Bonjour mademoiselle!

There is a debate going on in the shallow press at the moment about the French decision to stop using the term ‘Mademoiselle’, due to protests in France that a woman’s title should not be defined by her marital status or her relationship with a man.

This has been picked up by various organic muesli munching feminists and a number of (so called) trendy thinking leftist males as the biggest leap forward for women’s liberation since the contraceptive pill.

Frankly, I think it’s all a load of b******s. Don’t these people have anything more serious to worry about?

The French initiative, of course, smacks of the lovely Mrs Sarkozy’s influence and her pathetic little husband’s desire to woo a large proportion of the electorate in advance of the French presidential elections later this year. Nicholas is lagging in the polls in a serious way, and resorting to desperate measures. Quite what excuse the vacuous English have for jumping on the bandwagon I’m not sure. Possibly because it’s been in the Daily Mail?

Underneath all this is, of course, a serious point. We almost always make assumptions about people based upon their names, titles and first impressions, which can last a lifetime. They say it takes about six seconds to form an initial impression of someone, and if that is deceptive it can take several years for us to change our minds. So it’s important to get it right at the beginning, particularly if it matters how you appear to others in any context.  We tend to think that someone using the prefix ‘Your honour’ (as in a high court judge) must be a good chap(ess)whereas someone using the title ‘Rt Hon’ (for instance an MP) must be a bounder and a cad! I generalise, but you get the point.

It is foolish though to think that just because a woman chooses to call herself ‘Miss’ she must be single or if she calls herself ‘Mrs’ she must be married (what about widowed, divorced, separated, just pretending to keep away irritating men?). I know lots of women who have retained their maiden name and ‘Miss’ just because they want to, or maybe their husband happens to be called Gummer and they are called Streep (for instance). I mean, would you want to collect your Oscar being called Mrs Gummer? No, didn’t think so!

There are so many more important things in the world to sort out and so many more issues between the sexes to be resolved than this pathetic little publicity stunt. Equal pay, equal recognition for achievement, respect for each other; all would be better for us to exercise our intelligence about than this. I read today that about 30% of rapes go unreported because women have no confidence in the police to take them seriously, and of those that are reported about 10% are dismissed as ‘no crime’ because one policeman forms an impression at the station desk. That is a disgrace, and something far more fundamental to be addressed than a pathetic title.

I’ve used all three feminine titles in my time, and none of them have defined me as a person. Anyone who thinks they do, is deluded.

Not a morning person

I am feeling rather grumpy this morning.

The alarm went off with a bit of a jolt at 6am (The Hubby has to get up that early, not me) with a bouncy Radio 4 announcer talking fairly assertively about politics. I’d like to say here that Radio 4 is not my choice and hasn’t ever been; I am a Radio 2 woman, although less so now that Terry Wogan has retired.

After the usual frantic scrabbling to try and switch it off, making the mistake of instead switching it from radio to buzzer and back again, then The Hubby putting on the light to see what he’s doing and eventually switching the damn thing off, I feeling exhausted.  I was wide awake, so I suppose it’s done it’s job, just unfortunately an hour earlier than necessary. Attempts to get back to sleep failed dismally, and so I decided to get up and come into work early, and leave early this afternoon to compensate as incredibly I have no meetings today except one very short one at 10.30am.

I am not a morning person. It takes me a good hour or so to really come round with the aid of strong tea and splashes of cold water (the splashing is done by me and not anyone else, you understand. That would be unkind first thing in the morning and possibly lead to a murder charge!). I can’t eat breakfast until I have been up at least an hour or more, and so tend to buy myself something when I get up to central London. Usually it’s a bacon roll and a coffee, but this morning it was a Maccie D breakfast of sausage and egg McMuffin, hash brown and coffee. A rare treat, but oh so delicious. Sadly, not very diet! But I don’t like cereal very much, fruit means I am hungry again in an hour and so eat something really sinful, and I prefer something savoury for breakfast, so the options are limited.

I can do the getting up early thing with sufficient incentive, such as catching an early flight on holiday, but I hate it. The Hubby, on the other hand, can leap straight out of bed when the alarm goes off at whatever time and be bouncy and wide awake immediately. It is one of his less understandable and less endearing traits, but one I have got used to. And it does have its uses – he makes the tea at the weekend! Less usefully, he expects me to be fully with it early on too, and starts talking about DIY projects or family finances, which I really can’t deal with. I may have been rather scratchy about it in the past, not sure!

Fortunately this morning I was able to get up in peace, drink my tea and stagger round getting ready for work with no one else there trying to engage with me except the cats, who looked slightly surprised to see me out of my pit so early. No one talks to each other on the train that early, and if people do get on chatting to others or on their phones they soon shush after getting black looks from everyone else who is buried in their newspaper or sleeping. So the train was quite peaceful too. I have now had my coffee and Maccie D breakfast and feel slightly more human, probably a good thing since I have to do a quick staff briefing for 30 people at 10.30.

Having got up so early, I will be grumpy and tired by 9pm tonight. So not really an evening person either.

Actually, I’m not sure what my optimum time of day is. I don’t think I have one!

Binge drinking - again!

The binge drinking culture is once again in the news. I’m not sure why, but again the Daily Mail, that well known purveyor of scandal, rumour and bigotry but not necessarily news, is featuring pictures of young girls puking in the gutter with their skirts up round their arses.

Of course this is nothing new. The British have always been a nation that have overindulged on alcohol and cannot handle the consequences. The poor in Victorian times were notorious for gin drinking and drunken behaviour and even in Medieval times, foreign visitors to our shores went on record about what a bunch of old soaks we were, peasants and lords alike. It must be something to do with the climate, and I believe in Scandi countries where it is dark for quite a lot of the year, bloody cold and rather wet they also have a enormous alcohol problem. Denmark is, I think, the alcoholism capital of the world!

The difficulty now, of course, is the massive bill for dealing with the consequences. Ambulance crews, A&E services, street cleansing, police officers sorting out drunken fights and all the rest add up to a pretty sum. Campaigners suggest putting all sorts of restrictions on drinking times, cutting out special deals in supermarkets and offies and loads of other controls, but the problem with that is it also penalises those of us who just like to enjoy a quiet drink without burdening society with our irresponsible behaviour.

Restricting behaviour by law is not the answer; over regulation never is. Instead, we have to foster a culture of more personal responsibility for our actions instead of expecting the state to nanny us and pick up the bill as we usually do and it usually does. We also have to change the mindset of the mainly young people who do this; I can remember being on a train not long ago and eavesdropping on a conversation between two young girls opposite, who were planning a holiday to Florida. “What shall we do when we get there?” asked one. “Well” said the other, “I thought I’d just lie by the pool and get bladdered on the cocktails”. “Fab” said the first one, “Me too!”. Sad cows!

A huge amount of responsibility must rest with the pubs and clubs who sell the stuff in the first place, and are clearly selling drinks to people who have very obviously already had enough simply to further profit. If they had to foot the bill for each incident of vomit-clearing outside their premises, urinating in the street or other such anti social behaviour they would soon look at their procedures and decide it isn’t worth the effort.

Similarly, if each and every person admitted to A&E or treated by paramedics had to pay for their treatment (provided their health problem was drug or alcohol induced and they were at fault [ie not the victim of a mugging or unprovoked assault]) at a flat fee of say £100 they might think twice about getting so paralytic in the first place. Why should you and I pick up the bill for this and see cash strapped NHS trusts have to squander their precious funds on these people, when those requiring serious operations or treatment for life threatening illnesses through no fault of their own have to go onto a waiting list? And don’t get me started on treatment for the obese when that obesity is caused simply by an unhealthy lifestyle and overindulgence, or treatment for smokers.

One of society’s great faults today is that so many people fail to take proper responsibility for their own actions. It must stop. We simply cannot afford to keep bailing these people out only to see them continue their destructive habits or behaviours and for the same thing to happen all over again. Do what you want to do, but don’t expect me or anyone else to come running if you end up flat on your face in the gutter.

Six Nations and watching sport

Yesterday afternoon I had a nice peaceful time sitting and watching the rugby. For those of you not sportingly minded in any way, it was England /Wales and a traditional grudge match. And it was heightened this year by the fact that neither side has lost a match in the series yet, and so probably someone was going to come away gravely disappointed.

Seeing as I’m someone not usually remotely interested in sport, it’s surprising that not only do I enjoy watching rugby, but I actually understand it too. I could possibly put my interest down to the very shallow reason that in rugby you do regularly get a good eyeful of lovely, muscley, masculine thighs when they go into a scrum, but that doesn’t explain my enhanced understanding of the rules. I’ve never even had a boyfriend in my entire life that played it, so I have no idea why.

This match in particular also had a rather gorgeous Kiwi referee who it must be said had impossibly good looks and was wearing a very fetching blue outfit. So yet another reason to sit in front of the telly for one hour forty minutes with only a short break for a cuppa at half time.

The Six Nations is one of the few sporting events most of us here will sit down and watch together. Whilst I’ll watch winter sports until the cows come home, and will watch athletics in the summer occasionally if I have nothing better to do, that’s about it. The Hubby and his boys are footie mad and will watch Chelsea, Arsenal or England ad infinitum. The Ashes for the Cricket, golf, any other team sport are all grist to their mill – bores me rigid! Particularly golf, which is like watching paint dry with the occasional panic when a fly gets stuck to it. What’s the point? I must say I agree with Oscar Wilde (at least I think it was him) in saying that golf is a good walk spoiled. (If it wasn’t him, and you know who it was, do let me know!)

I’m not even particularly interested in the tennis at Wimbledon any more and Andy Murray certainly isn’t my idea of a national hero, miserable Scots git!. What is the point is being talented and rich if you have no personality and no charm? All the hysteria about trying to get into Wimbledon and sitting on ‘Murray Mount’ (previously ‘Henman Hill’) to cheer him on leaves me cold.

The Olympics is also of very little interest to me this year. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fantastic thing to have in London and if we get it right, it will be marvellous positive publicity for good old Blighty, but personally I’d quite like to go abroad for the whole three weeks and just let them get on with it. It will dominate the telly, make getting to work a nightmare and fill London with lost foreigners. I have no interest whatsoever in trying to get tickets for anything, and it is quite beyond me why anyone would want to queue up for hours to get into a venue and sit on uncomfortable seats with nothing to eat or drink and not enough toilets to watch a race which might last as little as ten seconds. I know its supposed to be all about the experience, but wouldn’t that be more comfortable in your own easy chair with a cup of tea and packet of chocolate hobnobs which haven’t cost the earth because you’ve had to buy them there because they won’t let you take your own food and drink in?

Of course we’re all different, so if you’ve got tickets good luck to you and I hope you enjoy it. When it’s raining, your seat has a puddle on it and there is a queue 45 minutes long for the loo, think of me in my nice warm house with my hot cup of tea. I’ll be thinking of you!

Do we all turn into our parents?

Do you ever think you are turning into your parents?

They do say that girls turn into their mothers and boys into their fathers, and so before you marry someone you should take a long hard look at their same gender parent and consider whether you want to be living with someone like that in 30 years time.

I have always said that I really don’t want to turn into my mother. We had nothing in common and a totally different outlook on life and so I have always thought it unlikely, but just occasionally I do find myself saying something that could well have come straight from her mouth and that’s quite scary. Equally scarily, I do on occasion look into the mirror and (usually when I’m tired, unwell and not wearing any makeup) see a representation of her looking back at me!

I have a half sister with whom, until quite recently, I had virtually lost touch. When we did meet up again a few years ago (sadly at a funeral) I think she was quite staggered by  how much I looked like my mother and how I had many of the same mannerisms and spoke in the same way too. By and large, I can’t really see it and perhaps I don’t want to, but she was adamant. Our mannerisms and character traits are probably something we are far less aware of than our appearance!

My daughters also apparently look pretty much like me, something they have always strenuously denied (I don’t know why, I’m not that much of a troll), and as they get older I can see in them personality traits of mine and they approach some things in the same way I would. So perhaps it is true that we can turn into our parents in some ways through genetics over which we have no control, but I’m damned if I’m going to turn into my mother through my behaviour as well.

I was always far closer to my Dad than my Mum, although I’m not sure I’d want to turn into him either. But for all his faults he was much more broad minded and, I think, prepared me better for life as an adult than she did. He had a greater experience of life and had more ambition, aspired (in a limited way) for better things and instilled many of the values which guide me today. I could talk to him about my troubles in a way I never could talk to my mother, who never understood or even tried to. In fact I’m not sure she was capable of understanding. I lost my Dad in 1985, and I miss him greatly.

We all have the capacity to think independently and to be our own person. What we ought to do is take the best of our parents and build on that to be an individual in our own right. We can’t do much about our appearance (short of radical surgery which, unless you have a hooter the size of Kent or a disfiguring wart right in the middle of your forehead isn’t to be recommended) but we can do something about how we live our lives and the values we instil into our own children. I don’t want to be a clone of previous generations, and neither do they.

We have a choice, and I am going to take it! If I don’t succeed, will someone shoot me?

A night at the flicks!

We went to see Daniel Radcliffe in the film version of ‘the Woman in Black’ the other night. Made by a newly launched Hammer Studios, it’s a good old fashioned ghost story which literally does make you jump out of your seats. The bloke behind me was crapping himself – hopefully not literally – at some of the better fright moments. And Daniel was very good too, although there is the slight feeling that every time the poor lad opens his mouth, all you hear is Harry Potter!

This weekend, we hope to get to see the wonderful Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, Celia Imrie, Penelope Wilton, Tom Wilkinson, Ronald Pickup and others in the much vaunted Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. What an array of acting talent – how could it be bad?

We really enjoy going to the pictures and when we both worked in Crawley a Friday evening used to be a quick meal in the local Wetherspoons on a cheap deal straight from work, and then a trip to the multiplex down the road using our season tickets to see whatever was new out that week. We paid a tenner a month for them and could go in as many times as we liked – a real bargain.

When I was a kid, the local cinema here was a proper treat. They didn’t sell sweets there in those days because the owners believed sweets rotted your teeth, but would sell you an apple or a tangerine at the box office when you bought your tickets. There were no fizzy drinks, no popcorn, but unbelievably in those unenlightened times adults were allowed to smoke inside so you watched the film through a haze of cigarette smoke and came out with a strong dose of passive smoking.

The cinema is now, of course, much more expensive. Locally it’s between £8 and £9.50 a ticket, depending where you sit, sweets cost the earth and don’t even think about getting a glass of wine there unless you want to take out a second mortgage. As a consequence, we smuggle in miniature wines from the supermarket which we drink with a straw and our own Maltesers purchased from the 7/11 Co-op store over the road. You’re not really allowed to do that, but it would be a brave usher who asked to search my bag! And if you charge such extortionate amounts for items which we all know cost them pence, because they buy in such huge volumes, what do you expect?

I’m pleased to say that my youngest daughter has inherited  my love of the movies and is a regular attendee, although prefers to go to the large multi screen cinema in Crawley and then goes to Nando’s afterwards (she must be made of money!). The both of us look at the future listings and plan our viewings – this year the new James Bond (Skyfall) is out in the autumn, another Batman and for her, another episode in the Twilight saga (doesn’t do it for me, all those brooding looks and shaggy eyebrows are a real turnoff).

Of course you can’t beat live theatre, but big screen entertainment, when done well, comes close. I’m very much looking forward to another year of good viewing; better start saving up now!

Michelin Man next to me!

An enormously fat man sat next to me on the train today. Not only was he very fat, but he smelled a bit and had a runny nose which made him sniff constantly. As you can imagine, he irritated me intensely. He was so fat that he spilled over the edge of his seat onto mine, and so I took great pleasure in pushing the arm of the seat down between us and squidging him into his seat alone, meaning he looked like a sort of side ways on Michelin Man with vertical rolls of fat running from chin to crotch!

Of course I'm not exactly sylph like myself yet, although as you will know I am aiming for supermodel status by the summer, at which time I will buy myself the first bikini for several years to show my newly honed body off on the beach and flash my tiger tattoo (strategically placed on the top of my right buttock) to all and sundry. I had originally thought about a red bikini, but seeing as I usually get sunburned and go a similar colour to a ripe tomato that might not be a good idea and so I'll probably settle for a royal blue one with white polka dots. Or maybe glittery Union Jack patterns. Tasteful!

To be honest, I don't know why I really worry about my weight when I look around me. And in particular, when I look around me on the beach. There are an amazing array of lardy men and women flashing the flesh or wearing unsuitable clothes where ever you look, and clearly none of them have peeked in a mirror for years and seen what a beached whale lookalike they are. 

Actually, I do know why. I love nice clothes and as I have put on weight over the years (it's snuck up on me like a child playing 'What's the time Mr Wolf') I have noticed that certain styles just don't look nice any more. Whilst there's nothing wrong with various bits of me when taken as stand alone body parts, they don't seem to fit together very well any longer. I have been reduced to shopping for virtually all my clothes (ie not just my knickers and bras) in M&S because they are one of the few places where I know I will get something to fit, and even some of their more trendy ranges major on smaller sizes. It is when I go shopping that it really is driven home to me. (Shoes, on the other hand, always fit. Feet never seem to get fat! At least, that's my excuse).

To be hugely overweight must be so uncomfortable. This chap this morning had tight clothes (I could see his waistband straining on his suit trousers), clearly felt all hot and sweaty carrying all that weight around, been breathless as so many very fat people are and was squashed into a chair which was far too small for him. Even at a heavier weight now, at least I have a few inches either side of me when I sit down in  a train or plane seat and I don't need an extension to my seat belt.

It's a lesson for the future and while I have fallen off the wagon slightly this week (we had people to dinner at the weekend and there is still leftover pudding!) I remain determined. I will not be like that when I am older - I want to wear fashionable clothes which don't leave their mark on me when I take them off, be able to do things which require energy and be able to travel in comfort. It's getting harder, but I will persevere!

Beware of Greeks receiving gifts

And lo, it came to pass: a bailout was agreed, and a Greek default was narrowly averted.

Yesterday, Eurozone leaders finally agreed on the terms of a €237bn (£198bn) bailout for Greece The bailout comprises the much-debated €130bn in new funds, plus another €107bn writeoff of debt held by private bond-holders. It’s a positive outcome to wrangles that had threatened to go on ad infinitum, and means Greece will be able to pay off its debts. For the time being, anyway.

Marathon is a Greek word, and this has indeed been a marathon - and it's not over yet. This won't be the last of it because the Greek government has to make good on its promises to implement the austerity measures it has agreed to. And it will have Euro zone overseers to make sure it knuckles down. Probably Germans - poor old Greeks!

I love Greece and the Greek people. The country is beautiful in a rather cruel way and the people are the most hospitable on earth. But when you visit Greece, its easy to see how they got into some of the mess they are in now. Their state sector is hugely bloated (in a country of about 10 million people, around 2 million work for the state) with four people doing the job of one or two, their retirement age has been set ludicrously low for some professions (I know someone who retired from a bank aged 40 after having done 20 years service, got her full pension paid immediately and a lump sum which she used to open a shop and so also got a second income) and for some, their working hours are relatively short (the utility companies are open for just five and a half hours each day - 8am until 1.30pm- Monday to Friday). The upper echelons of society have been famous for years for their tax evasion (or should that be avoidance - never been clear what the difference was) and Greek businesses owe billions in back tax to the Greek exchequer, about which it appears that nothing is done.

But the people that are really suffering in all this are, of course, the common populace. Set against all this overmanning and lax practice are other honest people that pay their bills, work for themselves and work all the hours Zeus sends. These people are now being asked to pay hugely increased taxes, seeing their wages shrink or be cut, prices in the shops increase and their standard of living dramatically eroded. They are in despair, and rightly so.

The situation is bad in Athens, but it's worse on the islands where they do not have the commerce and year round business to alleviate some of the pressure. One generation is being expected to pay for the excesses and inadequacies of the previous five or six. It can't be done, and the amount of pain it is causing is difficult to witness.

The opinion of many in Greece is that at some stage a default is inevitable, and many there actively want to go back to the drachma, giving Greece greater control over its own destiny instead of being tied into the powerhouse economy of Germany. Whether that will make a difference is debatable, and it will only work if they radically change the way their taxation system operates and once and for they all address their national culture - in the past, not paying tax has been something of a national sport! PAYE would perhaps be a good way forward, a longer working life until 60 and, in these days of air conditioning, more standardised (ie nine to five) working hours for the money. Something else that could be done with the excessive number of public sector workers is to transfer them into other jobs to do something about the crumbling infrastructure; there are numerous potholes and dangerous pavements, the streets are dirty and graffiti is rife, street lighting is broken and inoperable and many beaches are covered in litter or old rusty pieces of iron sticking out of the breakwaters, all of which requires attention.  Repairing it all would restore some pride in a country which depends so much on how it looks to attract visitors and feed one of its major industries these days, tourism.

Maybe if Greece wants to leave the Euro, we should allow them to do so. I don't believe the euro as a whole would collapse just because one country leaves it, and it may provide a better balance for those that are left inside. I also believe it is no use harking back to the end of World War II and the fact that the Germans still owe Greece 41 billion euros in reparation. They ain't gonna pay it, and you are where you are. Now you have to deal with it. 

Of course I'm not an expert and I may be talking bunkum. There will be lots of other solutions and ideas about how to deal with this and lots more people who are much better informed than me. If anyone reading this has a bright idea, I'd like to hear it. Perhaps what I'm thinking is too simplistic (something I am often accused of) but it seems logical to me. Let me know - I have a vested interest!

Backing into a corner

Why is it, when we are wrong, we find it so hard to apologise?

I think many people see it as weakness, but actually having the courage to acknowledge your failings is a strength.

There is something in the human psyche which seems to make us want to be in the right all the time and with many people, also always want to have the last word. I know that I always feel life would be so much easier if only everyone would just agree with me! It’s one of our less attractive characteristics, and when taken to extremes, becomes incredibly difficult to deal with.

I have known people who are blatantly in the wrong or clearly lying, but have pursued their argument over such a long period that eventually I’m sure they begin to believe it themselves. They push their case regardless of the evidence against them, backing themselves further and further into a corner until eventually there is no way out and the final humiliation when they are proved wrong is much greater and remembered for so much longer than if they had backed down gracefully earlier on.

No one likes to fail or be seen to be a liar, but there is something to be said for knowing which battles to fight and generally speaking these types of situations tend to arise from very minor disagreements and tensions and then become disproportionate, and in the end, if looked at dispassionately, are not worth fighting about.

What is it that sets apart those people that will pursue a course of action that is contrary to all logic and common sense for incomprehensible reasons without considering whether it is worth the aggravation it inevitably causes? Or perhaps they have considered it, and someone how in their heads they can justify what they do? Who knows, but each and every one of us will have dealt with some one that has been unreasonable, twists facts or lies until they are blue in the face to get their way.

What ever else I may be, I’m not a liar. I think I’d be quite good at it (I am an actress after all) but the main problem for me would be remembering what I’d said and keeping it simple. Most liars are tripped up by contradicting themselves or by over embroidering their stories so they become far too complex to remember. And anyway, I can’t be bothered. There are very few things that are over-ridingly important to me; one is my husband, another is my children and grand daughter, and that’s about it. Not even my job qualifies as something worth telling lies for or about. I simply can’t be bothered; life is complicated enough as it is without remembering fabrications.

I know lots of people, but I have very few real friends, I think because I can’t be bothered with people who do things like this. Hidden agendas and deviousness to me are two of the most unappealing traits you can have and I don’t want to deal with people who do that. I am a straightforward person, and I like others to be straight with me. My conscience is clear, and I think I’ll live longer without the stress!

Pets - why do we love them?

I have a very good friend who has just sadly lost a treasured family pet after nineteen years of love and affection. I haven't yet managed to have a chat with her, but I know she will be devastated.

This lovely  little cat was a gentle creature which always, when I went there, cuddled up to me and gave me attention. Possibly she could sense I was a complete sucker for cats, I don't know, but she never failed to appear and say hello.

The bond we form with our animals is a very special thing. I have four cats and I will be inconsolable when I lose one of them for whatever reason. In the past, I had two other cats and lived near a busy road. Despite the fact that I was well aware of the risks and high likelihood of at least one of them getting run over and killed, I cried buckets when (both) of them did.

Why is it that us Brits have this anthropomorphic attitude towards animals? They don't have it in mainland Europe, by and large, where animals are only kept if they are useful for food or manual labour.  There are a few pets, and then mostly in the cities, but not many. In some parts of Europe they see animals that they cannot eat or make to work - and that includes dogs and cats - as a pest, and put down poison.

I don't have a single female friend who doesn't go 'Ahhh' when confronted by a small kitten, a puppy, a baby rabbit, a field full of woolley lambs, a pony or a bunch of piglets. Most men try to maintain a masculine indifference, but even they usually melt eventually. The French, Germans, Greeks and Italians would reach for the recipe book, but we reach for Pets at Home's phone number. 

And doesn't it cost us? You can't walk through the door of the vets without spending about fifty quid, and a large bag of Iams cat food costs £45 (admittedly that does last my four moggies about a month, but its just a load of crunchy biscuits, for goodness sake!). We buy them cradles and hammocks to go next to the radiator, toys to stop them getting bored which they promptly push under the sofa so you end up moving the whole room around to find the thing, and treats for being good. Mine get their own Christmas stocking. We must be complete idiots, and those lovely little faces sure know how to manipulate us!

I think that one of the reasons I have always loved my cats is that despite their independent natures, they give love unconditionally back. They don't care what you have done, the fact that you look like shit in the morning, that you have put on weight or just yelled at them for puking a hairball on the new carpet. They don't sulk or keep harking back to past disagreements or problems. They never have to have the last word. They just love you. Sometimes it's cupboard love, but most often they just love you for who you are and for looking after them. Instinctively, they know. And that appeals to something very deep in our psyche.

Regionalism - stereotype and bias

I stood next to a party of people on the tube this week who clearly weren’t ‘some of us’. There was a range of accents, mostly northern. None of them were Londoners or from the home counties.

The minute you hear a regional British accent, you automatically think of the stereotypes. Sadly, so many of them seem to be true.

There was a Liverpudlian in this group this morning who really did say ‘Alright’ every thirty seconds and who, somewhat unwisely in the middle of Kensington and Chelsea only a mile or two from Stamford Bridge loudly pronounced in the middle of a conversation about footie that Chelsea really were ‘shite’ weren’t they?

There’s no reason why people from the north, west or centre of England shouldn’t be as cultured and nice as those of us in the south (or indeed those from Scotland, Northern Ireland or Wales) but our prejudiced southern ears so often hear sounds that aren’t old fashioned BBC English and dismiss the speaker as either

a)   Common

b)   Illiterate

c)   Stupid or

d)   Poor

Why do we do that? Is it just generations of bias handed down from parents to children, or do we have personal experiences of people from these places who meet the criteria above and so we assume that everyone must be like that? Have we been unduly influenced by comedy programmes such as ‘Harry Enfield and Chums’ or by articles in the press about the deprivation and social difficulties in other regions which we assume infects all those that reside there?

I have family up north (in Accrington, to be precise) and I can honestly say that they don’t fulfil any of those criteria above, but I still leap to the stereotype when I hear the accent even though I know it isn’t typical but is, as with any stereotype, an extreme. We have stereotypes in London – until I worked in Kensington I didn’t think the tweed wearing blue rinsed Kensington lady who lunched really existed, but boy, oh boy, she does. I didn’t really believe that the stereotypical young Asian lad who goes around in leisure clothes all the time, wears his baseball cap backwards and says ‘innit’ all the time existed, but he does.

Stereotyping is a bad thing, celebrating regionalism isn’t. Variety is the spice of life, and it would be very boring if we were all Barbour wearing, BBC English speaking southerners, wouldn’t it? But equally, I really dislike it when organisations such as the BBC shove regionalism in our faces and put people with such strong accents on the news that I can’t understand a word. Equally, it pisses me off when I talk to some call centre or other based in Glasgow and get someone with a Scots accent so thick I cannot understand a word, made worse by the fact that they speak at nineteen to the dozen.

I have friends that come from all over the UK. Most of them I can understand perfectly well but that may be because they have lived in the south for quite a while, and none of them seem to have any funny regional habits (well, not that I know of, although some of them do eat some very odd things). I am happy for them to celebrate their origins and be proud of them.

But I do think you have to be realistic. If you’re a broadcaster, you need to make sure that all of your audience can understand what you are broadcasting. I’m not advocating they should broadcast routinely in other languages (this is the UK for goodness sake, so if you live here you should learn to speak English) but simply that you need to broadcast in a dialect that is clear and unambiguous.

James McNaughtie on the today programme with his soft but clear Scots accent I can cope with, a broadly spoken but token Glaswegian or Geordie I can’t.

Liz's Diamond Jubilee

Watching the news, the country appears to not only be gearing itself up for the Olympics, but also for the Queen's Diamond jubilee. Now that really is something to celebrate.

She's a game old bird, is Liz. Thrust into a role for which she had not been prepared as a very young girl, having to catch up only later in her youth when her uncle abdicated, she came to the throne aged 25 much earlier than anyone expected and has presided over a country which has changed enormously for 60 years. She has weathered scandal, natural disaster, minor wars and several governments and always appeared calm and unruffled. Dragged into the controversy of Princess Diana's death when she would much rather have privately been caring for her grandsons, she showed that albeit unwillingly, she could stand in the public eye admitting that she may have misjudged a situation and still win people's hearts and minds.

As you may have guessed I am, in a fairly passive way, a royalist. At any rate, I think it's a damn sight better than any possible alternative. On a per capita basis, it doesn't actually cost us that much and the positive PR it gives us is invaluable. A recent survey showed that satisfaction with the monarchy is running at at 70% and that is pretty consistent, amazing in the 21st century for what coud be considered an outdated institution. Satisfaction with the Queen herself usually tops 80%.

It's a shame about the rest of the family, many of which seem pretty much to be a waste of space. William is OK, and Kate seems a nice young woman, but Harry would appear to be a bit of a waster with an expensive taste in cocktails (the thing he drinks in Boujis, a club in South Kensington, costs £350 a pop (it contains real gold flakes apparently) and if you believe the gossip magazines he regularly runs up drinks bills there of several thousands). We're paying for that. Beatrice and Eugenie don't seem to have any real use in life, and don't get me started on the well meaning but generally prattish Charlie boy (or, come to that, Andrew).

But the Queen herself is worth her weight in gold. She has said this week that she wil continue in her role for her lifetime, something I was pleased to hear. She certainly deserves her celebratory year and I dearly hope that her husband, Prince Philip, is able to be by her side for all of it. Philip amuses me - his irascible manner and tactless approach are something which is very refreshing in the stuffy inner circle, although I bet he's a bugger to live with. But he does seem to be her rock, and I bet she would find it very hard to continue without him.

We went round Buck House last summer and thoroughly enjoyed the very professional guided tour and the special exhibition of Faberge eggs. This year, the special exhibition is, naturally and very appropriately, of the Queen's most precious diamonds. I love sparkly things, so I'd really like to see that and we get a free re-entry, so we'll definitely be going.

I won't be going up to the concert outside the Palace (much better view on the telly) or to any special events, but I will be wishing her well where ever I am. Let's hope she keeps going for many more years!

Dickens at 200

This month is the 200th anniversary of Charles Dickens' birth. You must have noticed - the media have been shoving it down our throats since Christmas.

Dickens is, of course, one of the greatest writers that this country and possibly the world has ever produced. He is up there with Chaucer, Shakespeare, the Brontes, Jane Austen, John Webster (OK, he's a playwrite but let's not split hairs) and, in the modern literary world, people like PD James and Annie Proux. I must also confess my guilty pleasure and add Jeffrey Archer here because what ever else he may be, he is a damn good story teller.

Dickens' characters have lived in our imagination since childhood and most people, including children, can name at least one. Mostly that will be Oliver, but also well known will be the other characters from Oliver, Miss Havisham, Nicholas Nickleby, Ebenezer Scrooge and more. My personal favourite novel has to be 'A Christmas Carol' (you may remember my favourite Christmas movie is Muppet Christmas Carol) and the story of morals and compassion expounded upon within it is one of the most fundamental examinations of the human character and its failings that there is.

Dickens' stories have been reworked into some of the most famous stage plays, movies and musicals. Again, the obvious one is Oliver!, but also Great Expectations, Christmas Carol, The Old Curiosity Shop, Nicholas Nickleby (who can forget the fabulous RSC adaptation once they have seen it) and more. Most of us theatricals hanker after playing one or more of his characters whether it be Wackford Squeers, Fagin, Nancy or something else.

Charles Dickens was not, of course, originally a novelist. He first wrote his stories as a series to be published in popular Victorian magazines, one chapter each week. It was only later that the chapters were compiled and sold as novels. They were the Victorian equivalent of a weekly cliffhanger, each time leaving his readers  wanting more and guaranteeing the magazines a regular readership. He was amazingly popular in his day (and indeed still is) which was just as well, because he also very often wrote for purely commercial reasons; he needed the cash from his writing to live. He was not a rich man and he had ten children which was a pretty substantial family even for Victorian days. He was a bit of a ladies man and by all accounts, treated his long suffering wife rather badly and showered presents on various mistresses.

It was his own life experiences and observations that informed much of the content of his writing. He was a great observer, walking miles and exploring London and often Rochester and other parts of Kent to find characters and locations. The Victorian slums he portrays, child gangs and thieves (things don't change much, do they?), poor houses and prostitution were real, and provided rich colour to give his stories background and grittiness. That grittiness is what sets his stories apart from others that were writing around the same time; other writers often focused on comedies of manners with saccharine heroines or dashing heroes and based their tales around the comfortable middle or upper classes, but not Charles Dickens who wanted reality and earthiness.

Much of what he wrote about is still pertinent today, and perhaps that is why his stories have remained so popular. None of them has ever gone out of print and demand remains high. So even in a modern culture which prides itself on being forward thinking, relaxed, easy going and loves technology, his world of right and wrong, morals and not shying away from the filth and detritus of our own making and ensuring we try and make it better for everyone, remains relevant.

We have much to learn from him, and every home should have at least one of his books. Our children should all get their bedtime story with a dose of Dickens, and we should all try and read his words again too. With luck, they will then be preserved for future generations and they will value them long into the future.

Passage of time - where have the years gone?

Last weekend we went to a friends 50th birthday party, the fourth or fifth one that we have been to in the last couple of years (not including our own).

It's a mark of getting older how much more quickly time goes, I think. It doesn't seem so long ago that I was forty, and I can easily remember being in my thirties which I think for me was my best decade. I had a bit of money, a decent job, more confidence and experience to better deal with life than in my twenties, no encumbrances (children, huge mortgage etc) and the whole world seemed to be in front of me. To be forty or fifty seemed a very long lifetime away. People that age were old!

It's cliche, but I don't know where the years have gone. Mentally, I still feel the same as I did when I was thirty, but I do have to admit the old body is letting me down a bit. You will all know, if you read this regularly, about my problems with my back and my knees; I also have to wear glasses to read and have had an operation on my nose. Not, as rude people amongst you may thing, to have it made smaller, although that would have been nice (I did ask them to shave off a bit while they were at it, but the consultant declined even with an offer of ready money), but to straighten a deviated septum which was giving me blocked sinuses.

And I seem to get busier as I get older. I thought that in your fifties you were supposed to be able to slow down a bit and do more of the things that you enjoy instead of the things which you are obliged to do, but perhaps these days that's a luxury which our parents took for granted but which we cannot afford.

They do say that fifty is the new forty, so maybe I should relax about it and just get on with it. When I think back to my mother at fifty, she had grey hair in a granny perm, had the mental outlook of a ninety year old (but then she'd had that since she was twenty herself) and wore crimplene and cardigans, a truly style free zone. Most fifty years olds of my acquaintance now (and some sixty and seventy year olds) dress well, look after their hair - ie it isn't grey and it isn't permed -  and have a very young outlook; we bear no resemblence to the fifty year olds of previous generations.

I don't feel old, and I'm determined not to be old. That poem which says "When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple, and a hat which doesn't go" sums it up perfectly for me. It doesn't matter how old you actually are, it's how old you feel and think which is important. So in my head I'm still thirty, not fifty, and I will be for a long time. I have previously blogged about the reasons I still feel young, and I intend to hang on to them as long as possible.

The good thing about being older is that it gives you the confidence to know that being older doesn't matter. Life is for living, so go out there and enjoy it, and the rest of them can go hang if they don't like it!

An update on my fitness regime

I thought it was about time I gave you an update on my fitness regime.

An earlier blog set out all sorts of resolutions for losing weight and getting fitter, having more energy etc, and I bet you all thought I'd given up didn't you, because it had all gone quiet?

As some of you know, I've tried loads of diets in the past. Old fashioned calorie counting (mathematically beyond me after a while and sooo boring) , diet shakes and soups (expensive and a waste of time), Weight Watchers (OK, apart from the collection of permanently lardy and weight obsessed women who go and their blinkered faith in weight watchers soup to help them lose weight - of course it doesn't, because you are so bloody hungry afterwards you eat biscuits!), Atkins (nice lots of protein but hardens your arteries) and detox programmes (disgusting food). None of it has really worked, and none of it has had a long term effect. So this time, I've just cut down, cut out the obvious bad guys (pasta, bread, fried food, fat itself and sugar), eaten more salad, fruit and lean meat and drunk loads of water. So far, together with my little quack herbal supplements (see below), it seems to be working.

Because, ye of little faith, as of last Sunday morning the bathroom scales tell me that in total over the past three weeks I have lost about 10lb in weight. The equivalent of 20 blocks of butter! Come on, that deserves a standing ovation, because it's a bloody good achievement and far more than I have managed at any diet regime whatsoever over the past few years. I am, as of today, feeling slightly smug and pleased with myself.

I think it's a combination of a few things. Smaller portions, no snacking, no alcohol from Sunday to Thursday night, minimal chocolate (I have had one Twirl bar in the last three weeks which has required an incredible effort of will, and nothing else chocolatey at all), no other treats and a bit more physical activity. The Zumba game for the Wii is great fun, and I have been back to the gym (can't afford to do that too often though). I have also been using the herbal appetite suppressants I blogged about a while back, and something called Colon Cleanse (I'm sure I don't have to go into detail about what it does, but apparently Cheryl Cole lost three stone using it, so it must be OK).

So feeling buoyed up by my success, I'm going to keep going. I have a goal weight in sight, and I intend to reach it by the time I go away in the summer. I know it will get harder, but I am more determined this time than I have ever been.

The trouble is, after a few weeks boredom tends to set in and that's when it is easy to stray. So it's probably a good job I am also skint, because that means I can't afford to go to Cafe Nero in the morning and buy a capucino and pain au chocolat, and I make do with a bowl of cereal at the office instead. Lunch is packed up the night before and taken to work, so no temptation to go to Maccie D's, and dinner is good quality protein and nice veg.

I'll keep you posted over the next few weeks, but super model status, here I come!

Self awareness - it's amazing how many people don't have it!

I know that my way of doing and saying things can occasionally seem rather blunt to some people, and has in the past been annoying. Throughout my life I have regularly been accused of being insensitive, brash, rude and arrogant in my opinions. I think I am straightforward and honest. Sometimes I am bothered by what people think of me, but more often not; most people’s opinions have no more value than mine and I hold the vast majority of the human race in pretty low regard.

Very occasionally I get it wrong, and much less often I regret it. But the thing is I am fully aware of what people think of me. When that bothers me, and there are a few people whose friendship, views and opinions I value, I make the effort to get to know them and make them understand how I tick and when I do mess up, I apologise. However most people of my acquaintance don’t bother to get to know the real person underneath the façade and so have a one sided view which they then pronounce as being the full picture. This totally annoys The Hubby, who sees the pussy cat beneath and gets irritated when others don’t bother to try. But then he is biased.

In my teams at work at the moment I have one person who totally lacks self awareness, and there is someone else that I deal with on a daily basis who is the same.  These individuals have absolutely no idea how their chosen vocabulary, tone and/or body language appears to others and they blissfully go through life unburdened by worries about what others have thought or felt.

They must be happier than me, and their consciences must be clear of causing offence, anxiety or concern. They drift along talking to others inappropriately, raising their voice and invading personal space, without a thought about how the individual they are dealing with feels and if they knew, they wouldn’t understand it. I know for instance that my member of staff is a very tall person who tends to stand too close to people when he talks to them, which intimidates the female colleagues he has to work with to the extent that they now avoid contact with him when possible. He is totally unaware of this, and wouldn’t believe it if I told him. He thinks he is doing nothing wrong.

I fail to understand how anyone who has been brought up with even a basic understanding of good manners can be so dense. It is one thing to know, to understand and not care, but quite another to be ignorant. I firmly believe that regardless of how much we may value some solitude and ‘me’ time, the human race is hardwired to be gregarious and live in communal society and part of our success as a species has to be an innate understanding of how to interact and connect effectively with others. Survival of the fittest is one thing, but united we stand is stronger.

I don’t believe anyone goes through life purposely to upset or distress others unless they are mentally ill or a serial killer, and I usually do try to moderate my behaviour to get what I want. Quite often, I succeed.  Knowing how to deal with those that are unaware of their behaviour is a real problem, because even if you explain it is beyond their understanding. And knowing when to apologise and eat humble pie when you get it wrong is a skill that is invaluable, and which many more people could do with learning.

It's 'The View on the Street's two month anniversary!

I have been blogging for two months now. I can't believe it has gone so quickly!

When I started back in early December 2011, it was something that I'd always had a hankering to do, but never actually found the time. I was also worried that I wouldn't have enough to write about or that anyone would read it. After all, most people have their own lives to lead and probably aren't interested in the ramblings of an outspoken, radically minded and slightly off the wall, middle aged, middle England female.

Well in the last two months I have written 55 blogs - this is the 56th. That's almost one a day and so far, with only a small amount of duplication and the occasional rant, I've found it pretty easy. (Just wait - now I've said that next week I'll be struggling to think of a topic). I'm even considering compiling them as a sort of 'Bridget Jones Diary' thing and eventually sending them to a publisher. You never know, they might make my fortune.

By and large subjects do seem to present themselves. Either something on the news which interests or infuriates me, a particularly bad or good programme on the telly, something which amuses or interests me perhaps simply from people watching or maybe something very personal. Something almost always occurs to me and while I am sure some of them are more interesting than others and some are better written, I think most of them are entertaining. But I would say that, wouldn't I?

I have to admit that I am a trifle disappointed that not many people are actually signed up as followers, but I do know that many more read it. Quite often now people's opening line when they see me is "I like your blog" or even more flatteringly, "I look forward to reading your blog". That's always nice for any writer to hear and I do often set out to be controversial. I want people to say what they think too, and I don't mind if they disagree with me. Writing like this is extremely cathartic, and engaging in exchanges of views very healthy.

Possibly, of course, readers may be thoroughly fed up with continually reading my drivel, but I don't think so. So if you are, let me know! It doesn't mean I'll stop, I may even decide to try and change your mind, but at least you will have said what you think!

I hate February.

February is such a dismal month. The worst of the weather almost always seems to be in February (in the last four years, three of the big snowfalls have been the first week of February), I go to work and come home in the dark, the nice times of Christmas and activities such as panto are all finished, and we are all tired and desperate for the summer.

Work seems to get ludicrously hectic in February too, or perhaps its just that we have a lull over Christmas and in January so it seems like it's abnormally hectic now. I have so much on my 'to do' list I will have to be superwoman to get it all done on time, and right now I feel nothing like superwoman. The treatment on my back has been pretty effective but it has left me with massive bruises all along my spine which are very sore to touch or sleep on - so not much sleep - and everything I am involved with seems to be problematic.

The only bright side of February is that it will soon be spring. Sitting here writing this with snow blanketing the garden and the new green shoots which had hopefully come through dying of the cold now, it doesn't seem possible that very soon March and April will be  upon us with their sharp breezes and invigorating sunny days and I will be able to get out into the garden again without shivering. Last April, when I was away, there were temperatures of 25 degrees in the UK - we were shivering in 10 degrees and rain in Crete!

I am definitely a summer season girl. As you will have gathered if you read this blog regularly, I hate being cold, I hate being wet, I hate not being able to go out safely and when all that happens at once my hatred for the English weather is concentrated into full incandescance. I wimped out of going to work on Friday despite the fact that we had an important all day 'Away Day' planned because  it snowed all Thursday night, when I woke up in the morning the road was covered in snow, my back hurt and the Southern web site said that on my line 'your services are subject to disruption'. Frankly, it wasn't worth it and I felt tearful just thinking about it. The fact that the snow on the road had melted by lunchtime and my back is slowly but surely getting better throughout the day makes me feel guilty, but not too much!

I know the rest of the winter will pass quickly (I can even hear a cuckoo as i write, amazingly) and before we know it, summer will be upon us and whilst not wanting to wish my life away, I can't wait. It must be costing a fortune in heating bills me being at home all the time, and I get very bored and internet shop which I can't afford, so it's about time I got back to work properly and stopped feeling that I'd like to hibernate.

But in the meantime, I'm stoking up the fire and bringing in more logs. Gluwein, anyone?

After the dentist, the vets!

It's an expensive month. As well as me probably having to go to the dentist, my four cats have to go to the vet this week.

Their annual jabs are due, and so I have to subject them to the torture of the basket, car, veterinary surgery and car again. Each and every one, they hate it!

They have learnt that as soon as they see that wicker basket come out of the loft hatch, something is going to happen to them which they won’t like. I have resorted to hiding the basket upstairs, shutting all the doors so they can’t get into the bedrooms to hide and locking their cat flap so they can’t leg it into the garden just to get them into it in the first place. I also book the appointment first thing in the morning, when they are almost always indoors and I can guarantee to catch them.

I always feel bad about doing this, even though I know it’s good for them and if I didn’t do it and they got ill not only would I feel incredibly guilty but it would cost me considerably more into the bargain. Two of them in particular cry like babies from the minute I put them into the car until we get to the vets, when they are struck dumb in sheer terror at the smell of dogs and other animals as well as that nasty sickly smell you always seem to get in veterinary surgeries (I’m spelling it in full each time just so as you know I can!). I think it must be the disinfectant, but it’s horrible. Then they endure the indignity of the needle, a thermometer stuck up their bum and a worming tablet stuck down their throat. I'm not surprised they don't like it!

For quite a while afterwards I am sent to Coventry. Each cat skulks off to its favourite chair or corner and regards me with baleful yellow eyes for the rest of the day, as though its life has been blighted for ever. I’m sure they only do it because they know that if I feel guilty enough, not only will they get Felix for tea but also a packet of cat treats instead of their usual Iams. Who says cats don’t know how to manipulate you?

My oldest girl is getting on a bit now, reaching the grand old age of 14 this April. She was bought as a tenth birthday present for my oldest daughter but resides with me. The next oldest is 12, whilst the youngsters are both ten. They all rub along together, although the 12 year old is a bit of a bully and can be treated as a pariah by the others when she has tried to rule the roost and been put firmly in her place by the oldest.

Not only does the oldest cat rule the others, they all rule us. They will sit and stare when you are sitting in their favourite place so intensely that I have been known to move because I felt so uncomfortable with their eyes on me. They demand their meals with monotonous regularity, and create loads of mess with their dirty paws and fur on a level that you wouldn’t tolerate from your children.

I love my cats to bits, and have always been a cat person ever since I was a small child. They have their little personalities and habits, and are a source of fun and enjoyment. They’re not as clever as dogs, being purely decorative, but those cute little furry faces make your heart melt when they rub up to you.

All in all, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A visit to the dentist - no!!!

I will have to go to the dentist soon.

It's not a scheduled appointment, I don’t do those, but I have a nasty pain at the back of my mouth where the wisdom tooth is and it won't go away. I don't think it's the tooth - if it were I would be jumping around in agony - but it's either a humungous ulcer or an abscess and it hurts.

I haven’t been to the dentist for ages. I am not afraid of drills or needles, but I simply don’t like all those nasty metal implements in my mouth; the very sight of them makes me gag. And those unpleasant things they shove into your mouth to take x-rays are no-no’s altogether. Nothing is guaranteed to get me out of that dentist’s chair quicker than the sight of those rectangular pieces of plastic which they put into each cheek.

Generally speaking, my gnashers are in pretty good shape. Nice and white and strong. I brush regularly and thoroughly, and never have nasties such as bleeding gums. I have all my teeth except one which I cracked eating a particularly large, hard pork scratching a few years ago (I’m such a sophisticate!), very few fillings and no damaged enamel - for an old girl of 50, that’s not bad going.

Even more than the dentist, I hate the hygienist. Why on earth would I pay extra to sit there while some woman scrapes away at my teeth and gums, makes them bleed and gives me a lecture into the bargain. “Your gums are full of plaque, Mrs White, look, they’re bleeding” she says smugly as she pushes a sharp implement into aforementioned gums. Yes, they damn well are now, you sadistic cow!

I suppose if I went to the dentist regularly I would avoid having to go in an emergency, but I’m always hopeful that anything will clear up in its own time with plentiful applications of Corsodyl and Bonjela. I’ve been to Boots today and stocked up on the dental first aid just to give it my best shot before taking extreme measures and parting with my money. I have deliberately made the appointment for two weeks time in the hope that self medication will work this time too, in the knowledge that if it doesn’t and it gets worse they will always find you an emergency slot and by then I will be in so much pain that I won’t care what they do as long as they help me.

I suppose there are some nice dentists (in fact I know there are as I know one or two socially) but as soon as I see them with that little mirror and sharp pointy thing in their hands they all assume the air of Jack the Ripper in my mind, leering at you from behind their plastic mask and tilting the chair back so there is no escape from their evil clutches.  If I ever need serious work done on my teeth, they will have to knock me out with huge quantities of gas.

So for the next fortnight I will be administering my over the counter remedies assiduously and psyching myself up for a possible torture session. I will let you know how I get on!

Never regret!

“There is a tide in the affairs of men which, if taken at the flood, leads on to fortune”.

I don’t recall who wrote that, Shakespeare I think, but it might have been John Webster, or possibly someone else. Anyway, it is a very famous quote which perfectly sums up that you should grab opportunities when you can because you never know, they just might lead you to your heart’s desire.

How many of us spend our lives hankering after something which might have been, or regretting lost chances? I know I certainly have and for some things still do. I regret not standing up for things I wanted at the time or that I believed to be right either because I didn’t have the courage or I just wanted to be rid of things and so took the easy way out. I regret not having more involvement in things which were important to me and in so not doing, seeing them run away from me in a direction I would not have chosen nor would I have wished to take. I regret not having the courage to push my career in the direction I wanted when I was younger, and so drifting into my present job which is unsatisfying, tiring and pretty thankless (although it does – just – pay the bills).

I also regret some things that I have done, such as overspending and being landed with a huge credit card bill, offending some people whose opinion I actually did care about, and a whole raft of other things that a public blog is probably not the right place to expand upon (make of that what you may!).

But life is too short to spend it regretting things. This weekend just gone was when we had our big financial planning discussion, which is probably why I am feeling slightly philosophical about this sort of thing. Not being in a good position financially is something I have got used to over the years, but this time we could really see light at the end of the tunnel even if it does mean having a couple of quite lean years whilst jobs sort themselves out and debts get paid off. So it was a positive discussion and didn’t really focus on the negative at all.

We have plans for the next few years, and it would be good to be rid of work commitments in our late fifties or at the latest early sixties so that we can do some of the things we want to while we still have the health and energy to do so. I know too many people who have left their plans and dreams until retirement, only to be cheated of their fun by ill health or worse. I don’t want that to be me.

I find austerity hard. I am a natural spender, unlike my parents who were natural savers and never seemed to mind the hardship which that occasionally brought. But with a positive plan and not a headful of regrets I know I can do it. I do intend, when in the midst of the flood, to grab my chance and go with it to my fortune. Wish me luck!

De-nervation

Yesterday I had a wonderful procedure called de-nervation on my back.

Put very simply and in layman's terms, it involves putting the patient under sedation, identifying the painful joints and nerves under x-ray conditions and then using an electric pulse (laser to you and me) to cauterise the nerve endings, effectively killing them. It takes a couple of weeks to be fully effective and lasts nine to twelve months, sometimes permanently.

I have now suffered with back pain for around three years. It took six months to correctly diagnose a prolapsed disk (after several sessions of fruitless physiotherapy) and since then I have had five different sets of injections - five lots of steroids directly into a) the disk and b) the spinal column and also two sets of facet joint injections. None of them have worked more than medium term and eventually, the pain returns. 

If this doesn't work, the next step is back surgery. They will remove what is left of the damaged disk, and fuse the two vertebrae together. Takes about six weeks to recover, apparently. Not something I want to undergo unless I really have to.

I am very fortunate to have insurance through my employer, and so I have had the treatment I need each time pretty quickly and been treated as a human bring in comfortable surroundings. I'm not knocking the NHS, and in an emergency you couldn't be in better hands (last year my father in law had emergency surgery and two weeks of excellent care in the ITU of Guildford General Hospital before sadly he passed away), but if you need treatment for minor injuries you can wait weeks; someone I know has been told they need physio, but the first appointment they could get was in six weeks time. That's ridiculous - if you need physio, you need it now, not in two months time. And the sheer volume of cases the NHS handles makes it inevitably impersonal. The UK is unique in the world with its high quality of readily available healthcare, but it can be something of a cattle market.

I would have to be very hard up to give up my private health insurance and over the last three years I have certainly had my money's worth. My care has been excellent, quick, appropriate and effective. The consultant gave me time and really seemed to care about what I needed. As my treatment was five years ago when I had my septum in my nose straightened at the Queen Vic private wing in East Grinstead. I have no guilt about using private medical care; my view is that I am freeing up an NHS place for someone else.

I really hope that this procedure is effective and I am not in the small minority (about 10%, I believe) who do not respond to it. But if I am, I will certainly go private again for my surgery with no qualms whatsoever. But lets hope it isn't necessary. It will be nice to have a day without any pain!

Scalps will fall! But will justice be done?

Two high profile scalps have fallen this week in the quest for squeaky clean sportsman and politicians.

Chris Hulme, The Minister for Energy and Climate Change, has resigned over the claims that he asked his ex wife to take speeding points for him to avoid a driving ban back in 2003. Mr Hulme has now been charged with something (fraud, perverting the course of justice, not sure) by the Metropolitan Police as has his ex and they will both appear at Westminster Magistrates Court next week.

John Terry, the Chelsea and England captain, has also been stripped of his England captaincy (not for the first time) due to allegations of racial abuse he made towards an opposing player some months ago and for which he is now due to stand trial. Unlike Chris Hulme, who has done the decent thing for once and stood down, John Terry was arrogant enough to stay put until he was pushed.

I don't know what evidence there is against Mr Hulme, but there must be something concrete or the CPS would never have agreed to progress the case. John Terry, the twat, was caught on camera. Both of them of course, deny everything.

What is it about public or high profile figures, who should be role models, which makes them act in these ways and not expect to get caught? We have such a vicious and predatory press that anyone in the public eye is watched like a hawk for anything which might be slightly out of line or newsworthy. Scandal, like sex, sells papers and ensures viewers.

The principal of course holds good for us ordinary mortals. If you are in a position of responsibility and you step out of line or you cock up, you have to hold your hand up for the blame and if necessary, fall on your sword. Endless damage can be done if people put their personal position above everything else, including justice for others.

Whatever the outcome of these two cases, they should be a lesson for us all. Simply it's this - don't do things you may later be ashamed of or which you will regret and if you step out of line, don't do it so bloody obviously that you will inevitably get caught. Big Brother is everywhere, and your sins will find you out, even if it takes a few years (10 in Mr Hulme's case, and then as the result of a bitter divorce from aforementioned ex who was trying to get her revenge . A tactic which has now, because she is being tried too, backfired somewhat!).

Me of course, well I'm blameless. I'd never do anything like that. I'd never do something reprehensible then try to cover it up and I certainly wouldn't try to get someone else to become an accessory after the fact. Would I? At least, I haven't yet!

Aren't mobile phones wonderful?

Isn’t the mobile phone a wonderful invention? It has had so many benefits, tapping into our need to communicate, giving parents a degree of reassurance about where their offspring are, enabling us to tell the world the minutiae of our daily lives whilst we are on the move via social networking sites.

There is no doubt that mobile telephony, along with the contraceptive pill, the world wide web and the motor car, will stand as one of the great inventions of the 20^th century. It is something that has benefited the masses and, unless you want a luxury model with hundreds of web minutes and one which makes the tea as well, is affordable to the vast majority.

The downside is that the mobile phone has bought out the worst side of human beings in terms of manners and behaviour, and has placed more stresses and pressures on our every day lives as well. Below are just a few of the irritating traits and annoying habits which I see every day:-

·         The obvious one – people talking too loudly whilst in the company of others or at length in a public place such as a restaurant. Shut up - it’s RUDE!

·         People talking about incredibly personal things such as their health, their financial circumstances or their relationships in a similar way. I don’t want to know and it’s embarrassing, but I can’t help hearing.

·         People that walk along in a busy environment (such as Victoria Station) whilst trying to text. Look where you are bloody well going and get a move on!

·         Irritating ring tones, often of rap music, played at top volume. This may be a surprise to you, but not all of us think it’s cool. Most of us think you’re a w****r!

·         ‘Personal’ music stored on phones and played too loud through inadequate headphones, or played through the speaker somewhere like the beach or the park. The clue is in the old fashioned name – it’s a PERSONAL music player!

·         People breaking off from speaking to someone to engage in a phone call when it rings, and totally ignoring the person they were talking to for an extended length of time. Would you do that if someone came up to you face to face? No, you would ask them to wait!

·         Children with their phones at the dinner table, even on special occasion, continually checking them just in case someone has rung/texted. Listen up guys, you’re not that important!

·         (My) children who are constantly on their phone to their mates and then don’t pick up when I need to get hold of them.

·         Rampant commercialism with encouragement from greedy technology companies for us to spend our hard earned cash on an up to date model even though the one we have is only a few months old. Why not try saving the planet and making sustainable phones or just selling us a new battery? Oh, and make all the chargers the same, will you?

·         Shocking waste. We are a throw away culture and mobiles sadly are a disposable product. I wonder how many old handsets and lithium batteries there are knocking around in our homes and in municipal waste dumps?

Don’t get me wrong, I like my mobile (I have a blackberry) and the sheer convenience of it is something which I would desperately miss if I had to do without it. But I can do without it and sometimes consciously do so – when I am at home, for instance it is switched off. If you need me when I’m at home, and you are someone I want to talk to, you will have my landline number so ring me on that. When I’m on holiday, I don’t carry my mobile with me, I just check it twice a day, and the sense of freedom that gives is fantastic. Occasionally, after a busy week, I will unplug the landline, switch off the mobile, disconnect the doorbell and shut myself and The Hubby away from the world for the evening with a bottle of wine, a nice dinner and some candles and I cannot tell you how therapeutic that is. Try it – you’ll see.

On balance, mobile phones probably are a good thing, it’s just that most of us need educating in how to use them for the good of ourselves and others. Is there an opening there I wonder? It might be worth a try…..