Tuesday, 29 July 2008

Nudes flash

Panther is muttering into his beer, an odd look on his face.
“What?”
“That woman over there…”
“Yes.” He’s looking at half of an unremarkable couple tucking into paella on the other side of the restaurant. She seems to me like she’d probably choose to read Woman’s Own at the hairdresser.
“I’ve seen her bits,” he confesses. "All of them."
“Oh. I know.”
Boys One and Two devour pizza and chips, oblivious.
Thing is, the nearest beach to our campsite, and probably the best with rocky bits and waves that chase you is a nudist beach and we’re fascinated.
The topiary alone is giving us cause for comment.
But we’re easy-going and if they don’t mind my M&S cossie I don’t mind them letting it all hang out.
One thing puzzles us though: in what way is the perfectly understandable urge to be a naturist connected to the entirely inexplicable desire to leap up and down in an unseemly game of bat and ball?
It knocks Federer and Nadal into a cocked hat for sheer irresistible viewing.

Wednesday, 2 July 2008

Buy heck

Saturday was retail therapy day and for once I had a good excuse. Honest. The wardrobe only held two pairs of non-maternity trousers that were up to the job. They weren’t well worn as before AM they were reserved for the fattest of fat days. Nonetheless, alone they were not going to cut it for our forthcoming Eurocamp and Egypt extravaganza.
So, to Silverburn eventually. I know it’s huge and you can see it from the northbound M77 but it’s really not easy to find if you come the other way. Or maybe it was just me…
I found an oasis of satisfying consumerism, loads of sales and not too many people smoking in the doorways.
However, two questions remain unanswered:
Why the M&S share price still reported a fall this week?
And how can I be swimming around in a Tesco size 16 yet unable to even squeeze my arms into an H&M 18?
PS Mr P, the M&S bit was a joke.

Anyone remember what we did before the web?

I seem to have joined a club - the kind of club that you don't want to be member of whether they'll have you or not. (Apologies to Groucho Marx)
It's the club for people who've had late miscarriages and haven't got over it yet.
The reason I know about it is because I've turned once again to my old fried, the Interweb.
There are dozens of us who've taken the step of typing their way into chatrooms - some offering advice and others just finding somewhere else for their wails of agony. Others, like me, in the main just stand there watching and listening.
It's easy to see life as a series of chapters: school, university, first job, first husband, motherhood, finding the Panther. Just now it feels like I've been jolted from my narrative’s continuum into anther chapter - After Miscarriage (or AM to friends).
Before AM I had occasionally ambled through chatrooms wondering at the obsession that had people clicking away the most intimate details at all hours to total strangers who appeared to give a damn about their particular fixation.
Did you know there were entire threads devoted to cervical mucus and that the accepted shorthand for menstrual period is AF (Auntie Flo, geddit)?
Then this week I realised I'd read every single posting by, to and for members of my special club. I now know more on the subject than I ever thought possible and some of it may even be accurate.
I even found myself registering, making up a screen name and posting too. That's when I pulled myself back from the brink. Blimey I don't want to be one of "them", do I?
Of course not. But, then again, if it saves my nearest and dearest from yet another session of patient listening and delivers me something hopeful, how bad can it be?
In the consistently wise words of my dear sister: "Keep googling til you find what you want to hear, then save the page and stop looking."
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