Tales From the Canalside

And as if by magic ...

2010-03-03T17:23:00.005+00:00

Toby Whithouse has answered my query about Tully. Fancy that. He obviously reads this blog.

So Toby, now all I want to know is WHY DIDN'T MITCHELL KNOW HIS LOVER'S NAME?

Thank you.

Even More Being Human

2010-03-03T10:18:00.008+00:00

To recover from the excitement of yesterday's live blogging experience, I felt the need to immerse myself in more Being Human pondering. My post here on Monday was less of a review, and more of a teenage "Me 4 Mitchell" fest. Which is weird, since he's a 116 year old vampire who murders people really quite violently. And also, he's not real. But what the hell? I don't even live near Bristol, so it was never going to happen anyway. And to be honest, I could probably go for Ivan instead at a push. Except he's dead, as well as fictional.

Anyway, I'd already read this interesting post on Monday, so I went back to the Cosmic Calamari's blog last night and looked for more Being Human writings. I wasn't disappointed. Mr (or Ms) Calamari has lots to say about Being Human, and this post in particular caught my eye.

For me, Being Human is more than the sum of its parts, and I can forgive it many things because I find it thought provoking as well as hugely absorbing, and because it can take me to the verge of tears minutes after making me roar with laughter. The fact that it has faults makes it, ironically, seem human and I love it even with its flaws.

But it does have flaws, and some of them are irritating. Annie's position within the spirit world, as discussed by Mr(s) Calamari is certainly one of them. Sykes and Gilbert have been great additions to the show, in my view - Gilbert was one of my favourite characters of Series 1 - but as Calamari's post notes, surely the whole point of Annie's situation it that it isn't the same as being alive. Gilbert and Sykes both helped move the narrative of her character forward by providing exposition. (Is exposition solely a literary device or can it be applied to film? Whatever. They provided information, to Annie and us, about her situation and causes of it.) I wanted more of Sykes, but instead we got the single mother trying to bag a dead fireman. Annie was apparently a celebrity within the ghostly community and the problem with that is that we'd never heard of it before - or since. The babysitting was obviously to make Annie think about what she'd lost - her future life - but the trouble with it was that it introduced ideas that were convenient for this episode, and were then apparently forgotten about, or at least unexplored. It's perfectly reasonable to expect, and indeed need, 'realism' in a show about a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost in that just because they are supernatural and don't have to be restricted by normal, human rules, that doesn't mean they can be completely free of any rules. Their characters have to be real within the rules of their species.

The biggest difficulty I had in the series climax was in Episode 7 when Mitchell systematically failed to realise who Lucy was for a very long time. Throughout that episode whenever anyone mentioned the name 'Jaggat' in front of Mitchell, I was thinking "Why isn't he reacting? Why isn't he exploding into a huge ball of vampiric rage? Has he gone deaf? Was he thinking about getting some new fingerless gloves and not listening?" instead of watching the screen intently. It was a distraction. Mitchell met Lucy at work. There was lots of interaction before they went for a drink, and this happened at the hospital. Where she was a doctor. A doctor! They wear name badges, for God's sake. Is it really possible that Mitchell would not have known her name? There didn't seem to be any suggestion that she was working under a different name - was there? I missed it if there was. People definitely mentioned Professor Jaggat in front of him. Ok, they didn't refer her 'Lucy' and 'Jaggat' in the same breath, but come on. He isn't that thick. Jaggat is hardly Jones. Surely you would at least think "That's a co-incidence!" and then wonder if there was a connection. And then go and find out. Of course, if Mitchell has twigged it would have ruined the great dramatic reveal by the vicar when he finally realised who had been behind the explosion at the funeral parlour, but the fact that I kept scratching my head and wondering why he hadn't worked it out yet didn't help with the dramatic tension for me.

Having said that, I can't help feeling I'm nitpicking. I've enjoyed the series hugely and I can't wait for more. And I'm glad Tully got to help George in the end, and kind of redeem himself a bit for giving him 'the curse' in the first place. Tully was a pretty objectionable character of course, but still one I eventually pitied when it became clear that he'd lost his family, and was horribly lonely. The curse of the werewolf had wrecked his life, and he had just reacted differently to George. I was sad that he'd died in the chamber, and pleased at his redemptive act.

How he knew that the werewolves had all died when the whole point is that they'd been sold the story that the chamber would save them is a question I just won't ask myself.

Ballykissangel. Live. Sort of.

2010-03-02T13:19:00.026+00:00

Not long to go now until the long-awaited (since this morning) blogging event of the, er, day (possibly) which is the LIVE blog of a random episode of an 11-year-old episode of Ballykissangel.

I should probably have thought this through.

Still, no backing out now. There are people waiting for this.

Ok, there aren't. But it's a quiet work day. And it's a good writing exercise. And I've said I'll do it now. Rats.

14.03: Gossip is about to take over in Ballykissangel, according to the ITV announcer.

14.07: Oops. Missed a bit when I went to put the kettle on. A bloke (Irish accent) argued with a woman. She drove off. Credits.

14.08: The pub is for sale! A priest (not Stephen Tompkinson) did not know this.

14.10: Oh no. That bloke's daughter is moving to Dublin.

14.12: Ok, the first two were father and daughter. And so were the second two. Oh, did I mention them? After the first father and daughter argued and she drove off (to live with someone's uncle), a second father and daughter argued. She's the one moving to Dublin. Clear? I'm pretty sure she won't go, to be honest. Just call me psychic.

14:17: Missed a bit more, making the tea. Break now, for some truly crappy adverts.

14.19: And we're back. Sponsored by Ovaltine. That says a lot. Girl has found old dress in a chest. The nephew is pissed off with her for rooting around in other people's belongings, the nosey bitch.

14.22: Where the hell is Stephen Tompkinson? Is he not in it any more?

14.25: He bloody isn't. I just looked on Wiki. He left after series 3, the miserable git. But - that's Colin Farrell! I didn't have a clue Colin Farrell was in Ballykissangel. I bet I'm the only person in the world not to know this.

14.30: Commercial break. So, Colin Farrell is the nephew and his name is Danny. The girl who argued with her father at the start was the one who found the dress. They've had an argument and she's buggered off again. Someone offered her a lift somewhere. I missed where. Sorry. Some people have given their opinions that Niamh shouldn't go to live in Dublin. SHE'S NOT GOING TO GO, PEOPLE. Don't the residents of Ballykissangel ever watch Sunday night telly?

14.36: Two people have arrived to look around the pub, separately. The woman was nice. You could tell because she smiled. The man was a bastard. You could tell because he had a beard.

14.39: Did no-one notice that 'Niamh Egan' sounds like 'I'm a vegan' when she introduces herself?

14.40: The girl (Emma) got a lift to someone else's house. She has a blue fireplace. The owner of the house, that is. Apparently, Emma was in Hollyoaks after this. Thanks again Wiki.

14.42: The parish priest is rubbish at accounts. And he's having a crisis of confidence and faith and wondering if he's relevant in the real world (hint: you're not in the real world, this is a TV show). This has to be Stephen Tompkinson's replacement. He's got all the miserable bastard lines.

14.43: Another commercial break? Good God.

14.49: Next morning. Blonde fireplace woman is going out. Ooh, I know who she is now. She was in something else. About a Boy! She was in that. She was the one Hugh Grant lied to. The Irish one, funnily enough. Hollyoaks girl has painted Fireplace Woman's fireplace. Even though Fireplace Woman TOLD her she wanted to do it herself. It's an episode of Jeremy Kyle waiting to happen. A bloke just said "Orla's going to love it", which means "She's going to tear your face off, you interfering cow."

14.53: Where's Ambrose?

14.55: Oh, the bloke who said "Orla's going to love it" was the priest. He was right. He IS shit.

14.56: Yeah, she didn't love it.

14.58: Is Ambrose dead? Nice woman is back, who looked around the pub. She realised she couldn't afford it. Everyone is a bit crap at accounts in this programme.

14.59: Oh, nice woman has 'history' with Whatshisname. Quigley. He's Niamh's father, right? Well if he is, him.

15.00: Some woman saved moaning new priest's bacon on the accounts front by committing fraud. Senior priest aided and abetted. Hm.

15.02: Hollyoaks girl is going to thank Fireplace Woman (surely she means apologise?) by giving her some rusty old shit she found in a field.

15.05: Horrible beardy man isn't buying the pub. He's found a fish farm that's a much better option.

15.06: Fireplace Woman loves the rusty old bits of crap.

15.07: Hollyoaks girl has apologised to her father for being a brat. But whose was the dress in Colin Farrell's uncle's house? Are we going to find out?

15.08: Quigley's rented the pub to nice woman.

THE END.

Being Miserable, As it Happens

2010-03-02T10:54:00.005+00:00

One thing I've never really understood is how people write or comment on 'as it happens' blogs for their favourite shows. For example, Being Human on Sunday night. How do people do this and not miss anything? I cannot be typing "OMG, WHY DOESN'T GEORGE DO SOMETHING?!" or reading "It's Mitchell! Look, there's no-one there! Please tear the technician's throat out, Mitchell, I don't like his hair" while I'm actually watching because you see the thing is, I'm watching. This is obvious, right?

So, I have decided that surely the only way to go about this blogging as it happens exercise is to choose something I don't really want to watch that much or, even better, at all. Then if I miss bits, well ... who cares? Not me. Probably not you either.

With this in mind, and as a homage to the charismatic star of Sunday night TV that isn't Aidan Turner, I shall this afternoon be blogging about Episode 4, Season 5 of Ballykissangel as it happens on ITV3 between 14.05 and 15.10.

This is cutting edge. Don't miss it.

Being Human

2010-03-01T11:57:00.006+00:00

So, last night was the season 2 finale - or as we used to call it in non-America, the last in the present series - of BBC3's sci-fi comedy drama, Being Human. I'm not sure if 'sci-fi comedy drama' is its official categorisation, but that's what it is to me. At 8.55 pm, I assembled my traditional accompaniments to scheduled TV viewing - a nice cup of tea and some snacks (tiffin, homemade, if you really want to know) and settled down in front of the fire for some Sunday night viewing pleasure. A few moments in and the appearance of Amy McBride (deceased, a lot) had put me off my victuals, but had also kicked off another hour of quite wonderful television.

I love this series. Let us get that straight from the start. Like most other people, I watch telly most days. Some of what I watch, I even like. Lots of it, however, I switch off halfway through, from sheer boredom. The glut of reality shows showcasing idiots and fools clambering over and trampling the perma-tanned, scantily-clad bodies of their contemporaries to snatch their 15 minutes of fame has become staple TV fodder these days, to the shame of us all, participants and views alike. And then there's the plodding, over-sentimental 'drama' - Wild at Heart, anyone? Good God, what is wrong with Stephen Tompkinson? Must he play a whining git in everything he does? Does the man have a whining clause in his contract that states he must moan, grumble, complain and look downtrodden at least three times a minute? He's a vet, he's a priest, he's a children's entertainer – but whatever he is, you can bet he's a miserable bastard. This series must surely end with the other vet in Wild at Heart (Lexy from Monarch in the Glen – it was difficult to find a more annoying part than that, but you did it) putting him out of his misery. They wouldn’t let an animal suffer like that, oh no. Amazingly, Amanda Holden left that show and it still hasn't improved. This is a feat which, had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would have thought impossible.

I digress. In short, the number of shows about which I get truly excited these days is few. It is increasingly rare to find the kind of show for which you wait all week in anticipation; that you just can't wait to watch. The kind of show that you actually think about all day before it’s on; a show with plots you theorise about with your friends; a show that you watch and really, genuinely don’t know what’s going to happen next. And then afterwards, a show which makes you feel desolate that it’s over; you cannot possibly wait a whole week for the next instalment. You will simply fade away and die if you have to wait that long for the next episode, and you know that if you were Stephen Tompkinson,* the Eeyore of Light Entertainment, you’d never even manage to bed Dervla Kirwan, so morose you would be.

But Being Human is one such show. It is so much more than a sci-fi show about a ghost, a vampire and a werewolf. Don't get me wrong, that sounds good to geeks like me. But it does nothing to convey the brilliant depth of Being Human. The characters are neither good, nor evil. All of them are both. All of them are just trying to live, and do what they feel to be right. Who are the monsters? The vampires, the werewolves – or the people? Maybe none of them. Maybe all of them. Brilliantly written, even the most objectionable characters can inspire pity in the viewer; even the best loved can inspire disgust. The humour – though little of it was in evidence last night – is so sharp and rings so true, and the characters so rounded, so fully drawn that their plights seem all too plausible and it is simply impossible not to have empathy with them. Even though a lot of the time, you can't quite decide whose side you should be on - or even whose side you ARE on.

There is to be another series, thank God. Or perhaps the Devil. Or just Toby Whithouse. How I will fill my time between now and then, I cannot yet bear to think. The months stretch in front of me, Mitchell-free, like a yawning abyss of despair. All I know for sure is that in my Being Human-less misery, there is a level of hopelessness to which even I will not sink. Repeats of Ballykissangel, I exorcise thee.

*And if it were 1996.

Just Blog

2010-02-27T07:05:00.004+00:00

The trouble with leaving it too long to see friends again is that there are big swathes of time between the two of you, during which lots of things have happened, most of them small and insignificant in their own right. But they are the kind of things on which the familiarity of friendship is often based - knowing what good things, interesting things, stressful things and plain irritating things have been happening in your day to day lives. The pools of time can create awkwardness and undermine the sense of attachment.

The same then, for a woman and her blog. Especially if, because of the time that has elapsed since the last entry, she feels as if she must begin every overdue post with an apology for its tardiness, which is of course less than thrilling for the reader. But course it never matters how long it is since you last saw a really good, true friend, because the friendship can be eased back into like a pair of comfortable old slippers. The same applies to this blog - for me, anyway. So no more apologies, just blogging. When it happens.

Education, Education, Education

2009-09-21T10:38:00.007+01:00

The truly incredible thing about being a parent is that you're constantly learning and experiencing new things with your child. Just when you think you've got it sussed, something surprises you.

This morning we experienced one of us clinging for dear life to the school gate shouting "YOU CAN'T MAKE ME GO!" (it was him, in case you were wondering) and we learned just how embarrassing a 4-year-old child can actually be when he really puts his mind to it. The surprise element was that this child, who up to now has taken life in his stride without a moment's self-doubt, has worried himself into a tantrum over his first full day at school.

The last two weeks have been half-days, but from today my son's school career starts in earnest. He's wound himself up about there being 'millions' of people there because it's the first time there will be a full class ("You do know that Jimmy Krankie* will be going today, don't you Mummy? He's trouble. He's a troublemaker. Honestly. He was trouble at playschool. So I shouldn't have to go if he's going, should I?") and he's very concerned that I might do something exciting in his absence ("You won't go and buy any bread without me, will
you?") But I still wasn't prepared to have to physically propel him towards the school gates as he furiously shouted "Get OFF me! I'm not your child!" at the top of his voice, and then prise his determined little fingers off the gate post while the other parents (whose children were, of course, standing quietly holding hands with their guardians as if butter wouldn't melt) gave me sympathetic "we've all been there" smiles, ignored us both completely, or failed to hide an irritating "thank God it's not mine" expression of smugness.

Driving home with a heavy heart, I cried from the guilt of leaving my baby unhappy, after he'd clung to me and begged me not to go, and from tiredness after being awake most of the night worrying because I knew he was.

At the same time, I suspect he was playing happily with his fellow prisoners of education in his bright, friendly classroom and sparing not a moment's thought for home.

Such is the lot of a mother.

* Names have been changed to protect the troublemakers. Or at least their mothers.

A New Phase of Evil

2009-09-15T18:00:00.004+01:00

The toddler I used to write about started school last week. It's a truism that time flies at a speed that almost blurs your vision when you have a young child, and his pre-school years have been no exception. Suddenly my baby is an eloquent, ferociously bright schoolboy, and as his mother for me the first few days of starting school were a bittersweet blend of fierce pride and excitement mingled with nostalgia and a feeling of loss for what is now past.

For him, there was just excitement: new uniform, new classroom, new friends, new adventures. He started his school career in typically independent style, and on the second day I found him on the pavement waiting for me when I arrived to pick him up. He'd walked out unnoticed as soon as they'd opened the doors to allow parents in to collect their children, deciding he'd save me the walk to the classroom from the school gate. One visit to his class teacher and a phone call to the head later, eliciting much horror and mortification from all concerned, and a flea would have trouble exiting the school without permission. That's just my way of making a point; any sign of actual fleas will prompt another call to Mr Headmaster.

The first week was just morning attendance, and after school on the third day I treated my boy to a session at a local playbarn. There he met one of his new school friends. They played happily together until my son's lunch arrived when he grumpily left his playmate whooping down slides and clambering up foam bricks to eat it.
"Have I eaten enough?" he asked, approximately every 4 seconds. I told him he had to eat his lunch and then he could return to his friend.
Presently, the friend mooched by to assess the situation. He looked at my son's plate.
"I had that too," he observed.
"Did you have to eat it all?" asked my son, crossly.
"No. I left some of it because I was full."
My son glared at me, then turned to his companion.
"SHE says I've got to eat all mine," he grumbled, then added with venom, "She's evil".
His new friend gasped. "IS she?" he asked, breathlessly. He stared at me in fascination, as if trying to decide whether having an evil mother was interesting enough to override the obvious downsides.
My son continued to grumble. His friend, still keeping a beady eye on me in case I suddenly burst into flame and poked him with a trident, remarked that he'd enjoyed a dessert of delicious chocolate cake.
"Even though you didn't eat your lunch?" I asked, becoming my own mother. "I thought you were full."
"Well I was full of my LUNCH. But I left room for the chocolate cake," he replied with a 4-year-old's sturdy logic.
"Can I have some chocolate cake?" asked my son, predictably.
"If you eat 3 more mouthfuls of your lunch," I replied, almost automatically.
His school friend gazed at me with a look of slight disappointment in his eyes.
"Oh," he said to my son, dejectedly. "She's not that evil after all."

Brand, Bond and Blankets

2008-11-09T08:06:00.005+00:00

So Manuelgate rumbles on, with Andrew Sachs losing my sympathy after complaining that the apology broadcast on Radio 2 yesterday wasn't up to scratch and didn't mention the suffering of his wife, daughter, postman and everyone in Barcelona. How many apologies does the man needs, for goodness sake? He had (I thought) accepted the apologies of Brand and Ross with grace and dignity, but now he's being all precious about the wording of the apology broadcast yesterday at the time that would usually be Ross' radio show. And a bit later. And again, a bit later. At one point, at the start of this press tornado, I was glad there was something on the news instead of doom and gloom about house prices and the cost of bread, amazed though I was by the attention that was being lavished on Brand and Ross. Now, even the Bank of England has had to slash interest rates by a shocking 1.5% just to shove Russell Brand off the front pages and get a bit of attention for itself. I suppose one of the disadvantages of being a person who likes to hibernate as soon as October drizzles in is that one tends to spend more time reading the papers and the internet than is advisable if one wishes to avoid becoming intensely irritated by excessive press coverage of a particular story. But as disadvantages go, it's more than made up for by the positives.

I think I may be the kind of person who has been an OAP since birth. Thanks to the credit crunch, I can now blame the cost of...well, everything as an excuse to stay in. All the time. If I could, I literally wouldn't leave the house at all until at least May. I'd make an exception for November 5th, as I could go out and still sit by a fire, but other than that if I could get away with it I'd sit wrapped in a blanket by the fireside reading books and drinking tea all day. I'd even like to learn to knit, if I had the patience. I would bake mince pies to live on, and to be fair I would be prepared to pop out for a bracing stroll through the fields on bright, frosty mornings before returning to my cosy nest.

In seriousness, when the days shorten and the dark, windy, wet nights draw in, there is nothing more tempting than a cosy night in by the fire. Once I'm home at the start of the evening, nothing is more appealing than to draw the curtains and shut out the winter weather, light the fire, and curl up on the sofa. I love the trappings of autumn and winter; snuggly blankets, warm jumpers, roaring fires, hot chocolate, hearty stews and soups, period dramas on telly. I associate fantasy, magical films with winter too. The Chronicles of Narnia, for example. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe is a perfect film to watch on a wintry Sunday afternoon. Perhaps it's because I am the sort of person who still hopes to find a magical land hidden in my wardrobe, or a secret platform at King's Cross station, and have really never quite grown up. The comforts of winter make childhood more accessible over the decades since it was a reality.

So why would anyone want to go out? Are they insane? What's the point? I must confess that one thing did move me out of my metaphorical rocking chair this weekend, and that was the delectable Daniel Craig. Not in person, sadly. I didn't meet him in my garden during the 4 seconds I periodically spend outside to go and put something in the bin. He was of course appearing at a cinema near me as 007 in Quantum of Solace. I could give a detailed review of the film and his performance, but suffice to say, I didn't miss my fireside the whole time I was away from it. Well, not until I had to drive home in the dark and cold, anyway.

I shagged him once, but I think I got away with it

2008-11-08T16:39:00.004+00:00

So, let's be honest. It surely can't just have been me whose first thought on hearing about the Ross and Brand 'scandal' was an image of Manuel, tea towel draped over his forearm, jiggling nervously from one foot to another with utter confusion on his rubbery face and pebble eyes darting worriedly from side to side as he listened to some unexpected and rather regrettable messages on his answer phone and responded with a perplexed..."Que?"

This must surely be the biggest mountain out of a molehill ever in the history of moles.

Let me be clear from the start. Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand's phone calls to Andrew Sachs were in bad taste, puerile and monumentally unfunny (the latter being what irritates me most). The content was offensive and the action utterly juvenile and unworthy of a couple of silly teenagers with nothing better to do, let alone two successful and highly paid professionals. Without doubt, the broadcast should not have been aired, and both performers should indeed have apologised to Andrew Sachs for their immaturity and idiocy.

Having said that...what is with the ridiculous overreaction and massive media coverage of an incident which boils down to some blokes leaving another bloke a stupid message on an answer phone? First there were two complaints, from actual listeners of the broadcast. Next minute, it was the top headline on ITN's News At Ten for at least two consecutive nights, every television channel and newspaper was headlining it, and everyone in the world was commenting on it. I sat and watched News At Ten in disbelief - admittedly, it was ITN, so not a natural lover of the BBC, but first headline?! On a global news programme? There was an American Presidential election about to happen, war, famine, global recession - but more importantly than any of that was a rude message left on a man's phone! Only the British could possibly consider that a lapse in manners constitutes the most significant global event on any given day, and only we British would complain in droves about a radio programme we didn't actually listen to, and a prank we didn't even know existed until we heard it in the media a week later.
"He said what?! But that's appalling! The swine! I must complain directly!"
"But...you didn't actually hear it. So...you weren't offended by it, were you? It had precisely no effect on your life at all."
"Well, I've heard it now! On News At Ten! You never had to put up with this from Morecambe and Wise. Where's the address for the BBC, and the phone number for the Daily Mail?"

Next thing we know, Brand has resigned, Ross is suspended and Chris Evans is crying because Lesley Douglas has given in her notice.

So anyway. Why is everyone behaving as if Andrew Sachs is some kind of dementia-ridden old codger who needs to be coddled and protected in his dotage? The man has worked in television and the entertainment industry for decades; he worked with comedians who were the 'edgy' performers of their time, such as John Cleese; he is not a naive old dodderer who requires the public to swoop in and protect him from the evil that is Radio 2.

And Georgina Baillie, Manuel's granddaughter. Why is everyone behaving as if she's Sandy from Grease before the bit where she sings "You're The One That I Want" in skin-tight Lycra, and that she had a virginal granddaughterly reputation that has been sullied and debased in the manner of a broken engagement from a Jane Austen novel? Good grief, the woman is in her twenties and belongs to a burlesque exotic dance troupe called Satanic Sluts and works under the name 'Voluptua'. Photographs of her in corsets and stockings (taken from her MySpace page, I understand) have appeared all over the press. Next to many column inches devoted to her bleating on about how Russell Brand has embarrassed her poor grandad by forcing him to think of her as 'sexual'. Now, call me old fashioned, but I've always found that an effective way to avoid your immediate family being forced to see you as 'sexual' has been to not be a stripper who posts half-naked photographs of yourself on the internet. Hugo Rifkind illustrates my point with far more wit than I could here.

Not sleeping with Russell Brand would also be a good way to avoid everyone finding out you slept with Russell Brand. Possibly Brand's reputation is unheard of in satanic or slut circles (the latter seeming rather unlikely, let's face it) but the rest of us have heard all about his sexual exploits rather more than we'd probably like. What a cad! Sleeping with all these women! What a Lothario! But then (and I'm making an assumption here) if he's not routinely using Rohypnol or some kind of hypnosis on all these poor Sandys, then if they weren't there lining up to sleep with him willingly, the embarrassment of poor old grandads could be avoided more effectively.

Jonathan Ross - well, he gets paid too much. Everyone knew that already, including him. It was only a matter of time before there was some kind of protest over it, and here it is. Who decides how much he gets paid, by the way? Have they been suspended too?

He's the father of daughters, and for that reason his involvement in this incident seems surprising and rather disappointing. But come on - Wossy's always made jokes that are close to the bone. Remember Heather Mills and the two legs? (Now that, I found funny). Ross and Brand are employed and popular exactly because they are a bit outrageous and dare to go further than most of us would. This broadcast obviously shouldn't have been aired, and yesterday there was a further resignation in the form of David Barber, who cleared the programme for broadcast. Sorry Mr Barber, but it should have been you in the first place, and Lesley Douglas should never have had to fall on her sword. Brand's resignation and Ross' suspension is a loss to the BBC.

I only have one final question. How is it that Max Clifford is always the winner in every situation, ever?

Urban Assault

2008-08-31T09:37:00.002+01:00

This morning I thought "I should really find something of local interest to write about, because there are only so many posts that refer to Billie Piper's eyebrows I can compose without completely alienating everyone." Alienating! Billie Piper! Geddit? No? I don't blame you. It was very poor.

Anyway, with that premise in mind I did a quick search in Google in an attempt to find some inspiration, and found this, which, if you're interested, is followed by this. This is a hotel that never looked salubrious, but these photographs chronicling its decay into ideal horror film location are fascinating. And a little scary, because it's not very far away, and I can't get the theme from Psycho out of my head now.

I wandered around the Urban Assault site viewing photographs of various derelict buildings filled with a mixture of wanting to look over my shoulder the whole time, feeling like a child who has disobeyed a clear parental "Don't go into the woods!" order, because it's clearly illegal for people to be doing that, not to mention dangerous in a "might get killed by falling masonry or shot by someone out of Pulp Fiction" way, and being completely fascinated by the evocative strength of some of the images and the fabulous photography. I found High Royds Hospital (originally West Riding Pauper Lunatic Asylum when it was opened in 1888, according to the poster) particularly spine chilling; looking at those photographs gave me an uncomfortable feeling similar to that evoked by visiting Alcatraz. (Yes, really. I went somewhere interesting once). Lo and behold, the tiniest bit more research reveals that High Royds has indeed been the location for a creepy film. At least it sounds pretty creepy - I haven't seen it. And since I'm still trying to exorcise Norman Bates from my head as a result of looking at a few completely Psycho-unrelated photographs, I don't think I'll be popping to Blockbuster for it any time soon.

Wittering

2008-08-30T13:18:00.003+01:00

So here I am again, determined to breathe new life into my blog, and to not become distracted by such trivial details as not being able to think of anything remotely interesting or engaging to write about.

I'd love to say that my difficulty in thinking of something worthwhile to write about was writer's block or some other temptingly named paralysis in which artistic personages temporarily find themselves gripped whilst they agonise over the creative process, but the truth is that I'm just rather dull.

I read a post by Wife in the North yesterday - an old post, as I started reading her blog from the beginning - that resonated perfectly with me. How glamorous other people are! How on earth do they find time to write blogs? Perhaps when you have a thousand glamorous things to write about it's easy to knock out a blog post because you're bursting with interesting things to tell people. But then I suppose the trade off must be that it must take up precious time in your hectic schedule of glamour to decide which of the day's glamorous events to write about. I'm so non-glamorous that I don't even have any similes for glamorous, hence the wretched overuse of the word 'glamorous' in this paragraph.

If Petite Anglaise and Belle de Jour are the filmstars of blogging (and by the way, there's the Billie Piper connection again - only this time I shouldn't imagine anyone was looking at her eyebrows) then I am more like the Coronation Street equivalent. And I don't mean stylish Maria or sassy Carla Connor. Oh no. I don't mean that one who was in that made-up band thing. I don't even mean Deirdre or Janice Battersby. No, in the blogging glamour stakes, I am the equivalent of Blanche.

Return

2008-08-29T20:57:00.010+01:00

Today I realised how much I have neglected this poor blog. It has been left tied to a lamp post, forlorn and forgotten, in the manner of one of those sweet-faced, slightly scruffy dogs shown on Blue Cross adverts who have been carelessly and cruelly abandoned by their evil owners. Those are naturally the kind of dogs who have never chewed the sofa, never savagely bitten the postman's index finger off, and who most definitely have never placed their furry behinds on a bus seat thereby offending people who write to the local paper. This blog is not guilty of any of those crimes either, and deserves a more careful owner than the one who had to ask her friends if they remembered the web address for it because she decided she wanted to write something this evening. And then had to Google it because those friends, who are the only people who ever read this blog at the best of times, couldn't remember either owing to the lack of activity here for all these months.

It was Wife In The North who inspired me to blog again. Well actually, it was my friend Claire, who read Wife In The North's book. Anyway, it made me think "I haven't written my blog for a while" and then I looked (after googling) and realised I haven't written since May. Shame on me.

There has been a problem.

When I first started this blog, I was very enthusiastic. I was hugely excited by the linking of a TV blog from The Guardian to mine; they linked to my post about the performances of Billie Piper and her eyebrows in Mansfield Park. Shortly afterwards, I was again hugely excited by one of my blog posts being picked to appear in Shaggy Blog Stories. Then, between the printing of Shaggy Blog Stories and its arrival through the letter box - a matter of days - my father died. He didn't see my contribution to the book. I didn't even get chance to tell him about it. I lost my enthusiasm for blogging. It had lost its lustre.

The thing is, I know that my Dad would be upset to think that I'd stopped doing something I enjoyed doing because of him. I'm just not sure I can separate the link between my enjoyment of writing this blog and his loss in my mind. But I owe it to him to at least try.

By the way, my post about Billie was less than complimentary but in general I like her very much despite her non-Austenesque eyebrows. So I feel slightly guilty that it has been people googling her (and her facial hair) that has brought the greatest number of hits to this blog. In fact, if you Google "Billie Piper eyebrows" then this site is first on the list. There's a fascinating factoid for you! In an interesting contrast, people searching for articles about Heather Mills have been entirely absent.

So. By way of a brief update on us, we still live here by the canalside but my toddler cannot be described as a toddler any longer. He is a 3 year old little boy with many, many opinions and much to say for himself. People are still charmed by him on the whole. The dentist's receptionist certainly was the other day as he told her all about the way he looks after his teeth - and how Mummy doesn't, and therefore needs one of hers removed. She did become slightly less enamoured with him, however, when he suddenly reached out and pressed a random button on the calculator on which she was almost finished calculating the day's takings and lost all her figures. Being a dental professional probably came in handy at that moment, when she managed to keep the sparking smile on her face like the professional she is, and grit her teeth simultaneously.

A Dog's Bottom Should Not Be On a Bus Seat

2008-05-09T17:50:00.005+01:00

The title of this post is my favourite line in this week's edition of my local paper. To be accurate, it's not actually my local paper, but the local paper of the next town; we get a different edition here. To most people reading this, that's neither here nor there. But locals here often have a very strict idea of 'local' and I wouldn't want to offend, so the clarification was necessary.

The statement that forms the title for this post is the last line of a letter from a reader, responding to an article published last week about a woman who was asked to pay 50p in order for her dog to travel with her on the bus. The bus company in question is Best Bus, which personally I think is an inspired name. It effortlessly tops whatever any of their competitors can throw at them. 'Quite Good Bus?' 'Largely Reasonable Bus'? 'Not Bad Bus Let Down By The Two Year Old Chewing Gum Under The Seats Bus?' None of them can hold a candle to it. Whatever you call your bus company around here, whatever clever name you dream up, it's trumped by Best Bus. Because how can you get better than best? You can't. Unless, of course, you don't charge 50p for dogs, in which case you would be better than Best Bus, at least in the opinion of some residents, such as the lady featured in the original article last week. Sadly for Best Bus, the writer whose words I've borrowed for my post title has a bone to pick with them about a dog's bottom.

The writer of the letter is primarily concerned about the Health and Safety aspect of allowing dogs to travel on buses, and specifically, as you may by now have guessed, about the issue of dogs' bottoms on bus seats. The writer worries that if a child travelled on the bus and sat on a seat previously containing a dog's bottom, there is a possibility that the child could touch the seat and then put his fingers in his mouth. The writer does not elaborate on the resulting perils of such an action, but the inference is that she feels that someone would suffer. Whether that is the dog or the child, she does not say.

The writer feels that since these days there is a lot of publicity about dog owners being fined for failing to clean up dog mess, the notion of a dog's bottom on a bus seat is surely a Health and Safety issue. Unless the implication is that the dog owners may fail to clean up dog mess that is actually deposited on the bus seat by the dog's bottom during the journey, I'm not quite clear about the connection between people getting fined for randomly leaving dog poo festering and the dog's bottom (minus mess) on the bus seat. If I'm missing the obvious link, do let me know.

The thing I'm concerned about, is that this cuts both ways, frankly. What if a seat previously occupied by a child's bottom was then licked by a dog? Dogs are people too, let's not forget. You could be forgiven for not realising that. I won't be judgemental, because I didn't realise myself until I found out that they are required to pay 50p to travel on the bus. And really, it would seem rather unfair to take that dog's hard-earned 50p and then forbid him to place his bottom on the seat. Possibly, the dog would be entitled to sue the bus company for failing to provide the service he'd paid for.

Not all residents agree with the writer of the first letter, about the inherent incompatibility of dogs' bottoms and bus seats. A second letter published in this week's issue is penned by a writer who, if he or she had a dog, would be happy to pay 50p in order for that dog to travel by Best Bus, particularly since Best Buses are so clean (notwithstanding the dogs' bottoms of course) and have such polite, smart drivers (an issue about which dogs are known to care deeply). Regrettably, the writer of this second letter inadvertently (I presume) rather undid his or her great praise of Best Buses by finishing his or her letter with "Sadly, my dog died last year. So keep up the good work Best Bus."

Anyone who has owned a pet will understand the great sense of loss at the end of the pet's life, and I have no wish to demean that sadness. And I'm sure Best Bus were in no way responsible for the death of the writer's dog. Still, I can't help but hope that the ill-fated canine hadn't been licking a Best Bus seat immediately after the school drop off.

Spring Clean

2008-03-21T11:00:00.002+00:00

Spring is officially here. You can tell from the way the daffodils are bobbing wildly in the unforgiving gale-force winds and battering rain. I think we'll perhaps have this year's Easter Egg hunt indoors, to prevent the eggs, or indeed the toddler, from ending up on a yellow brick road somewhere over the rainbow, desperately wondering if they're in Cheshire any more. Not that I'd encourage my toddler or anyone else to eat eggs that are capable of wondering anything, to be fair.

Spring is, dreadful weather aside, a time for new starts, so I think it's time to dust off the cobwebs from this blog, and start writing it again.

A nice new look to set the tone, brighter and more spring-like, is in order I think.

She's got a ticket to ride...the gravy train

2008-03-18T21:10:00.002+00:00

If a personification of the notion of being one's own worst enemy exists, it must surely take the form of Heather Mills.

She's £25 million richer after yesterday's High Court ruling on her divorce from Sir Paul McCartney, but apparently she still hasn't grasped the concept of less being more when it comes to hysterical outbursts and relentless self-promotion. Can't buy me class, as her soon to be former husband may well have sung in his heyday. Her 11-minute rant outside the High Court yesterday made for the kind of car crash television you feel compelled to watch despite the teeth-clenching embarrassment it evokes, on a par with her disastrous GMTV interview last autumn. Her recently revamped website boasts video clips of "Heather's friends" Richard Branson and Hillary Clinton talking about how utterly lovely and wonderful she is in the most effusive terms. Maybe it's a peculiarly British trait, but (to this Brit, anyway) there is a feeling of acute distaste on viewing these clips at such shameless self-promotion.

Heather Mills seems to have a relationship with the truth that is matched in distance only by her detachment from reality. Mr Justice Bennett, the judge in the McCartney divorce, referred to her evidence as "inconsistent, inaccurate" and "less than candid" in the High Court ruling that Ms Mills sought to keep private. "Less than candid"? Almost sounds like a rather polite way of saying "she lied", doesn't it?

The full ruling makes hilarious reading. Ms Mills' greed is pretty astonishing, and the sums she claimed she 'needed' from the divorce settlement are mind-boggling to the ordinary person. Almost half a million pounds a year for holidays, for example. Half a million pounds?! To be fair though, that sum does include the essentials such as private and helicopter flights of £185,000. Evidently Ms Mills' concern for all things charitable doesn't extend to environmental causes and worrying about her carbon footprint.

Unsurprisingly, the judge found her demands excessive and awarded her much less than the 125 million pounds she was seeking. However, she still leaves the marriage, which lasted just under 4 years, with just under £25 million.

Can that amount be fair, considering that McCartney's wealth was almost all amassed far before the unfortunate day he met his second wife? As Heather Mills said herself outside court, "everyone knows he was worth £800 [million] 15 years ago". Rather an own goal, one would think, since that statement clearly rules out any contribution to that wealth on her part. Sadly, the main casualty of this ruling must surely be the institute of marriage itself; it is hardly a recommendation for men (or women) of any wealth to enter into marriage, knowing that after such a short time their spouse, now estranged, may walk away with millions. Sir Paul can afford it, certainly. But is that the point?

Middle Aged Moan

2007-11-09T22:00:00.000+00:00

Why are so many people who work in shops so rude? Why? Why is that?

Have they always been so rude? Or have all the rude retail staff in the UK recently come to work in my local shops?

Today, I was in a shop to buy some milk. When I entered the shop, the woman behind the counter was on her mobile, to someone who may or may not have been on the council, to complain about a youth shelter that may or may not be being built. I know this because that was the conversation she was having right in front of me while I stood there at the counter glaring at her, and waiting for the privilege of paying her for my milk.

Eventually, after quite sustained glaring on my part, she said "Excuse me" and then apologised - to the person on the phone - and served me. That consisted of her saying "£1.30" (or whatever it was) and holding her hand out, whilst with the other hand she picked up her mobile again and resumed her conversation.

Sorry, what part of "I'm not doing you a favour by patronising your establishment, I am actually one of a special group of personages known as 'customers', who pay your wages and without whom you'd be out of business" do shop staff in my locality not understand?

I play a game now, each time I go to the supermarket. It's called "Guess how long it takes the check-out operator to speak to me?" (I'm working on a snappier title). Occasionally, the person behind the uniform will speak before he or she starts swiping my shopping through the scanner, at least to greet the customer before asking me for money. More usually though lately, I have found that I am completely ignored until the time comes to demand currency in exchange for the goods. And I say 'demand' rather than 'request' because the omission of any polite 'please' makes it so. In fact, next time perhaps I will extend the game and only answer actual questions or requests put to me. The words "nineteen fifty-four" don't actually constitute a request for me to pay that amount, they merely describe the total of my purchases. Or at least, I assume they do. For all I know, those words could be informing me of the check-out operator's year of birth. Or a guess at mine. Those figures could be the latest rugby score, or the the ages of the check-out operator's previous boyfriends (well, you never know with people, do you?) Next time, perhaps I shall say "What about it?" in am equally sullen manner to the person serving me, and then stand there and ignore them for 10 minutes and see how they like it. I would go and shop somewhere else, if somewhere else around here employed any cheerier, better mannered staff.

Perhaps I should apply for a job myself. Then I too could spend all day taking pointless phone calls and and getting paid for being rude to people. From the job description, it must be very similar to being Chris Moyles.

Superheroes In Cognito

2007-07-26T16:14:00.001+01:00

I must apologise for my infrequent updating of this blog. Things have been odd since March. I cannot explain why, but I hope I will be forgiven by my small, but faithful, readership.

My toddler is developing at a frighteningly rapid rate. To my delight, his imagination has begun to involve both of us in enchanting, and sometimes bizarre, conversations lately. A couple of days ago, we went to a local shop for some milk. I know most of the staff, but there was a new girl behind the counter, smiling personably, and out to impress with her customer service skills.

"Aw!" she exclaimed as she served us, gazing at my toddler, who was clutching his chocolate buttons as if his life depended on the closeness of their proximity. "Aren't you lovely? And what is your name?" she asked him.

"Sarah," he replied, with an earnest expression on his face and without a hint of mischief.

Before I could speak, the girl replied "Oh, that's my name too! How lovely, we've got the same name!"

"Yes, " replied my son, and added "Sarah," again, for the purposes of confirmation.

"Do you know," The girl addressed me now. "I thought she was a boy! I'm ever so sorry."

"Don't be. He is."

She looked bemused.

"His name isn't Sarah," I added quickly, before she mistook me for an overzealous Johnny Cash fan. "Tell the lady your name," I commanded my offspring.

He deliberated. His chocolate buttons were already paid for.

"No."

I apologised to the friendly girl, and muttered something about it just being one of those days, and began to hustle my son towards the door. As we got there, he turned and looked back to the counter.

"Lady?" he called, as I began to open the door.

"Yes?" She answered him in anticipation.

He gave her a firm look, and as he stepped underneath my outstretched arm and through the open door, he declared, "My name is Spiderman."

Arrested Development

2007-06-05T21:43:00.000+01:00

There are few things in life more delightful than observing the progress of your young child's development as he grows from a baby to a toddler, and becomes a little personality in his own right who can communicate his feelings and thoughts.

The development of speech and language is particularly enchanting. There is enormous pleasure in watching your child delight himself with his shrewd observations of everyday life around him, and in listening to a small child's untainted and uninhibited take on the world.

Such beautiful moments of parenthood were illustrated to me today by a trip to the local supermarket.

As we wandered up and down the aisles, my toddler proudly sat in his little trolley seat and pointed out items he recognised, and helped me place them (albeit rather roughly) into the trolley when we came across something we needed.

Then we meandered into the clothing section and chose a new sun-hat for him, and I had a quick look at the ladies' lingerie section.

My clever little boy was quick to demonstrate that I had inadvertently failed to remember the golden supermarket rule; the trolley distance from merchandise/arm's reach ratio must to taken into consideration at all times. I realised I had been remiss in this department when my toddler energetically waved several pairs of ladies' undergarments around his head and shouted, at the top of his shrill little voice, with the pride of someone who has a new word to add to their burgeoning vocabulary, "PANTS!!! PANTS!!! MUMMY!! PANTS!"

Naturally, everyone within hearing distance - so most people in the store - turned to observe and admire this wondrous feat of early development, and were most interested in the implication that these size extra extra large enormous cotton pants were in some way connected to me. As I am not a pushy parent, I attempted to quieten the excited rendition of "THESE pants, Mummy? Mummy pants?" and return the articles to their hangers. It's amazing how strong a grip a toddler can have when he's holding something he doesn't want to surrender. And apparently Tesco have a method of putting women's knickers on hangers that is the equivalent of a Masonic handshake. Not just anyone can do it.

So if anyone reading this has the job of keeping underwear shelves tidy in a supermarket in Cheshire, I apologise for the several pairs of very big cotton pants strewn along the shelves in a haphazard fashion today.

They were the unfortunate casualties of an exquisite parenting moment.

And whatever my son said, they weren't my size.

Nuts in May

2007-05-01T10:47:00.000+01:00

It's a beautiful day for dancing around the Maypole and celebrating Beltane, if that is the sort of thing you are wont to do.

The sun is bright, the trees are green, and it's unseasonably warm at the moment.

Which is why this morning, as my toddler and I passed complete strangers on our stroll, I felt the desire to explain to them that he chose the woolly hat he was wearing, not me.

Don't Call Us....

2007-04-30T09:36:00.000+01:00

I would like to take the opportunity to pause for a suitable length of time to thank Cheshire Police for all their help when I needed their assistance a couple of days ago. Has a nanosecond passed by yet? Excellent; that is plenty long enough.

I don't wish to make light of the vast stupidity and incompetence on my own part in causing the situation I found myself in - it was a situation entirely of my own making. But my uselessness was matched very well by that of the police. So at least I'm not the only pointless person in the world - but then no-one pays me from public money to be pointless, so I have less of an obligation to be Of Some Use.

I managed, the other morning, to lock the following items in my car on a supermarket car park:

My handbag (containing keys, phone, phone numbers, money)
The car keys
My child.

The initial panic at the moment I realised what I'd done was really not very nice at all. After calling my sister from Customer Services and asking her to go to my mother's house to fetch the spare keys, I went back to the car and tried to persuade my toddler (using every method of bribery I could think of) to pull up the lock button on the nearest door, to no avail.

My sister and mother arrived, with a key - but not THE key. By this time I was starting to worry. My toddler had been in the car for quite some time and was getting distressed that I wouldn't get into the car with him. It was a warm day, and the car was getting hot. We thought about my mother staying with my car while my sister took me to get the key (as I knew what it looked like and my sister hadn't) but we were several miles from my mother's house and the traffic through town was busy - my toddler needed to be out of the car more quickly than that.

I have breakdown cover. But I couldn't remember who with. This is further evidence of uselessness on my part, obviously, but in my defence the cover came with the car under the Warranty so I didn't choose the provider myself, and the details were on hand in case of a break down; they were neatly tucked into the pocket of the passenger door.

So, we decided to call the local police station, hoping (not entirely unreasonably, I thought) that a police officer would be able to come out and open the car door.

After taking many, many details from me about myself and my car, the lady who had answered the call said they would come out as soon as they could, but that all they could do would be to smash a window.

I wasn't hugely impressed with that, since I could smash my own window, although I was of the opinion that I would prefer not to owing to the close proximity of the small child, and 'as soon as they could' sounded slightly vague. I tried to impress upon her that the car was hot and my toddler was distressed, and then we waited.

After ten minutes, my sister had a brainwave. The garage where I bought the car was only about a mile away; perhaps someone there would be able to open the car.

The police rang back. They had discovered that they didn't have a patrol car in the area, and didn't know how long it would be before they could attend.

My sister rang the garage, and the man who answered assured her he'd be here in five minutes - and he was. He and his colleague had opened the car within several minutes (WITHOUT smashing a window, I might add) and I was able to sweep my very hot and really rather cross toddler out of his car seat and into a relieved hug. Like Supermarket Superheroes, the men would accept no payment for their rescue effort, and jumped swiftly back into their car to return to work before I'd even had a proper chance to thank them.

Just before the moment that the garage men managed to open the door, my sister, my mother and I watched with incredulity as a marked police car drew up outside the supermarket, and in a leisurely fashion a policeman got out and wandered off into the store. Of course, it would be pure speculation on my part to suggest that the purpose of his visit was to perhaps procure some lunch.

And really, he should be congratulated. It is no mean feat to visit a place whilst being simultaneously nowhere near it.

Look At Me

2007-04-23T14:59:00.000+01:00

A few days ago, it was reported that Macmillan Children's Books had signed one Geri Halliwell for a six book deal.

Ms Halliwell, formerly known as Ginger Spice and then "the one who left and released that bloody awful single and stopped eating", has a website about her forthcoming fiction debut, to render us all breathless with excitement at the prospect of the release of the Ugenia Lavender series and, if that were not enough for our delectation, a song to accompany the series.

On this website, there is an extract from Ugenia Lavender to whet our appetites.

Or, I fear, not.

I would dearly love to be able to say that the publisher has chosen this work because of its crackling writing and unparallelled quality and that the fact that it is written by a celebrity is irrelevant. Unhappily, being of an honest nature, I cannot.

This extract is the most appalling example of utterly dreadful writing I have had the misfortune to stumble across since I once accidentally read half a page of Heat magazine. The heroine's name puts one in mind of an unfortunate bladder infection, and the general standard of the prose is mind-bogglingly poor.

It is a travesty that Macmillan have published this, and all because it is accompanied by the name of a celebrity. At least, one can only presume that to be the reason, because according to the extract on the Ugenia Lavender website there are no other redeeming features to recommend it.

Is Geri really so self-delusional that, like the contestants of the X Factor who shriek like a thousand cats on fire and still expect to be the next...well, Geri Halliwell, she believes that she has a talent for writing fiction that will be enthuse the nation's children to become prolific readers? It is more likely they will decide never to pick up a book again on the basis of it; and who could blame them? Are Macmillan out of their minds? Or do they also prefer the name tag of a celebrity in favour of quality when they choose which books to publish? Can we assume that as Macmillan have chosen to publish this substandard work, they don't believe that children deserve or need reading material of quality and originality? How very insulting to the young.

The UK become so obsessed with the mindless celebrity culture that an Emperor's New Clothes phenomenon has been created. One can only hope that as these books are written for children that those children will, with the unpretentious and unbiased honesty of youth, point and laugh at these books and declare them to be naked of talent and merit.

A Moral Foundation

2007-04-19T20:46:00.001+01:00

Today, I bought some make-up.

I did not realise before I entered the shop how difficult the process would be, else I might never have taken the first steps on the long and arduous road to purchase some new foundation. I may well have considered that remaining flawed and blotchy forever would be an easier course of action than the one I was about to take. And believe me, I AM flawed and blotchy. Don't be fooled into thinking that would be a sight that would not scare small children and give old ladies fainting fits. It would. But perhaps I would not have cared about the pain of others, had I known that which I would have to endure myself.

I knew what I wanted, but they didn't sell it. They sold something really quite like it though - almost exactly the same, in fact - from a different manufacturer but 'they make ours anyway, so there's no difference'.

Only when I had naively sat in a chair at the make-up counter did the sales assistant add "Of course, our products are completely different to one you already have". I tried to move, but the bright light shining in my eyes prevented me from doing so, and I swear that invisible stealth-belts had silently and swiftly pinned me to the chair.

"Our products are more natural. Because we are more...fragrance-free and 'clinical'", the assistant assured me. "You know what I mean", she said, as a statement rather than a question.

I didn't know what she meant in the slightest but before I could inform her of this fact and ask her to clarify it in a way that made actual sense, she had loomed over me and scrubbed my cheek with a damp ball of cotton wool.

Instinctively I jerked my head away from her. "What are you doing?" I hissed, crossly.

"Oh, is it cold? Sorry." She smiled a slightly frightening smile. The fear I felt may have come from the fact that now she was standing at an angle which meant I was looking up at her, I could see the line on her jaw where her bare skin and her made-up skin joined.

"No, I mean what are you..."

"Just keep still for me there, that's it" she commanded, her hands steadying my head and preventing me from speaking, while she proceeded to slop foundation in a completely incongruous shade on to my newly cleansed face.

"I don't think that one..." I started, but trailed off as she quickly and thickly applied a stripe of a different colour below it, and a third below that.

"Right, I'll just serve this lady while you just sit there for a moment so we can see if your skin likes them" she breezed. "Don't worry, you won't look like a Red Indian for long!"

So I sat in a shop, the spotlight upon me, wondering whether there could be a more politically-incorrect remark for her to make, and sheepishly realised that I was trapped. Even without the invisible stealth-belts, I could hardly walk out of the shop and through the town with three big stripes across one side of my face. I mean, I like Adam Ant as much as the next person, but I have no desire to actually be mistaken for him.

Eventually, she returned. I had to admit, begrudgingly, that one of the stripes, when applied at a lesser ratio of half-pot of foundation : 2 square inches of skin actually looked quite good.

She scrubbed the rest off and applied the one I liked again on the whole of my cheek. I ripped through the stealth-belts and demanded that I take the mirror to the doorway to inspect the results in natural light, since she clearly hadn't performed that vital step herself. Perhaps she had done it purposely, as a warning to her customers. But I doubt it.

It looked fine.

I had a slight dilemma now. Buy this product from this scary lady who uses racist terminology and assaults women by cotton wool without prior consent.

Or face the prospect of having to do this again.

"How much is it?" I asked.

It was a few pounds less than the product I had originally intended to buy.

"I'll take it", I told her, as I shamefully sold my principles for the royal sum of £4.00.

To all persons native to America, I apologise. But in my defence, it really does look nice.

Pause

2007-04-01T22:56:00.000+01:00

Shortly after the last time I posted here, we had a family bereavement.

I will be back to continue blogging when I feel able.

(Whether that is a good thing or not is purely a matter of opinion).

The Eyebrows Have It

2007-03-19T12:01:00.000+00:00

Last night, I was looking forward to the start of ITV's Jane Austen season.

Just before 9pm, I settled down in front of the television with a cup of tea and some chocolate and after hearing that the current series of the abominable 'Wild At Heart' had just finished, I was feeling extremely pleased.

I like a good period drama, and generally find myself able to watch them without the irritation some people feel at minor plot changes and exclusions, on the basis that they are adaptations of the books they represent, reworked for a different medium.

Small details don't affect my enjoyment. I am able to override my usually pedantic nature and just enjoy. Or so I thought, until the first time Billie Piper appeared on screen in Mansfield Park last night.

Immediately, she jarred my eye. She looked all wrong. She looked too present day. I sat pondering for a minute or two as to why that was; she was of course in full costume along with everyone else, so why did she look so out of place? I quickly realised I was entirely distracted from the storyline, and indeed the entire programme, by her appearance.

It took me some moments to realise that it was her eyebrows that were causing my dismay; they were as incongruous as two monstrous futuristic cyber-caterpillars in the early 19th century setting. They were a completely different colour to her hair. That, of course, was because her hair was very obviously bleached, in a very 21st century manner. This train of thought then prodded me to notice that she actually had dark roots creeping ominously through.

From then on, I just could not watch this programme and enjoy it. Every time she appeared, it irritated me to the point of desperately wanting Edmund to lock in her an attic and pretend she didn't exist, and then marry Miss Crawford instead. Yes, I know I'm confusing the plot with that of Jayne Eyre, but I just think it would have helped to borrow from it in this case. I would have been equally happy if the Tardis had appeared and David Tennent had whisked her off to annoy some Daleks, as long as he had taken the eyebrows as well. Actually, the fact that she looked as if she had one foot in the past and the other in the future actually made me expect this to turn out to be a surprise episode of Doctor Who. If it had been a BBC production, I think I would have been disappointed when he failed to appear.

I cannot comment as to how good or poor this was as an adaptation of Jane Austen's novel; I cannot even discuss properly what it was like as a piece in its own right, because I was so utterly absorbed in my pedantic objection of poor Billie's unfortunate hair and eyebrow anomaly that I eventually had to turn off the TV and do something less annoying instead.

All I had for consolation was the knowledge that next Sunday I can leave the television on after Coronation Street without being subjected to the rollercoster of emotion caused by Amanda Holden saying "Oh no, it's all gone wrong! We'll have to go back to England!" and raising my hopes, only to dash them to pieces again when they decide to stay in Africa for yet another tedious episode after all. Still, at least Jamie Theakston's not in it. You have to count your blessings.