Don’t lose your knickers: it’s Christmas

Have you lost your knickers recently?

Then it must be Christmas.

As we all know, Christmas is a time for celebrating with our friends in dodgy watering holes (if, that is, we can find a babysitter).

But that also means that it’s fun-time for the lost property counter of said watering holes. If it’s not your knickers, it’ll be your handcuffs or your set of darts.

We all get into the Lost Property habit at a young age. At school, I was always bewildered by a lost property cupboard filled with cake tins (when we didn’t do cookery), footballers’ jockstraps (at a girls’ school), and carpet slippers. Did girls not notice that they were making their way home with one shoe – and no kilt? Did the girl whose grubby tooth brace ended up in Lost Property never wonder what became of it?

We may like to think we become more careful with age. But we are wrong. And Christmas is prime time for losing far more than our wallets and keys.

“Dresses, skirts, pullovers… you name it, we find it,” chortled Jo, the manageress of my local hostelry. Supermarket uniforms feature large in her Lost Property box – as do travel agents’ uniforms, and even the odd wetsuit. “People come here for Christmas parties, get drunk, and forget their uniforms.” Men are particularly careless with their trousers, she says, although they tend to hang on to their underwear. Unlike women.

So what else is there to lose once you’ve lost your clothes? Plenty – especially if you’re a woman. “Handcuffs, joke underwear, boob-growing cream… our lost property box looks like an Ann Summers shop,” says another local club owner. Penises of the latex and chocolate variety also tend to stray.

Rather worryingly, they don’t tend to end up in the bin. “We try not to get too close to things that look as if they’ve been used,” said Mr Club Owner, “but if anyone wants their sex-aid back, there’s a good chance that we’ll still have it.”

So much for sex toys. Obviously, it’s easy to misplace someone’s thoughtful Secret Santa present of a latex penis. But surely it’s more difficult to lose your crutches? Or a month’s supply of contraceptive pills, as some poor woman (I presume) managed to do at London’s 333 club? Or your false teeth – or your colostomy bag?

However the Dodgy Christmas Clubber prize goes to… Edinburgh. Here, club staff were the lucky finders of a bag. In the bag was a towel – and in the towel was a poo. Nobody ever claimed it.

The one thing to be said for towel-wrapped poos is that they make dandruffy wigs seem positively savoury. “The really weird thing is when someone rings up and says they’ve just realised they lost their wig a month ago,” says Jo.

I know Christmas makes people do odd things – but wouldn’t you think the passengers on the London Underground who mislaid a theatrical coffin and a complete skeleton would have noticed something was missing? Perhaps it’s reassuring to know that there’s always a simple explanation for such bizarre behaviour. After all, the tooth brace that ended up in the school Lost Property got there for the simple reason that its owner, somewhat fed up with it, had tied it to her schoolbag with a hair bobble, and it had dropped off.

How do I know that?

Because it was mine.

And, yes, I did reclaim it.

Happy Christmas.

I’m a Barbie girl

I was a teenage runaway, a joyrider, a drug dealer, a terrorist and a murderer. I had sex with scores of men (including all of Duran Duran – simultaneously); I turned a gay man straight and a straight man gay; I was detained in mental institutions; I had organ transplants; I was buried in a sand-pit; I was reincarnated as my own twin sister; I performed a strip act in a nightclub; and I lost my head when it was flushed down the toilet. I have even died of ignorance (as in that ’80s advertising campaign). And all this before my eighteenth birthday.

So how did I manage to perform these amazing feats? Well, it was all thanks to Barbie.

Oh no! Says any right-minded female. Not that frightful creation who teaches their daughters to want a two-inch waist and an unnecessary boob-job?

Oh yes! Say I. For Barbie can teach our daughters everything they need to know about life and love.

My sister and I had, between us, a host of Barbies. But they didn’t hang around looking like WAGs. Oh no. We chopped their hair off and dyed their stubble with felt-tip pens (and were disappointed to discover that Domestos didn’t bleach polyester hair). We pierced their ears with dressmaking pins, gave them chains from their ears to their noses, and added nail-varnish nipples for good measure – to the horror of our mother, who first spotted said nipples as we undressed our Barbies while playing nicely at Great Auntie Joan’s house.

One had polio, and a Swizzles sweet wrapper and an elastic band became a calliper. Another had cholera (thanks to my reading The Secret Garden and never getting beyond the scary cholera bit). When we got really fed up with them, we resorted to crashing a Weebles aeroplane into their house (we were always ahead of our time). A number of them went mad; one had her hat run over by a London taxi, and subsequently developed a fetish about exposing her bottom. Only one retained all her (long, blonde, curly) hair and limbs, and she, “Sheri”, was the token looks-obsessed bimbo who was on a permanent diet of cocaine and vodka.

What was going on? It’s clear to me: I was learning about who I was and what I wanted – without any of the hideous consequences. Other girls snogged horrid teenage boys, had secret abortions, drank themselves sick, and dabbled in drugs – but I didn’t need to do any of that, because Barbie did it for me.

She showed me how demeaning it was to have sordid liaisons in alleyways, how boring people are when they’re drunk, how wonderful it is to be in love, and how heart-wrenchingly miserable it is to find out that your boyfriend is gay or already married. I was testing out those different identities that the other girls – whose politically correct mothers had banned Barbie – were trying out on their own minds and bodies the minute they had the chance. “Be who you want to be”, said one rather sickly Barbie advertising campaign. But I’d say that Barbie lets you be who you don’t want to be – without any of the consequences.

I never went down the sex-with-random-strangers path. I don’t go in for body piercing; binge-drinking somehow passed me by; and I’m not unduly concerned with my looks. I have no desire for an eighteen-inch waist or breast implants (and if anyone could ever do with them, it would be me). I have a splendid marriage, two lovely children, and am even considering getting an Afghan hound (well, Barbie had one). And while some might credit my parents with having brought up a happy and well rounded individual, I’d say it was all thanks to Barbie. For she let me try out every possible relationship and mode of existence, all in the safety of my own home. And for that, I shall be forever grateful to her.

All I want for Christmas is …

Are you listening, Mr Maid?

All I want for Christmas is… a Paisley aubergine Tibetan wool rug.

Failing that, a holistic silk eye mask would do.

That’s according to Wednesday’s Daily Telegraph, at any rate. Never mind Levenson or the Eurozone: my eye was immediately caught by what really matters: A Man’s Guide to What She Wants for Christmas!

‘Men, read this: your women will thank you,” said the article.

Goody, I thought, planning to leave it strategically open at that page. But then I saw what it is that I apparently want. And thought again.

An iPhone cover in Pants-on (sorry, Pantone) yellow. Okay – but I haven’t got an iPhone. Lack of hardware also rules out the V&A iPad cover.

Lack of funds, meanwhile, rule out the fake-fur stole in fetching orange, fuchsia or turquoise. They also rule out the £135 Harrods hairband, the £1,050 Shah necklace (you don’t say!), and the £440 Marc Jacobs bag. They even rule out the “cheap and very cheerful” £60 Topshop shoes. £60 for a pair of shoes? What planet are these people on?

However, given the general revoltingness of said items I am grateful for once that we have no spare money.

Funnily enough, the Dynasty-stylee Prada earrings don’t do it for me either. Nor does the Peter Pioltto at Liberty scarf (“a burst of London creativity”, apparently. Looks more like M&S sale-rail to me). I have no idea what 18 carat gold spinel cufflinks are, and I don’t want to find out (especially not for £2,250).

And the fake fur jacket? “Every woman needs one in her wardrobe,” the article tells our menfolk. Well, I’ve got through 40 years without one, and I can’t say I’ve felt the lack. As for the leopard-print belt: my seven-year-old daughter asked today if we could get a steering wheel with leopard skin on it. She is not renowned for her good taste.

However, there is one useful present on the list: anyone receiving the above-mentioned horrors might well need the recommended Total Wardrobe Care Service for £60 per hour. At a push, I wouldn’t mind the White Company cape in the sale, so long as it’s machine washable and in a colour that disguises children’s painty fingerprints.

As it’s Christmas, though, I have no desire to be all doomy and gloomy. No. On a cheerful and festive note, here is my own guide to what women (oh, alright then, this woman) really want for Christmas:

A day of no children squabbling

Cost: Free

A day on which the children do basic but really rather useful things such as putting dirty socks in the washing basket.

Cost: Free

An iPod Touch (“in your dreams”, as my delightful nine-year-old son is currently wont to say at every available opportunity)

Cost: can’t afford it

An iPhone and a case to put it in (need not be a Pants-on one: Poundland would do)

Cost: can’t afford that either, but Poundland case would be … let me see… ah yes. £1

Some piano music

Cost: varies

A bedtime book that’s as good as The Line of Beauty

Cost: less than Chanel Nail Polish in Peridot (as recommended by the Telegraph)

Some bed-socks that only have holes in them in order to insert your feet into them

Cost: very little, if husband learns to knit.

So how about you? Smythson jewellery roll or box of Quality Street with the coconut ones fished out? What would you most like for Christmas?

Bah humbug

Well, blow me down. Yet more proof that mothers are stressed out and unappreciated.

Research by Galaxy chocolate-makers has shown that two out of five mothers spend more than 40 hours planning and preparing for their family’s Christmas. A quarter of these said they started preparing in September; one in eight admitted that they started as soon as the Christmas decorations went back in their boxes in January.

Their male partners, on the other hand, spend an average of five hours doing Christmassy things. Presumably one hour trying to untangle the tree lights and another four hours swearing at them and sourcing last-minute replacement bulbs with white tips.

The same survey said that one in seven women felt that their festive efforts were unappreciated, and one in five felt that their other halves were no good at choosing Christmas presents.

Hang on a moment. Only 40 hours?

This morning, I suddenly remembered that the children break up tomorrow, so I went to buy my son a watch. Four hours later, I came home with a tea-towel for my husband’s oldest daughter.

I then spent a further hour on the internet failing to find a watch for a nine-year-old that wasn’t suitable for a rapper, didn’t come with an ID tag attached, and wasn’t a ‘time-teacher’.

So that was five hours gone in one day, and I’ve not even queued for a turkey in M&S yet.

As for feeling unappreciated: surely that statistic is the wrong way round? I can’t believe that six in seven women feel that their lovingly chosen gifts and hand-stitched Christmas tablecloth are actually appreciated in the carnage of Christmas morning.

While we’re at it, it can’t really be only one in five who reckons that their other half is a dead loss at choosing presents. I know that I am getting a Brora tank top this year – because I bought it for a tenner on eBay and handed it over to my husband so he could surprise me on Christmas Day. Just to be on the safe side. If I ever want to really punish him, I will tell him he has to buy Christmas presents for his own family.

So why do we go to all this effort when we feel stressed, unappreciated, and scared of receiving a novelty apron from our well-meaning other halves?

Well, it’s because … actually, I haven’t got the faintest idea. But if Galaxy would like to sponsor me in chocolate to come up with an answer, I might just manage it.

Kirstie Allsopp eat your heart out!

As if the looming school hellidays weren’t enough…

“I need a Christmas jumper,” my daughter announced on the way home from school yesterday.

“Oh really,” I replied absently.

Daughter: “Yes. We pay a pound to wear them on Tuesday for charity.”

Me: (suddenly paying attention at the idea of school making yet more financial demands, even if they are in a good cause): “You what?”

Daughter: “And there’s a prize for the worst crime against fashion.”

Me: “Gulp.”

Daughter: “Can we buy one on in Cath Kidston?”

Me: “No way, missie. I will ruin – I mean customise – one we have already.”

Of course, I duly forgot. Which is why I was still customising jumpers at 10pm (son was in on the act by now. Whatever daughter has, he has to have too. He wants it even if he doesn’t know what it is that she’s getting).

And now I present…      the results!

(I still refuse to acknowledge Christmas until they have broken up, though).

 

 

Just A Phase (I hope)…

I know, you’ve heard it all before. You worry about them experimenting with alcohol, listening to unsuitable music, watching X-rated films. But you know you can’t mollycoddle them forever. You have to let them make their own decisions, their own mistakes. Yes, I’m talking about your parents.

Teenagers? A doddle. But parents of a certain age are another matter altogether. For they are all too apt to do precisely the things that it’s not prudent, sensible and generally acceptable to do (namely the things you want them to do).

Take my parents. They have two mad dogs – and what do they do? Get a third to keep the others company – along with a sheep, a goat, some ducks, and a flock of chickens. To make matters much worse, they then go and move (gulp) out of Yorkshire. Did they ask my permission to emigrate to the Peak District?

Not likely. And so I find myself doing the Parental Thing and saying that I’m very happy for them, trying to remember that they have their own lives to lead – even though I’m secretly dying to tell them that they’re grounded until they come to their senses and realise what’s good for them. Namely living next door to me so I can keep an eye on them (and they can be proper grandparents of the free childcare variety). Though I suppose I should think myself lucky: unlike the mother in the paper, they are at least not planning to sell their house in order to buy a violin. Though I wouldn’t put it past them.

What’s more, this problem of wilful parents needing to be supervised, monitored and generally taken in hand extends to their entertainment. Once upon a time, it was Dad who banned us from watching The Young Ones and Dallas because they were ‘unsuitabile’ (whilst watching them himself, the rotter, just to check that he was right); now it falls to us thirtysomethings to make sure that they’re not secretly devouring unsuitable material – indeed, making sure they can never get their hands on it in the first place. Thus when Dad wants to borrow my Amy Winehouse CD, I have to tell him that he can’t: Amy is Unsuitable. So are any films that involve sex or bad language. Not least because I don’t want to have to answer awkward questions along the lines  of  ’what are those people doing?’

In fact, life is one long round of worry. Worry about the children: will they get run over? Will they become teenage alcoholics? Will they choke on a grape? Worry  about your parents: they drive too fast, drink too much wine, go away for weekends without telling you in advance, run the risk of poisoning themselves with food that’s three years past its use-by date, blithely tell you to break the law and plonk the baby in a carry cot on the back seat because that’s what they all did and it never did anyone any harm, and, in the case of the politician formerly know as Austin Mitchell, change their name to Haddock to make a point about British fish. Oh, his poor children.

To misquote The Parent’s Survival Handbook: ‘All parents respond to reason. They respond by ignoring what you’re saying and carrying on doing what they’re doing’. But as there doesn’t seem to be much I can do about it, I shall just have to carry on nagging them, checking up on them, making them explain themselves – whilst remembering that it’s probably just a phase, and they’ll grow out of it one day. At least I hope so.

Five Things I Can’t Live Without

As I froze my way home from school drop-off today, I was trying to find something good to say about December. Nothing came to mind, apart from the fact that it would be over in 24 days’ time. However, it did get me thinking. While I could gladly live without November and December, what could I not live without?

1. Brora fingerless gloves. I do not have many luxuries in life (I don’t even have a bedroom radiator at the moment), but I could not be without my marvellous cashmere fingerless gloves. They make me feel happy even when the rest of me is old and scruffy.

2. Charlie and Lola mug. Lotta and Lola, in fact. My daughter rejected it on the grounds that she is far too grown up for such things. Yesssss!!! Tea does not taste the same from any other mug.

3. My walk to school. It’s 8 miles a day (a four-mile round trip twice over), which I need for my own sanity – but even if you don’t like walking:  look at that view.

4. Curly Wurlys. A snip at £1 for 5 in Poundland (conveniently located on the walk home from school). The disadvantage of Curly Wurlys is that they are not solid chocolate. But if you store them in the freezer, they take about 30 minutes to eat, so you can trick your brain into thinking that you’ve had far more chocolate than you have actually had. Which outweighs the trips to the dentist when they pull your fillings out.

5. Easy Reading. I have a doctorate in 19th century literature, so am something of a keen reader. Since having children, however, my brain can’t cope with

a) anything involving children getting hurt/lost/upset

b) anything involving any kind of natural disaster (because my children might one day get caught in an earthquake)

c) anything involving illness, death (even of a pet), unhappiness or family problems

d) anything even remotely taxing, because I am too tired to think. I fall asleep upright after a page.

The answer? Billy Bunter. Whatever happens to my children, they are unlikely to be caned by their headmaster. Phew.

So what I want to know is: what can’t you live without?

Seven Secrets…

Well, I have been nominated by the lovely Ordinary Parent (http://ordinary-parent.blogspot.com) for this.

I am most flattered – only I now have to come up with seven secrets. This is harder than I thought it would be, but here goes:

1. I am a complete ignoramus about technology, and it took me about two hours to work out how to insert the little image into this post.

2. I have never watched X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing, I’m  A Celebrity, Eastenders or any of the other things that normal people watch. So I feel distinctly old ladyish when I don’t know who people are tweeping about, and keep a correspondingly low profile. I dare not even try to pretend.

3. I eat the icing off party-bag cake (I’m not bothered about the spongey bit) then tell the children that said cake has gone missing/gone mouldy and try to fob them off with a Rich Tea biscuit instead.

4. I won’t eat chicken in restaurants for fear of getting food poisoning. Obviously the whole universe would collapse if Mummy were ill for a day.

5. I iron towels. The house is falling apart around us, but I iron towels. It gives me a feeling of control.

6. My cashmere cardy wasn’t really £5.99 in the sale.

7. I read the Daily Mail in cafes. And online. It’s a bit of a compulsion. Don’t tell anyone.

 

And now I’d like to hear secrets from:

http://viewfromtheloungewindow.blogspot.com/

http://reallymissingsleep.blogspot.com/

http://morethanamumblog.wordpress.com/

http://nikki-stressymummy.blogspot.com/

And I said I was never going to embarrass my children again…

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2068221/Charles-Dance-Paul-McCartney-Having-children-doddery-dad-puts-YEARS-you.html