini from either Tesco or Sainsbury’s, and dried ciabatta breadcrumbs and grated Parmesan from Tesco.
Such recommendations are expected to produce the “Delia effect” – a term included in the Collins English Dictionary in 2001 after she sent sales of cranberries through the roof after using them on television. Customers also bought 54 million extra eggs after she showed the nation how to boil or fry them.
Among recommendations in her book are Fratelli Camisa, an Italian fine food supplier that stocks Martelli pasta, spices from Seasoned Pioneers, Marks and Spencer’s roasted red and yellow peppers in oil and jalapeno peppers from the Cooks’ Ingredients range by Waitrose. Even Aunt Bessie’s instant mashed potato gets a look in.
Pre-orders on the book alone have made it a best-seller and it’s obvious why. Time. We don’t have enough of it. Yes, it would be wonderful to wander off to our vegetable patches, hand-pick lunch and rustle up a vitamin-packed dinner for the kids. But, in all reality, many of us struggle to find time to buy food, let alone cook it – let alone grow it!
The likes of Jamie Oliver make it look so easy but cooking is their job. We have jobs too, but they generally don’t involve us performing culinary miracles in front of a TV camera. After a day’s grafting, we have houses to clean, washing to cope with, families to care for, chores to do – then we have to cook. Big difference.
Of course there are those who like to cook. I see them on Master Chef every week and watch in humble admiration.
But I’m from the Delia Smith school of thought. If it’s got more than five ingredients and takes more than half an hour to cook, forget it.
Having said that, I try to cook healthily. Pasta is my staple diet. Taught by the Italians, I know who to make a tomato sauce to die for and this has served me well for more than 20 years.
I’ve amazed friends, impressed at dinner parties and managed to keep my kids well fed and happy with one basic recipe. Perhaps I should write a book about it.
In case you can’t wait that long, here’s what you do. Dollop some olive oil in a pan and fry some bacon bits (Aldi’s are good) until crispy. Keep the heat low and add some crushed garlic (TV chefs tell you not to use a crusher but what do they know?).
Give it a stir and, after a couple of minutes, add a carton of rich tomato sauce (every supermarket has some). Stir from time to time, add a bit of pepper and leave to gather flavour while you chuck any pasta of your choice into boiling water.
By the time the pasta is ready the sauce should taste delicious. Drain your pasta, add some of the sauce and give it all a good stir to stop the pasta sticking. Serve in a bowl with more sauce on top and sprinkle with hand-grated Parmesan (Aldi’s Parmesan is a great buy). Hey presto, good healthy food.
Now that, to me, is sensible cooking. I can also make a mean cappuccino and my banana and yoghurt sundaes are superb.
Aside from that, my cooking is so awful my sons let out a cheer every morning if I manage to produce boiled eggs that are runny as opposed to rock hard.
Three more cheers please – for hopeless cooks and Delia.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Crow's feet and feeling like an old bat
“LOOK at me,” I moaned. “My body is sagging, my crow’s feet are deeper than a mountain crevice, my thighs are like lumps of melting lard and everything on my entire body is heading south.” “Well mum,” said my 11-year-old kindly, “at least your eyesight is OK.”
After giving him a swift clip round the earhole, I internally reprimanded myself for being such a pathetic drip. It’s just that while men grow old and “rugged” (apparently, most women would like Sean Connery as a neighbour and he’s 77), women are seen as past it once they pass 25 (most men would like any blonde bombshell under 25 as a neighbour).
This means that, though we shouldn’t feel it, fading looks make some sensitive female souls feel devalued. As a colleague, 50 if she’s a day but she’s never told anyone her age, once put it: “Once you hit 40 you become invisible.” By that she means invisible to men. Which you might think is no bad thing, until the elderly tramps in the street have to avert their eyes because your haggard face makes them feel bilious. As a teenager and young woman you go through a period of time thinking that all wolf whistles are tediously rude.
In my 20s, I wrote a letter of complaint to a brewery in Burton because the workmen doing up a pub in the town always yelled at me when I strolled to the shops for my lunchtime sarnie. This, I pompously told Bass Brewery, was most distasteful and embarrassing and the men concerned should be severely reprimanded for their crude behaviour. If they did the same thing now I’d probably shin up the scaffolding and give them all a great big kiss. I would be ridiculously grateful.
Because, post-40, when an 80-year-old admirer tells you you’re looking good today you feel like skipping down the street. In fact, 35-plus chums start to regale each other with such incidents, because they become so rare. One happily married mum-of-two was staggered to be asked out by the bloke behind her in the supermarket queue as she bought a cooked chicken. He was buying the same thing and suggested they chewed on a leg together.
Another chum caught the eye of a passing motorist in Mickleover, who began the grinning and winking routine – until he spotted two car seats in the back of her motor. The smiles then vanished and he shot off in a Formula One heat haze of speed. Another pal was propositioned by her builder when he spotted her coming out of the shower clad only in a towel. This, she said, was the first time a man had looked at her “in that way” since 1985.
Workmen must be rather forward in an Adventures-of-a-Window-Cleaner type way because a chum was pinned to the wall by the plumber fitting her new sink. Utterly shocked, she did the obvious and offered to make him a cuppa. As if to underline to women that they are no longer attractive, when they hit 35 “beauty product” literature starts thundering through the letterbox. The letters begin something like this: “Now you have reached a certain age and your skin is maturing, it’s time to take action to hold back the passage of time.” The accompanying brochures are filled with innumerable time-defying lotions and potions to firm up sagging skin, smooth out wrinkly hands, conquer ugly cellulite, attack the ravages of time on “that delicate eye area” and even plump up your sagging backside.
This is accompanied by a picture of an offending bottom with its depressed owned looking over her shoulder in despair at her puckered posterior. Frankly, if you were depressed about your looks before the post arrived, your best bet is to dump any sales stuff for “women of a certain age” in the nearest recycling bag. My sister was so mad to receive one such brochure she stormed to my house, brandishing the offensive material, yelling: “I don’t want to look at this!
Why would I want to look at this? Why are people sending me this?” Time for a little message to the, no doubt, painfully young and rosy-cheeked marketeers out there. You may think we look awful, we may look awful, but don’t tell us we look awful or, if you are ever unfortunate enough to meet a mature-skinned woman, she will make you look awful, by biffing you in the chops. For any hapless male readers confused by the arrogant and rude reaction of younger women to their admiring glances and compliments, stop wasting your time.
Toss your compliments the way of anyone over the age of 35. They will be utterly delighted – and may even offer to share a cooked chicken leg with you.
After giving him a swift clip round the earhole, I internally reprimanded myself for being such a pathetic drip. It’s just that while men grow old and “rugged” (apparently, most women would like Sean Connery as a neighbour and he’s 77), women are seen as past it once they pass 25 (most men would like any blonde bombshell under 25 as a neighbour).
This means that, though we shouldn’t feel it, fading looks make some sensitive female souls feel devalued. As a colleague, 50 if she’s a day but she’s never told anyone her age, once put it: “Once you hit 40 you become invisible.” By that she means invisible to men. Which you might think is no bad thing, until the elderly tramps in the street have to avert their eyes because your haggard face makes them feel bilious. As a teenager and young woman you go through a period of time thinking that all wolf whistles are tediously rude.
In my 20s, I wrote a letter of complaint to a brewery in Burton because the workmen doing up a pub in the town always yelled at me when I strolled to the shops for my lunchtime sarnie. This, I pompously told Bass Brewery, was most distasteful and embarrassing and the men concerned should be severely reprimanded for their crude behaviour. If they did the same thing now I’d probably shin up the scaffolding and give them all a great big kiss. I would be ridiculously grateful.
Because, post-40, when an 80-year-old admirer tells you you’re looking good today you feel like skipping down the street. In fact, 35-plus chums start to regale each other with such incidents, because they become so rare. One happily married mum-of-two was staggered to be asked out by the bloke behind her in the supermarket queue as she bought a cooked chicken. He was buying the same thing and suggested they chewed on a leg together.
Another chum caught the eye of a passing motorist in Mickleover, who began the grinning and winking routine – until he spotted two car seats in the back of her motor. The smiles then vanished and he shot off in a Formula One heat haze of speed. Another pal was propositioned by her builder when he spotted her coming out of the shower clad only in a towel. This, she said, was the first time a man had looked at her “in that way” since 1985.
Workmen must be rather forward in an Adventures-of-a-Window-Cleaner type way because a chum was pinned to the wall by the plumber fitting her new sink. Utterly shocked, she did the obvious and offered to make him a cuppa. As if to underline to women that they are no longer attractive, when they hit 35 “beauty product” literature starts thundering through the letterbox. The letters begin something like this: “Now you have reached a certain age and your skin is maturing, it’s time to take action to hold back the passage of time.” The accompanying brochures are filled with innumerable time-defying lotions and potions to firm up sagging skin, smooth out wrinkly hands, conquer ugly cellulite, attack the ravages of time on “that delicate eye area” and even plump up your sagging backside.
This is accompanied by a picture of an offending bottom with its depressed owned looking over her shoulder in despair at her puckered posterior. Frankly, if you were depressed about your looks before the post arrived, your best bet is to dump any sales stuff for “women of a certain age” in the nearest recycling bag. My sister was so mad to receive one such brochure she stormed to my house, brandishing the offensive material, yelling: “I don’t want to look at this!
Why would I want to look at this? Why are people sending me this?” Time for a little message to the, no doubt, painfully young and rosy-cheeked marketeers out there. You may think we look awful, we may look awful, but don’t tell us we look awful or, if you are ever unfortunate enough to meet a mature-skinned woman, she will make you look awful, by biffing you in the chops. For any hapless male readers confused by the arrogant and rude reaction of younger women to their admiring glances and compliments, stop wasting your time.
Toss your compliments the way of anyone over the age of 35. They will be utterly delighted – and may even offer to share a cooked chicken leg with you.
Christmas... not
MY new neighbour was clearly shocked when I thrust my arm into the air and leapt up and down making loud whooping noises. This is what I normally do when Derby County score (please dear Lord, let them bag a goal soon).
What had he done? He had told me he hadn’t bought a single Christmas present, written a card, switched on a chaser light and definitely wouldn’t be filling his front garden with blow-up Santas. “I’m not big on Christmas,” he said in a laid-back drawl. “What do you need presents for anyway? Everybody’s got everything these days. “I suppose I’ll eventually buy a few vouchers for people so they can get what they want.
“When I was a boy I got a sweater knitted by my auntie and a second-hand bike if I was lucky.” “Oh, come on, you’re younger than me,” I snorted, “You’ll be telling me about apples and oranges next. And, by the way, does this all mean you won’t be dressing up your house like Blackpool illuminations?” He tossed his eyes heavenwards, shaking his head with a rueful grin on his face. My goal-style celebration followed his festive announcement.
I confess, my jubilant response stunned me as much as it stunned him. But I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me. “I am so pleased to hear you say you’ve done practically nothing yet,” I told him gleefully. “I’ve not bought a card yet, let alone written one. And I hate the Christmas crush in town, wandering round aimlessly trying to buy stuff that people don’t need. “All the shops seem to have is mountains of pointless toiletry sets anyway. How many bottles of bubble bath does one person need in a lifetime? And they’ll all be half price on Christmas Eve.” Our nods of agreement were heart-warming. It’s so good when you meet a like-minded soul – especially when you’re surrounded by festive fashionistas. You know, the ones who’ve already wrapped up all their presents in sensational, colour co-ordinated gift-wrap with matching bows and twirly bits.
The smug ones. The ones who buy posh cards for the people they want to impress and go to Poundland for the rest. The ones who bought a black tree this year – or maybe the new upside down one – and smothered it in ridiculously expensive baubles. The ones who send out a round robin letter informing you of a multitude of family successes in 2007: “Justin got 15 Grade As in his GCSEs, Miranda is going to Oxford, we’ve just had a swimming pool built and I’ve taken up helicopter lessons for a bit of fun. Apart from that, 2007 has been pretty dull”.
The ones who use Christmas to show off a bit. Then there’s the festive “party season” to get to grips with. Having kids, my social life became extinct on March 14, 1996 to be exact. Yes, I get out once every couple of months. I’m not actually that bothered. What with work, chores, school homework, football training (not me, my lads) and following the Rams, my life is full to bursting.
For me, grabbing 10 minutes to read a magazine is quality time enough. Besides, life is so full on, anything else topples me into total chaos. I am now in total chaos. In the next week, I’ve got two works dos, two Christmas school concerts, one of which falls on a day I simply can’t make because of work commitments (mum guilt shocker) and two nosh-ups with pals. It’s all very nice but more nights out than I usually pack into an entire year. And there’s still the job, the housework, the homework and the football to cram in. Oh, and a few zillion cards and presents to sort out.
To ease the load my nine-year-old e-mailed me his Christmas list. It included a PS3, a laptop and a Wii. “Better go and find myself a millionaire,” I laughed. “You don’t have to get me everything mum,” he conceded. “Just the laptop would be all right.” No pressure there, then. But while older readers may now be groaning in unison over the nation’s spoilt brats of today, may I offer a little hope? In boy-world 2007, collecting football cards is currently de rigeur.
Not so different from days gone by, eh? These much-desired cards – great for swaps in the playground – cost 35p a pack. “If I can’t afford a laptop would a few Match Attack cards do?” I suggested to my son. “Yeees!” A Rams goal-style celebration followed. Don’t call me mean. I’ll throw in a second-hand bike too. And, if he’s lucky, his auntie might knit him a sweater. “I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me.”
What had he done? He had told me he hadn’t bought a single Christmas present, written a card, switched on a chaser light and definitely wouldn’t be filling his front garden with blow-up Santas. “I’m not big on Christmas,” he said in a laid-back drawl. “What do you need presents for anyway? Everybody’s got everything these days. “I suppose I’ll eventually buy a few vouchers for people so they can get what they want.
“When I was a boy I got a sweater knitted by my auntie and a second-hand bike if I was lucky.” “Oh, come on, you’re younger than me,” I snorted, “You’ll be telling me about apples and oranges next. And, by the way, does this all mean you won’t be dressing up your house like Blackpool illuminations?” He tossed his eyes heavenwards, shaking his head with a rueful grin on his face. My goal-style celebration followed his festive announcement.
I confess, my jubilant response stunned me as much as it stunned him. But I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me. “I am so pleased to hear you say you’ve done practically nothing yet,” I told him gleefully. “I’ve not bought a card yet, let alone written one. And I hate the Christmas crush in town, wandering round aimlessly trying to buy stuff that people don’t need. “All the shops seem to have is mountains of pointless toiletry sets anyway. How many bottles of bubble bath does one person need in a lifetime? And they’ll all be half price on Christmas Eve.” Our nods of agreement were heart-warming. It’s so good when you meet a like-minded soul – especially when you’re surrounded by festive fashionistas. You know, the ones who’ve already wrapped up all their presents in sensational, colour co-ordinated gift-wrap with matching bows and twirly bits.
The smug ones. The ones who buy posh cards for the people they want to impress and go to Poundland for the rest. The ones who bought a black tree this year – or maybe the new upside down one – and smothered it in ridiculously expensive baubles. The ones who send out a round robin letter informing you of a multitude of family successes in 2007: “Justin got 15 Grade As in his GCSEs, Miranda is going to Oxford, we’ve just had a swimming pool built and I’ve taken up helicopter lessons for a bit of fun. Apart from that, 2007 has been pretty dull”.
The ones who use Christmas to show off a bit. Then there’s the festive “party season” to get to grips with. Having kids, my social life became extinct on March 14, 1996 to be exact. Yes, I get out once every couple of months. I’m not actually that bothered. What with work, chores, school homework, football training (not me, my lads) and following the Rams, my life is full to bursting.
For me, grabbing 10 minutes to read a magazine is quality time enough. Besides, life is so full on, anything else topples me into total chaos. I am now in total chaos. In the next week, I’ve got two works dos, two Christmas school concerts, one of which falls on a day I simply can’t make because of work commitments (mum guilt shocker) and two nosh-ups with pals. It’s all very nice but more nights out than I usually pack into an entire year. And there’s still the job, the housework, the homework and the football to cram in. Oh, and a few zillion cards and presents to sort out.
To ease the load my nine-year-old e-mailed me his Christmas list. It included a PS3, a laptop and a Wii. “Better go and find myself a millionaire,” I laughed. “You don’t have to get me everything mum,” he conceded. “Just the laptop would be all right.” No pressure there, then. But while older readers may now be groaning in unison over the nation’s spoilt brats of today, may I offer a little hope? In boy-world 2007, collecting football cards is currently de rigeur.
Not so different from days gone by, eh? These much-desired cards – great for swaps in the playground – cost 35p a pack. “If I can’t afford a laptop would a few Match Attack cards do?” I suggested to my son. “Yeees!” A Rams goal-style celebration followed. Don’t call me mean. I’ll throw in a second-hand bike too. And, if he’s lucky, his auntie might knit him a sweater. “I felt a giant rush of elation to know that someone was as disorganised and dismissive of the big festive hoo-ha as me.”
The nanny state
JUST back from a snow-filled winter break, the first headline to grab my attention involved the hoo-ha over packed-lunch policing at a Derbyshire school. This is nothing new, surely? Schools have been thrusting the healthy eating message down our throats for years.
My lads get nothing but shredded lettuce and cucumber in their pack-ups on account of one son getting firmly reprimanded for taking in a one-inch yogurt-filled bar coated in – dare I say it – chocolate. “But, mum,” he moaned. “I know the teachers eat biscuits and chocolate in the staff room – and loads of cake.” “Of course they don’t,” I snapped. “Your teachers only ever eat gruel washed down with sugar-free vitamin juice.” And then there was the nut bar incident which still makes my stomach churn.
I accidentally sent son number one to school with a vitamin-fortified cereal bar and failed to notice it had a smattering of nuts in it. This prompted an hysterical outburst from a girl sitting next to him at the dinner table (she wasn’t allergic to peanuts, just a drama queen and a grass) and – horror of horrors – this led to a public reprimand in assembly. And don’t lecture me about nut allergies. I am, according to one relieved parent, one of the few people who ever invites her lad round. Due to his severe allergy, no one wants the responsibility.
I know all about how lethal it can be but life is filled with risks and we can’t protect ourselves from all of them, no matter how hard we try. I was reminded of this on my holiday, which was in Austria, a wealthy European neighbour with similar values to our own. Or so I thought. When I walked into my hotel, a weird smell assailed my nostrils. It was smoke from fags, cigars, those horror cancer sticks and the toxic fumes were wafting in my direction. This was a shock for my sensitive nostrils because I had forgotten what it was like. I don’t smoke and, thanks to the no smoking laws in the UK, pubs and restaurants on our side of the pond are now free of this stink.
It’s rare that I get down to a boozer but I confess that, for me, it is a much more pleasant experience without the smoke. Pre-fag ban, you’d finish a night out smelling like an ashtray from head to foot. Smokers may not be aware of this (because their noses stop registering the stench) but us goody-two-shoes non-smokers used to have to strip off the minute we walked in from a night out, toss all our clothes into the washbasket while holding our noses and then wash our hair immediately as it, too, reeked of stale fags. But suddenly, here I was, in a breathtakingly beautiful part of Austria, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, health spas and wellness clinics, and cigarettes were back on the agenda. Being a pretty right-on place, I imagined Austria would have had a smoking ban in place before the UK – but no. I looked across the lobby and not only was a woman puffing away on a cigar but she was wearing – gird your loins – a thick, real fur coat, fur trousers (I kid you not) and fur boots.
There was so much animal skin on her, I feared she’d raided a zoo. You just don’t see people in England strolling around in animal fur. Over here, she couldn’t walk down the street without being stoned by animal activists. And if she wanted a cigar she would have had to stand outside in sub-zero temperatures in the naughty smokers’ corner. It’s clear from the above that I don’t like cigarettes. Nevertheless, witnessing a more relaxed approach to life did make me question our ultra- PC, nanny nation. Fur coats in freezing ski resorts keep you warm.
Cigarettes are bad for you but you pay your money and you take your choice. As for the obesity timebomb, the pressure we’re putting on our children to eat healthily may have the opposite affect. Fed up with being told how fat, unfit and stupid, they are, by the age of 14 they’ll be gathering in parks with bagfuls of Dunkin Donuts. Instead of sneaking off for an illicit fag or bottle of cider, they’ll be smuggling chocolate cake into their hidey-holes and gorging themselves silly on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. I was pondering all this in Austria, only to be greeted on my return by the outrage over a five-year-old boy being warned about eating chocolate spread in his sarnies. The head – and remember she’s only being ordered about by Government loonies – backed up her strict policy by mentioning that someone once brought in three Mars bar for dinner. Crazy, yes but isn’t Britain’s whole lecturing, pontificating, patronising and rule-laden climate just one screw short of nuts? I’m thinking of emigrating to Austria...
My lads get nothing but shredded lettuce and cucumber in their pack-ups on account of one son getting firmly reprimanded for taking in a one-inch yogurt-filled bar coated in – dare I say it – chocolate. “But, mum,” he moaned. “I know the teachers eat biscuits and chocolate in the staff room – and loads of cake.” “Of course they don’t,” I snapped. “Your teachers only ever eat gruel washed down with sugar-free vitamin juice.” And then there was the nut bar incident which still makes my stomach churn.
I accidentally sent son number one to school with a vitamin-fortified cereal bar and failed to notice it had a smattering of nuts in it. This prompted an hysterical outburst from a girl sitting next to him at the dinner table (she wasn’t allergic to peanuts, just a drama queen and a grass) and – horror of horrors – this led to a public reprimand in assembly. And don’t lecture me about nut allergies. I am, according to one relieved parent, one of the few people who ever invites her lad round. Due to his severe allergy, no one wants the responsibility.
I know all about how lethal it can be but life is filled with risks and we can’t protect ourselves from all of them, no matter how hard we try. I was reminded of this on my holiday, which was in Austria, a wealthy European neighbour with similar values to our own. Or so I thought. When I walked into my hotel, a weird smell assailed my nostrils. It was smoke from fags, cigars, those horror cancer sticks and the toxic fumes were wafting in my direction. This was a shock for my sensitive nostrils because I had forgotten what it was like. I don’t smoke and, thanks to the no smoking laws in the UK, pubs and restaurants on our side of the pond are now free of this stink.
It’s rare that I get down to a boozer but I confess that, for me, it is a much more pleasant experience without the smoke. Pre-fag ban, you’d finish a night out smelling like an ashtray from head to foot. Smokers may not be aware of this (because their noses stop registering the stench) but us goody-two-shoes non-smokers used to have to strip off the minute we walked in from a night out, toss all our clothes into the washbasket while holding our noses and then wash our hair immediately as it, too, reeked of stale fags. But suddenly, here I was, in a breathtakingly beautiful part of Austria, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, health spas and wellness clinics, and cigarettes were back on the agenda. Being a pretty right-on place, I imagined Austria would have had a smoking ban in place before the UK – but no. I looked across the lobby and not only was a woman puffing away on a cigar but she was wearing – gird your loins – a thick, real fur coat, fur trousers (I kid you not) and fur boots.
There was so much animal skin on her, I feared she’d raided a zoo. You just don’t see people in England strolling around in animal fur. Over here, she couldn’t walk down the street without being stoned by animal activists. And if she wanted a cigar she would have had to stand outside in sub-zero temperatures in the naughty smokers’ corner. It’s clear from the above that I don’t like cigarettes. Nevertheless, witnessing a more relaxed approach to life did make me question our ultra- PC, nanny nation. Fur coats in freezing ski resorts keep you warm.
Cigarettes are bad for you but you pay your money and you take your choice. As for the obesity timebomb, the pressure we’re putting on our children to eat healthily may have the opposite affect. Fed up with being told how fat, unfit and stupid, they are, by the age of 14 they’ll be gathering in parks with bagfuls of Dunkin Donuts. Instead of sneaking off for an illicit fag or bottle of cider, they’ll be smuggling chocolate cake into their hidey-holes and gorging themselves silly on Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. I was pondering all this in Austria, only to be greeted on my return by the outrage over a five-year-old boy being warned about eating chocolate spread in his sarnies. The head – and remember she’s only being ordered about by Government loonies – backed up her strict policy by mentioning that someone once brought in three Mars bar for dinner. Crazy, yes but isn’t Britain’s whole lecturing, pontificating, patronising and rule-laden climate just one screw short of nuts? I’m thinking of emigrating to Austria...
Monday morning blues
I may be a jounalist, I may be a columnist and I may be slightly insane but there is little more important in my life right now than supporting Derby County.
Like most Rams fans I am stoical to the last and have coped well with the knocks this season.
But last Saturday's game against Spurs left me feeling at rock bottom because the scoreline in no way reflected the skill, spirit and determination shown by all the players that day. "3-0 to the referee," chanted the fans and how right they were.
A few days ago I was lucky enough to meet Rams player Jay McEveley and he was very upbeat.
He said the club was on a sound financial footing now and, though the team knew they Championship beckoned, they were convinced they would bounce straight back up, bigger and stronger.Of course, he's right!
Still on the subject of footie I couldn't help but smile at the rules laid down by new England boss Fabio Capello. Apparently, the spoilt Prem boys can't leave the table when they eat until everyone is finished. They also don't get pudding until they've eaten all their greens and if they don't clean their teeth at bedtime they get a sound thrashing.
Wags, of course, are banned, as are eating cheesy nachos in their rooms as room service is also banned. Fab has aslo complained that their hotels are too luxurious.
It's brilliant and a tad ironic. Italy is a country renowned for tossing rules to one side and going its own way.
When they first brought in the seatbelt law in Italy, people had T-shirts printed with diagonal black stripes to fool the police.
Our prem boys could never think of anything so clever to slip past Fabio's fab rules. A bit of Army discipline is just what they need. Fab fab!
Like most Rams fans I am stoical to the last and have coped well with the knocks this season.
But last Saturday's game against Spurs left me feeling at rock bottom because the scoreline in no way reflected the skill, spirit and determination shown by all the players that day. "3-0 to the referee," chanted the fans and how right they were.
A few days ago I was lucky enough to meet Rams player Jay McEveley and he was very upbeat.
He said the club was on a sound financial footing now and, though the team knew they Championship beckoned, they were convinced they would bounce straight back up, bigger and stronger.Of course, he's right!
Still on the subject of footie I couldn't help but smile at the rules laid down by new England boss Fabio Capello. Apparently, the spoilt Prem boys can't leave the table when they eat until everyone is finished. They also don't get pudding until they've eaten all their greens and if they don't clean their teeth at bedtime they get a sound thrashing.
Wags, of course, are banned, as are eating cheesy nachos in their rooms as room service is also banned. Fab has aslo complained that their hotels are too luxurious.
It's brilliant and a tad ironic. Italy is a country renowned for tossing rules to one side and going its own way.
When they first brought in the seatbelt law in Italy, people had T-shirts printed with diagonal black stripes to fool the police.
Our prem boys could never think of anything so clever to slip past Fabio's fab rules. A bit of Army discipline is just what they need. Fab fab!
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