It's going well!

It seems like after a rather shaky start, Team GB is doing rather well in the medal tables. At the time of writing, we are fourth overall with six golds, six silvers and six bronze. One ahead of France, who only have five silvers. Ha! Take that, garlic munchers!

It must be hoped that this medal count will increase further. The sports in the first week of competition have not really favoured us and they aren't generally speaking things we excel in. Tom Daley and Rebecca Adlington aside, we haven't had a decent swimmer in decades, cycling has only recently come to the fore and as for gymnastics, well the bronze medal the other night is the first in that discipline for 100 years. Badminton, table tennis etc? The odd success but nothing consistent. Not really our sort of thing. We got our first gold medal this time in shooting, which to me is more of a country pursuit that involves killing innocent animals for fun or food, rather than a sport. A sport is something that makes you hot and sweaty isn't it, usually involving something roughly spherical or a pair of trainers? As far as I can see, shooting does neither of those things. Need I say more?

Today, of course, sees the start of the track and field athletics and the water sports, in particular sailing, are only just coming to their final stages where we are in with a good shout. We must stand a good chance of several medals in athletics across a whole range of disciplines. Whilst we probably don't have a cat in hell's chance of beating the Yanks, who have such a massive population base with such broad ethnicity that they have runners, weight lifters, gymnasts and the lot, we ought to be able to catch up the Chinese who have walked it in week one but never do well in all the second week stuff and we definitely ought to be able to beat the French. Our lives won't be worth living if we don't, and they'll never let us forget it.

Not being a sporty sort, I haven't really been that interested in the Olympics in the run up and got heartily sick of it being rammed down my throat by the media, but now it's here and there is more of an atmosphere I am enjoying watching the odd hour or two. Last night I sat in front of it and designed my pantomime set! I couldn't sit and watch it all day, but a short burst now and then to keep in touch with what is happening is OK. And you don't actually need to watch it all day - there are such long gaps between heats and events that the Beeb have time to replay and revisit ad infinitum. With 24 channels of Olympic sport, there is a lot of filler being given airtime.

This week might, I suppose, be quite exciting and I have never been averse to a bit of patriotic flag waving. Just a bloody shame our national anthem isn't a little more stirring. Rule Brittania or Land of Hope and Glory would be much more satisfying to sing along to, don't you think?

Did you get any of the late allocation?

The fiasco that is Olympic ticketing continues. And for once, it is no fault of Locog, who have simply been abiding by an agreement signed seven years ago that a certain proportion of tickets had ot be set aside for the 'Olympic Family' which basically means the professional bodies across the world which support and foster sports.

The same thing apparently happened in Beijing, but with China still being the closed country that it is we knew very little about it. It is an absolute outrage that these organisations get such a large allocation and then waste it when there are so many ordinary people that want to support the games and spend their hard earned money in doing so.

The late release of tickets for some high profile and prestige events such as the athletics has, of course, made many Londoners and locals very pleased; they have been able to buy access to key events which they desperately wanted to see and for which they had been previously unsuccessful.

And of course it is better for athletes of all countries to have full stadia watching and cheering them on. It is immeasurably better for the Olympic Authority to promote the venues and gain the desired levels of income to bolster the economy. In addition, full stadia mean more people spending money in shops, restaurants, bars and on public transport.

I was not myself interested in going to anything, I just don't like sport enough, but I know many people who were and are now delighted. Good luck to them, and i hope it didn't cost them an arm and a leg.

The IOC really needs to address this issue before the next games in 2016. A far smaller proportion of tickets should be set aside and if the Olympic Family organisations want more then they should have to bid for them like anyone else. That way lies fairness, transparency and good PR. Let's hope that the lessons of the ticketing problems here (including use of Visa only even on the Olympic site, venues that are too large for the expected crowds, unfair allocations to large organisations and sponsors etc) are learned for 2016 and rectified.

Sadly, I suspect money will talk and the situation will not be a great deal better. At least it won't be our economy and image that suffers, and probably it won't affect us hugely in terms of the number of people that can attend since South America is so far away. But nevertheless, it is just plain wrong, and totally not in the spirit of the Olympics and their wider aim of making sport more accessible to the masses.

Are you listening Mr Chairman of the IOC Jacques Rogge or whatever your name is? I doubt it.

Ring, ring, jingle, jingle.

I see from the newspaper that as from this coming weekend, Virgin Airlines are to allow passengers to use their mobile phones on board, once airborne. Where Virgin goes, others will follow.

Noooooo! On a plane is one of the few places you can get away from the incessant ring and irritating tunes of the ubiquitous mobile these days, one of the few places where you can be guaranteed a relative degree of peace and quiet.

The news has had a mixed reception. Those that are overwhelmingly positive seem to be what in the eighties would have been called yuppies, and seem to be predominantly media types who are welded to their mobiles just in case someone important wants to get hold of them because, as we all know, they are indispensible. The less overjoyed are on the whole older, wiser and family types for whom going on a plane means a welcome break from the tedium and constant contactability of life today.

Personally, I can't wait to get away from the 'phone, the telly and the newspapers. I find the media unrelentingly depressing these days, full of complaining and bad news. And the telephone is the most intrusive instrument ever devised by man and for all its benefits, has some significant downsides.

I don't understand those who feel they must answer their phone at all costs and that the world will end if they don't. If someone walked in while you were having a conversation with a third party or having your dinner with friends and interrupted you and demanded that you respond to them immediately, you would think them terribly rude. But you will still answer a ringing phone in such a situation; why? What's the difference? If you are out of contact for a few hours because you are travelling there is very little that is so urgent it cannot wait; as recently as 20 years ago it would have had to, since it is within that relatively short length of time that mobiles have become prevalent.

So far as I can see, allowing people to use their phones on board a plane is totally unnecessary and in terms of customer satisfaction a backward step. It will disrupt other passengers that wish to be quiet or to sleep, will remove the pleasure of travelling and will increase yet again the amount of time that the world can intrude and further pressurise us. Unless they are thinking of segregating the plane and having a 'quiet zone' and possibly only allowing outgoing calls and not incoming, it will make me think twice about flying with Virgin again. Which would be a shame, because on the one time I have done so, it was a very pleasant experience.

Coco has arrived!

Well, the puppy has arrived. After having been an exclusively feline household for many years, we have a chocolate labrador retriever. Called Coco.

This little brown bundle of feet and belly has come into the house and totally taken over. We have had to create a 'den' by fencing off part of the lounge, acquire masses of equipment I simply had no idea about and enrolled her in the local vet's puppy club for her vaccinations, microchipping and eventually, to be speyed.

I had no idea that puppies poo'd so much! At just shy of eight weeks old, she isn't yet house trained. She has a designated place within her den where she is supposed to do anything she needs to do, and sometimes she does. We try and take her out into the garden when she has eaten, had a sleep, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. She has treats when she performs appropriately, but so far she is having trouble getting the hang of it (particularly with where she should have a wee) and it is very difficult to identify the  signs that she needs to go. Apparently puppies do go frequently and when they are very small, as she is, they don't have any bladder control at all and when they need to go, they need to go NOW. So you don't get much warning to clip on the lead and take her out back. We have had several accidents, and I haven't cleared up so much poo in years.

It really is just like having a new baby and having to teach it the basics. I always hated potty training then, too. I suspect it will be several weeks before she really gets her head round it and by then, I will be questioning my decision to get her.

Sunday night was her first night away from her mum and siblings (there were seven in the litter) and she cried all night. We gave her a hot water bottle and a towel which we had rubbed all over her mum's back so she had a familiar smell close to her, and a ticking clock which sounded like a heart beat, but it didn't make any difference. She really does have a very piercing whine, punctuated by little high pitched barks. I sleep wearing ear plugs, so I wasn't too bothered, but The Hubby tells me she started at about 11.30pm and continued until he got up in the morning, starting up again when he went out for work. I bet the neighbours loved that, but at least it gets them back for all the times they have woken us up by yelling at each other all the time or when their own dog used to cry outside the house all day while they were out at work and had locked him in the garden.

The vet has suggested that we leave the radio on low as sometimes that can soothe a lonely puppy, so we'll try that tonight. I wonder if she is a Radio Four or Radio Two girl? But what I will not do is bring her upstairs with me; she has to learn that she is not the leader of the pack and cannot go where she wants just because she makes a fuss. Of course I don't want her to be distressed, but rules have to be established from the beginning. Similarly, she will not be allowed on the chairs.

Today, she has been to the vet and had her first vaccinations, been microchipped and had a worming tablet. I have flea treatments to give her in the next few days, and she has to go back in two weeks time for her second jabs. It's all go!

I have a feeling that my life will be significantly different from now on. Coco will dictate our timetable and lifestyle if we let her, although while she is a baby it is very difficult to do anything which doesn't allow us to meet her needs. She will help get us fitter by having to be walked, and most likely, once we get over the first few weeks, bring us an amazing amount of joy.

I'll let you know.

Did you see her Madjesty?

I saw a picture in the freebie Metro newspaper the other day of Madonna at her Hyde Park gig, which took place last week.

She was dressed in tight leather trousers, a biker jacket, sported garish makeup and was brandishing a silver revolver. Madge is 54; she looked ridiculous.

I suppose at least she was decently covered up, which is more than can be said about some of her costumes over the years, but there is something terribly sad about her desperation to prove that she is still ‘cool’ and ‘hip’ and her desire to shock.

I have been a Madonna fan in the past. Some of her music was edgy and different but in many cases it was good old fashioned pop. You could dance to it, remember the tune of quite a lot of it and it doesn’t have that awful thumping bass of so much music these days, which quite simply gives me a headache. But there is a time to call it a day, and for her I suspect it may be fast approaching.

Of course there are lots of aging pop stars and rockers still going strong, most of them male. The Rolling Stones, Rod Stewart, Paul McCartney and Elton John all spring to mind without even thinking too hard, and they are all growing old with varying degrees of success in trying to stay at the top of their game.

The dangers of going on too long were glaringly highlighted by the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee concert, which featured quite a lot of these ol’ timers. Whilst some of it worked well, much of it was plainly embarrassing. I have always been a big Elton fan, and I think he can still put on a good show and get his crowd rocking and Tom Jones can still pull it off, too. But I thought Stevie Wonder, Annie Lennox, Grace Jones and worst of all Paul McCartney were frankly past it and ought to give up while they are ahead. Their voices were cracked and strained, they looked tired and there was no sparkle.

The trouble with Madge is she refuses to grow old gracefully. She has always liked to shock, and her songs and stage sets over the years have offended almost every religious group on the planet. She dresses like her daughter, Lourdes, but unfortunately no amount of time spent in the gym, no odd macrobiotic diets, the steeliest determination  and not even the most wonderful stylist (as if she would listen to one) can disguise the fact that you simply aren’t eighteen any more. I’m sure she is still a wonderful performer (she has that special something called ‘presence’) and if she didn’t try to do new material she would probably go completely crazy, but really, is there any need to pretend so hard that you are young, on the edge and out there? The answer, most definitely, is no.  

Most of those that attended Hyde Park and reduced it to a sea of mud won’t much care about any of this because they will have been royally entertained by someone who loves the limelight and knows how to put on a show. They will have drunk expensive lager or nasty lukewarm white wine and got near food poisoning from the less than average quality scrotum-burgers on sale from the numerous catering vans trying to make the best of a bad summer. They will have disrupted the neighbours and crowded onto the late night trains in good humoured but boisterous moods to go home. And had a good time.

But that doesn’t take away the fact that most of these oldies now ought to look at hanging up their guitar and their microphone. When your talent won’t see you through, or you have to resort to shock tactics, nudity or something equally distasteful, or your voice or your body lets you down, it’s time to go. Before it’s too late.

Woof, woof!

For the first time ever, we are about to become dog owners.

A cute little puppy dog called Coco will be joining us on Sunday 22^nd July. She is a chocolate Labrador Retriever, and is part of the de-stressing and keep fit plan to ensure I reach my retirement years.

I’m not sure what the cats will think of her, having always lived in a canine free environment. Fortunately, Coco will not be phased by the cats as there are a few where she was born, which is a sort of stables cum farm cum shack in Hurst Green. But the moggies have had ten or more years of exclusively feline pampering and attention, and their noses may well and truly be put out of joint. I’m sure they’ll get over it, especially when the weather turns nasty and they want to be indoors next to the radiator.  

It has taken weeks of debate and heart searching before making the decision to get a puppy. Can we afford it? Are we at home enough? Will we walk it enough to stop it getting fat? Will we manage to teach it to be well behaved? Should we get a small dog which could fit in and out of a large cat flap and so have a bit of freedom during the day? All these questions and more have been debated ad nauseam and in the end we just decided to go for it (well, I did, and took the option of just going to see the litter and then telling The Hubby what was happening – it’s OK, he’s used to it!).

I must confess to being slightly apprehensive about it all. I have always been a bit of a couch potato and whilst The Hubby will take his turn at the walks (especially, I hope, at 6.30 in the morning) by and large it will be me doing quite a lot of it due to the number of hours he works. But in a way that’s a good thing, as it will force me to walk instead of slouch in front of the telly; there’s no way I want a barrel shaped dog and I need to get a bit fitter and lose more weight.

Coco is a cute little thing, and although I know she won’t stay a small, fluffy wriggling bundle of feet and belly for long she will still be a very pretty dog. And Labradors are such good family pets I’m sure she will fit in with the cats, grandchildren and our fairly hectic lifestyle. She will come to rehearsals, come shopping and go out with us at the weekends.

I am, of course, going into retail mode for said new pooch, and purchases have so far included a pale blue soft leather and diamante collar and a glittery puppy harness. She will look like a right woos walking down the street in them, but as she won’t know anything about that I don’t care – I like them! It is incredible how much stuff you can buy for puppies and dogs, some of it stuff I never dreamed I’d want or knew existed. Beds, fancy leads, vitamins, grooming tools and treats are just the tip of the ice berg. And the multitude of choice for food is quite overwhelming.

Coco joins us on 22^nd, and I can’t wait. She will be spoiled rotten by all of us, although the toilet training may tax our patience for a while and I’m sure she will cry at night. All the best puppy books tell you to ignore the crying, but if you see me with shadows under my eyes and a haggard look for a few weeks you will know why!

Aches and pains!

Aches and pains!

We all get them, and as we get old they seem to get more severe and more frequent.

Regular readers will know that I have suffered from a prolapsed disk in my lumbar spine for about three years now. I have no idea what caused it, and I suspect it is linked to an old injury I got in my twenties starting a pull start lawn mower. I have had three lots of steroid injections directly into the disk and the spinal column to try and treat it, to no avail. Back in February I had laser treatment, which basically kills the trapped nerve endings where the disk has collapsed and therefore kills the pain. It has been pretty effective, but whether it lasts long term is anyone’s guess.

I have also, in the past year, had an arthroscopy on both my knees, where the cartilage was shot to pieces. It has obviously been deteriorating for some time, exacerbated by a fall two years ago catching a stray dog in the garden. They both still ache when it rains or it is cold, and I am stiff as a board when I get out of bed in the morning, which takes about ten minutes to wear off.

You will also know that I have bizarrely developed tennis elbow in my right arm, no doubt due to all the computer work and typing I do. With an ambition to do freelance writing, that isn’t going to get better any time soon. All these problems with joints and cartilage are now worrying me that I will develop arthritis when I get even more decrepit than I am at the moment.

The latest thing, as I blogged the other day, is my blood pressure which is now sky high as are my cholesterol levels. Honestly, if I make retirement at all it will be a miracle.

The Hubby is now complaining about back pain, which he first experienced when we were on holiday. A small, easy movement one day turned him into a cripple with pain shooting up his spine into his neck. I gave him a couple of my Tramadol and some Ibuprofen which he took and which helped, and after a day or so the pain wore off, but it has returned and he now needs to go and see the doc.

I blame my hormones for most of my daily aches, but I don’t know what his excuse is. Men do have a menopause, don’t they? No doubt weight and fitness could improve and that would help us overcome some of it, but not all.

We will just have to focus on ourselves for a change, and not spend all our time running around after other people. How many time shave we said that we need to diet, get fit and try to have a healthier lifestyle with more relaxed weekends and down time?  More than I can count, and so far we haven’t achieved it. Having both a last found a partner that we do want to spend the rest of our lives with, it would be nice if that life was long and healthy.

Oh, hello Doctor Williams……

Isn’t it hard not to spend money?

Due to the general economic situation (ie no pay rise for three years and continually increasing bills) we are trying to have an economy drive. With varying degrees of success for a whole variety of reasons.

The Hubby is struggling due to the simple fact that he has two teenage boys both of whom have cars and that is expensive. Not only contributing towards the cost of the vehicle itself and its upkeep, but the insurance for teenage boys is astronomic. Even the most competitive quote for the youngest, who is just about to take his test, was just over £2,000 for a year and that was for an 04 reg Renault Clio and under the condition he has a special box of electronic tricks fitted to his engine to monitor his driving. Many of his friends are paying much more.

Like everyone, we are also paying more into our pensions to try and ensure a decent standard of living in our old age. They say that more and more people are opting out of pension schemes as they become more costly and the returns less attractive, which is surely just storing up problems for the future.

But by and large, it’s just the general household bills which are racking up at an alarming rate. I went supermarket shopping the other day and admittedly bought for a dinner party (which therefore included wine and various items which wouldn’t usually be in my trolley) as well as the usual weekly shop, and it was one of those weeks where toiletries and detergents etc had all run out at once, but the bill came to almost £200. I nearly fell over at the checkout! I have long given up being surprised at the cost of filling up the car, and as for going out anywhere – well it has to be strictly limited and even then it’s a Wetherspoon’s curry instead of the nice Italian restaurant just down the road.

And we are both in employment and relatively well paid (yes, you do have outgoings to match your salary and between us three divorces and several house moves haven’t helped, but you know what I mean). God knows how those on low incomes or out of work are managing (although a lot of them are still in Wetherspoon’s, I notice, either drinking all evening or fagging it outside).

We are busy people, and we try to do something each weekend where we can spend some time together that isn’t doing chores. Often that is going to Café Nero for coffee, or sometimes a walk round a National Trust property, a trip to Brighton or a Craft Fair. But everything, yes everything, is so expensive. A couple of coffees and cakes in Nero’s can cost over a tenner, tea at a NT café can be £5 or £6, parking alone in Brighton costs about £12 for the day and entrance fees to a craft fair are about £5 each even without a spot of lunch or a drink.  It’s no wonder people are staying at home, but I believe that if you work hard you cannot totally do without any social relaxation or you will go mad.

One side benefit of doing a totally catered for diet is that I am no longer spending any money during the week. I now avoid buying take-out coffee as on the shop counter are the temptations of bacon butties, brownies or croissants. When in WH Smith I walk straight past the crisps and chocolate (oh, how I am missing chocolate) to buy my magazine or Radio Times. I don’t need to go into the supermarket for sandwiches or salads and in so doing pick up Greek yoghurt or cake. I don’t impulse buy my dinner on the way home just because I don’t fancy what is in the fridge or freezer. So hopefully not only am I losing copious amounts of weight through this abstinence, but I am saving my money too.

I am determined that by the time I am 55, I will be debt free (apart from my mortgage) and be able to take up the option to stop work. It’ll be hard, and I won’t enjoy it. And the more the bills go up the harder it will be. The pipe dreams of the lottery or becoming a well paid author are just that, pipe dreams, so I’ll have to knuckle down and get on with it. Regardless of the economy. For my sanity, I must!

Anyone for tennis!

Poor old Andy Murray!

With the weight of the nation's expectations on his shoulders, he just couldn't do it. Maybe next time.

It was a valiant effort, of course, against a seasoned professional out for a record win who had nothing to lose. Federer is professionalism personified, from the follicles on his head down to his toenails, and in the end it was he who held his nerve under pressure and triumphed.

But it is Andy's touching conduct when interviewed courtside by Sue Barker for the BBC  just after his defeat which will endear him to the British public far more than his conduct on the court no matter how successful he is. For the first time, we saw the man underneath the mask and he is a much nicer chap than any of us could have guessed. He has always been a rather unsympathetic character in front of the media, appearing stilted, uncommunicative and unfriendly. Yesterday, we saw a softer side which is much more attractive.

Us Brits do love a valiant loser - look at Dunkirk and the numerous military defeats which we celebrate as though they were victories. Perhaps that's why we don't appear to have that killer instinct to take us to the top in so many sports and circumstances; we think there is no shame in not winning as long as you have done your best. Foreigners don't understand that; they think the only place to be is the top spot and if you don't achieve it, you should go away and lick your wounds ready to try another day. And to a certain extent I agree.

But there is nothing like adopting an underdog to cheer on, and Andy certainly was the underdog yesterday. God knows we need something to cheer about at the moment. The fact that he took the first set gave us vicarious hope that for once this might be our year, what with it being Diamond Jubilee and all that, but it wasn't to be. Even Kate shipped up to watch for the second time, freeloading sister alongside. Never mind, there's always 2013 which is the real diamond jubilee, since old Liz wasn't actually crowned Queen until summer 1953.

Andy Murray should be proud of what he achieved yesterday and take a lesson from his emotions afterwards that what will make the public love him more is to appear, well, just more human. No one loves a robot or an automaton; they are cold emotionless things which give nothing but take everything. If he gives a little more to the crowds that turn out to support him and whom he obviously appreciates, then they will give even more back to him.

TomKat! Who would have thought it?

So TomKat (for those of you that don’t read Hello! or OK, that is Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes) are to divorce. For Tom it’s his third failure, for her only the first!

It has been, of course, only a matter of time, because Mr Cruise is a peculiar chap to say the least. From his marriage to his first fairly unknown wife Mimi Rogers through the time with Nicole Kidman when they were famously unable to have children and very publicly adopted two (they have both had children since, apparently naturally and without any intervention, which seems a bit of an omen, don’t you think?) to his baptism into the Church of Scientology and the jumping up and down on Oprah’s sofa, Tom has been strange for quite a while. Nevertheless, he is the highest paid actor in Hollywood. Unbelievable, but there you are.

Ms Holmes is not a lot better by some accounts, but at least she doesn’t appear to have been converted to the batty ‘religion’ her hubby follows. And if the rumour mill is to be believed, it was Tom’s wish to send their small daughter, Suri, on a cruise with a load of other Scientologists to indoctrinate her in the beliefs that has forced Katie’s hand. I don’t know a great deal about Scientology, but I gather that Scientologist parents send their children as young as five on these cruises, alone and without any of the sort of the pastoral care with which they are familiar, to drum into their malleable and accepting brains the very odd beliefs they follow. That, in my view, is almost child abuse. Most definitely it is mental manipulation of vulnerable minors, and should not be allowed.

If the rumours are true and it all goes terribly wrong for him, this could be the end of Tom Cruise as a major megastar, which he undoubtedly is at the moment. Certainly it will fuel the gossip columns for months. If the rumours about the more malign aspects of the Scientology influences are proven, he will be dropped by Hollywood quicker than you can say Mission Impossible. Offences with drink, drugs or even unfortunate sexual encounters can be quickly forgotten and forgiven in Tinseltown, but peculiar religious beliefs, racism and mistreatment of children remain big taboos, and rightly so.

Katie, on the other hand, could well see her star in the ascendant, being painted at the moment as the caring mother and wounded party. She is still young, pretty, admittedly with only moderate talent but is extremely shrewd and Daddy is a divorce lawyer. There is no information in the gossip columns about whether she signed a pre-nup, with differing gossip being propounded as fact, but whatever she did six years ago when they married she will now do well out of this. If nothing else she could sell her and Suri’s clothing hordes, the value of which runs into millions.

Katie once was quoted as saying that as a child, she had a poster of Cruise on her bedroom wall and vowed one day that she would marry him. That is the sort of girlish infatuation that many teenagers have (I had a poster of David Cassidy on my wall, and was determined for a while to be Mrs Cassidy) but most of us grow out of it and realise that really that is rather silly ambition and actually, all things considered, John next door is a better bet. The fact that she followed through on her girlish aims and realised her prize shows a steely determination and possibly a slightly immature view of the world which could be a deadly combination when it comes to haggling over a multi million pound divorce settlement and child custody. Apparently Tom paid Nicole Kidman, who hadn’t signed a pre-nup with him, $340 million and he will no doubt be anxious not to have to write out a similar cheque this time. And Katie has moved to New York where she thinks she will get a better deal.

It is always sad when a marriage ends, particularly when there are children, but sometimes it is for the best and it would appear that this may be one of those occasions. Only time will tell of course, and it may be that Ms Holmes is a clever media manipulator and that she is the bad cop all the time, but I doubt it is that simple. Most probably, there are faults on either side; after all Katie knew about her husband’s beliefs when she married him so why, you might ask, start carping now?

Whatever happens, I will be as curious as anyone. There is something very satisfying about being a voyeur into the lives of the rich and famous, particularly when it is all going tits up, which somehow makes us feel better about our own mundane existence and we know that under all the glitz, they are just like us. Just with more money and the time to indulge in slightly odder habits. Watch this space!

Life stinks.....

Definitely the post holiday blues are well and truly bedded in.

Quite frankly, work seems pretty pointless at the moment. I am spending all my days writing Project Briefs and reports which even I think are dull and no matter how I try, it is impossible to liven them up, the subject matter is so dusty and dry. Honestly, who on earth cares if the richest council in the country misses out on a few more millions because some new charging regime is a few months late starting (well, our Councillors would care of course but no one else would), and who cares if the planning department has an effective project management system or not – certainly not the planning officers who wouldn’t recognise a system if it slapped them in the gonads.

Not only that, but the weather has been crappy ever since we got back. We left Heraklion in 36 degrees of dry heat and landed back at Gatwick in 11 degrees of chilly dampness, and it hasn’t warmed or dried up much since. Yesterday it was so cold and damp I almost put the heating back on again, but instead, mindful of the bills, wore a thick jumper and put an extra blanket on the bed. I hate being cold and wet, and I have been nothing but that for the last ten days. Honestly, it’s ridiculous, this is meant to be the height of summer and we have just come out of so called ‘flaming June’ into ‘blooming July’. Bloody soggy July, more like! Mind you it is Wimbledon fortnight, so I suppose it is to be expected.

I am also skint, which is contributing to my very bad mood. It’s always the same after holiday and it isn’t because I don’t budget, because I do. It’s just that when you are away (or amidst the temptations of Gatwick Airport duty free) you spend on things which you then forget about (ie Jo Malone perfume), and so don’t take account of it when working out how much money you have left. Then when you come to check the bank account you get a nasty surprise.

Penultimately, I have put back on a considerable amount of the weight I lost a few months ago which means my clothes don’t fit nicely (again) and I feel frumpy and lumpy (again). Drastic measures are called for! I have signed up for one of those diet programmes where they deliver your food for you and all you have to add is fresh fruit and vegetables and the occasional yoghurt or bread roll. I am hopeful that this will do the trick, as one of the things I always fall down on is having to think about my food, measure out portions and eat differently to the rest of the family. It costs a fortune (another reason I am skint because you pay up front, although some of which is offset against normal food spending) and a full month’s worth of breakfasts, lunches, dinners and daily snack treats have been delivered in plain brown cardboard boxes and are sitting in the kitchen. It’s a good month to start as we have no dinner dates on the calendar, but I suspect I am going to be very hungry quite a lot of the time.

Finally, and to top it all off nicely, I have been told off by the doctor because my blood pressure is too high and my cholesterol is through the roof, and unless I can reduce it over the next month or three by removing various stressors from my life, weight loss and improving my general fitness, I will have to have it treated and that is treatment pretty much for life, not just a month. (Sounds like that advert for pets doesn’t it – “A dog is for life, not just for Christmas”!) So I need to give some serious thought as to how I do that, and that will involve difficult decisions.

So basically at the moment, life pretty much stinks as far as I am concerned. Nothing is going in the right direction or as I want it to. And it is going to be hard work turning it around. No doubt I will pour out my frustrations on this blog, Facebook and to anyone else that will listen. You might get bored, but it might make me feel better. After all, a problem shared and all that …..

Here's Johnny !

So, the totally and utterly gorgeous Mr Depp is available again and on the market! This, after months of him and Vanessa Paradis denying rumours of a split and presenting a united front playing happy families.

Of course the fact that he is available doesn’t mean I can have him, even though he doesn’t know what he is missing out on. For one thing, The Hubby might have something to say about it. And for another thing, I did read somewhere that despite having cheekbones to die for and come to bed eyes, he isn’t actually that nice to be close to because

a)    He smokes and so his breath smells like an old ash tray and

b)    He doesn’t believe in using deodorant and thinks a man’s natural smells are best.

Well to be honest if that’s what Vanessa has put up with for the past decade I’m not surprised that finally she has had enough and they have gone their separate ways. Even the French have these days discovered that you don’t stop stinking just by chucking scent into your arm pits and actually other people have pretty decent olfactory glands and prefer you to be a little more fragrant.

There is no escaping the fact that the lovely Johnny is a little odd and always has been (anyone who makes that many films with Tim Burton must go a bit strange, after all). Everything from his style of dress to his manner of speaking shrieks ‘individual’ and presumably anyone who doesn’t give a flying f**k what people think about the obvious eccentricities also doesn’t care about other more personal and potentially more offensive conventions of communal living. Not that Vanessa herself was normal, with a history of eating disorders and a deliberately vague ‘am I on something’ approach to life.

There will be a queue of women waiting for Johnny to notice them because he is undeniably (to a casual, long distance observer at least) charming, handsome and bohemian. And he is rich, something which is never a disadvantage when husband/boyfriend/casual shag hunting. Not only is he rich, he is obscenely, filthy rich. The trouble is he doesn’t really like spending it, preferring the simple life in the countryside. Well bugger that! If you’ve got all those millions you might as well enjoy them instead of tramping round looking like you dressed in the dark in someone else’s cast offs which ought to have been given to Oxfam. And it would be nice to live somewhere civilised with decent plumbing (ie not France).

At least now we know where we are and the gossip magazines can have a field day papping any unfortunate female that happens to be seen anywhere with him. And why do these celebs put the public through this ridiculous charade of unity when it is obvious for all to see that things aren’t good and they would be much happier calling it a day. Sometimes, of course, it’s because they have children (Johnny and Vanessa have two, called Lily Rose and Jack, I believe) and they don’t want their kids to see their warring parents splashed all over the tabloids, but surely it would just be better to split quietly and if possible amicably, sort out your arrangements and move on without fuelling the speculation by denying it.

At any rate, his newly single status will make the lusting in front of the movie all the more enticing because he is available, and there’s nothing like an available heart throb to make the pulse race a little faster because you never know, there is an infinitesimal chance.

Never say never, that’s what I say!

I'm back! Have you missed me?

I am back at work this week after two weeks in the sun.

Despite Greece’s economic woes and the very real suffering of the vast majority of its people at the moment (anyone who saw Panorama last night will hopefully have been horrified at the effect the austerity measures are having on the Greek in the street) it remains a magical place to be and we had a wonderful time. We had wall to wall sunshine with temperatures averaging about 35 degrees in the day and 27 degrees at night (yes, we do have air con!). We did nothing for two weeks; the fortnight was incredible relaxing and the country remains vivid and full of life.

In contrast, the UK is dull, grey and to be honest, pretty grim. Yes, we do pageantry very well and the Jubilee weekend before we went away was marvellous, but when all the brocade and red coats have been put away this country seems nothing like as alive as many of its European counterparts. It is stiff, formal and varying shades of two colours only, grey and green. And is it just me, or does anyone else get sick of green? Green fields, green trees, green hedgerows, green mould on the garden wall and so on.

I like my landscapes to be shades of gold, brown and silver with splashes of colourful brilliance. Last week I was looking at towering brown and black mountains which fell down to a sea the shade of blue you see on a Jay’s wing, with frothy white foam where the two met. The olive tree leaves shone with a majestic silvery dark green where they caught the light, and several sported modest cream coloured flowers that were hidden amongst their branches like a shy maiden aunt flaunting the hem of her lace knickers. Oleander blossomed in flamboyant shades of pink, red and orange along the roadsides which kicked up clouds of golden dry dust when anything drove over them. Once or twice, I saw the iridescent green and gold of a lizard as it scuttled underneath a stone at our approach.

As we flew back towards Gatwick on Sunday, the colours became more and more muted. As we left France and flew across the English Channel, the cloud drew in and eventually we were flying through a visually impenetrable mass of white mist, which gave way to a ceiling of high grey cloud which has barely lifted since. We came from 35 degrees of heat to 11 degrees of murk. I hate it; I always do.

Familiar readers of this blog will know how much I dislike still having to work and how much I would love to go and live in Greece. As a country it may be in for a rough time over the next few years, but to me it is still the best place on earth and frankly if I must be poor, I’d rather be poor in the sun.

Of course, returning to work I have been subjected to the usual comments of “Have you been away?” due to my relatively light tan, which is due to the fact that I smother myself in factor 50 sunscreen because I burn, which then peels off instead of going brown. It would take me several weeks of short bursts of sunbathing (by which I mean no more than an hour a day) to go anywhere near the walnut colour some people manage to achieve in a fortnight, although I remain convinced that often that is sprayed on or is out of a bottle.

I am now counting down the weeks until I can go back again, which is late September. I have three months to make the best of it at home, which won’t be all bad with some nice things on the calendar. But already without the sun I am feeling down and all my niggling minor health issues are returning (tennis elbow, snuffly nose and more) and September cannot come soon enough.

Aches and pains - forty love!

I have developed tennis elbow!

Stop laughing! No, I mean it, stop it! I really have, which is ironic seeing as I haven’t picked up a tennis racquet for about 40 years. I have a searing pain on the outer edge of my elbow which is worse with repetitive activity. I looked it up on the internet and in a fantastic medical encyclopaedia we have, which I got free with tokens from about a million editions of the Daily Mail a few years ago.

By the way, it’s a huge mistake to get one of those medical books. You find yourself looking up every ache and pain you experience and convincing yourself that you have all sorts of life threatening conditions. You go to the doctor’s with a small amount of knowledge and try to tell them their job, which must not only be incredibly irritating but also dangerous. You do it to your family too, diagnosing their ailments with an air of authority which is quite misplaced.

Anyway, I do, genuinely, have tennis elbow. And it hurts. Apparently you get it from repetitive movements normally associated with strenuous activity and sports (The Hubby nearly fell off his chair laughing when I told him that bit). It can be painful and there is very little the medics can do about it beyond a bit of physio, and to be honest I can’t really be bothered with that seeing as you can get all the appropriate exercises off the internet on the NHS site. I certainly don’t want to claim on my insurance for it, and if I wait for the NHS to give me physio I will grow old a die first.

Everything I have read says that usually it gets better on its own, so I will just have to try and do the exercises, strap the damn thing up with Tubigrip and get on with it. And it is a good excuse not to have to carry things, meaning I can get The Hubby and the kids to actually clear their own plates and fetch their own stuff instead of being waited on (to be fair, The Hubby doesn’t expect to be, but the kids can be phenomenally lazy).

When you get some minor ailment like this it is amazing how debilitating and limiting it can be, and you realise how much we take the strength and flexibility of our limbs for granted. And what makes it worse is there is nothing outwardly to show for it – no plaster cast, often no bandage, no bruising and no blood. A slight knock on the tube or train and the pain is extraordinary – how can such a small sinewy part of our body as the end of a tendon cause so much trouble?

When I told The Hubby I had tennis elbow, his amusement was quite unseemly and unsupportive. He is of the view that I am falling apart at the seams due to my slothful lifestyle and will be able to leave my body to medical science, where they will use it for research into couch potatoes who eat too much chocolate and drink too much wine. That is an assessment I consider grossly unfair, seeing as I do everything in the house and lots of the gardening since he isn’t there because he is toiling away 60 hours a week in some boring committee room at work and he never sees the effort that goes in. The house is clean, the garden immaculate, the household admin is done, social events are arranged, there is food in the fridge and clean clothes in the wardrobe. It is true that when he gets home I am usually on the sofa with a glass of wine and bar of Dairy Milk, but that is often about 10pm and I have only sat down an hour or so before.

I am getting fed up to the back teeth (a part of my body, by the way, which has given me no trouble of late) of having minor ailments, and the day when I get up and nothing hurts or is injured cannot come soon enough. I keep promising myself that I will put an exercise regime in place to get fit, and something always seems to get in the way and prevent it. Therefore my fitness regime (of which more in another blog to come soon) has not really progressed.

When I get back from my holiday, I have two months with no commitments. I will hopefully, by then, be feeling wholly fit and will be able to get back walking and to the gym. Hopefully and hope, as they say, springs eternal!

We’re all goin’ on a summer holiday…

So sang Sir Cliff Richard in the halcyon days of the sixties when a summer holiday was your only holiday and was usually a week in the sun (hopefully) at Bognor, although for most people it didn’t involve a double decker bus! If it rained, you made the best of it and sat on the beach in your anorak, and if you were one of the lucky few with shed loads of cash, you took yourself off to France or what sounded like an exotic Mediterranean island such as Capri, or you went for a fortnight instead of just a week. Holidays any further afield, or for longer, were at that time strictly for the jet set and for movie stars only.

Despite the fact that the destinations have changed – become more far flung, exotic and needless to say more expensive – and the range of activities we undertake has expanded to include annual skiing holidays, various other sports and ‘activity holidays’ such as cookery schools and painting retreats, and also that we probably all have more holidays and leisure time now than we did fifty years ago, we still look forward to and anticipate our main summer holidays as much as ever.

We are very lucky in that we bought our house in Greece about six or seven years ago when the exchange rate was good and we could afford it – we certainly couldn’t now. As such, we can buy cheap flights as soon as they are released and have been known to get return flights to Iraklio in early summer for less than £80. We try to get out there three or four times a year, and today we are jetting off on our annual summer fortnight together (other holidays are sometimes taken on our own due to work commitments). My daughter, who lives with us, is looking forward to having the run of the house in return for feeding my cats and watering my plants.

I can’t wait. We fly from Gatwick in the afternoon and we should be there about 11pm, local time. That means we can nip out for a nightcap at the local kafenion before tucking in for the night and so be fresh and ready to sleep on the beach the next day.

The first week of any fortnight is always down time. Usually, we are so tired that all we want to do is eat, sleep, sunbathe and relax. By the second week, we are ready to do a bit more and this time we are thinking of exploring the south of the island a little more and visiting the fourth Minoan Palace on Crete at Phaestos. We have been to all the others  at Knossos, Malia and Zakros. By the way, don’t bother going to Zakros – it’s a horrendous drive over virtual goat tracks to see something which is, in essence, just a pile of stones now, and there’s neither a café nor toilets. Anyway, getting to Phaestos will involve a fairly long drive and probably an overnight stay. On the way, we have also been recommended to visit a resort called Matala, which is meant to be spectacularly beautiful and very peaceful as it is off the usual tourist trail due to its remote location.

There are people that say to be “Don’t you get bored going back to the same place each time?” and to a certain extent I can see where they are coming from, but I must say the novelty of having my own house on a beautiful island in the Med hasn’t worn off and I don’t think it will for a while. While I am working, and while my leisure time is so precious (as is my time with The Hubby), it suits me fine to go back to a place with guaranteed weather, where I have my own stuff, I know where everything is, I understand how things work and I can relax as soon as I get on the plane. Yes, I would like to explore other places and go further afield as well as elsewhere in the UK, but for now I am perfectly happy thank you, and all that can wait until I am retired. We can fly to other countries from Athens as well as from London, and when we do come back to the UK to see family we can travel around too. So there’s no rush.

I am now going to shut down for a fortnight, but I will be making copious notes to inform various blogs when I get back. I have written several which will publish while I am away, so enjoy, and I will (metaphorically) see you all soon!

Back to reality, and long may she reign!

Well the Diamond Jubilee is well and truly over and we have all gone back to work after a wonderfully flag waving, patriotic weekend.

There’s nothing like a bit of national pride to cheer you up, is there? Watching the celebrations on the telly brought quite a lump to the throat, and in particular watching the poor old Queen on her own on Monday and Tuesday after her husband went into hospital was quite emotional. She looked so small and lonely, and I felt desperately sorry for her that in what should have been her greatest moment of celebration, she was alone (by the way, I gather from the tabloid press that one of the reasons she looked a little strained on Monday evening at the concert was because she was wearing ear plugs to keep out the excessive noise!).

A few people have, of course, carped about the cost of the whole thing and questioned why we are celebrating the longevity of an archaic institution which has a shield of incredible wealth and privilege and is simply there by right of birth and not by any elected public will.

But the fact is that it is a whole lot better than the alternatives, and the monarchy has a massive majority of public support. The last time a proper poll was taken (by which I mean one carried out by MORI and not some half arsed thing done by The Sun or Daily Mail with about 20 people) about 80% of people supported the Queen herself and over 70% supported the monarchy as an institution.

The Queen’s face was on newspapers all over the world this weekend, and many countries are envious of the wonderful public persona that she presents and the fact that she is such a tireless ambassador for this country. She has worked hard for her country for sixty years completely selflessly simply to foster its interests internationally and support her elected government (why on earth otherwise would you want to sit through endless children’s choirs, native dances, posh dinners and boring speeches and get dressed up in posh clothes when you would much rather slump around in trackie bottoms and a t-shirt watching Corrie and eating beans on toast). She has tried to bring up her family (with varying degrees of success) with a similar work ethic and an acknowledgement that although they are in their positions by birth, they owe a payment to the nation in return.

I for one am grateful that we do not live in a republic. There are countless examples all over the world where republics have gone bad and where presidents have assumed absolute power at the expense of their people. Even in a democratically elected presidency (such as America) there are countless abuses of power because there are no controls and checks on the powerful relationship of the President with the security services who do his/her bidding and are themselves totally unaccountable.

Last year, as I have blogged before, The Hubby and I went round Buckingham Palace and did the tourist thing. He was reluctant – not sure why, I know he’s not really an ardent royalist but I don’t think he is a closet republican – but we both thoroughly enjoyed it. And the information given out about the royals certainly made us think more about the value they add to the UK, which is considerable.

Anyway, I joined in the flag waving this weekend with enthusiasm, although I had to pretend with the actual waving thing since no one had actually bought me a Union Jack or any bunting. It was all really nice, which is an inadequate word but somehow appropriately warm and fuzzy, and it was a joy to see so many people packed into London all with smiles on their faces and just there to soak up the atmosphere and be supportive.

So long live the Queen, and much longer may she reign!

Out of the mouths of babes....

We looked after my three and a half year old grand daughter at the weekend and had to go shopping, so took her round the supermarket with us. Ruby likes the supermarket and especially likes going in the trolley, although prefers to stand rather than sit in the kiddie seat and commentates loudly on everything as we go round.

She also likes to be able to reach out and grab what she likes and has an eagle eye for anything with Peppa Pig or Dora the Explorer on it, from napkins to novelty crisps.

The supermarket is very crowded on a Saturday, usually with elderly people who have all week to do their shopping but choose to clutter up the shops and get in the way of the rest of us on Saturdays and Sundays. They are slow, stop unexpectedly and spread themselves across the aisles with gay abandon.

Anyway, we are going round doing our shopping, with Ruby saying every time I put something in the trolley "Over there Nanny, don't bury me". We are walking up the bread aisle at a reasonable pace and she is at this point standing at the front of the trolley like Kate Winslet at the bow of the ship in Titanic. In front of us is a rather tubby middle aged couple debating the merits of granary versus sliced white, with their trolley at right angles to the shelves. Suddenly, in a penetrating voice which must have been heard outside on the other side of the car park, I hear Ruby scream "Wait, Nanny, wait. That fat man is in the way. 'Scuse me, fat man".

I don't know how I stifled the urge to squeal with laughter, but somehow I did. Muttering "Excuse me" as the startled couple made way and everyone else looked round, I scuttled past at record speed to find The Hubby in the next aisle choosing breakfast cereal, where between snorts of amusement I relayed the story to him. I know I should have told her off, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to - he was fat, and he was in the way, and to be honest I wish I was allowed to say things like that with such frankness.

Only small children can get away with it, more's the pity, and the old saying "Out of the mouths of babes" couldn't be more true. There are many times when I wish I could just say something honest instead of skirting round awkward subjects or telling white lies, as it's all so much effort to remember what you have said if it isn't the truth. And the tragic thing is I can lie with remarkable skill and retention if I need to, but I never want to (well, very rarely). How many times has a friend said to you "Does my bum look big in this" (or the equivalent for another part of their anatomy), and after a suitable pause you have said "No, of course not" when really of course it does. Also quite common is "Do you like this dress/skirt/top/whatever" when it's actually perfectly hideous but you say quickly "Yes, lovely". Similarly, I wish I could manage my staff like Alan Sugar in the Apprentice (does anyone else think it was better when they could say 'yes, Suralan' instead of as now 'yes, Lord Sugar'?). It would be wonderful to be able to sit opposite a cretinous member of staff who is playing up and say to them "Shut it, you idiot, I don't want to hear any more from you. You're fired".

Small children are remarkably honest about anything you discuss with them, particularly your appearance. It really is very refreshing. Sadly, very soon society will knock it out of them and they will become as two faced and repressed as the rest of us. It's such a shame.

Why am I so busy?

I had thought once I got Midsummer night's Dream out of the way, I would have a relaxed few weeks and be less busy before going away. I had thought I would run up to my holiday tired and ready for it but not quite as stressed as usual. My timetable and commitments looked manageable.

Well I should have known better. The play finished about ten days ago and I haven't stopped since. This week looks manic as well, some of it nice social stuff but much of it just chores and jobbing. It's ludicrous! To make things worse, I am doing everything at home virtually single handed because The Hubby is working 60 hour weeks on some special project and is never here. When he is here briefly, he is so knackered he's good for nothing!

I think it's a symptom of life to day that if you are working, your life just becomes increasingly hectic. Certainly my work environment is something my parents would never have recognised, coming from a more relaxed time without targets, pressures and budget cuts. Of course it is the relaxed lacksadaisical approach of the past that has landed so many of us in the poo now, so they are to blame in a way, but they were certainly healthier than us even if they were poorer.

The trouble is that the more we earn, the greater our commitments and expectations and so the harder we have to work to meet them and the less time we have for what we like and what is important. We earn a very big salary between us, but we have two houses (one here and one in Greece) five children and various other borrowings that have to be paid. Partly that's a result of a profligate few years when borrowing was easy, salaries went up regularly and inflation was relatively low, for which we are now paying the price. But it has left us in a position of having very few options to move forward and although we have a financial plan, if one of us lost our jobs we would have to take some radical and very difficult decisions.

You may have noticed that this blog has got a little more erratic recently, and that is just pressure of things to do and busyness. It's not that I've run out of things to say, just that I don't have time to write about them. Very soon, I am going away for two weeks and I had resolved to try and write a few blogs in advance, leaving them to self publish in my absence. I'll try to do about half a dozen, but bear with me if I don't get the chance.

In the meantime I am going to try and calm things down a bit so I am not totally exhausted getting on the plane. It would be nice to have the energy to enjoy my first week as well as crashing on the sun bed. What are the chances?

Children’s birthdays make me feel old!

Today is my oldest daughter’s birthday. She has her own daughter now, who this year will be four. She is now 24, and all that makes me feel about 124.

I don’t normally worry about my age. Yes, occasionally when I feel ill or a bit down I sink into my armchair and decide I am officially old, with all the aches and pains that go with it, but usually I still feel like I have a mental age of 30 and a physical age of 20. Both of which I think are the prime of life these days.

But occasions like grown up children’s birthdays really do make you think about your advancing years. Realistically, at 51 my life is probably at best half and at worse about three quarters over. If I’m really unlucky, I will get some awful disease in my fifties and go to my maker before I hit sixty. I will have been cheated, and will have achieved nothing I want to.

I have all sorts of plans for the next few decades, and I’m not ready to shuffle off this mortal coil any time soon. I want to write more, either professionally or for my own entertainment, I want to paint more for my own pleasure (arty farty paintings, not DIY, and abstract not real stuff as I have no sense of perspective) not because I’m any good at it but because I enjoy it, I want to travel and I want to go and live in the sun and have a good few years there. And I want to stop work, because I hate it and it’s such a f*****g waste of time – no one cares and it makes no difference!

The Hubby is much more reluctant than I to make a life changing decision like living abroad, and his family background has been much more conservative than mine, so he will find it a bigger leap. And he loves his job, believing (poor deluded soul) that local government really does make a difference to people’s lives and isn’t actually full of incompetent, bigoted prats out for self aggrandisement. But with each advancing birthday the time left to us reduces and you only get one shot at things, there is no second bite at the cherry. So we need to grasp the nettle and take the plunge if we want to do something (I’m sure I could fit a few more clichés in there if I tried hard enough!).

My children are both adults now. By this summer, they will both have completed their degrees, hopefully successfully, and both will (also hopefully) be working and making their own way in life; in short, they will be independent. One of The Hubby’s boys is already living with his girlfriend and working full time, the other is just finishing his first year at Uni after working and travelling for a year, and the youngest is just starting his final year at college before going travelling and then setting up his own photography business with a mate. At least, that’s the plan. So in three years time, they will all be out there making their own way and we will have no ties beyond financial ones.

So depending upon what happens with work, pensions and Greece, there is nothing to stop us in somewhere between five to ten years time upping sticks and living abroad for most of the year. If we are to get there, a lot of hard work and a youthful outlook is needed, so I cannot afford to sit around moping that I am getting old. I could well have forty to fifty more years ahead of me and I have to be positive that I am going to make it.

I guess only time will tell.

Why are we such an unstylish bunch?

This week, the weather has been lovely. The sun has shone, the skies have been azure blue and cloudless, and the breeze has been gentle and southerly (ie warm!) in stead of the easterly or northerly blast we usually get from Siberia. It has almost been like being on holiday in the Med (but even this week it’s not quite warm enough!).

As soon as the sun shines, the British love to flash the flesh. All sorts of unsuitable clothing gets unearthed from the backs of our wardrobes where it moulders for fifty weeks of the year and we sally forth into the world wearing it no matter what it looks like. It is usually too tight, too short, and mostly too small. There is far too much mesh and lycra either for comfort or style, or if tight lycra isn’t your preferred style the tiered gypsy maxi dresses are so cavernous you could hide a small family of Bulgarians underneath them (or a large family of small Bulgarians - whichever). Mostly this clothing has been purchased in a moment of madness when we are wearing woollen stockings and a large pullover and the temperature has gone up unexpectedly by 20 degrees and we would do anything to be cooler (in the temperature sense naturally, not the sartorial one).

Why are we such an unstylish bunch? It isn’t the availability of stylish clothes, even for those on a budget. There are plenty of shops which whilst admittedly not being as cheap as Primarni, sell pretty good stuff at reasonable prices which don’t require you to take out a second mortgage to shop there. Yes, you can spend a fortune, but you don’t have to.

Perhaps it’s our desperation to be fashionable which makes us purchase these items regardless of weight or body shape just because some celebrity that is stick thin and lives on celery juice has been pictured wearing one in Hello or OK! magazine. Maybe we are just suckers for carefully targeted advertising? Or maybe we are just profligate with money? I don’t know, and I have a nasty suspicion that with me, it may be a little of each!

Each year I go shopping at about this time to refresh my summer wardrobe (I do the same in October for the winter stuff). Each year, I will have promised myself beforehand that I will have lost weight and be able to fit into at least one size smaller and have a greater choice of shops to go to (it’s amazing how many shops sell nothing over a size 16, and some a size 14, which is odd considering the average size of some of their customers!). Each year that doesn’t happen. Each year, I will promise myself that I will not purchase exclusively from Marks and Spencer but will shop until I drop and visit a range of establishments for a unique and exclusive range of outfits which will mark me out from the masses. Each year, because it’s the only place where I can guarantee to get something which fits, which covers up my ever expanding waistline and which stocks a range of colours and sizes, I end up going to Marks for the vast majority of stuff. 

Sadly, most of the UK populace seems not to give two hoots what they look like and consequently go out and buy the cheapest fashion look–a-like items they can, which is fine if, like my daughters, you are a skinny size six or size eight, but not if you are anything approaching a 14. I have seen some horrendous sights this week; girls dressed as though they were going to the beach but clearly heading for the office (if one of my staff had turned up wearing some of the outfits I have seen, I would have sent them home to get dressed), skirts which are basically wide belts, guys wearing cargo shorts so low slung they are virtually dangling from their crutch (have you ever had the urge to sneak up behind someone dressed like than and hoik their trousers up to waist level? I have!) and (usually) women wearing clothes that have been designed with someone 40 years younger and 4 dress sizes smaller in mind.

Don’t these people look in a mirror before they go out? Don’t they have any loved ones who will look at them and say “actually darling, that doesn’t look great”? Do they have any touch with reality at all? From looking at their outfits, you wouldn’t think so.

And you can’t blame the heat. You only have to go to France, Spain, Italy or even Greece to see the young women and men dress for a much hotter climate than ours with much less money but look much more stylish, and effortlessly so. To feel really inadequate, you go to Paris, where the women all look like they have just graced the front page of Vogue.

I think it must be the British desperation to catch some sun before it disappears behind a rain cloud again which makes us, quite simply, not care what we look like as long as we get a tan and the sunshine gives us much needed vitamin D. Did you know that 80% of the British population, and almost 100% of Scots, have vitamin D deficiency for nine months of the year because either they don’t get any sunshine, or when it does shine they are told to cover themselves up and protect themselves from it, in case it gives them cancer? That’s a scary statistic.

Now you will have to excuse me. The sun is shining, and I have a size 12 T-shirt I have been saving up for the last four years just waiting for such an occasion. I will need the rest of the day to squeeze into it!