Vous parlez Francais?

Well here I am again en France. The deed is done, our land is sold and a pact has now been made with the devil. Having complained for years in a rather English way about the lack of style and green awareness of the French lotissements we find ourselves strapped for cash and needing to do repairs to the old and rambling Bergerie we call home. Now we are faced with two houses of dubious design being built right before our very eyes. We can’t complain any longer, we have accepted the money. We must now shut up and get on with it. It came as some surprise to realise that actually we’re still very fond of the old place, despite the fact that the electricity goes off at the drop of a hat. It even goes off when there’s nothing on at all and all the plugs are removed from the wall. We received an offer for the place a few weeks ago and had come round to thinking we should sell up. We come back down and hey presto, no we’re not selling we are staying, which is why at 6.30am the alarm has been going off calling us not to prayer but to French conversation with a German teacher. We are trying to make the effort, it’s only taken eight years.

Ships Log - Day Two

I’m feeling decidedly ropey this morning. My internal clock went off at 3am as usual and I found myself sitting bolt upright in bed trying to remember anything that I learnt in French yesterday. It’s impossible. At this time in the morning the only word I can recall is canoë which sounds nice, but is not the most useful word to add to my small list. It won’t get me fed in a restaurant, bumped up to first class or rescued in my moment of crisis. The other word I can instantly remember is cocquelicot, the word for poppy. Well that’s it, no need for extra lessons. I’m fluent.

Flyin' Ryan

And this is what set off the chain of reactions that led to my spending a small fortune to get get myself down to the South of France by train last year... An extract from a previous diary entry as we returned from an earlier trip to France.

Paul is now very nervous and says I must check through in front of him in case they throw me back out. Last time they threw me out because I had sneaked in under the barrier when no-one was looking to join the queue of people waiting for check in. I had been 3 minutes late and a very officious Frenchman refused to let me in. When his back was turned I’d half undressed to put him off the scent and with the help of a fellow passenger had snuck through, only to be threatened with the police by the same obnoxious man who’d refused me entry. Flouncing off in a huff I declared that I would ‘never travel with Ryan Air ever again’. Which is why I am now checking in once again … on Ryan Air. Consistency was never a trait I favoured.

In hindsight I should have had a glass of wine before getting on the plane as I hate flying, but I had opted for a strong black coffee. Big mistake. Having extracted my teeth from Paul’s leg on takeoff I finally relaxed enough to scratch my flea bites. Strangely reassuring.
‘Cabin crew, 20 minutes to landing’. The Captain’s voice came over the tannoy. Stupid I know but I’ve always been relieved when the Captain’s English.

It was at this precise moment that the plane went into a steep nosedive. The wing flaps came up accompanied by the most horrendous sound of engines trying to slow the dive. One’s immediate response is to look to the cabin staff. Do they look calm and are they still smiling? Well, as the pilot said ‘Crew please return to your seats and fasten your belts’ I swear they could have competed in the marathon. Not a lot of smiling as they whipped past my seat. Not even time to ask me if I wanted duty free goods. That was the first safety net test failed then. I resisted the urge to stand up and scream ‘We’re all going to die’, but I vaguely recall shouting ‘This is not normal, I tell you, this is not normal’. Stating the bloody obvious is clearly not very helpful and it was only the fact that everyone else was clinging onto their seats that prevented my lynching.

Nothing happened. We didn’t die, the plane recovered and you could hear the knowing conversation from men around me. ‘Air pocket you know.’
‘Just turbulence.’
‘What nose dive, didn’t feel a thing?’
Normal service resumed, so very British. Not a word of explanation from the crew. Was I the only one who was reduced to a jibbering wreck.
‘Did you wet yerself Gran? You looked really scared’ came a voice from a seat three rows back.
I hadn’t imagined it then.
Nana from three rows back provided my support as I casually ask what the problem had been but the cabin steward had still to regain the power of speech. Hey ho! I vow not to fly again as I descend the steps.

A chat line too far

Off to France on Saturday morning and frankly I can't wait. Despite the early ferry, despite the bottom numbingly long car journey and despite the fact that the road tolls seem to have spirelled out of control, I still can't wait. It's reminded me of part of a trip I took over there last year, when I realised yet again that I couldn't fly and having abandoned my partner on the tarmac I had to get myself down to the house, preferably before he reached it. This resulted in the least cost effective route devised by man and my having to buy first class tickets all the way, having begged a bed for the night from a friend in Paris. As the minutes ticked away the next morning, I found myself in a queue at Gare de Lyon. Now I’m no doctor but the French man in front of me is sweating like I’ve never seen before. Being of a menopausal disposition it is something one recognises unfortunately. As he was a man and young to boot, there is only one other conclusion to draw from this. I read the Daily Mail. He has all the symptoms. He obviously has swine flu. Did I mention he’s also coughing and sneezing? Ordinarily this would be a heavy cold, but not now. Now, he is utterly contagious and I must move away from him at all costs. The problem is I am close to missing my train and I don’t know how long my broken French conversation is going to take. I have to explain that the automated machine isn’t recognising my name and is refusing to spew out my pre booked ticket. Plus I have a rather smelly woman following me and she is hovering around my handbag waiting to pounce, so I have no choice. Instant death in the queue by Swine flu.
Now it’s not easy to avoid offending someone as you lean away at an acute angle and attempt to wrap a jumper tightly around your face at the same time. So I opt for the simpler approach of just not breathing. At the point of my passing out I notice a whistling man who ignores the snaking queue completely and approaches the ticket booth from the exit end. Incensed at his lack of fair play I utter a ‘well that’s just charming’ thereby taking a huge intake of air and becoming instantly contagious.

Once on the train I realise that a whole herd of swine have decided to big it up and cough their way through first class and therefore I might as well relax and settle into imminent death throws.

It’s unspeakably early as we pull out of the station and as I snooze my way through the suburbs a tap on the shoulder delivers a polite enquiry.
‘Would you mind closing the window blind?’
I was slightly miffed as I did want to watch the countryside wiz pass, but turning to reply I found a rather good looking black man smiling back at me!
‘No problem.’ I replied a little too readily.
I sneaked a quick look. Well dressed, tall, suited and booted. I wonder what he does for a living?

Three hours later I found out.

‘Tell me lovely lady’ a waft of halitosis drifted over my nose ‘what is your name’
‘Pardon?’
‘You can tell me that can’t you, this is a big world?’
Now I don’t think I am particularly prudish but when a man I don’t know asks for my name and sits just that bit too close the alarm bells begin to ring.
‘Will you get off with me in Montpellier and have a coffee?’
Do I l look like a complete fool?
‘I can show you around and we can just enjoy each other’s company.’
Oh come on, did he think I was born yesterday?
‘No I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’
‘Well, what if I get off in Narbonne with you?’
I had lied about getting out in Narbonne as I was going to Perpignan but the presence of Paul waiting to greet me didn’t seem to put him off. Had this man no shame?

Anyway, all this and me in first class. I ask you.

My birthday is on Friday and I am now very definitely into my 50’s, though I still like to refer to them as 'early' 50's. Who am I kidding? This is something not to be taken lightly, but I fear I shall be in denial for the next 7 years. Where are the redeeeming features to this decade, crammed as it is with quite scary physical changes? Too young hopefully, for elasticated waists and support hose but too old to pick up a 25 year old, unless of course, you’re Madonna or Demi Moore. I have therefore decided to retreat into my own world, where the sun always shines, the bank doesn’t return my cheques and children are eternally grateful that you bought them to existence. I may not come back, but I’ll send a postcard.

Mobile texting should carry a government warning. Having mentioned to my long suffering partner that we must do something between work, evening meal, TV sleep and death, I received a text from him asking me to meet him in the car park in the park at 6.15pm. Later that afternoon and in a moment of smart arsed flippancy, with images of middle class suburbia firmly in my mind I replied ‘Fancy sex?’ I pressed 'send' and watched with horror as I sent it to a director I used to work with. I’m not sure which is worse, my grovelling explanation to him later or the fact that he didn’t reply immediately!

Let that be a cautionary lesson to the trigger happy generation of texters. Never send anything you wouldn’t want to receive yourself. Mmmm, room for thought……..

Warning: This message contains nude references!

“Caz?”
“Yes?”
“You remember me telling you over dinner at the weekend about the bridal path the council are thinking of re-routing round the back of our garden, and that the phenomenal view we currently have over the hills of Kent will be totally ruined because riders and horses will be able to see straight into our garden, and worse still the bathroom?”
“Yes. I think you estimated about five daily riders.”
“Well…” there was a pause on the phone before Peggy continued “ Gary’s come up with a brilliant plan.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes. We’ve decided to join the Naturist Society.”
“What, as in 'getting your kit off' Naturists?”
“Yes. We thought you might have their number?”
“Peggy that was twenty years ago when with firm body and possibly less firm mind we dabbled with stripping off in the UK. We’re strictly hot beach stripping these days.”
A long pause.
“So” I continued cautiously “you intend to let the council know that you are nudists and at any given point the riders might come across you doing a naked pas de deux in the hedgerow?”
“Yes.”
“God, that’s brilliant!”
“How do you think we stand?”
“Well, cautiously if you are near the hawthorn hedgerow, but legally I think you’re OK unless someone can see you in the garden and take offence. That may be the problem.”
“What if we say we’ve been stripping off for years? Surely that gives us certain rights? We were there first.”
“Not sure, check with a lawyer. Give him the bare facts.”
“You’re taking the piss.”
“I’m deadly serious.”
“I think we’ve got a good chance.”
“Well it’s certainly an angle that I’m sure the council won’t be expecting. I wonder who they will send down to inspect your claim? Tell you what, I know it’s
-3c today but go on whip your kit off and give it a go. Anyway, you may need to stand on a stepladder to make sure you’re seen. Perhaps you should paint the pertinent bits a bright colour, that’ll help frighten the horses.”
To date I’ve had no further word. It may go to appeal and need supporting evidence, but there’s not much of that when you are stark naked.

To be continued….

There is a very good reason why at 7.30am this morning I was sitting naked but for a red and white stripped dressing gown and a pair of Paul’s gardening shoes, in the back seat of my car, rigid, bolt upright and staring straight ahead.

It had all started with the realisation that I had left yesterday’s shopping in the car overnight and when I furtively emerged out this morning, the road in front had looked empty, as it should at that time. Granted it was a little nippy round the knees and the fringing on my sarong style skimpy dressing gown threatened to go stiff in the frost, but hey, it was only a quick dash across the tarmac drive and I’d soon be back in the warm.

It was unfortunate that the Royal Mail van chose this particular moment to skid to a halt directly outside the house. Where had he been hiding? Honestly he must have been lurking behind a bush. In hindsight, throwing myself into the back seat of the car was the wrong decision. Why the back? I can’t recall ever sitting there in ten years of owning the car. The next bad decision was to try and make this appear really normal. We haven’t even bothered changing our address as we will move back to our own house later in the year so mail almost never comes through the letterbox. That is until this morning. As I gaze over the driver’s seat I am sure this has made me invisible but the knocking on the rear window reassures me that I am indeed visible to the naked eye. As I wound down the window I am sure I could detect a smurk from the man as he leaned through the opening.
‘Can you sign for this package for next door?’
‘Of course, not a problem.’
He handed me the package through the window and I wound it back up.
I had to wait a full five minutes, still staring straight ahead, as he sat in his van filling out a job sheet. He waved as he drove off. I managed a regal hand movement in reply and a less than ladylike expletive passed my lips.

As I crept back across the drive I caught the eye of the impeccably dressed neighbour Chantelle. She has yet to speak to us since the dressing gown dancing incident in the garden the other night. I fear she never will now.

Nowness.com

Take a look at this site it's excellent. A daily story, amazing pictures and film and then comprehensive links within the story to other connected sites. Thought provoking, eclectic ... I could go on and discribe the site in detail, but that would do it scant justice. It has just relaunched. View it now.

Die for DIY

I don't know what the statistics are for accidents in the home but I am swelling their numbers quickly. This morning as I rushed out the door I grabbed the water on the hall table, except it wasn't water. It was turps. It was only the vile smell that saved me from stripping my insides. It happened last year too. Reaching for the mouthwash in the cupboard I got distracted, picked up the bottle and took a swig of... nail varnish remover. What little enamel my teeth still had has surely gone now.

Don't try this at home.

Whilst walking through Guildford last year in the pouring rain I noticed a large council sign. “Are you prepared in the event of flooding?” Now this got me thinking. Firstly, Guildford is quite hilly, so how large will this flood be? Are we talking Tsunami? Secondly Radio 2 DJ Chris Evans has just named his new son Noah. Was this a sign?

Does anyone hold any architectural plans for an ark? I must check I can still swim.

What's your home phone number, do you want to chat?

A stalker! 11pm at night and this had just popped up on my Blackberry. "Paul - change the phone numbers, we'll have to move house, pull down the blackout blinds. Who can it be, will I be kidnapped?" Realisation dawned slowly, like most things after a glass of good white wine. It's got to be my blogger account.

I tried to explain to Paul that in an effort to drum up readers for my blog I'd activated an old Facebook account, which had never been used. I found an unanswered message from a friend from Jan 2009 for God's sake so you can see how active it is.
Anyway, in my haste I forwarded my blog to a man who I didn't know who for some reason unfathomable to me (there's no photo on my site so perhaps we have the answers right there), wanted to be my friend. Well now I'd jumped in with both feet and opened my whole life to him. No preamble, no polite conversation. Whoosh, there I am in your in tray. It had to be him obviously. A sleepless night later and I had concocted all sorts of catastrophes. Identify highjacking, credit card cloning, kidnapping. You name it it was going to happen. By 6.30am I had begun to wonder if he might be good looking and hey, I might be a certain age but, my very own stalker? Maybe that was flattering after all. Then it dawned on me. I texted my girlfriend newly returned to New Zealand. 'Are you my stalker? Did you want to chat last night'
"A stalker, you? In your dreams girl!" came back the reply. Trust your girlfriends to bring things back in perspective.

I need help

Ok, as a self proclaimed Ludite struggling valiantly with this silent enemy, how, oh how do I make blogs work efficiently? Any tips gratefully received, both for myself, and my bemused friends who are also struggling to log on quickly. I've been doing this for a couple of weeks now, with further plans in mind on the world wide web, but really, can it really be this complicated? Can anyone tell me in five year old's language how to offer a quick link for friends to join? I've got something that I've added, but I'm not sure it's quick. Also, how do you get more readers? Do I just need to be a complete blogger tart and blatantly send my site to all and sundry, or are there more sophisticated ways of doing this? Bribery perhaps? It's always worked in the past... Also I'm not sure I've used the right link to allow people to leave comments and I really want this otherwise it's like being held in solitary confinement. I'm talking away but I'm not sure anyone can hear me. Help! I may have to pick up a phone and how old does that make me feel.

Please send help now!!

Posh Posies

To longsuffering Mother's everywhere, I toast you all.

Yeah.! I have officially been left to my own devises for a whole week. The signs are always the same. The first morning passes in a haze of bed, comfy pillows, cups of tea and a backlog of last Sunday's newspapers. I should be writing but hey, it can wait a while, it's only 9.30. I kick the swimming stuff into touch and hide the gym membership. It's touch and go whether I should get dressed at all when my velvet dressing gown fits so snuggly. I attempt a half hearted hoover and put my feet up. No agenda you see, no 'what are we doing today, I know you've got the day mapped out?' Nothing. Nada. Midday sees me gliding round the Saturday Farmers Market. Expensive? You bet, but hey, I'm cooking for one. Let's indulge. I'm on my own. I resolve to do a wifey thing and cook six steak and kidney pies. Now? Well no, it can wait a bit, plenty of time. Late afternoon and I'm attempting to carry a large armchair found for a bargain out of the back of my long suffering car and in through the front door. Please don't let me do any more damage to this rented house of ours. Well that's it. I'm now officially stuck firmly in the door frame and my right knee is at a very odd angle. Where's a man when you need one? Having borrowed the man from next door I am now safely indoors. I could go out but an evening of rubbish TV and The Daily Mail beckons. It's now 7pm, I've been on the phone for an hour and a half, I've finished the wine from last night (no more for another ten days) and...

tomorrow is another day. I'll spruce myself up, brush my hair, waft some perfume and take my mum out for Mothers Day tea. Last week I had her up making moves on the dance floor. And her aged 86, she should know better.

I have been ruthlessly culling our possessions (OK my possessions) for months now. I have sold, dumped and charity shopped my way through a mountain of cherished tat and heirloom. Unworn shoes - gone. Vintage coats - recycled. Sparkly evening stuff - mmm well OK, one has found itself wrapped around an old lampshade. I now stand before you with what's left. An old pair of jeans, a cashmere sweater and Birkenstocks. A dump too far perhaps.

I think I took the cull too far the other day as well when a man rang me up, having traced an ad I'd placed to sell three beautiful old 9ft shutters. The result was I sold them to him and regretted it immediately. Not only did I text him but I rang him with a sob in my voice pleading with him to return them. He was oh so sympathetic but no he waasn't going to return them. They are now taking pride of place on some film set. He said that perhaps I should learn to let go. I think he has a point.

I am still mourning the loss of the shutters three days later as I accomplish another charity run. Breaking violently to avoid a cycylist the contents from the back seat fly through the air and I am suddenly dressed in three coats, two handbags and a lampshade. I resolve to keep the lampshade.

Lost in Translation

Hello,
make Him(It) you for the signature of your ground of Caves is planned for
Monday, 29 Mars 2010 at 3 pm in master(teacher) Bagnouls's office of a
notary public in Saint Lauence de la Salanque. The project is ready. Have
you a date for the works EDF?
For the Sheepfold, want you that we set return you with the buyers for 29
Mars in the morning?
Good day

This is the literal computer translation that popped up this morning from the estate agent in France who is selling some land on our behalf so we can pay bills, credit cards, repair works and maybe even invest in a few oysters on the beach, if there's any cash left. I'm not unduly worried but we are about to arrive at a notaire's office in France, armed only with a dictionary, a wing, a prayer and the fact that we can just about recognise the French word for croisant. We've crossed swords with this notaire before. He's has the smile of a pirahna fish, and he views us as small irritants that need to be swotted and brushed under the carpet as soon as possible. His sidekick has a shifty air and appears without warning behind your back. Not unlike a pet dog he seems to wait for the notaire's nod of approval and then with a quick tail wag he skitters away to do his bidding. If the notaire were female he'd be Cruella de Ville.

I think we just have the thirty pages of French legal pages to decipher in a twenty minute monologue from the notaire.

As for the 29 of Mars for a second viewing on the house? That could be a long time coming.

Should I be worried?

Carry on Doctor

I have found need to go to the doctor. A twisted knee, and various finger abnormalities prompted the call. ‘ Hello this is the surgery, you can see Dr To (the nearly blind Chinese doctor with an unfriendly habit) or Dr MacDonald’. Dr MacDonald? Result! Oh yes, Dr MacDonald please, how long has he got? I will explain that Dr MacDonald is an extremely attractive Scot with a lovely bedside manner. Unusually for me I was on time and my only mistake in hindsight was to contemplate locking the door from the inside as I went in.
The only thing I have to say about the whole unfortunate episode is that I hadn’t expected him to ask me to take off my trousers to examine my knee (Dr To can’t see well enough to examine anything). Why oh why hadn’t I shaved my legs and why did I have a hot flush just as he examined the knee. As his hand rasped up my slightly clammy and less than smooth leg he turned and said ‘no problems that I can see, you have very nice knees’ ‘Oh thank you’ I replied simperingly, feeling slightly faint.
‘I mean your knees are in good shape, for someone in their 50’s.’ adding ‘try tensing your thigh muscles regularly as well, you don’t have much definition there’ It was at this point that I rather went off Dr MacDonald. Still, I couldn’t resist asking him if he wanted to examine the small lump just under my right boob, as I left!
This episode was followed up by a very jolly lunch with friends and as I cycled home mid afternoon, I recalled what Dr MacDonald had said. I’ll show him, I thought, tensing my thigh muscles for all they were worth and peddling at the speed of light. I think it was at that moment when the Porsche managed to brake hard and stop on a sixpence and I sailed past him through the privet hedge, that my muscles finally knew the meaning of the word ‘tense’.

Button down the Begonias and arm the Petunias

I was lugging my top soil and potting compost through the check out of the local garden centre, when a woman standing a little close to me, turned and said with heartfelt apology
‘I’m so sorry, I’m invading your space’.
What does that mean? Am I under threat from a SWAT team swinging through the Begonias, their daffodils primed and cocked, ready to take me out in a hail of slug pellets and greenfly spray. Invade what, or who? Send in the Americans. It must be D Day!

The exchange on my daughter's flat has prompted me to add this excerpt from something I wrote during our own house move in late Summer last year. Will we never learn.

August 2009

‘Once more unto the breach dear friends, once more’ Shakespeare had a point.
I know what that feels like. We have been solidly moving house now for three weeks. Bit by bit we have carted the rubbish we meant to throw away from the last move, back to the house we had just moved out of only three months earlier. I’m sure we’re not alone in this. I have a friend who moved to a house just up the road from her previous one and when I helped her unpack she had carefully wrapped a waste paper bin complete with rubbish still intact.

One day this will all stop and frankly I can’t wait. I think this is the 18th house move and it’s more surreal than most. It feels like only yesterday that we squeezed our trinkets into this small bijou forgotten backwater cottage in Twickenham, willing it to expand its walls, only now to have to rent it out because the market’s gone belly up and we need to sell our old house which had been rented out. It’s all gone pear shaped really. The cottage was our bolthole for the future, whilst we swanned around the world in a camper van. Oh how naive are we? Now we are moving back to the old house which we can’t sell, to give it another sales push.
Only it turns out that the people who have been sniffing around the house for simply months may make an offer. But it’s too late to stop the move as we’ve accepted a rental on the cottage. If the sale goes through we are possibly faced with another move in a couple of months and to where? We may be homeless!

Memories are only just fading of a previous move a few years ago, back to a house we had in Brighton. To shorten his journey, Paul decided to camp out in the 'star' dressing room of the company he works for. This worked very well until he got up one morning in his boxers and skipped off down the corridor to use the separate showers. Not easy to explain to the receptionist that the managing director is in his underpants at 7.00am because the door slammed shut behind him. It’s a mistake you make only once.

Anyway, two lovely men are moving into our cottage. I can’t wait.

Finally I am about to regain my sanity, life, humour if not bank balance. The call came this afternoon to say that we have exchanged on my daughter's flat. It's only taken six months to get to this position. During this time we have employed the following

underhand tactics (putting letters through the owner's door pleading with him to sell to us)

Smiling (when we thought it was all going smoothly in the beginning)

Smugness (when we were still under the illusion of the above)

nervousness (as we realised that things weren't quite as watertight as we had first thought)

Resignation (the realisation that the first target date had passed)

Horror (as the second/third/and fourth deadlines passed)

Anger (as we threatened to pull out alltogether, didn't they want to sell their flats, can't anyone make up their minds?)

Suicidal tendancies (when yet again the goalposts moved another three weeks for completion.

That was yesterday... this is today. We've exchanged and Hayley has a flat.

I think I'll have a lie down now

A while back I had a text from a friend in reply to a comment I had made about my 0% interest Virgin credit card. It was:

You are so not a virgin

Now I have to say that this came as a bit of a surprise to me.

‘Please just give me a phone that works. One where I dial the numbers and it rings someone.’ Simple.

How many times have I said that when I reluctantly upgrade – which incidentally is just an easy way for the phone company to extract your life savings for another overblown and unnecessary lengthy contract. Forget paying off your ‘interest only’ mortgage, you’ll be forking out your children’s inheritance till you die to pay for your mobile.

‘What’s this?’ I look dolefully at the box.
‘This is it. The temporary replacement phone, while we repair yours. A simple phone that works.’ That’s what the phone assistant grumpily said to me when I carried my own Blackberry in a coffin to be repaired. Yes, this is true I think as I look with disappointment at the temporary replacement she is offering me. It works, but where are the big screens, toggles, shiny bits and emails? I realise that without knowing it I now bow down at the alter of ‘must have’ technology. I stroke the accessories wall in the shop. Rubber sleeves for protecting my Blackberry. In pink? How sweet. Dashboard holders, remote widgets, didgets and fidgets… all made for me to buy.
Except they’re not.
I have lost my Blackberry to the Vodaphone infirmary. It’s desperately sick and as the surly shop assistant has told me - I might never see it again.
‘Don’t I get a brand new replacement one, on account of the extortionate monthly insurance fee and the fact it’s still under guarantee?’
‘Doubt it, probably a reconditioned one. Don’t really know.’ She is less than interested and picks her nails.
‘How well do you think this conversation is going so far?’ I hiss menacingly.
‘It’s not my problem’ comes the reply.
‘It soon might be. I want to cancel my account.’ I flounce out of the shop.
I hear faintly on the wind ‘That’ll be customer services you’ll have to ring then.’

I don’t know why this provoked my expletive as I left. Fifteen love to Vodaphone I fear.

Car Crash

That’s it, I’m sellotaping up my letter box. On a regular basis the postman has very efficiently managed to lose or misdirect all our mail. But strangely, not the invitations to join Saga. No…they arrive promptly and vindictively, inviting me to save 10p on my current life, house and car insurance. Why does reaching 50 make you safer? Have you seen the over 50’s drive? In fact if you are over 50, you probably can’t see. Perhaps the over 50’s never report accidents – they just don’t realise they’ve had them.

A small piece in the Daily Mail informed me that my glass of white wine is the equivelant in calories to 1.5 Jaffa Cakes and that the equivalent red wine added up to a slice of pizza. Why the differentiation I wonder? Can't they all be measured in Jaffa Cakes to make life easier? Does this mean I have to have the red wine first, otherwise, am I having my pudding before my savory? All very confusing. Suffice to say I intend to drink half a packet of biscuits with my friends on Wednesday and quite possible drink a Four Seasons Pizz on Thursday. Hell, there'll be no need to eat at all.

Fleas fly South

We're off to France in a couple of weeks and it reminded me of a diary entry from last year.

Hot flushes and flea bites – sounds like a title to a song by Rod Stewart. Believe me it’s a lethal combination. Nothing should bite a woman with a hot flush. I’ve arrived at our house near Perpignan. It’s been shut up all winter. How did the flea and his family survive? Come to think of it, how did he survive the onslaught 4 years ago, when he was attacked by every chemical known to man; sprays, smoke bombs. even a little light bought off the internet with sticky paper all around it?. The fleas were supposed to gravitate to the warmth of the light bulb and stick to the paper. The only thing that stuck was my hair, everytime I checked for a flea. But now the fleas have a woman with a hot flush. No contest. I’ve stopped counting the bites as it makes me cross eyed but heaven help a traffic warden if he crosses my path over the next few days. He’ll get a right flea in his ear.

Giving up the ghost

Having existed all week on less than 2 hrs sleep a night I think I can be forgiven for scaring the window cleaner, who happened to be up his ladder cleaning the bathroom window when I entered naked. I’m not sure if he momentarily blacked out or if he fell off the top rung in horror, but he disappeared from view pretty sharpish, as did I. He swears he knocked on the door before he wet his chamois. I may have to tip him next time.

You finally know that you no longer care when you buy a bikini for £6 and a swim suit for £3 in Sainsbury’s. Whilst in there I noticed the price of buffalo mozzarella? 5 quid?! Mind you, I’m not sure I’d risk life and limb squeezing a buffalo’s tits for £5.

Knees Up

I think it was Joan Collins who said ‘after 40 you get the knees you deserve.’ Well I’ve obviously been very bad because I’m sure I deserve better. I used to have quite decent looking knees but someone’s stolen them.

One of Mandy's rasher moments

Bird droppings

Folklore has it that the flocks of bright green parakeets that swoop through the skies around Richmond are descended from when Jimmy Hendrix allegedly released a number of birds in the area. All I can say is talent doesn’t run in the family. I’ve tried to get a number of them to play All Along the Watchtower, but quite frankly not one of them can hold a tune.

A tale of WAGS

Well recession finally bites the slender pampered hands of the footballers WAGS. Apparently one of them is pulling in her Gucci belt and actually painting her own nails. What a brave woman she is. I feel so much better now. My girlfriend Mandy had to attend an awards dinner for footballers and WAGS. Sitting next to a very famous model WAG she heard the immortal words “and then I sneezed … and broke a fingernail.”

Send cash

Money laundering. What a fabulous idea. So much more lucrative than washing the sheets. Please send your used notes to me.

Not before the watershed

Oh God. This is not looking good. The last five months have been hell brokering a deal to buy a flat with my daughter Hayley. We are close but just now, sifting though the mass of old emails looking for 'who said what to whom and when' I came across the following email from me in response to something daft sent to me by an old friend Steph. It read:

I have just turned my last trick and I am retiring to the suburban delights of a rental in Surbiton xx

I had sent it to the man we are buying the flat from.

I now understand why two days later he politely requested that I conduct all future correspondence through solicitors as he was an amateur in such matters.

Recently I signed up on Facebook. I only went on to snoop at what my friend Mandy had written about me on my daughter’s site. It was as follows:

Daughter: I am so broke at the moment.
Mandy: You think that’s bad, I am so broke I can’t even afford to buy your mother incontinence pants for her birthday.

I find that the majority of women over 50 are comfortable in their own skin (there’s a lot more to be comfortable in these days).

When is it acceptable to go grey?

Mills & Swoon

I think I have to join a book club. My friend belongs to one and quite how they find the time to read escapes me but I think I am missing the point here. As long as you can still sign the children’s absence slips from school the next day without blacking out then the copious amount of alcohol consumed the night before over paperbacks has all been worthwhile. Perhaps I should join the library and save my liver.

Whilst on the subject of the written word a friend questioned my target of 6 weeks to write a bodice ripper. The answer is obvious, give the bodices Velcro tabs, that way they romp through the pages quicker. I wonder whether a menopausal woman can live out her fantasies in the covers of a book? Time will tell. So to this end, this 22 year old, stunning and lithe of body diarist with the come to bed eyes and heaving cleavage is signing off and slipping back into preserved and delusional menopausal alter ego. It’s my book - I can write as I like, delusional or not!

High waisted jeans? Not for the over 40’s. Keep to hip huggers kids, coz that’s where the waists currently are, along with the boobs….

Another day dressed for the office. I can't believe that this woman was once a high powered executive. I blame a momentary lack of oxygen to the brain when a champagne bubble went up her nose. She's never been the same since. But she can still get her right foot behind her left ear thanks to Pilates.

Women behaving badly

Despite being one down in our merry little band of badly behaved women on account of Megan having temporarily fled the nest so to speak, we are already planning our next adventures.

It all began on my fiftieth birthday when as usual I was avoiding the necessity for a ‘big bash’. Glad to go to other people’s but not too comfortable organising my own. ‘You know what I’d love? Let’s all jump in the car and go to the seaside’. And that’s just what we did. And we’ve been doing it ever since maybe once or twice a year. It’s a bit like a school outing for eleven year olds just with more wrinkles. Day One the excitement is palpable as we drive down with Mandy at the wheel. She’s not necessarily totally in control or that’s how it seems to the passengers. She has a disconcerting habit of shouting ‘Wheeee’ as she floors the accelerator peddle to the Porsche on a straight road and we take off like a bat out of hell. Megan has got into the habit of clasping the upholstery and muttering ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ as we swing round yet another hairpin bend at breakneck speed. What follows is a crash course in what you tell your own teenagers not to do when they first taste freedom in pubs and clubs. Thankfully we are sensible enough to remain indoors. Usually we keep the doors safely locked but sometimes one of us escapes. So far we haven’t lost anyone.

As we always peak too early Day Two is understandable rather quiet. One year we didn’t make it back until well into Day Three

But now we have new pastures to explore. The beach house is sold, we’ve already terrorised Amsterdam and so we have to plan again. I’m sworn to secrecy as no-one’s told their other halves (except me), but suffice to say it’ll take me quite a long time to get there as I’m not flying at the moment. I am currently surfing the internet to buy a camel. Cheap to run, walks for miles and I think you can drink their milk which means I can brew up a cup of tea en route.

“I got the day wrong.” Megan mentioned this over our ‘goodbye’ lunch with a nonchalance that was quite frankly a little scary. The wrong day in question was the arrival of the packers to ship their stuff to New Zealand. It was scary enough that she thought they were coming on the Monday but actually they were booked for the Tuesday which was less than 24 hours before she was flying out, leaving her husband to fine tune the finishing touches. “Put it this way, he’s a little tense.” She said. You don’t say?

Since then all I have received are reports about the brilliant sunshine and I think she’s lying. It’s not Australia you know!!

Please Lord if I have another crack at life, apart from coming back as a ladybird, which is cute but a little pointless can I request that I am French. Well, not actually French as I still quite like the English, but English with a French accent. And not that accent that the English do when they are abroad and think they can speak French just by affecting an ‘ello, ello’ accent. I mean a full on sexy, husky just got out of bed, or just about to go to bed voice. Perhaps I’ll change my name to Françoise.

Dog poo? I’m not sure which is worse. Seeing a small deposit on the ground or watching someone scooping it up in a plastic bag and putting it in their pocket. It’s a weird thing to do.

Why is it that despite the government and medical boards best endeavours, every email and article about women of a ‘certain age’ seems to come back to one thing ‘wine’. Never choose to argue with a woman who’s just realised she’s run out. The signs are very clear and unmistakable. First there’s a cupboard door slamming just a bit too loudly, followed by an expletive. Usually this is accompanied by rattling of empty bottles in the hope that one full one has slipped past, or perhaps the dregs of the old ones that can make up a glass. At this point one is rarely choosy. Men here’s a tip - once your partner has realised this scavanging has proved futile, do not under any circumstances be tempted to offer her a ‘nice cup of tea’ instead. Once you have picked yourself off the floor and extracted her teeth from around your neck you will realise the folly of these words. Likewise whispering the word ‘sad old alcoholic’ can prove dangerous. Heightened sensory awareness of a woman in search of wine means she can lip read from a mile away and this will result in yet more pain both physical and verbal.
Just learn that some things are not negotiable. With husbands, children, lovers, pets it’s occasionally nice to have a weekend apart. Wine…. Little and most definitely often, with no time off for good behaviour, because where’s the fun in that….

It never fails in Britain. A sprinkling of snow brings out the kids in all of us. Before the last weather warning has faded from view, we are planning the excuses for a day off work, rummaging in the attic for something that resembles a sledge and opening the curtains expectantly to see if our wishes have been granted. This time it didn’t disappoint. Richmond Park resembled a Bruegel painting. It also heralded the best use of For Sale signs I have seen in a long time – great for sledges. I think Foxtons won by a head, skimming showily over the surface, leaving Savills for the loftier upper slopes. Now all we needed was a small bijou restaurant serving gluwein and “fabulous little bowls of pasta darling”. And there are no queues for the ski lifts.

Talking of For Sale signs. When this paper pushing government bought in the new pre sale packs for housing, I rang one of my bestest friends who’d had a hip operation a few years back. “ I’ve just seen a for sale sign on a house round the corner from you. Free HIPS it says. If only you’d waited. You could have bought a house and got your new hips thrown in as well’. What a boon for the beleaguered NHS. Or maybe HIPS are imprisoned somewhere? Where do we free these HIPS and how? Let’s start a movement.

They say there is someone for everyone, but it occurs to me that perhaps some people have stolen more than their fair share, leaving a mismatch of pairs to couple up. A bit like odd socks.
There are the beautiful people and then … the rest. Scary.

I think it was the wonderful Jerry Hall who said that a woman should to be a goddess in the kitchen and a whore in the bedroom. I think she also mentioned a vital third point but what the hell, I’m still striving for the other two. It struck me that a fifty something year old whore in the bedroom could be quite scary and let’s be honest, when asked, most men probably have a younger vision in mind.

To that end I’ve taken up running. The body certainly needs some additional help and a shock to the system, so for two mornings at 6.30am, I have been out praying to avoid being mugged or stepping in dog poo. Yesterday I skulked around the green, head down feeling foolish and hoping to avoid any pitying stares from the early bus commuters. Nothing, not one derisory comment, no applause, no recognition… absolutely nada.
Now thus far I have avoided the necessity of buying a track suit. Absolutely no-one I know looks good in one of these. The only reason to have one is when you have lost the ability to fasten buttons or pull up zips. To look this awful and part with £100 or more? Madness. However, I hadn’t reckoned with IKEA. £14.99 and as much black velour as you can wrap around your thighs. Yes, salvation was at hand. IKEA – the promise of so much and the deliverer of so little. Literally. Bottoms fine. Plenty of swing and motion. Top? Well suffice to say I was losing the use of my arms before I’d got down the end of the drive.
A few years ago a very good friend of mine said she had become invisible when she walked in the room. I didn’t believe her and argued this fact. I am beginning to realise how right she was but help is at hand – I’m thinking Versace - dayglo colours, maybe even glow in the dark material . It won’t be cheap, it won’t be pretty but I will be noticed! Does my bum look big in this and are you man enough to tell me…
Still my thighs definitely feel perkier.

Today,the circumference of my tummy exceeds that of my boobs. Should I care?

By the way, it is possible to manacle yourself naked to the changing locker in a gym. If you leave the strap and key on your wrist whilst inserting it into the keyhole, that’s it, job done. You can wait 20 minutes before someone comes past. I know, I’ve done it twice.

There is never enough moisturiser for a woman over 50.

Krispy Kremes

Krisy Kreme Doughnuts. Bad for the bottom, good for the soul.

Not the Mile High Club

I know that female equality has come a long way for which all women should be eternally grateful. I can’t remember the last time I chained myself to a railing intentionally, although I have managed a few unintentionally. However there are some announcements that still put the fear of God in me. Like the one when the pilot comes on over the tanoy system.
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking”
Christ – she’s a woman. Can she reach the pedals and what time of the month is it? Clichéd yes, but I want a man straight out of Mills & Boon flying this thing. Testosterone enriched, suited and booted and gorgeously greying temples. That’s what pilots look like. I’ve seen the movies. If we crash I need to be carried out onto the wings by the Captain accompanied by a full orchestral movement.
I can imagine the announcement on crashing
‘Women and children first’ – Great! That means the female pilot would be at the head of the queue.
No way Hosé.

That’s it, I’m sellotaping up my letter box. On a regular basis the postman has very efficiently managed to lose or misdirect all our mail. But strangely, not the invitations to join Saga. No…they arrive promptly and vindictively, inviting me to save 10p on my current life, house and car insurance. Why does reaching 50 make you safer? Have you seen the over 50’s drive? In fact if you are over 50, you probably can’t see. Perhaps the over 50’s never report accidents – they just don’t realise they’ve had them.

Enough already.

Can we please talk about Wii?

Can we please talk about Wii? Something I never thought I’d say, at least while my mother was alive. I now know why they named it so. I had my suspicions but now I know it’s true. Wii is definitely something you are in danger of doing as a menopausal woman whilst playing this game.

Another thing – pelvic floor exercises. Get to 50 and let’s add a mezzanine to that. I’m not sure what I have to hold in when. When I was younger it didn’t matter. Everything was held in the right place. Now – well now let’s just mark my report card as ‘she’s trying hard and deserves a break’. Who are they kidding? I probably have brittle bones to look forward to - everything breaks.

Time to lie down, apply rejuvenating placenta of something newborn and … relax.

Pink Cadillac

Funny isn’t it, how everyone’s perception of life is different? No wonder the police need to gather so many witnesses at the scene of a crime, as no two views will be exactly the same. My oldest friend told me the other day that when we were small, she used to come and stay with my mother and me and thought we were the most bohemian of families, because my mother sketched and painted and spoke with a thick Estonian accent and was a refugee from the war having escaped the Russians. This coming from a woman with the maddest family in England. In the 1970’s they owned a swivel chair shaped like an egg, had a drinks cabinet permanently open and when the river flooded, used lilos inside the house to get around till the water receded. They had to repaper the lounge regularly. Throw in an 'oh so cool' pink Cadillac to collect us from school,which once parked we always had to push to start and you get the picture.

And she thought my family life was exotic. Intriguing.

Feeding the pampered birds of Twickenham early this morning I happened to look at the RSPB label on the front of ‘Garden Bird Seed Mix’ and below in highlighted text was the warning ‘370 calories’. Now I am confused. Do they think that I might be tempted to nibble on a little seed or two and before I know it I am a size 22, growing a soft down and feathers and singing like a canary? If I eat the whole packet in one, will I suddenly become obese? What if I start snacking regularly on these packets? Someone ought to tell those birds too, as they can’t read and before we know it the sparrow is having difficulty dragging himself out of the nest and keeps dropping like a stone to the ground, due to the high fat content of the seed. Thank god they put the calorie counter on.

You can’t make this stuff up.