The Perfect Pose

The perfect pose is an essential natural response not only when faced with the lens of a camera but at all times of day and night; never let your defences drop girls, the perfect pose can knock lbs off your weight and years off your age, as can black lycra, botox and a good bra!!!!

The perfect pose should become second nature from an early age and refined and adapted according to the circumstance. What is cute at 5 is a cringe at 50 so props such as Daddy’s lap is a definite no no for anyone over the age of 25, not only does it make you look like Anna Nicole Smith but it also makes “daddy” look like a rampant paedophile and, I can assure you, it will find its way onto “Awkward family photos.com” before you can say Ronnie Wood……….

“Tits out and bums in” is generally a good formula for a row of girlies; but hen nights and tarts on tour beware, get lined up, regulation is better than separation, “safety in masses hides fat asses”. Practice your pout mouth in the mirror. A good one is “Wogan”. Forget the old “say cheese” malarkey, it will only distort your lips to the shape of a Royal Mail letterbox and make you look like Cherie Blair, it plays havoc with your crows feet and if you have the slightest trace of a double chin forget it, NEVER ever open your mouth in public again!!!!

Models traditionally have a legacy of facial lines from a lifetime of forced smiling, I personally know an ex-model with wrinkles to match Mick Jagger, and so a parsimonious economy of “gurning” is to be recommended.

I can speak from a lifetime experience of having to hide fat knees and was pleased to see the likes of Kylie and Danni adopting the tried and tested recipe that I had thought I had invented many years ago, it’s simple, knees pressed firmly together in a vice like grip with one foot slightly before the other…da…..da …..see, this can give the impression of passable, if not perfect, knees. Check the Minogues out next time you see them on the red carpet!!

PFB has the perfect formula; right hand on hip, a side on twist of the waist, right leg slightly bent forward with a point of the toe…… its what she calls “the Paris Hilton” (not that Paris has a lot to recommend herself but her “people” do know how to promote her best assets and hide her huge feet!!!!). PFB has demonstrated this perfect pose at many a prem and red carpet do and it’s variation is currently being modelled on page 30 of this month’s Company High Street Edit magazine.

Excess Baggage

The utter humiliation of having to unpack and redistribute our excess baggage at check in, was only ameliorated by our access to “previous day check in facility” and was not therefore witnessed by a 747 full of HP’s wrestling with their bum bags and shell suits. Horrors; that my entire bikini collection may have been on display and ridicule to the entire population of Basildon gawping in amazement as to why anyone would ever need 27 bikinis, 8 pairs of identical skinny jeans and 10 pairs of matching sunglasses…….albeit principally from Primani!

No I was not going to set up a stall and hawk them on the beach simply my intention was to give them to my loyal friends in a communist country where Lycra is still an invention of wonder and amazement, ancient mobile phones fetch a princely sum on the black market and Top Shop is a designer label equivalent in status to Christian Dior.However our lame excuses as to the remarkable over estimation of our baggage allowance fell on the deaf ears of the sympathetically challenged aspiring Trolley-dolly behind the counter, clearly still in traumatic recovery from her recent personality by-pass and a graduate with honours from the Saddam Hussein charm school, her displeasure was further amplified when her supervisor intervened and suggested we purchase a striking new holdall for the princely sum of 10 notes and thus re-distribute our heavier items at no extra cost. We had documentation that we had booked before the allowance was reduced and although a good 15 kilos over limit she had a more sympathetic ear when I assured her only 50% of it would be returning as I leave behind the diverse and explicit shopping list from my Cuban friends. Not to mention three pairs of fluffy bunny ears, check. Three identical Che Guevara T-shirts, check (coals to Newcastle comes to mind!!!) and three inflatable union jack air guitars, check...well it was a wedding and someone had to organise the stag do!!!!

What is it with this uniform that it is a license to be miserable and unpleasant to happy holidaymakers? I don’t doubt the reality that we had already pre-allocated seats in row 1, would have disempowered her and diminished her authority to relegate us to the rear of the aircraft and subsequent tail end trauma for ten hours. So as Chechzilla (therein lies a clue!!!) breathed fire, we decanted boots, bottles and bras in order to reduce the weights from 30kg down to a mere 23; apparently ‘elf and safety now prohibit the lifting of such excessive volumes. Since when did those strapping steroid enhanced baggage handlers become such wusses? Apparently April 2009……. and jolly lucky I wasn’t travelling with my Louis Vuitton steamer wardrobe trunk, goodness me, whatever does Joan Collins do when she flies with Thomson?

These check-in cheerleaders are generally one and the same who allocate seats and later meet and greet at the gate but this Chechzilla had met her match. Having already tolerated the Spanish inquisition as to the weight of our hand luggage (which fortunately resided in the hotel room throughout the endurance of this sad little episode) we had assured her it was no more than a small tote bag, We are visualising a neat little Longchamps Le Pliage here…….NO NO Noooooo, minor porky lost in imagination, I had the presence of mind to calculate that Chechzilla on duty at 10pm, would not be present for the morning shift and a new fresh team would be there to pass through our commodious carry on bags (now overflowing with shoes and sandals).

Having no spare luggage labels I was convinced our fetching new carryall would stray en-route, its contents lost forever so, as a precaution, I did feel it necessary to wear 2 jackets, virtually the entire contents of my jewellery roll and cowboy boots through security to the departures lounge just in case we were weighed again. Thus “Bling-ed” to excess I hit the “Jackpot” going through the metal detectors, all the lights flashed, alarms sounded and for a minute I thought I was back in Vegas!!! But the security guy probably just assumed I was Katie Price’s sister and with a quick frisk and wave of his magic wand off I went.

Fortunately all was well and there are now some very happy Pimped up bunnies in Cuba.

The Angel of Death

The MD has just placed a copy of yesterday’s Independent Magazine before me, it bears a bizarre and surreal photograph of Christopher Walkern. This image is haunting and macabre but epitomises all the characters for which he is traditionally typecast. It is sinister and eerie, I really don't like it but the fascination is undeniable.

An old favourite of ours from the Deer hunter days, he never fails to shock. He is an enigma, a contradiction of persona and lifestyles. A rare Hollywood icon who never fails to shock, entertain and repell within the same mindset. He has managed to maintain a constant carreer as a never comfortable and always controversial character in a succession of notable movies.

The image has ice cold eyes, a glacial stare into infinity beyond the retina of the camera, an insinuation of a cynical sneer reveals the far from Hollywood perfect veneers. He has an ashen vampiresque pallor which the camera struggles to disguise. The Jedward haircut and tattoo like enhancement of the tulip shaped top lip. Such a compellingly challenging un-enhanced visage in these times of striving for eternal youth and physical perfection, he appears unaltered and indifferent to the Peter Pan psyche that rules the celeb culture.

His recent appearance on Wossy was equally extraordinary, gauchely relaxed he is a challenge of inconsistency, not an easy person to empathise with nor a comfortable persona to reconcile. His OCD lifestyle is allegedly routine and familiar, he is a legendery dancer and cook, all of which talents seem so domestic, but his history bears the Wagner Wood scar, the mystery of really what did happen on that boat on that fateful night?

Diamond Dress

I touched briefly on this diamond purchase whilst wedding shopping blogging and to be honest I have surprised myself, this dress is an absolute “steal” with change from twenty five notes!!! A near identical print to the pink chain printed Versace asymmetrical dress as modelled by Georgia Jagger, this hot little number is as simple as could be; lycra fitted mini dress with scoop neck, a smidgeon of shoulder pads and ¾ sleeves. Every time I wear it I get positive comments, probably everyone shocked it is not my regulation black, and suddenly I am noticed, it’s definitely put a spring in my step.

Now wouldn’t you have just thought a sugar pink dress with random patches of black and white leopard print, chain surrounds and roccoco/baroque scrolling would not have done you any favours, the description alone is enough to make you wish you hadn’t had that last Hob-nob. Well I can assure you that this dress hides a multitude of sins as well as re-energising my demeanour; it is fashion forward and fun and I am loving it. I am really backing this 80s revival and have just secured a couple of genuine vintage Versace silk scarves from "my favourite sweetshop", ebay, all of course totally inappropriate for someone my age but when did that ever stop me?

So I have done what I do best, go with your first instincts and wear, wear, wear, but before you do that ensure it is replaceable. I have already secured a second identical item. So many times in the past I have kept something for best because it was precious, well now my philosophy is enjoy it whilst it is fresh and hot with the knowledge that the understudy is waiting in the wings should the master copy become literally, a little worse for wear.

I wore it last night for supper with Lulu and Paolo, I hadn’t been in the house 5 minutes when (at my suggestion) she had it off my back to try and no doubt she was online at the crack of dawn to secure one for herself. I am not precious about my style, all these clothes are out there for the taking and as I said before it’s not what you wear but how you wear it.

And the cost of this cool little baby…….. £24.99 from River Island, check it out.

However, as for previously blogged about silver slub satin shapeless sack? That has gone back. If that’s the shape of things to come when you get to my age, then bring on the bath chair now………

A Bambi Moment

This morning on the way to the Treadmill I passed two road kill victims; one I had to swerve dramatically to avoid and the second was hugely mutilated as its unrecognisable body was increasingly steamrollered deeper into the blacktop. Ironically last night my darling friend Fallen Angel also killed a deer; she is devastated at the tragic loss of an animal life. In a TGIF moment they had ordered a “Ruby” from their local and she had volunteered to collect. A quiet country road with little traffic she was taking it easy when en-route she was suddenly confronted face to face with Bambi in her headlights, she said for split second their eyes locked then the thud of reality broke the spell.

Hysterically she called her husband who arrived with a friend to calm the poor darling girl. Mother Theresa in a crisis I am amazed she didn’t jump out and do mouth to mouth or cardiac massage, such was her anguish I realise just how traumatised she really was. She is one of the most humane people I am lucky enough to know and I understand how deeply this has affected her, however, she is also THE singularly most practical person I know and her immediate concern was to the removal of the carcass from the roadside and its most expedient disposal, so, despite her extreme distress, common sense kicked in and she voiced her anxiety.

She was immediately reassured that the situation had been dealt with and the poor deer was already in the back of the car. Apparently it is illegal for the driver of a road kill victim to retrieve the remains which must be the logic for all the dead animals we see littering the roadside. How ridiculous is that? I could have had an accident this morning, Had I hit the newly dead corpse on the A14 at a considerable speed; I had a near miss, similarly had a car been on my right when I swerved so abruptly, that could have been a disaster, and how many people in the constant stream of traffic behind me faced the exact split second dilemma until the juggernauts finally flattened the poor animal.

Fallen Angel is saddened and guilt-ridden, the horror of the episode will live in her memory for a long time but she has exorcised it in her blog and she will survive. She was lucky not to have been injured herself and her motor has minimal bruising, a testament to her modest speed no doubt. However, as I write poor Bambi hangs awaiting professional butchering, she has not been, mutilated, compacted and violated, the precious meat will not be wasted and it will be venison for supper at the boat club………….

RIP McQueen

McQueen is dead, long live McQueen, if only…. Unfortunately a fashion maverick like that is not so easily replicated, he had a random genius and originality that we may never see again. With a nod to the past, present and future he managed to construct an exaggerated couture style which watered down very nicely to a high street staple; eventually adopted and worn by us all. He was one of a handful of great British eccentrics, the like of Vivienne Westwood, Ossie Clark, Paul Smith, all complete originals who influence the international fashions houses.

I admired his London roots and his acknowledgement that “street style” was his greatest influence, his family values and his courage to be different, I loved it when he said he was the “pink sheep of the family” but managed to overcome his weight problem in order to walk the walk……. His realisation that he was more than an employee in the rag trade and the brave step taken to go to art college to fulfil his dream. I loved the theatre of his shows, the scary malevolent undercurrents some had, projecting images that the fashion doyens sometimes would really rather not have seen, the blood, the gore and the surreal. I loved the way he really didn’t give a damn

He had the ultimate accolade of acceptance into the hierarchy of French fashion mafia and was invited to join Givenchy but in reality they should have joined the House of McQueen, his alleged behaviour was legendary and but they were lucky to have him….and he knew it.

It must be very difficult to be famous for a talent such as he had. He was not an X-factor attention seeking contestant but a grafter with a vision and a passion for fashion and the satisfaction of knowing that his creations were really quite extraordinary. The pressures must have been huge. I have been wearing my skull scarf as lame a tribute, but unfortunately I have no original Alexander McQueens hanging in my wardrobe, however, a fair few garments, shoes and accessories have definite McQueen influences.

Carrie Bradshaw married Big in order to house her Imelda Marcos sized shoe collection; My friend Lolita has restyled her 5 bedroom home at huge expense in order to accommodate her vast collection of LBD’s but even she hasn’t the room ……So, finally, I have to salute a guy who actually has a wardrobe that size; that's the ultimate carreer move and that's what I call style.

Me? I couldn’t even stand up in mine………..

for-boden

Now seems to be the season for all the unsolicited bland clothing Catalogues to come pouring through my letterbox. I know Boden and Land’s End have just adopted an extremely aggressive marketing campaign but why me??? What have I ever done to make them think I would be even remotely interested in their dull merchandise? I don’t even buy from la Redoute so why should I even consider the aforementioned? I am not breastfeeding children under 5, I do not live in the country, am not a member of the NCT, National trust or the Green Party, nor do I holiday at Landmark Trust or Centreparcs. I don’t drive a Volvo, make my own bread or have chickens in my garden…..I don’t want to look like a Land Girl and Mumsy is not an image I aspire to so why keep sending me the comic? I have never bought from them so should my age dictate that this is the season to start! Do they market by age or postcode, or have they bought my details from one of those infuriating on-line insurance price comparison websites? Compare the mere-mortals.com!

Do I look like I want to max out the recession in such depressing clothes? I know the sales of confectionary rockets during times of stress as we eat our way through the mediocrity and this inevitably takes its toll on our backside, wahey, we turn into a Sarah Brown look-alike overnight. Not for me the shapeless sacks and woven brown wool tights. Bring on the lycra mini dresses and shame my bikini belly into submission, it you’ve got it flaunt it and with a bit of luck it may go away, certainly don’t hide it under reams of lacklustre brown polyester because you can bet your bottom (and yes I do mean literally bottom) dollar it will still be there, present and correct, with interest, come the summer. Draped dresses are only ever good if they are from the Rick Owens and All Saints stable and even then they have to be sexed up with the addition of funky leggings, fabby boots and accessories to die for.

The summer collections are even more scary, not sure which fashion trend to back they, seem to have burst into colour and taken a pot shot at the lot, and, well why not try and incorporate them all into one garment. Statement prints, guaranteed to disguise the infant vomit on your shoulder, shapeless styling and crinkled linen all the better for that “comfy” look. In actuality I have never found linen a wearer friendly fabric, its drape has a mind of its own, and should only be made into men’s summer shirts; which is what it does best.

Cheerful they may be but cheap not, I find this exploitative element the hardest to stomach, it isn’t easy to do a quality shop with tiny infants and on-line is easier but this convenience comes at quite a price, especially when everyone at tumble Tots knows exactly the value of your clothing allowance. There is a range called a “fun dress” as un-entertaining as cleaning the u-bend and probably a lot less comfortable. Flicking through is like scanning an Early learning catalogue, the irony being in these troubled times where it appears normal to dress two year olds like pre-pubescent teenagers, ironically the mothers have to look like toddlers…….Patterned Wellies and flower printed cotton Macs, sensible flats and comfy cardies; functionality is the order of the day.

I don’t think so. I would really rather shave my eyeballs than contemplate that look

Vintage Versace

Inspired by my recent purchase of a Versace-alike printed retro 80s dress, I have delved deeper into my own massive archives and resurrected a genuine Versace purple Lycra mini dress from approx 1989. An original from when the Genius was in his heyday and I am wearing it as I write. I am amazed how "right" it feels, the colour is vibrant, the fit amazing and the simplicity obviously timeless.

The joy of resurrecting old clothes is a delight, it evokes the time it was bought and that period of my life, the fun Mafia Mistress and I had when we had small children and no work stress, life was so much less complicated and we had time to giggle, gossip, table-hop and shop together ; we often bought similar/ identical outfits, she also had/still has this dress, it was a signature iconic style for that time of our lives. You have to go with your first instincts, if it grabs you then buy, buy, buy..........Avoid the horrors of "occasion shopping" as described in my previous blog for MM's wedding outfit.

The ecstasy of still being able to get it on and the art of giving it a slightly different edge with a bit of imaginative styling and fabulous accessories. One of the only advantages of age is the accumulation of "stuff" one acquires, all of it indispensable and frequently ravaged by PFB to add a quirky look to occasions from a fashion awards ceremony to a romp on the common. Today I am rocking the look with a full length faux fur belted gilet and biker boots........

The "Recessionister-fix" that self satisfied reward of aiding our domestic economy by re-cycling; The personal cash benefit and smug private smile when complimented and knowledge that no one will ever be able to go out and replicate this look. Plus the reinforcement of knowing that if it looks OK now it can't have looked that bad then...........

'Enders

I am in shock, in the run up to the "who killed Archie" special they just showed an aerial view of Albert Square...........PURLEEESE.....it's round, yep a perfect Georgian circle. The MD said I had to Google Earth it just to confirm, but my i-phone couldnt locate it............

It has been gentrified beyond all necessity, no wonder the're literally killing for the "Vic", they will soon be discussing real estate values in the Kaf. Hardly surprising all these long lost Mum's are resurfacing .......

My wedding outfit

Just a week away from our departure to Mafia Mistress and the Champs wedding on a Caribbean shore, panic has set in regarding my outfit, There are only six of us but we like to be noticed even though this is probably going to be the most laid back marriage ceremony ever, Mystic Meg, has acquired an emerald green Frank Usher vintage gown which sounds very grand and she will carry it off with style and panache. The bride and groom went shopping and her dress gave her change out of twenty five notes but I cannot negate any opportunity to dress to impress; however, my directive has now changed.

She promised I could wear anything I wanted………..and a promise is a promise……SHE LIED.......now I have been told I cannot wear black. I have simple taste in clothes, my entire wardrobe is monochrome, I like it, it suits me, it is slimming and appropriate for any and every occasion….. Except apparently this union. I have worn black to the past three weddings I have attended, one in Cap Ferat, so very chic, and all Italians wear black to weddings so I thought Mafia Mistress would be cool about it. She wore black to her brother’s wedding, it is the staple of our wardrobes, how can she do this to me?

Ok, so I do vary it in the summer and have a fair few white outfits too, but I do know that is so not appropriate especially as the bride isn’t wearing white, God forbid, the marriage is in Spanish, the cast could get confused and I may end up married to the Champ instead…… horrors

I do have a lemon yellow parachute dress which hides a multitude of sins, but that’s a bit Little Miss Muffet. A purple bodycon mini may be a bit sticky in that humidity especially as it necessitates the wearing of Spanx and I doubt I could get them on in tropical temperatures. I moved my silk colour block shifts on via Ebay, at the end of last summer; so it’s off to the shops I have trotted to purchase the regulation outfit. I felt a bit like a schoolgirl buying a uniform; I had to suddenly tear myself away from all my instinctive styles and attempt to place myself in another category. I failed dismally, I couldn’t even bring myself to go into Coast, LK Bennet or Hobbs, and I am not married to footballer, who sends texts of his willy to topless models so Karen Millen is way out of the question. Cos frocks look too comfortable and Escada is a nada; I require sunglasses to even go into their showroom. Hennes is downright dull…………hyperventilation sets in and so off to Carluccio’s for an extra caffeine fix.

All Saints pulls me with a magnet-like attraction but that’s their signature monochrome raison d’etre and like the bag of Haribos I would die for, it is forbidden, I flirted with TopShop, French Connection and Zara, even though I am becoming more accustomed to the “nude” look, and after two weeks of Tropical sun I will have tan, I still have this mental image of looking like I am encrusted in Eczema, plussing as which it’s a bit bridal. I purchased a silver distressed satin deconstructed cowl neck dress but don’t have the confidence to remove the labels yet even thought the MD said I should keep it despite it being far too dull and formal for beach bar nuptials. I fear he thinks it may be the sort of thing he thinks I should think I should wear, well he is SO wrong.

So now it’s no nudes, frills, black or white, what is there left on the High Street, am I really expected to buck every current trend and resort to, horror of horrors, John Lewis!!!!!!

I do have to confess to a couple of little extras that have found their way into my wardrobe en route so to speak, so the exercise hasn’t been entirely without success and it did actually force me to look at colour, I am loving my pink chain printed Versace-alike lycra dress, and a tropical jungle printed skin tight vest dress will be great for breakfast but hardly wedding attire. She popped round to advise further and a ditsy printed top with bead embellishment and dipped hem has been sanctioned, over leggings, black of course, hurrah I have won!!!

Now which shoes do I wear?

Moss vs. Posh

This week sees the New York fashion Week launch of Victoria Beckhams latest couture collection which will undoubtedly be publicised globally; not because of its extraordinary originality but because of who she is. Posh’s frocks are affordable by the few and will therefore sell minimally, whereas Moss’s togs are worn by one and all at affordable prices, the collections are diverse and quirky. Everyone wanting to buy into her style.

Our two biggest style icons; they could not be more different, Posh the mistress of self promotion will be all over the glossies and tabloids pontificating, preening and posing, she will walk the walk (bunions permitting) and attempt to talk the talk trying to disguise her estuary vowels, she would be better advised to just shut up and show her frocks, we rarely hear the likes of Jil Sander banging on about her collection, the garments speak for themselves, but no, Posh wont be able to help herself in her vain attempt to be taken seriously, she luckily has her husband to bankroll her, unlike all the hugely talented young fashion designers who graduate every year and struggle to get any recognition despite their innate originality, training and sense of style.

Kate also fell into this role, similarly uneducated in the art of pattern cutting, textiles and costume history but she has an instinctive feel for style, she grabs the Zeitgeist before it hits the High Street and runs with her instincts, she is honest about her role as a collaborative designer to the Svenghali like “Uncle Phil”, similarly minted enough to bankrole her fantasies, he is also a business man with a strong commercial ethos and no fool. Her collections are based on an eclectic mix of vintage and vamp, punk to pop; some sell out and some stick but is she bothered? She’s already moved onto the next season, and, as anyone who has ever worked in the rag trade knows, we are already indifferent to current stock, we are anticipating S/S ‘11.

Fashion moves fast nowadays, technology allows catwalk to cut-price to happen virtually overnight, the success of ASOS is a testament to this. It’s not difficult to rustle up a couple of designs for Oscar Frocks with the click of a mouse and basic working knowledge of Photoshop, not that I imagine either Posh or Moss have these skills, but I am sure their people have. Their “Macs” come from Burberry………

When the Adams family venture out en-masse it is regimentally organised to the Nth degree, I know from first hand experience, their demands are not excessive but control is tantamount. The Paps are primed and every outing is a photo opportunity, the boys are small accessories by her side, the perfect family package, Photoshopped to perfection prior to publication. She has never seemed a popular girl, from her early days in the Spice Girls she was allegedly told not to smile, it was not an expression that suited her face, instead the pout became her forte and this has probably perpetuated the gawky image, whereas Kate cannot take a bad photo, even papped at an unearthly hour post clubbing and decidedly worse for wear she still has that ability to seduce the camera without even trying. Cocaine Kate can smile, scowl or ignore but she never looks bad. Decadence and debauchery suit her, the original “Heroin Chick” knows when to shut up, her flat Croydon vowels do not broadcast well either and the rare times we hear her it could dispel the myth. A few words in the Rimmel advert to epitomise the “London Look” could have blown her cover but she knows her literary limitations, she doesn’t interview well so she keeps her council. She is a popular, demonstrative and a loyal friend to a group of feisty females and there is no such thing as bad publicity for Kate. She seems a very caring mother and never prostitutes her daughter for her own ends.

Posh with her small housing estate’s worth of Birkin bags and Louboutins, earnestly needs these props to validate her WAG position, even when she “does casual”, it is orchestrated to the last eyelash and God forbid she should totter off her heels or lick her lip-gloss off, that is the behaviour of commoners, mere mortals and unthinkable. Moss on the other hand didn’t bat an eyelid when she tore her vintage Dior ball gown, she didn't let the rip spoil her fun. Instead, she simply rolled up the hem, disguised the hole as best she could and partied on till the early hours, Now that is the epitome of style, money can’t buy it, Posh puts clothes on and walks about in them, Moss wears them, there is a huge difference and if you don’t get it then sorry but you just haven’t got it either…………..

My type of bike

I can’t blame you for having drawn the conclusion that I am anti-cyclists, but I can reassure you that assumption is way off the mark, I love cycling but it has to be on my terms, OMG not for me that daily back and fro to work come hail or high weather, way too ageing on the skin and downright dangerous, all those motorists to negotiate, unpredictability of climate and limited space for shopping; I wouldn’t even get my basic handbag into my bike basket, and panniers; No No No, they hardly rock the high street look……and, as the M11 is motorway, I have an undisputable excuse. Plussing as which, I really don’t do helmet hair which would mean finding extra space for my hair straightners or alternatively wearing huge curlers under my cycle hat…..mmmmmmmm

No, I am a fair weather “Sunday cyclist”, high up on my ancient sit up and beg bike, I stick fairly and squarely to the cycle routes and cross country paths, it is purely recreational which means it has to be mild (preferably sunny but not too hot because then I will be sunbathing) definitely NOT raining, windy or cold. The MD and I venture out as much as possible on suitable evenings and weekends to exercise, chat and exorcise the treadmill from our brains.

We have almost immediate access to a cross-country lane which in turn leads to a part circumnavigation of the city by way of the river. This is a pleasant route but has to be avoided during boat race training time due to the velocity of the coaches as they tear up and down the riverside shouting at the eights; any collision and I would be the one to end up in the drink! Mosquitoes and dog walkers have to be taken into consideration too but it does have the advantage of fresh air but fairly dull scenery (these flat fenlands are quite frankly not my bag) and can be a little boring until we hit the city centre where there is plenty of people watching to be done in the quayside cafes and bars.

Route number two cuts across the city boundary and golden corn fields, and, is about to be developed on a massive scale, yes the city council deem it fair and reasonable to develop a huge tract of green belt but would never ever let us cut a tree down in our garden. This narrow track is bumpy and lumpy and has a literal knock on effect on my bum, I cycle in fear of toppling off into the brook on the right and the “stingers” on the left, so it has to be avoided when wet, the sunsets in this direction are spectacular and uninterrupted which is probably about the only good thing it has going for it……..

The third path of choice deviates across farmland and meanders through various villages to the West, it is more energetic, variable and probably my best favourite. I am sorry but I cannot even drive down the A10 in and easterly direction without hyperventilating and having a major panic attack. I actually hate the fens with a passion, not for me the twee North Norfolk weekend Clapham by the sea cottage, I would really rather be up to my neck in sinking sand sticking hot needles in my eyes. I suppose I could write another blog about the “types” who frequent this particular neck of the woods, but as I refuse to go, I don’t have the personal experience to draw on, suffice it to say I don’t have a dog, drive a Range Rover, wear a waxed jacket, have the remotest interest in hunting shooting or fishing and no matter how many times anyone tells me about the charming bijoux little boutiques in Burnham market, and gourmet food at the Hoste Arms……. I AM NOT GOING…… Christ, in half the time I could be in Kensington High Street having fun. I actually love concrete in any from and shape, but green leaves me cold….. My old school uniform, football pitches, cabbage, Escada, wheelie bins, need I elaborate?

Types on bikes III

Japanese students, yes we do seem to get a lot of them, principally here short term to improve their English but many of the academic variety too. Generally their first time out of Tokyo, the Harajuku gene kicks in as soon as they disembark, can anyone please explain to me why all Japanese teenage boys dye their hair blond on arrival, but our bleach only serves to transform their hardy Oriental pigment to a garish yellow tone, not a good look but a constant one nonetheless!!! The girls delight in the Gothic Lolita image, charming on home territory, but those frilly little frocks can easily get caught in the chain and lap dancing heels are much more suited to limousines. They are young and here to have fun.

They love hiring bikes, probably their first real taste of mobile independence, considered safe and condoned by parents, after all this is a small city compared to Tokyo and we do drive on the same side of the road …………..this means nothing, a cycle lane seems to be a single white line never to be traversed in case they cycle over a drain or hit the kerb, the middle of the road is order of the day and speed is kept to the bare minimum, just enough to remain at wobbling velocity, oh, and I nearly forgot, they cycle in packs, never less than 10 lined up side by side across both carriageways.

I-pods are permanent fixtures, over which volume they converse, always in Japanese, with hand gestures which would do an Apsara dancer proud. They wend their slow and precarious way through the city from one shopping mall to another. Natural born style icons this variety never fail to impress, not the types to sacrifice style for comfort or warmth, sensible and shoes do not belong in the same sentence, a lifestyle after my own heart; their dress is always totally inappropriate but eternally interesting and original, I actually really like type number III…………..

Types on bikes II

The second type tends to be more of a National or even Global phenomenon, but all the same are much more prevalent in our city. They have literally “graduated” from type number one by virtue of their own self perceived elevated status within the city’s academic hierarchy. En-route to his fledgling high tech company on one of our many science parks, he is a “man with a plan” to develop and exploit his chosen dissertation into a huge money making concern so he can sell up, ditch his dependable Claude Butler and sweep out of the city to an early retirement preferably driving a Lamborghini. He is in inevitably a man and most likely married to “type number one”.

However, in the meanwhile he has to demonstrate how Eco friendly he is, his invisible carbon footprint will promote his eminence as a “genuine and jolly good egg" caring, parsimonious and reliable. The fact that he risks life and limb to all and sundry on a daily basis, is irrelevant, he is right and the motorist is the evil demon to be taunted, tortured and tried to the limit. Luckily locals are alerted to their random approach on the inside, arbitrary appearance traversing our route and other erratic and unpredictable antics, we have to be, any mishap would be bound to be our fault

The Lycra lout, considers himself superior to anyone else on the road, be it motorists, other cyclists, pedestrians and especially “the Law”, red lights are targets to jump, congestion is a slalom competition, traffic free precincts are considered a chicane of Olympian proportions, all negotiated at record speeds, head down, back arched, peripheral vision obliterated; they are literally hell bent on the vicarious thrill of reaching their destination as the crow flies. They traverse, parks, playgrounds, gardens and even cycle through shops with not a second thought to the sanity of their actions.

Their attire is invariably uniform, regulation black cycling leggings (padded bum all the easier to tolerate those vile slither thin saddles), reminiscent of the Max Wall look (style icons they are NOT), navy nylon wind jammer with fluorescent diagonal band, attached to which is a blinding strobe torch light illuminated at all times of the day and night, unicorn-like streamlined cycling helmet, goggles and state of the art racing bike. His rucksack will contain his work attire, probably bought on-line from Black’s or Millet's sale, packed lunch of the thick brown bread variety (made by Ms/Dr type 1) and his unfortunate colleagues will have to put up with the skanky sweaty aroma, wafting from his rancid rucksack, week in and week out……..…mmmmmmmmm…………..nice!!!

To the shops…….

MD has been on a petrol head jolly to Bavaria so, taking advantage of his absence I drove to downtown Cl’aaam for a catch up with PFB and Son#1. Supermarket; check, Cava, check… Abracadabra Chicken Fajitas by special request, check. I-phone duly charged up with free applications and appropriate listening, job done and am booted and suited and ready to roll. We departed after respective booty camp (PFB) and lie-in (me), courtesy of my i-phone and in head sat nav, sheer brilliance, straight there no diversions, excursions or perversions.

Wow shopping mall extraordinaire; love it, having been unable to shop til I dropped for a fair few months due to horrid knee injury this was my dream ticket. So many non high street new names as well as some I remember from trips abroad. This truly knocks the Grand Arcade into a cocked hat….PFB of course knows it like the back of her hand, having been involved in her professional capacity in the opening of one of the stores.

Prada lured me with magnet like attraction, I had a needing to replace my long lost make-up bag which now resides at the bottom of the Mekong delta, but even the skull adorned one did not meet with my precise criteria. The shoulder encrusted studded dress in Reiss was only available to those of a size zero, Zara is full of those vile nude coloured lace bodies which make the Pallid English completion look like one is covered in sceriosis, another HUGE no no. I was really beginning to panic, hyperventilation was setting in, I had shopped for 45 minutes and not bought a single item.

Then we chanced upon an amazing Polish cosmetics store called INGLOT, a bit of a Mac-alike image but an enormous array of colours; over 200 shades of lippies and varnishes, I was sorely tempted to abandon my tried and trusted regulars, but settled for iridescent lip-gloss for my hols and PFB (minimist little style icon that she is) bought her very first lipstick!!! They had false eyelashes dusty Springfield would have been proud of, and glam rock glitters to do Adam Ant proud.

Top shop has lost the plot, Wallis looks like Littlewoods, Laura Ashley still in the 80s time warp and Gap downright dull. PFB secured much wanted over knee suede boots from Marta Jonsson at billy bargain price and finally I found fringed studded jacket, skirt and bag to go………..there is always the possibility they may just lurk in my wardrobe for a week or so then make their way back for refund but chances are I will run with my first instinct and enjoy wearing them until they find their way onto Ebay. My magpie gene is loving all the embellished and studded look, totally inappropriate for someone my age but I bought it all the same, as Fallen Angel’s five year old grand daughter replied when asked if Granny looked old “no just very grown up” well I guess that’s the look I want, to grow old Disgracefully and settle up…….. Never down. I did venture into one store which looked like the sort of shop I should be interested in but …well…it really isn’t my style

Types on bikes

Types on bikes

Sorry to bang on about this again but it really is my bête noir. The academic types who insist on transporting entire families of up to 4 children on one bicycle. Every morning I pass a bearded, middle aged (well she’s probably only about 28) typical muesli belt, thick brown corduroy, thick brown bread off thick brown plates “type”, need I say any more; you got the picture? They are on the way to nursery, far too many kids for one person to actually bring up herself; after all she has a World to save.

Child number one is on a perch directly in front probably still attached to her breast; child number two has one of those unsteady swaying one wheel bike extension thingys that invariably lists at a 45 degree angle from the perpendicular, resulting in the aforementioned child’s long uncombed hair sweeping the gutter. This child is usually still asleep (well he’s been up all night practising his cello, reading Plato and debating the theory of evolution). Finally the tiny twinnies are encased in a rear contraption that I can only say resembles a wheelie bin. This fragile box on wheels is covered over in torn clear plastic and the sheer look of terror is visible in the toddles eyes as their mother veers round corners at an alarming speed.

The final accessories are a 3 foot pole with a red flag on top which ricochets in the wind and to complete the ensemble a horizontal flagpole starboard side just to really piss off motorists

This fugly family wend their way across the city come fair weather or fowl and it’s been pretty fowl of late. The androdygnous parent really believes they have the right of way and prerogative to cut in front of any traffic at the drop of a hat, hand signals what are they? They seem oblivious to the precious cargo to the rear and the resulting whip lash effect; quantum physics is no doubt their chosen speciality but the possibility of a jack knife scenario does not seem to enter the equation.

It’s an accident waiting to happen, but when it inevitably does, it certainly won’t be her fault

i-phone i-own

OK so you regular Twitterers probably already know, but for the uninformed amongst you…da da....I now have an i-phone. I have never had an i-pod but believe there is one inside, if only I could get it open, but I have moved into the 21st century; a bit of a learning curve as I am not yet the most adept user but neither am I a complete technophobe, I am seriously wrestling with the terminology of the manual and attaching it to my laptop and home wi-fi but when it works........ WOW it’s fabulous but, leaving home it really does seem to loose the plot. I have to go for a lesson but in the meanwhile I have managed to log onto my eBay site and my Twitter account, Google earth our house, send the odd email, with increasing dexterity and even diarise some forthcoming events.

PFB talked me through the installation of my SIM card by means of the tiny paper clip shaped a tool and I assumed that it would be ready to roll. How wrong I was........I can pretty much work my way round Nokia applications with my eyes closed but OMG this is another kettle of fish altogether, PFB had assured me step by step guidance but I had not anticipated my every move would be twittered globally, along the lines of "How big is yours? Mine is a 32 gigerbugger or whatever it's called..." She was in hysterics; OK I know not the specifications nor applications but I will learn and was happy to be able to re-tweet that I had actually managed to install all my contacts in one go whereas she, little clever clogs, had had to enter them individually, I lurve the way the little icons wobble and can be moved around to suit but panicked when they shot off the page and had to be rounded up like naughty sheep that had escaped from the fold. They are now back where they belong and have some new brothers and sisters too. "Safari"????? now how was I supposed to know that is "apple-speak" for the Internet?

I so love the cheeky wink when you slide it on, the little slurp as it sucks the text out, the ping of a new message, the static click of each letter and especially that amazing pinching facility to make the pages expand and contract, so wish i could do that to my waistline.

There seems to be no end to its talents, I will never not know the way home, forget a date, not know a tune or the time and temperature in Milan, Munich and Holguin, it has capabilities I never knew existed, and think it must be a bit like having a wife, I can't wait to get home sit down and have it prepare my supper for me, clean the loo and do the ironing.........