Wednesday, 28 November 2007

Bare-faced cheek


Shoes v tasty looking men - the dilemma's as old as that hoary chestnut sex v chocolate. Isn't it?
Hats off to Gilette's advertising people who sent me an email urging me to visit www.giftforthegirls.com yesterday. I laughed so much I nearly bought a razor.
I'm trying really hard to muster some sort of feminist outrage or even some fury on the part of those decorative but dumb sex objects prettily caressing the kitten heels.
But I can't, it's too clever.
I urge you to enjoy the ad and make your own mind up about the razors.

Monday, 26 November 2007

Disc-y business

Dear Dave
Thanks very much for your nice letter last week.
I'm sorry to hear you're having trouble finding things. I know the feeling, I've absolutely no idea where I put the Christmas tree base when I put it away in January.
Still it was nice of you to let me know, especially as you seem so sure it's still on Government property. I often find the best way to find something is to stop looking and just have a good old tidy up and clearout. You can get rid of a load of useless rubbish while you're at it. Very satisfying. Then hay presto the very thing you'd lost turns up, as if by magic.
Thanks for the warning too about people contacting me unexpectedly. I'll keep my eyes peeled for that one. In fact, I'm glad you let me know, otherwise, I'd have just let that chap in - the one who said he was here to read the meter.
Then I'd barely got rid of him when the post man was there startling me with his door bell ringing. He won't be back here again in a hurry.
Anyhow, thanks once more and I'm delighted to hear it won't happen again. You've been to Ikea, haven't you? Thought so - those plastic storage units are great. You'll never lose anything again.

Your etc,


PS Dave, I've just realised you've sent the same letter to 6,499,999 other families. How do you think that makes me feel? Not to mention the postage. It must have cost at least £1.65million in stamps. I wonder if that Ikea unit will be enough to stop a few of you losing your jobs.

Wednesday, 21 November 2007

Dressing down

Hot foot from Stobo where sister, mother and I had some high-quality, quality time.
And what a fabulous place it is - all hushed tones and proper pampering.
Park your brain at the door and just enjoy having your chi unbunged, your lymphatic system flushed and your chakras aligned - not to mention having your wrinkles massaged and exfoliated.
Incidentally, have you ever heard anyone complain of being foliated?
The former castle was busy with the quiet whisper of serious relaxation. Women of all ages from all over shared stories of treatments and pampering over sumptuous meals.
I left invigorated and with my inner smile positively grinning. But I do have one question: why do so many smart, well-groomed and evidently tasteful women think a one-has-a-brave-go-at-fitting-all dressing gown is a good look?
More all-over nappy than effortless chic.

Monday, 19 November 2007

The Song's End

I happened to catch Women's Hour last week and found Libby Purves talking about a book she has published with her journalist husband Paul Heiney.
It's called The Silence at the Song's End and it is a collection of the poems, essays and diaries of their son Nick Heiney.
Nick committed suicide last June aged just 23 after a battle with a serious mental illness.
Libby spoke with great clarity about how the pleasure they took in finding their son's extensive writings and the decision to publish.
She also explained why they decided to go down the 'vanity' publishing route of doing it by themselves instead of going to one of the big publishing houses.
Libby knew that if she did that, inevitably, the book would be about a famous mother and her slightly less famous husband's journey of grief. They wanted a showcase for her talented son's thoughts.
Among them were:
What is important is to remember that it is not the way in which we record our existence, but that we do record it. In the air, and everywhere around, we must remember how the streets ring out for every soul that thought and felt and passed through them in weakness and in strength.

Wednesday, 14 November 2007

Cheer we go again


Not looking left or right and not listening. Naah naah naah can't hear you.
Stop asking if I'm all ready for Christmas - I'm not.
Stop sending me emails, letters and catalogues telling me what I absolutely can't do without this festive season - I can.
Stop telling me how many shopping days there are left - I can count.
Above all, stop it with creating the panic.
It's only November and there's plenty of time to organise one big meal and a couple of small ones, presents for half a dozen people, a bit of a glittery makeover and a Christmas tree. How hard can it be?

Tuesday, 13 November 2007

Aim for the strop


I know it's been a while and I haven't delivered my verdict on Gorgeous Gordon.
There has to be a reason for the delay - either I'm so overcome by his carisma that I'm still fanning myself gently with the outer leaves of some obscure type of lettuce or... whatever the alternative is.
We pitched up fairly promptly to see Che Chef doing his thing. It wasn't even coffee time and already there was a dense crowd of very excited Gordophiles.
A stern-looking MC lady was busy whipping them into an even bigger frenzy. The crowd cheered, gasped and jumped up and down - astonishing behaviour for sober women not participating in an aerobics class.
The anticipation had more texture than the tirimisu Gordon eventually demonstrated.
Anyhow, the moment and the star arrived and did that "Good morning Glasgow", "Can't hear you, try harder. Good morning Glasgow" routine beloved of pantomime dames everywhere.
So far, so rock'n'roll. I was hoping for some edgy and unpredictable bad boy antics, a sprinkle of expletives to liven things up.
But then he singled a girl out of the audience as it was her 16th birthday, led the singing and clasped her to his freshly laundered chest in the most avuncular mannor.
Things took a turn for the entirely expected.
While the chorizo and butter bean soup, popeseye steak with port-glazed baby turnips and tirmisu were perfect and immaculate, so sadly was Gordon.
Well behaved, even slightly nervous, the only glimpse of the famous bile and venom were a few set piece snipes at his fellow super chefs.
He seemed like a thoroghly decent sort of chap - more's the pity.
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