I've just returned from having my Viking throw back eyebrows waxed at a beauty parlour on the outskirts of Middletown. Again the results are unsatisfactory: despite my clear request for ruthlessness, my white blond and, let it be said, ginger caterpillars look like they've been nibbled by a very polite gerbil and here I am once again, tweezers and magnifying mirror in hand, doing what I've just paid the equivalent of £84 ($168) an hour not to have to do. In the Vietnamese-run Walmart franchise in Houston, I enjoyed a merciless pruning for just $5.00 plus $3.00 tip and didn't have to repeat the experience for at least 8 weeks, despite the growth promoting effects of extreme humidity. Nor did I have to give an account about what I did/will do at the weekend - an exercise I'd hoped to leave behind in primary school. So I've got my pink and furry eyes out for a new venue and my requirements are few: it doesn't have to be posh, you can cut the tosh, just know how to quash and charge less dosh! Any recommendations?
Wednesday 27 August 2008
Eye-watering
I've just returned from having my Viking throw back eyebrows waxed at a beauty parlour on the outskirts of Middletown. Again the results are unsatisfactory: despite my clear request for ruthlessness, my white blond and, let it be said, ginger caterpillars look like they've been nibbled by a very polite gerbil and here I am once again, tweezers and magnifying mirror in hand, doing what I've just paid the equivalent of £84 ($168) an hour not to have to do. In the Vietnamese-run Walmart franchise in Houston, I enjoyed a merciless pruning for just $5.00 plus $3.00 tip and didn't have to repeat the experience for at least 8 weeks, despite the growth promoting effects of extreme humidity. Nor did I have to give an account about what I did/will do at the weekend - an exercise I'd hoped to leave behind in primary school. So I've got my pink and furry eyes out for a new venue and my requirements are few: it doesn't have to be posh, you can cut the tosh, just know how to quash and charge less dosh! Any recommendations?
Monday 25 August 2008
Moleman and Dobbin
Last weekend Daughter Number 3 and Boyfriend called in on their way back from The Green Man Festival in Wales - mountains, mud and some music. The next day I invited my cousins over for a family tea. In the kitchen, adorning some shop-bought goodies (
M&S, not Aldi on this occasion) with home-made garnish, I was somewhat taken aback to hear my Cousin's Husband greet Boyfriend Number 3 with the immortal words, "By Jove, you look just like [our] Mole Man!!". I should explain that my cousins are the proud owners of a beautiful park-like garden on which they spend a lot of time, energy and money, not least in the area of (destructive) wildlife eradication - no rabbit, squirrel, fox, mole or magpie shall be allowed to pollute the shades of Dorr
idge, not on their watch anyway. To his credit, BF 3 took the unverifiable (my cousin not wishing to be drawn on the point) comparison on the chin and we all adjourned to the tea table on which I had laid the proverbial magnificent spread.
One bite of the of the home-filled, shop-bought pastry cased quiche confirmed my belated suspicion that the crust was intended for a strawberry, and not a mushroom, flan. No-one said anything (least of all moi) and my Cousin's Husband had 2 pieces, not counting the one which BF 3, possibly still bearing just the slightest grudge over the Moleman episode, flipped business side down on the tablecloth. Then, obviously feeling he had not made his antipathy sufficiently clear, he up-ended his wine glass and baptised both the tuna fish mousse and my Cousin's Husband with special offer Sauvignon Blanc. "What's in the vol o vents?" enquired Daughter Number 3 in a thinly veiled attempt to turn attention away from her hapless consort. "Oh, nothing to worry about", I blithely assured her, beaming at Buddhist, vegetarian BF3, "I bought, I mean made, them especially!" Two minutes later, I was being severely taken to task by my youngest child on account of the bacon bits discovered in said French delicacies while BF3 discreetly, and only very slightly reproachfully, disposed of his most recent mouthful in his napkin. Humble pie, anyone?
Who could fail to warm to dear, sweet Boris Johnson as he made his extensively pre-publicised but nevertheless fascinating ancestral discoveries on "Who Do You Think You Are?" (BBC1 Wednesday 9pm). Not me certainly. I even found myself fancying a bit of the old fossicking around with such a funny, cuddly, erudite and well-connected polar bear - Cripes!!
M&S, not Aldi on this occasion) with home-made garnish, I was somewhat taken aback to hear my Cousin's Husband greet Boyfriend Number 3 with the immortal words, "By Jove, you look just like [our] Mole Man!!". I should explain that my cousins are the proud owners of a beautiful park-like garden on which they spend a lot of time, energy and money, not least in the area of (destructive) wildlife eradication - no rabbit, squirrel, fox, mole or magpie shall be allowed to pollute the shades of Dorr
idge, not on their watch anyway. To his credit, BF 3 took the unverifiable (my cousin not wishing to be drawn on the point) comparison on the chin and we all adjourned to the tea table on which I had laid the proverbial magnificent spread.One bite of the of the home-filled, shop-bought pastry cased quiche confirmed my belated suspicion that the crust was intended for a strawberry, and not a mushroom, flan. No-one said anything (least of all moi) and my Cousin's Husband had 2 pieces, not counting the one which BF 3, possibly still bearing just the slightest grudge over the Moleman episode, flipped business side down on the tablecloth. Then, obviously feeling he had not made his antipathy sufficiently clear, he up-ended his wine glass and baptised both the tuna fish mousse and my Cousin's Husband with special offer Sauvignon Blanc. "What's in the vol o vents?" enquired Daughter Number 3 in a thinly veiled attempt to turn attention away from her hapless consort. "Oh, nothing to worry about", I blithely assured her, beaming at Buddhist, vegetarian BF3, "I bought, I mean made, them especially!" Two minutes later, I was being severely taken to task by my youngest child on account of the bacon bits discovered in said French delicacies while BF3 discreetly, and only very slightly reproachfully, disposed of his most recent mouthful in his napkin. Humble pie, anyone?
Who could fail to warm to dear, sweet Boris Johnson as he made his extensively pre-publicised but nevertheless fascinating ancestral discoveries on "Who Do You Think You Are?" (BBC1 Wednesday 9pm). Not me certainly. I even found myself fancying a bit of the old fossicking around with such a funny, cuddly, erudite and well-connected polar bear - Cripes!!
Saturday 9 August 2008
Aldi Gone
I popped into my favourite "low rent" food store yesterday afternoon but the locusts had been there befo
re me. No 68p fruit and veg specials, no granary bread and, more significantly, no smoked salmon or cream cheese stuffed olives either. Ever since the Media woke up to the "Credit Crunch" (whose bite has been pretty toothless so far, although the incisors are getting sharper by the day) there have been incessant articles and features, notably in the broadsheets, about how to survive an economic downturn without lowering your standard of living and Lo! firms such as Netto, Lidl and especially my beloved Aldi are suddenly flavour of the month (although one columnist, who had obviously not taken her own advice, only recommended the latter for the bulk purchase of tea bags and loo rolls). Now I am no Joanie (or Sloanie) Come Lately at Aldi having been an aficionado since 1997 (and of Primark several years before that)and I resent the invasion of the Chelsea Tractor crew who had too much dosh and not enough nouse to shop there in the years building up to the Credit Crescendo. So, hands off the Plebs' pate and the Proles' prawns - and our loo rolls too, come to that!
re me. No 68p fruit and veg specials, no granary bread and, more significantly, no smoked salmon or cream cheese stuffed olives either. Ever since the Media woke up to the "Credit Crunch" (whose bite has been pretty toothless so far, although the incisors are getting sharper by the day) there have been incessant articles and features, notably in the broadsheets, about how to survive an economic downturn without lowering your standard of living and Lo! firms such as Netto, Lidl and especially my beloved Aldi are suddenly flavour of the month (although one columnist, who had obviously not taken her own advice, only recommended the latter for the bulk purchase of tea bags and loo rolls). Now I am no Joanie (or Sloanie) Come Lately at Aldi having been an aficionado since 1997 (and of Primark several years before that)and I resent the invasion of the Chelsea Tractor crew who had too much dosh and not enough nouse to shop there in the years building up to the Credit Crescendo. So, hands off the Plebs' pate and the Proles' prawns - and our loo rolls too, come to that! Thursday 7 August 2008
Dumb and Dumber
I know we're in the middle of the "Silly Season" as far as the Media are concerned but, connoisseur of any time telly as I am, it seems to me that any time is silly time these days. At no point was this more apparent than during BBC Breakfast TV last Thursday morning. Squawking in the background of our Travel Lodge bedroom as Brian and I donned our finery in preparation for Daughter No 3's graduation, we soon became aware that the same Top Tips for a variety of life events were being regurgitated approximately every 15 minutes. These were:
Top Tips for what to do if you come across a turtle stranded on one of Britain's bleaker beaches (on no account allow it back into the water).
Top Tips for what to do when bitten by an adder (sorry - must have been in the bathroom or using the hairdryer but feel quite safe in Twitcher's Turning backyard)
Top tips for minimising our rapidly escalating energy bills. This item was particularly and hilariously irritating as a scarily hyperactive presenter burst into various rooms in "your average 3 bedroom home" and in turn admonished innocently computer game- playing teens and kettle- boiling grannies to switch off, turn down, or invest in a low energy model - advice he would have been better off applying to himself.
And this from the BBC no less, which, like all broadcasters, seems to have espoused the National Curriculum dictat of manageable blocks of "sound bite" teaching, repeated ad nauseam for the duration of the programme/lesson. Last night I watched, and listened with mounting incredulity to "Dangerous Jobs for Girls" (Channel 4, 10 pm) the premise of which was the introduction of 3 high-achieving British Career girls to a logging camp in the wilds of NW Canada where they would be "trained and tested" over a 2 week period to see if they were good enough to fall (sic) a tree; a process, which, for a mere man, normally takes several months. Poor little Tracy, in a high-up but ill-defined position in business, was a no hoper from the get-go, PhD (Gender Studies) student Helen offered the most promising temperament and physique while Army captain, Anna, understood not the slighte
st thing about female emancipation and richly deserved the kick up her pert little backside which most of the non-plussed loggers were practically queueing up to administer. The very worst thing about this ill-conceived and patently fraudulent project, however, was not the token females but the voice-over by Matthew McFadyn: infuriating repetition was a given but the lugubrious gravitas with which he intoned his fatuous commentary would have knocked the late Richard Dimbleby's discourse on a state funeral into a cocked hat.
When did Britain get to be so dumb? About the same time universities started awarding "Certificates of Post - 16 Compulsory Education" to capped and gowned recipients at degree giving ceremonies. I was prepared to swallow my indignation (on behalf of those students, and their parents, who had studied, worked and paid their way through 3 or 4 years to achieve an honours degree) until, only minutes after receiving her degree and before her lips had even touched the "complimentary" glass of champagne, the gown was almost torn from our daughter's back by a stressed out hiring agent who complained, quite rightly, that such was the vastly increased volume of today's "graduates", he hadn't been allocated enough time to prepare for the afternoon session. One of the enduring memories of my brief career as a secondary school "Cover Supervisor" (one of the Government's more mendacious euphemisms) is the flabbergasting (ancient Brit. slang for "gobsmacking") egocentricity of a frightening number of our schoolchildren, most of whom labour under the illusion (apparently created by their parents and perpetuated by the Government's insistence on "equality and inclusivity") that they are all Super Stars deserving of the greatest indulgence and respect whilst showing none and, tragically, learning next to nothing because, like Clever Clogs Captain Anna, they think they already know it all - at 11 years of age. Was ever a Minister for Education more aptly named?
Top Tips for what to do if you come across a turtle stranded on one of Britain's bleaker beaches (on no account allow it back into the water).
Top Tips for what to do when bitten by an adder (sorry - must have been in the bathroom or using the hairdryer but feel quite safe in Twitcher's Turning backyard)
Top tips for minimising our rapidly escalating energy bills. This item was particularly and hilariously irritating as a scarily hyperactive presenter burst into various rooms in "your average 3 bedroom home" and in turn admonished innocently computer game- playing teens and kettle- boiling grannies to switch off, turn down, or invest in a low energy model - advice he would have been better off applying to himself.
And this from the BBC no less, which, like all broadcasters, seems to have espoused the National Curriculum dictat of manageable blocks of "sound bite" teaching, repeated ad nauseam for the duration of the programme/lesson. Last night I watched, and listened with mounting incredulity to "Dangerous Jobs for Girls" (Channel 4, 10 pm) the premise of which was the introduction of 3 high-achieving British Career girls to a logging camp in the wilds of NW Canada where they would be "trained and tested" over a 2 week period to see if they were good enough to fall (sic) a tree; a process, which, for a mere man, normally takes several months. Poor little Tracy, in a high-up but ill-defined position in business, was a no hoper from the get-go, PhD (Gender Studies) student Helen offered the most promising temperament and physique while Army captain, Anna, understood not the slighte
st thing about female emancipation and richly deserved the kick up her pert little backside which most of the non-plussed loggers were practically queueing up to administer. The very worst thing about this ill-conceived and patently fraudulent project, however, was not the token females but the voice-over by Matthew McFadyn: infuriating repetition was a given but the lugubrious gravitas with which he intoned his fatuous commentary would have knocked the late Richard Dimbleby's discourse on a state funeral into a cocked hat.
When did Britain get to be so dumb? About the same time universities started awarding "Certificates of Post - 16 Compulsory Education" to capped and gowned recipients at degree giving ceremonies. I was prepared to swallow my indignation (on behalf of those students, and their parents, who had studied, worked and paid their way through 3 or 4 years to achieve an honours degree) until, only minutes after receiving her degree and before her lips had even touched the "complimentary" glass of champagne, the gown was almost torn from our daughter's back by a stressed out hiring agent who complained, quite rightly, that such was the vastly increased volume of today's "graduates", he hadn't been allocated enough time to prepare for the afternoon session. One of the enduring memories of my brief career as a secondary school "Cover Supervisor" (one of the Government's more mendacious euphemisms) is the flabbergasting (ancient Brit. slang for "gobsmacking") egocentricity of a frightening number of our schoolchildren, most of whom labour under the illusion (apparently created by their parents and perpetuated by the Government's insistence on "equality and inclusivity") that they are all Super Stars deserving of the greatest indulgence and respect whilst showing none and, tragically, learning next to nothing because, like Clever Clogs Captain Anna, they think they already know it all - at 11 years of age. Was ever a Minister for Education more aptly named?
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