Of sliding doors and cropped cardigans

In my more wistful moments, I sometimes imagine that I might have been the short-haired, elfin-featured, pale-skinned singer in an otherwise male-dominated indie band.

I would have worn vintage clothing and had a wardrobeful of cropped, home-knitted cardigans.

I would have sung with my hands clasped behind my back and bobbed my head lightly from side to side in the instrumental parts of the songs. I may have tapped on a tambourine and shuffled around next to the bass guitarist.

If asked in media interviews what my interests were, I would have responded earnestly: saving the planet and the organic food movement.

But I might have been damned irritating, like a female version of Chris 'I hate capitalism but please buy my new CD' Martin.

So, it's all worked out for the best really.

**scribbles reminder to self to send off application to The X Factor 2006**

'Among the leaves'

Image reproduced with the artist's permission. Click here to visit Anita Klein's website.

Busy, distracted but strangely compelled to blog

So I bring you a little poem by Helen Farish entitled 'Coffin Path Poem':

My habit of late-night walking
will mirror my life, how in its twilight
I'll rush out saying, how beautiful -
has it been like this all day?

From 'Intimates' (2005), published by Jonathan Cape.

Zip, nada, zilch

There once was a chick from the city
Who thought herself terribly witty.
Then one winter’s day,
With nothing to say,
She cooed over shoes that were pretty.

Anger-inducing dust-gatherers

If socks make Little Blonde Niece cross (and they do), then these shoes make me cross.

They are screaming out to be worn to an urbane cocktail party* but they're just so cross-making to wear. Wear them in summer without tights and the faintest trace of perspiration will see your foot slithering around and eventually slipping out. No amount of toe-grippage is gonna keep your feet in and I'm not prepared to go to parties and stand in one spot for two hours (how am I gonna get to the hors d'oeurves, frinstance?). Wear them in winter with tights, and, unless you have little rubber suction pads on the foot, you will experience similar slippage and slithering.

But do you think I can throw them out?

Uh-uh.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

* should I EVER be invited to one, that is

Some of my best friends are chromophobes

And so it came to pass that I made my inaugural visit to my local TK Maxx. And yes, that would be the branch where star-crossed cyber-lovers met to carry out their joint suicide pact in the car park. How quaint.

'You need to set aside a couple of hours - y'know, for the rifling - you need to rifle,' advised my sis wisely.

Ooh. Rifling. Sounds fun. I have never (knowingly) rifled before.

I set out with my habitual shopping mantra: This Time I Will Not Gravitate To Black. This Time I Will Not Gravitate To Black.

And when I get deeper into the chanting, I say to myself: Must pepper wardrobe with Colour! Patterns! Interesting Necklines! After all, I know it is only a matter of time before a friend refers me to Trinny and Susannah. Flash-forward to T&S screaming in horror when they open my wardrobe ('Black is NOT A COLOUR! Suze: get the pinking scissors. Out out out!). This is after they've felt me up in the 360 degree mirror room, of course.

One quick swoosh later and the automatic doors have thrown me straight into the handbag section. I briefly consider clasping my hands together and gazing heavenwards to express my gratitude to the God I am now willing to imagine might actually exist.

The first half hour, therefore, is spent fondling and sniffing handbags galore. But there are too many, too many that I want. Need. Neeeeeeeeeeeed. I am, most uncharacteristically, overcome with the most unseemly bout of indecision.

And so I move away (vowing to return later) towards the kids' section. An hour later and my trolley is chock full of toys and clothes for the chicklets.

Oh gawd, I have left so precious little time for The Rifling. My sis said: 'at least two hours'. Glancing at my watch, I realise I have but 17 minutes. I am panicking now...

But you know, it's not that hard to pick out all the black items on a mile-long rack. I quickly talk myself round: this black top, well, it will go so well with EVERYTHING, ANYTHING (of course what I mean is: it will go so well with MORE BLACK). As will those trousers...and that coat. Who wants a cream coat, forgodssakes? Think of the drycleaning bills! Gosh, I am so practical. Motherhen would be proud. After all, it was from her that I inherited the the GTB (Gravitate To Black) gene mutation.

I am all smiles at the till. I trill a merry tune, much to the shop assistant's despair. 'Beautiful day, isn't it?' I chirp. He rolls his eyes.

But as I am leaving, I feel a little giddy. I put my hand to my forehead: I think I may have a slight fever. I lean against the car door for a few minutes to gather myself together. I clutch at my mobile phone and wonder whether it's too late to get an emergency appointment with the doctor.

Then I realise what it is: I left the store without buying a handbag. So I rush back in to buy the one I'd lingered over longest (23 minutes). But hey! It's a Christmas present (probably) for my sister (maybe). Gimme a break, guys!

There's no accounting for taste

I pity the poor folk who find my blog when they are looking for something more exciting. So I can only guess at the deep sense of disappointment felt by the person who ended up here having searched Yahoo for 'defecating women photos'.

Waiter, waiter, there's bile in my soup!

A few handy tips for anyone serving me in a restaurant:

1. DO NOT automatically offer the wine list to my male companion(s). Not unless you want me to ostentatiously snatch it out of their hands, tutting loudly, the minute you walk away from the table. And when you bring the wine, DO NOT assume that my male companion ought to taste it. Not unless you want me to grab the glass and pour its contents over your head after I've deposited copious amounts of bile-lined saliva in it.

2. DO NOT give me the menu with no prices. Rest assured that I am not in any way at risk of fainting on discovering the price of 'homard a la maison'. Tell me this: what would you do if faced with a party wholly consisting of women? Would we all end up with price-less menus? Come to think of it, perhaps this might work in our favour when the bill arrives and we claim innocently that we thought the food was free citing Article 75, Subsection C of the Idiocy in Restaurants Act.

3. When I have ordered two beers and two soft drinks for a party consisting of two men and two women, DO NOT automatically plonk the beer in the front of the men and the soft drinks in front of the women. Is it so much to ask that you inquire as to who ordered what? Apparently. Oh, and when a man and a woman between them have ordered one Diet Coke and one full-fat Coke, DO NOT assume it is the woman who wants the aspartame-loaded version.

4. When suggesting some digestifs, DO NOT trot out a long list of malt whiskys for my male companions but then turn to me and suggest 'a Baileys or Amaretto for Madam?'. Else you might provoke me into replying 'no thanks...sickly sweet alcoholic beverages will generally induce a bout of projectile vomiting onto your crisp, white, linen tablecloth, but thanks for asking - now bring me a Glenmorangie, you silly man'.

5. When presenting the bill, DO NOT automatically pass it to my male companion. Consider the controversial possibility that these days Some Women Have Money Of Their Own. If you do this, I will make a point of scoffing all the after-dinner mints in one go, before thrusting my visa card up your right nostril when you return.

Not hard, is it?

Diary of a Dull Teenager - Installment #2

Whilst her peers were sneaking out of their parents' houses to sniff glue in graveyards, Ursula was busy watching imported soap operas and collecting plastic bangles...

Wednesday 30 April 1986

Dear Diary,
Got up etc.etc. English homework is to write something about a relationship showing dependence. I've got a few ideas. For games we played tennis - that is, L and I. She's about my standard. I forgot to tell A about late games so I thought she'd have gone but she'd waited. We got a lift from Mrs M who'd waited for me. We watched some TV. V's got a music centre now. After tea we did some homework and at 8pm I had a bath and washed my hair. Then I watched 'Dallas'. Nothing ever seems to go right in that programme. Mum phoned. We're getting a lift home on Friday. Mum says that there isn't any post for me. It's exactly a month since I wrote to M-A and what's happened to my bangles?
Love Ursula x

Um, could M-A be the dependent relationship, I wonder...and why do I think that L and U's 'standard' of tennis is in the lower to lowest rank? And I sense the faintest whiff of jealousy about V's 'music centre'.

Raise your glasses

to Mr Chick, whose birthday it is today! Chin chin, honey! *mwah*

[The image is 'Angel with bottle and glass' by Anita Klein. The image is reproduced here with the kind permission of the artist (thanks, Anita!). You can view (and buy) Anita's wonderful work here.]

Move along now - there's nothing to see here

Well, I had been planning on seeking your advice on my millennium party faux leopard print pencil skirt, but given the outpouring of horror that met my tartan velour hotpants, I have decided instead to direct you away from my blog and over to Seldom Nice Nowadays.

Some of you will be unfamiliar with Katiedid's most excellent work on A-list celebrities. So first up, please check out her open letter to Madonna. But I couldn't send you to her blog and retain a clear conscience without also bringing this to your attention.

Go on! What's keeping you?

Fashion felony #173

What am I doing hanging onto these tartan velour hotpants?

I clear out my wardrobe pretty regularly but somehow these hotpants always make it back into The Permanent Collection.

I have worn them, possibly more than once, maybe in the late 1980s, perhaps with a pair of tartan tights and a tartan waistcoat.

[Think: ironic statement. OK?]

So, I turn to you, loyal readers, to ask: Should They Stay or Should They Go? (And if they go, do you think my local branch of Save The Children will be interested?)

Is it time for my tartan velour hotpants to pull out of my wardrobe?
	Yes, you ninny! They're way too sheer to hold in that cellulite!
	Don't do it, UC! A Rod Stewart revival is just around the corner!
Free polls from Pollhost.com

This one's for you, Betty

En-joy, m'dear...

I've told Mr Chick: tonight is the night

That's right. Sometime after the chicklets go to bed or perhaps in the wee small hours of tomorrow morning, I hope to hit the 20,000 pageloads mark.

So you can forget any wit and erudition* from me for the next 24 hours. I shall be far too busy obsessively checking Statcounter.

* 'well, that would be a departure from normal service' mutter UC's regulars

Update at 3.39pm GMT: Honeys, I'm there! And the one who tipped me over the edge? Someone from London, who's been here once before and mooched over from Britblog. *comes over all Gwyneth Paltrow*

Today I am concerning myself with

1. How to avoid eating the remaining contents of a 12-pack of M&S mini Scotch eggs in my fridge.

2. The anti-unionisation message in 'The Elves and the Shoemaker'.

3. Why it is I haven't done any Proper Writing on my blog for some time. Where my university professor used to say of Chinese history that 'it was all downhill after the Song dynasty', I am beginning to feel that it's been all downhill since 'Darwinian Toast'.

4. And whether random musings (such as these) are really going to cut the mustard on a sustained basis.

4. The fact that friends are beginning to think I am on some bizarre quest to 'glam up' more often, when really it's just that I haven't washed my favourite pair of jeans.

5. How absolutely splendid it is that the chicklets will respond to a single word command of 'YOGA!' by immediately lying on their backs and raising both feet in the air.

6. Whether we need to embrace the idea of building more nuclear power stations as a short-term solution to climate change.

7. And whether this viewpoint is compatible with my membership of Friends of the Earth.

8. Why policemen are looking younger these days.

9. And how pizzas at Pizza Express seem to have got bigger again (after a brief period of shrinkage).

10. Why it is I feel compelled to think up lists that run to ten points (and whether I am suffering from a mild form of OCD.)

And a few minutes after uploading...

11. How it is I have seemingly (and quite unwittingly) created a twelve-point list, despite all appearances to the contrary.

In other news today

(Namely, 'Change', the Co-operative Bank's customer magazine.)

Trailing an article inside the magazine on the front cover:

"Family Finance: we had to budget for our baby, but she's worth it!"

Well, thanks heavens for that. There's nothing like forking out for Microsoft Excel only to find the focus of your budgeting is a complete waste of space.

Beauty Routine: Must Get

Current morning beauty routine:

Get up. Look in mirror. Go downstairs.

OR

Get up. Look in mirror. Spy puffy eyes. Splash cold water on face. Pat face with towel. Go downstairs.

Current evening beauty routine:

Run bath. Splash warm water on face. Lie in bath in trance. Get out of bath. Go to sleep.

OR

Run bath. Splash warm water on face. Spy soap. Lather up and rub on face. Rinse off. Remember article in 'Marie Claire' saying soap too abrasive. Tut to self. Lie in bath in trance. Get out of bath. Forage for tub of three-year-old moisturiser. Sniff to ensure have not picked up chicklets' nappy rash cream by mistake. Rub on face. Go to sleep.

One year

JWS ('Gran'), 14 April 1918 - 14 November 2004

Pastoral

I wish I was a provinicial poet,
Writing a lot about nature,
Whenever I thought about London poets,
I'd mutter darkly, 'I hate yer.'

And off I'd stomp down the wild, wild lanes
In my jeans and my wellington boots.
A provinicial poet doesn't need lipstick
Or tights or respectable suits -

The clutter of urban life. How wonderful
Just to discard it all
And spend one's time communing with everything,
Perched on a dry-stone wall.

And after a busy day communing
To amble back home for a bite,
Then go to the pub with some real people,
Who manage twelve pints in a night,

Which helps them get through the provincial evenings
Without too much boredom or pain.
Real people, as solid and ruddy and calm
As a London bus in the rain!

Some day I'll go and live in the country
And many a notebook I'll fill
With keen observations of animals (mostly
The dead ones because they keep still).

Dead sheep and squashed rabbits. Oh, how I shall love it.
My face will be peaceful and brown
And shining with love for all of creation,
Excepting those poets in town.

Wendy Cope

Deep breaths, shallow breaths, deep breaths...

Honey, I think I need you to come home from work - I'm having cravings!

Are you sure? Think about it: you've had these cravings on and off before.

I know, but they're really regular now. Before it was just now and then...I could breathe through them, y'know, like they taught me at the meetings? Remember?

Yeeeesssss...so how frequent are they then?

I dunno: maybe every 45 minutes...

Shit!

I know!

Ummmmm, well if I jump into a cab, I could be with you in an hour.

An hour? An hour!

And you're absolutely sure the biscuit tin is empty?

Yes! Forgodssake, why on earth else would I be calling you? Come home NOW and stop by the petrol station and BUY ME SOME CHOCOLATE!

OK! OK!

Fiscal management and cold beverages

Interviewer: You say that, if elected, you will cut taxes saving £38bn. How exactly will you achieve that?

Politician: We will cut Red Bull. There's a lot of Red Bull about these days. Lots of unnecessary loutish twentysomethings drinking it of a Friday and Saturday evening. We will cut back on all of them and bring about a reduction in Red Bull. My people have done some back-of-an-envelope sums and they tell me that this will save us in the region of £20bn. I think you'll agree that's pretty impressive!

Interviewer: Gosh. So no need to cut the NHS budget or anything?

Politician: Absolutely not. In fact, we estimate that we will make up the remaining £18bn of savings through reduced A&E admissions due to over-consumption of sickly-sweet, caffeine-loaded soft drinks mixed with vodka.

Interviewer: Ah...

**********

Overheard on Radio 2 yesterday:

Tory party leadership contender David Davis MP to BBC journalist Jeremy Vine: "If you want New Puritan sense of humour...!"

We want it, David! We want it! (P.S. What is it?)

Just askin'.

What I'd like to do to Sharleen Spiteri

is cut her silly fringe!

I'm even considering a quick trip to north London bearing some kitchen scissors to do the deed.

**hears voice of Motherhen in her ear: you need a hair cut, my lady - you look like a Shetland pony with that fringe!**

[This post was inspired by Meegan, who would like Goldie Hawn to tie her blonde locks back in a ponytail.]

Overheard in my living room

[Mr Chick enters stage left.]

UC: Hi, honey - how was your day?

Mr Chick: Oh, fine. How 'bout you?

UC: Yeah, OK. [adopts pathetic, whiney tone] Although I've got terrible muscle tension in my neck and shoulders...

Mr Chick: Want me to give you a massage?

UC: [puppy-eyed] May-be...d'you think that'd help? I should probably take a Nurofen...or have a hot bath...

Mr Chick: Up to you! [UC tips head from side to side and groans] What would you like for dinner?

UC: Oh God, stop it with the questions already! I dunno! [rolls eyes heavenwards]

[Mr Chick exits stage right. UC mutters to self.]

Where's an unreconstructed 1950s husband when you need one?*

* I'm joking - OBVIOUSLY. Mr Chick is a marvel.

Diary of a Dull Teenager

There seems to be something of a trend for publishing the diaries of elderly relations on blogs right now.

Never one to miss the opportunity for a casual leap onto the back of a bandwagon, I thought I would cash in on the act and publish some excerpts from the diary of a very close relation (*coughs pointedly*).

To begin at the beginning...

Wednesday 1 January 1986

Dear Diary,
We went to bed at around 1am in the morning. I wasn't feeling at all well. I was sick* (I'm not sure when though). I got up at around midday. Mum and Dad came to Gran's soon after. We had some sandwiches and some tea then we set off to pick up C (E's friend). In the afternoon we watched 'The Happiest Days of our Lives'. It was really good. We just lazed around until teatime. After which we watched another film 'The Clash of the Titans'. I'd seen it before. It's about this guy called Perseus (I think you spell it like that!). Anyway, everyone seems to be against him (how thick!). Then I bathed E and C. I blow dried C's hair. (She looked like Claudia from 'Dynasty'!). Goodnight! xxx

* it is absolutely not possible that this individual (let's call her Ursula) was hungover - much more likely she had over-indulged in the New Year's Eve party sausage rolls

P.S. In searching for an image to accompany this post, I discovered this. Are we to believe that the first Bridget Jones film was named 'Chocolate for breakfast' in Germany? How fabulous!

Two words: Back Ache

 
Four words: But Worth It (Sometimes)
(Six words: My Physiotherapist Would Not Be Pleased)

**teeter teeter triiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip**

To the recesses of my navel and back

It promised much ("the first women´s magazine that is about what we are really like, not just what we look like").

It seemed to have a proven formula (its French equivalent sells hundreds of thousands of copies each month).

Pulses were racing. Hopes were high.

So, in keeping with the (sometimes) public service nature of this blog, I have waded through all three editions of 'Psychologies' on your behalf...

Edition #1 [October 2005]:
I've felt the fear and beaten it (p.31). I've plotted myself on the extrovert/introvert scale (p.64). I've learnt five tools to control negative thoughts (p.75) and acknowledged ten different styles of negative thinking and the ways in which to beat them (p.77). I've not only established my own boundaries (p.87), I've also figured out how strong my boundaries are (p.89). I've figured out my dreams and listed the things that might be standing in the way of me achieving them (p.104). I've named my core values (p.108) and learnt how to 'honour' them (p.111). I've also worked out whether or not I am happy with my work/life balance (p.110). I've been advised what to do in the event that I discover that I don't like the 'me' I've discovered (p.111). I've carried out exercises designed to help me take the first steps towards change and self-discovery (p.114). And I've established how my birth order has affected my personality (p.115). I've taken a test to discover 'the real me' (p.126), discovered how to find inner peace (p.156) and established five ways to say 'no' (p.178).

I was left thinking 'what else is there to learn about ME ME ME?'. More, much more, apparently...

Edition #2 [November 2005]:
I've taken a colour test which is the key to understanding my needs and desires (p.31). I've decoded men (p.49). I've talked about sex and been advised of the new rules for sex and dating (p.65). I've set my goals (p.66) and established how to achieve them (p.69). I've figured out how to avoid emulating my parents' relationship (p.72). I know now how to bear a burden (p.81) and how to engender an all-round healthy attitude when faced with the opinions of others (p.87). I've been given some cognitive behavioural therapy techniques to reprogramme my reactions (p.88). I've also learnt some clinical hypnosis techniques to overcome fears, neutralise sadness and rehearse skills (p.89). I've got to grips with change (p.97), realised my potential (p.98) and worked out whether I might view any impending mid-life crisis as a crisis or as a turning point (p.112). I've established the wisdom of ageing (p.113) and my attitude to change (p.118). I've been explained the sleep rules (p.143).

But there's no time for a little shut-eye right now, because the good people at 'Psychologies' have other plans...

Edition #3 [December 2005]:
I've learnt how to cope with too much choice (p.44) and established how exactly I make choices (p.45). I've been told how to avoid infidelity (p.49) and what to do about my own social anxiety (p.54). Someone who should know has shared their secrets on how to talk to anyone (p.55). I've discovered how to raise confident children (p.62) and to how to handle a self-esteem surfeit in others (p.62). I now have a good idea of where my core strengths and passions lie (p.69) and how to play to those strengths (p.71). I've taken on board tips for connecting with my real emotions (p.82) and tips to recover from emotional labour (p.83). I've learnt how to talk to my children at the different stages of childhood (p.85) and how to talk to children if I am not a parent (p.87). I'm finding out what is making me blame my parents (p.94) and how I can find new ways of relating to my parents (p.95). I'm now trying not to get stuck in one role (p.100) and working out how my partner fits into the family drama (p.101). I'm brimming with tips for managing Christmas (p.105) and maintaining happy stepfamilies (p.106). I've established my role at Christmas (p.116) and I now have a Christmas vitality plan (p.123) which includes: quick energy boosters, five foods to pep me up, three instant relaxation techniques and how to minimise the morning-after feeling and stoke up for the day. I've memorised fast-working boosts for instant results when it comes to problems with dull skin, pasty complexion, broken nails, flat hair, low energy levels, neglected feet and fuzzy brows. And finally, I've worked out what to do when I can't help getting involved in other people's business (p.170), although given the extensive navel-gazing exercise I'm engaged in right now, I'm not sure I will ever again have time for anyone else but ME ME ME.

My verdict:
Well, if this is what Madonna meant by an examined life, I'm not sure I want it. I feel rather exhausted. If unabashed introspection is the only alternative to shameless superficiality, bring back the handbags, the shoes, the stick thin models and the cute shiny accessories.

Vogue, Tatler, Marie Claire: all is forgiven!

Afterthought:
Re-skim-read the October edition and caught sight of the Readers' Survey (p.172). Herein might lie the rub...

Q10 On our covers we want to represent modern, interesting women. From the following list, select the three women who most appeal to you:

* Teri Hatcher
* Nigella Lawson
* Victoria Beckham
* Angelina Jolie
* Catherine Zeta-Jones
* Sharon Stone
* Linda Evangelista
* Madonna
* Renee Zellweger
* Winona Ryder

So, six Hollywood actresses, two pop stars, one supermodel and one celebrity chef. Erm, try 'none of the above' (although this isn't given as an option). Where are the Susan Greenfields, the Lisa Jardines, the Cherie Blairs? Hey ho. Perhaps we just differ on our definition of 'modern' and 'interesting' (where theirs is 'attractive' and 'youthful' and mine is 'modern' and 'interesting'). Hmmm.

I love a tart, me

Here at Casa Chickadee, we are nuts about nuts. If we're not cracking them open with our bare teeth, we're roasting the living daylights out of them. If we're not roasting the living daylights out of them, we're slinging them into a hot frying pan and toasting them. And if we're not slinging them into a hot frying pan and toasting them, we're tossing them, unadorned, into a green leaf salad. Oh yes.

We are particularly nutty about almonds, any which way: ground, whole, flaked. And best of all, we love a squishy frangipane. Hell, who doesn't?

So, courtesy of Tamasin Day-Lewis in her book 'The Art of the Tart', it is with great (nut-involving) joy that we bring you:

Cherry and Almond Tart
Serves 6-8

Pastry:
120g/4oz plain flour
60g/2oz butter, cut into cubes
a pinch of salt
1 egg yolk
1-2 tbsp iced water
a little beaten egg
2 rounded tbsp apricot jam

Filling:
120g/4oz unsalted, softened butter
120g/4oz caster sugar, plus extra for serving
2 large eggs
120g/4oz ground almonds
grated zest of 1 lemon
400g/14oz (drained weight) stoned, bottled morello cherries

1. Blend flour, butter and salt in food processor. Tip into large bowl and gently mix in egg yolk and water with cool hands or a knife until well amalgamated. Chill in fridge for at least 1 hour.
2. Preheat over to 190c/375f/Gas 5. Line 22cm/9inch tart tin with pastry and bake blind for 15-20 minutes. Remove beans, brush pastry with beaten egg and return to over for further 10 minutes until golden, crisp and well cooked, especially the base.
3. Warm jam slightly and spoon over base of tart. Leave to cool. Turn oven down to 180c/350f/Gas 4.
4. Beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add one egg and keep beating until entirely incorporated then add other egg and beat again. Add ground almonds and lemon zest amd fold them in thoroughly. Spoon into pastry case and smooth the top.
5. Press the cherries into the mixture, pushing them under the almond paste with your fingers.
6. Return to over and bake for 40 minutes or so, until surface golden brown, puffed up and springy to the touch. Switch off oven and leave in there for 15 minutes with door ajar.
7. Dust with caster sugar before serving.

My cover has been blown

Today, I met fellow blogger Whinger and her significant other, both of whom were smart, funny and all round great company.

I feel sure she will be blogging any minute now to tell the world about my navy blue Clarks pseudo-trainers and black cotton not-quite-a-rucksack-but-might-just-as-well-be shoulder bag.

What can I say, dear readers? I am nothing but a sham, a fake, a fraudster.

*hangs head in shame*

But come on! You didn't think I teetered around in kitten heels, swinging a Furla handbag all the time, did you?

You did??

Oh dear...

Mr Chick's latest harebrained idea

Mr Chick has become positively obsessed with eliminating all means of exposure to dust mites in our humble abode.

Bedding has been replaced, soft furnishings vacuumed to within an inch of their lives, (beautiful cherry red) leather sofa and armchair ordered, new hoover purchased.

But now, he wants us to start wearing Nasal Air Guards. Yes, he's in danger of becoming one of those people who orders things from the weird catalogues that fall out of the Sunday papers.

So we tried them out last night. The sample packs, which retail at a bargain £1.95, each contained nasal air guards in all four sizes (Small Short, Small, Medium and Large).

Insertion was quick and easy, but as soon as we exhaled, they shot out and divebombed onto the floor. This, it struck us, was something of a design fault.

Anyway, we weren't too disheartened, particularly as we learnt from the enclosed leaflet (see photo) that taking drugs can prevent allergies. How marvellous! Now that's something the anti-drug lobby never tell you about.

Myth-perpetuation and children's programming

Those who spend a lot of time watching broadcasting aimed at pre-schoolers will be familiar with the cute mini-films one finds bang in the middle of otherwise surrealist, puppet-based psycho-dramas such as Teletubbies.

I feel sure that there is some heavily-researched psychology underpinning this approach.

**imagines circular memo issued to Commissioning Editors (Children's Broadcasting) at the BBC**

...Please note that pitches for programmes will only be considered if the antics of the brightly-coloured, freakish creatures are punctuated by vignettes from Real Life with which our core audience can identify...Yours, Mark Thompson etc.

It strikes me that these mini-films fall into two broad categories. Frinstance:

Rural Idyll
Opening sequence:
Two rosy-cheeked children (one of each gender) come running towards camera against backdrop of a disused barn and rampaging hens.
What they say:
'Hello! My name is Evie and this is my little brother Jonty! Today we're going to catch minnows in the stream at the bottom of our neighbour's garden!'
In other words:
Reside in the commuter belt of a throbbing metropolis we might, this does not stop our parents - who each work 12 hour days as merchant bankers in London - from seeking to perpetuate their vision of a rural idyll!

Urban Bliss
Opening sequence:
Three or four children of various ethnicities scramble towards camera clutching handfuls of soil and wearing wellington boots.
What they say:
'Hello! My name is Jatinder and these are my friends Declan, Mohammed and Wei Min. Today we're going to dig up carrots on an allotment!'
In other words:
Just because we live in a crime-ridden 'sink estate' of south London, doesn't mean we can't all get along together and find ways of sourcing cheap and healthy fresh produce grown in our own community!

Oooh, I feel a PhD coming on...

Lob your homosexuality into the ocean, will ya?

Below is the text of a letter sent to a gay friend of mine:

Dear [UC's friend]

We here at the Church want you to know that we are praying for you. We are praying for your release from homosexuality. We pray that you take a female wife and that you stop campaigning for homosexuals. It is immoral, unfair and not loved by God at all.

Please, [UC's friend], change your ways. It is never too late. Please pray for the spirit of homosexuality to leave your body and throw itself into the sea - like the evil spirits did that were cast out of our Lord.

Please do this - In Jesus' name. Jesus loves you so much!!

1 Corinthians 6:9-10 (NIV): "Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God." [I know, the lack of commas bothers me too.]

God bless you - our brother in Christ. Amen.

**********

My friend is struggling with a reply, so I said I'd help him out:

Dear Nice Kind People at the Church

Thank you for your concern. There's just a couple of things I want to check:

OK, the "female wife" thing: this would be my "female wife" as opposed to all my male wives? Should I also give up my male wives? Please advise.

When you say you'd like it if the spirit of homosexuality was to leave my body and "throw itself into the sea", will the River Thames do? It's just that I don't think I can get a day off work right now to travel down to Margate. And hey, the Thames is a tidal river, right?

Erm, what no Leviticus 18:22? Come on! Hit me with your best shot!

Best wishes etc.

P.S. If I come across one of your sons in a south London sauna again, any top tips for where you'd like me to chuck their homosexuality?

Update: I've just received another email from my friend. Boy, is he one confused little cookie! (Well, that figures.) He says: "I’m still struggling with why it is unfair – because I’m having such fun and they spend their sad days praying for me? Also I have this image of gay dolphins…the spirit will need to go somewhere." Can anyone help him?

Lest you should doubt my qualifications

Let me assure you that, should you inadvertently drop a brick into a heated indoor swimming pool*, I am your woman. I will happily retrieve said brick on your behalf, although you will have to provide me with a pair of brushed cotton pyjamas. No pyjamas = No can save your brick. Sorry, but that's just the way it is.

* Believe me when I say that it happens all the time. A Scottish diver's work is never done...