With all good wishes.

I’ve read several mealy-mouthed columns in the papers this year decrying the abomination that is electronic Christmas cards. I'm not sure why society automatically assumes an idea someone had 150 years ago = good but an idea someone had 5 years ago = bad, and how we convey festive greetings is no exception.

One friend I worked with a decade ago sent me an e-mail to say Merry Christmas, because she’s just moved house and can’t be doing with yet another stratum of clutter. This led to an exchange of five or six long messages, during which I found out loads about how she and her family were doing, shared our news and a few photos, gossiped about old times and talked her through what it means that one of her kids has been out on the SEN register at school. I have nothing to put on the mantelpiece, but I feel 10 times closer to her than I did at the start of December.

By contrast I've received any number of “physical” cards which contain nothing but a set of names, possibly with a “best wishes” if you’re lucky, or “we must meet up in the new year” even though both parties have been saying that since 2002. What's the point? To assure people you used to know that you're not dead?

Even worse are the impersonal cards where the scribe doesn't even bother to write your name apart from on the envelope. These annoy me so much I'm tempted to put them straight in the recycling bin. If you can't be bothered to write my name, do you really care whether I have a happy Christmas or not?

I’m tempted to cull the list next year. My best friend from Suffolk, the midwife who delivered me, ancient aunts - yes, they can gladly have a handwritten card, complete with letter. People to whom I've never anything to say, I shall cut, and those who fall somewhere in the middle - the Christmas ecard awaits you in 2014!

Festive

Christmas is for children, goes the rhetoric. Well - they’re half right. The only time of year I miss teaching is December, after several years in a CofE primary school. Actively encouraged to make a big fuss, my £5.99 artificial tree would go up for the first of the month without fail. Handing out Christmas cards could be stretched out to 20 minutes when we should have been doing something boring like science, and the last few days would be entirely taken up with watching the Infant Nativity; suffering through the compulsory school Christmas dinner (as teacher, you’re guaranteed to get stuck next to the kid nobody else will sit by because he spits when he talks); colouring in Santa pictures; a paper snowflake production line to rival the slickest Beijing factory; and the occasional word-search to remind the kids what the alphabet looks like. (Before anyone writes in, how much work do you think gets done in the average office on Christmas Eve, huh?)

It is often said that you lose the excitement of Christmas as an adult. This is because adults’ presents are so very dull. No-one ever woke up early for a melon baller and a velour dressing gown. If I thought there was the chance of finding 50 felt-tips, a Terry’s Chocolate Orange and a Care Bear shoved into a pillowcase at the end of the bed, I'd probably still wake up at 4am!

Of course, learning the horrid truth about Father Christmas is a nasty shock that makes you question everything, from the existence of the Tooth Fairy to whether Mr Fluffy really did go to live on a special hamster farm in the country.

If you want to enjoy Christmas as much as you did when you were a kid, just do the same things. Go for a bike ride in the morning; munch your way through a Cadbury’s Selection Box; watch Mary Poppins, and weep piteously because you think your sister got more presents than you.

Merry Christmas!



(The picture below is me c. 1984. Check that out for a Christmas jumper.)

Why can't people just say what they mean?

Over the last few years I have become a great fan of honesty. I’m not advocating tactlessness, and certainly not the “I speak as I find” attitude stereotypical of middle-aged Yorkshiremen, who having made their pronouncement then go on to be as disagreeable as possible.

I know many people who would rather set fire to their eyebrows than tell you what they actually want, and it drives me mad. Even when a simple question such as “Where do you want to walk?” requires me to decode the given response to try to work out what they’re really angling for. It would save an awful lot of time and energy if they just gave me the information I had asked for. Because that's all it is: an exchange of information. I am not going to feel personally rejected if I say “Do you fancy pizza tonight?” and get the response “Not really.”

Discussing this with a similarly direct friend last week, we both find ourselves accused of being “selfish” or “difficult” because we actually say what we want. I would argue that we’re actually being considerably less selfish than the mealy-mouthed sorts. Someone asks us a question; we respond honestly; everyone knows where they stand. The only reason to skirt the truth is because you don’t want to risk someone disliking your answer. Ergo, you expect us all to spend hours second-guessing you, trying to work out what would really make you happy. That sounds quite “difficult” to me - and not a little manipulative.

Of course I don't always want to give a truthful answer, but it is invariably better to gird your loins and say it than spend ages hunting round for an excuse. A year ago someone wanted me to apply for a different job. I knew I didn't want it straight away, because it was a lot more work for only a little more money. Instead I fretted for three weeks then made this pathetic flurry of excuses citing “commitment to my current project” and other flimsy stuff. Looking back, why didn’t I just say “You’re not paying enough”? It would have saved the employer a lot of time, and possibly helped them to understand why they were struggling to recruit.

We are raised not to disappoint people, and I would tentatively postulate girls even more so, but come on... Try a bit of honesty with your coffee. You might find it quite liberating.

Anyone for a bizarre non-sequitur? Anyone?

How to drive home from York (estimated journey time - 2hrs 30)

2.15: Leave hotel car park expecting to get home in time for Come Dine With Me.

2.15 and 30 seconds: Notice terrible judder. Flat tyre? Surely not, they're only a month old. Pull over. Flat tyre. Car has no form of spare wheel, merely an out-of-date tyre inflation kit.

2.16: Ring recovery service. We are told a low loader will be summoned to recover the car, and they’ll either send a taxi or a hire car for us to get home.

2.45: Receive cryptic phone call from "Mandy" advising that our motorcycle will be picked up and taken to Harrogate shortly. Appraise "Mandy" of actual situation.

2.45 - 4.15: Wait in car with increasing boredom and frustration. Receive various calls from "Mandy" checking such things as which pubs we are near, exact postcode of location, Grandfather's middle name etc.

4.15: Tow truck arrives. Ring "Mandy" to check when hire car might arrive. “Mandy” has gone off shift and her replacement knows nothing about it. Explain story for twelfth time. Retire to coffee shop. Check train times on mobile just in case.

5.30: With blessed relief drive away in hire car; perfect timing to enjoy all the traffic jams that rush-hour York has to offer.

8.15: House hoves into view. Jovially say to husband "I hope you've got the keys!" Observe him blanch and swear loudly as he remembers they are still in the glovebox.

8.20: Confirm that which you already knew, i.e. that the only neighbour with a spare door key is out for the evening. Beat head against nearest wall. Scribble her a note, in eyeliner, on back of a tourist map of York.

8:40: Retire in some despair to pub, which is thank God still serving food, and drink heavily while engaging neighbours in conversation.

10.15: Key-owning neighbour rings mobile. Meet on road, swap house keys. Greet overjoyed dog. Vow never to leave house again.

How to... Visit a stately home

First things first - ensure the property is open before you visit. When I was a kid, nine of us drove 50 miles across Lincolnshire in two cars, only to find Belton House was closed on Mondays. It didn’t dilute my enthusiasm - to me, visiting a stately home is THE best way to spend a Sunday.

If your chosen property belongs to the National Trust or English Heritage, you’d better have a very convincing answer ready for why you don't want to become a member. The little old ladies in the gift shop may look sweet, but they are all ex-KGB and will sniff out any hint of weakness. Before you know it you’re signing Direct Debit paperwork and being given a free travel rug with water-resistant backing. Prepare your response before you go in. I answer with a blunt “No, I really don’t,” with a disarming smile, but you may wish to be less direct.

Guided tours are the work of the Devil. For every interesting tour guide there are five retired teachers who miss doing Assembly and will bore you rigid with tales of which portrait married which, when all you really want to do is admire some marquetry or gaze in rapture at an exquisite piece of cornicing. It’s even worse if the group is small - once there was just the two of us, meaning we spent the entire hour nodding and making encouraging interjections of Hmm, Fascinating and Really?

Room guides are better, but with an average age of 92, sometimes they sit so quietly that you start to worry they have died. (They tend to revive quickly when another volunteer approaches with a cup of tea and a pink wafer biscuit.)

Houses still in private ownership always have lots of contemporary photographs on display. Owing to centuries of inbreeding aristocrats are rarely photogenic and often startlingly ugly, but it is bad form to leap backwards with a cry of “What is THAT?”, especially if “that” turns out to be the 33rd Baroness Pendlebury.

Uncoordinated

Much to my husband's horror, I am resolutely devoted to Strictly Come Dancing. Well, I say devoted - I don't watch the weekday catch ups, or in fact the Sunday results show, but for two hours on a Saturday evening he knows I am not to be interrupted unless there is blood (or a Chinese takeaway).

I would love to be a good singer. I would love to be a good dancer. Sadly, I am neither. I am a fairly gangly person and my limbs take on the jerky and unpredictable quality of an octopus being attacked by an electric eel. One is rarely called upon to sing in public, but dancing is harder to avoid. "Dad dancing" is endearing in a middle aged man, tragic in a 36 year old woman.

Speaking of middle aged men, Dave Myers - one of the Hairy Bikers - is this year's comedy turn on Strictly. To my embarrassment, the closest thing I've ever seen to my own attempts at dancing was his "Moves like Jagger" tour de force in week 1. (Past a certain level of inebriation I stop caring I am crap, and Go For It in a manner that has ruined several weddings.)

Next weekend two friends are having a joint birthday party. Watch out Village Hall, me and my pelvic thrusts are coming to get you!

How to... Be a student

This autumn marks my tipping point: I’ll have lived up here as long as I lived in Suffolk, thanks to the august institution that is Leicester University. In 1995 tuition fees were but a gleam in the devil’s eye, and one could still go to Uni as a way of delaying getting a job for three years.

I am perturbed that finances are encouraging more kids to study from home. This Completely Misses The Point: you won’t get the chance to reinvent yourself, subsist on instant noodles and watch Quincy every afternoon for three years in your childhood bedroom. A degree’s not just about the difference in your pay cheque, whatever the bloody Daily Mail says. "One of the purposes... is to make the inside of your head a more interesting place to live for the rest of your life." (Scott Brophy, Professor of Philosophy, Hobart.)

Catered or self-catering? Catered halls tend to offer the best social life, but it depends whether you think eating school dinners for a year is worth it. Regardless of where you choose, it will rapidly become a rank cesspit of filth. The French exchange students erected a banner in our kitchen that said “Welcome to the porks house!” in protest against an overflowing bin that none of us were inclined to deal with. (Warning: attempts to impose any sort of cleaning rota will mark you out as a killjoy and ruin your social standing. You’re young, your immune system can handle it. And for the rest of your life, you will appreciate getting into a shower that doesn't have other people's plasters clogging up the drains.)

An earnest theology student recently told me she studied for 60 hours a week. Ludicrous. 20 hours should more than cover it, especially for arts subjects. My highest mark in my finals was for a book I hadn't even read, just regurgitated my lecture notes in the exam.

Finally: There is no other time in your life where you will consider 1:30am an early night... or 9.30am an early start. Enjoy it!

What a load of Rankers

The suggestion that 11 year olds should be compared against each other, with parents informed exactly which 10% band their kid falls into, makes me feel physically sick. It's both cruel and illogical. Imagine how you would feel if the government announced that adults were going to be lined up and assessed as to their attractiveness in swimwear: this is what ranking 11 year olds amounts to. Worse, in fact, because as yet nobody has invented the academic equivalent of “going to the gym”.

The very way it has been reported by the media - probably taken straight from a Whitehall press release - begets a total lack of understanding of education. No test measures pure “ability”. We all know the average girl who worked her socks off and got 3 Bs at A-level, and the hyper-intelligent but disaffected youth who spent most of his time bunking off or smoking and got Ds and Es.

In education, the discrete level a child reaches is called attainment, and is affected by any number of socioeconomic factors as well as baseline aptitude, not a whit of which is within their control. The children at the bottom of the class are invariably the kids for whom learning to spell Mesopotamia comes a poor second to the sheer struggle of staying fed, clean, and not knocked about by their latest “uncle” - does the government think these families are even going to open the results letter, let alone think “Shit - I'd better start listening to her read?” Does the government think these poor little scraps don’t already know they're at the bottom of the pile, or would be anything other than totally demoralised by knowing that almost everyone is “cleverer” than them?

The government presents this retrograde and reprehensible step as a means of “raising standards”. I would suggest their own intelligence is in question if they don’t understand that even if all 11 year olds were achieving to GCSE level, if you rank them into percentiles someone will come last.

It is time to stop seeing intelligence as some sort of moral virtue, any more than we have control over the colour of our eyes. As Eeyore said, “We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.” With 900,000 kids NEET, my suspicion is that the government - having first tried to blame immigrants, and families on welfare selfishly renting a council house that has a box room - are now trying to blame our children for their monumental policy cock-ups. Doesn't bloody matter how well they do if there aren’t any jobs for them to go to, does it, Dave?

Saltburn Pier

Moors Explorer

Yesterday we went on the North Yorkshire Moors Railway. It was not a stress-free experience, although for once Molly behaved absolutely impeccably.

Tooth-grinding first occurred in Whitby station car park, which aside from costing an eye watering £8 for the day, required you to input your entire car registration number. This demand, combined with a very small QWERTY keyboard at hip height, didn't suit the railway's typical customer, a 76 year old struggling to see in their Variofocals. I stood in mute agony for a full 10 minutes waiting for my turn.

The first 20 minutes of the journey was brilliant, then a large, garrulous Greek-Cockney family sat down opposite and by us, and the old-school magic was somewhat lost as father and son loudly debated the cost of CNC milling machines. These were replaced at Goathland by a younger family, and here the fun really began. The parents, clad in that Gore-texy kind of stuff that wicks away moisture at such a rate you can easily dehydrate, didn't speak to each other once. Dad concentrated on getting Quavers into his 3 year old, like a council worker feeding Christmas trees into a chipper, while a baby grizzled away on Mum's lap. I know babies whinge, but it's the most irritating sound when you're not a parent yourself. I flung myself and Molly out of the train like a champagne cork when we finally got there.

Of Pickering I will say little, except that it is quite a challenge to while away 2 hours there in the rain. The churchyard was full of Suzys, which freaked me out, and the High Street full of snarling aggressive dogs which had a similar effect on poor Molly.

The return journey was 6-seater carriages, making choice of neighbour even more important. The people we ended up with sucked in their breath over their teeth when we asked if they were dog-friendly, before relenting when they saw how small she was. They were okay, but the man in particular was not backward in coming forwards with his opinion on dogs in general, and I was relieved that Molly fell daintily asleep on my lap for the entirety of the journey. She took revenge on behalf of canine-kind by stealthily farting throughout.

Well behaved pets welcome

We have brought Molly on holiday! She has had a tremendous time, romping on the beach, playing in the sea, meeting lots of other dogs...

She repaid us by barking madly every 15-30 minutes through the night, seemingly every time a seagull five miles away flapped its wings.

6 nights to go. I am NOT in a good mood.

How (not) to sell a car

I’ve just changed my car, a process that was marginally less enjoyable than donating blood. If you thought Arthur Daly-esque used car salesmen had died out in the 80s, you’re wrong! I endured some truly terrible test drives, and I have to say the main dealers were just as bad as the one-man-bands. Here’s how (not) to sell a car.

• Greet your client with a diatribe about how it’s “sold as seen, no warranty, the price is X, £500 more if you want to part-ex and you won’t find one cheaper.” Act reluctant to let them have a test drive, then complain throughout that business is poor. Insist on popping the bonnet. (“Yes – that’s definitely an engine.”)
• Even though you can get a mini-valet done for £10 in any town, don’t bother cleaning the cars out beforehand. Buyers love the smell of other people’s dogs, and the sight of Cheesy Wotsits ground into the back seats. If they complain, tell them it’s better to see a car warts’n’all. This will entirely negate their anger at having driven 60 miles to have a look at a midden. Cleaning a car before a buyer comes to look at it – what next? Making the bed before someone views your house? Crazy talk!
• Remember to blame the potential purchaser for any mechanical defects, especially if she’s a woman. Dodgy gearbox? “Well, you’re just not used to it yet, dear.” Engine over-revving? “I think it’s your clutch control. Are you taking your foot off the accelerator when you change gear?” (I have been driving for 19 years. I know how to change gear, you pillock.)
• Ignore anything your client tells you about the sort of roads where they live. Five miles around Fosse Park is a perfect test-drive for someone who has clearly stated they mostly drive on single-track country lanes and only go into town once a month.

Thank heavens that’s over for another few years.

NB: credit to TMS Volvo in Coventry and availablecar.com, who were not at all like this.

Father's Day

If a girl’s relationship with her dad defines her adult relationships with men, this would explain why I have never been cheated on, never been dumped, never settled for anything less than being adored. My Dad is the cornerstone of who I am – I have a real, visceral sense of being “made” of him.

Dad was only 23 when I was born – when I see my baby photos, I am cradled by a skinny, long-haired man-boy – and he approached fatherhood with a sort of dedicated enthusiasm. We used to go on the beach before he went to work, clamber on haybales and see if we could get them to rock, go on endless bike rides, and when I was 8 began a campaign called “Brick the Elderly” from a disused railway bridge. (Disclaimer: no pensioners were harmed in the making of this memory.)

That’s not to say he only did the fun stuff – I was a very benign child but my sillier moments were stopped in their tracks with a warning “Suzy – you will get It”. We never found out what “It” was. He was also annoyingly insistent that I kept up my piano lessons, and used to teach me trigonometry on the back of table mats after tea. Actually, I didn’t mind that.

He has done some really magical things for me. At 17 I was called upon to watch a short video he had made, the final shot of which was a bright red Peugeot 205 parked outside his workshop – my first car, my dream car that we had joked about. On my 21^st birthday, a similar video of shots of the house and garden marked the various places he had stashed one thousand pound coins. How much better than a cheque is that! (On counting – and learning that pound coins are surprisingly heavy en masse – we found ourselves £30 short. Some were found in a deck shoe, some under a plant pot, which had missed the filming process.)

No-one is perfect, and Dad has infuriating traits like anyone else. Chief among these is absolute dedication to his Friday night routine, which means he won’t go away for the weekend and we have to do all the driving. He is addicted to “Deal or No Deal” and makes the family re-watch moments deemed particularly intense on Sky+. He is famously stingy when ordering takeaway food and once tried to impose a £6 a head limit.

The main thing I’m trying to share is that I have never for one second of my life doubted my Dad’s absolute love for me, which is a very powerful thing. Do you know that scene in Mrs Doubtfire when Robin Williams is trying to persuade the judge to let him see his kids?  “Ever since my children were born, the moment I looked at them, I was crazy about them. Once I held them, I was hooked .I`m addicted to my children, sir. I love them with all my heart. And the idea of someone telling me I can`t be with them, I can`t see them every day... It`s like someone saying I can`t have air.” – Dad turned to me and said “That’s how I am with you and your sister.” When I moved 140 miles away to University it was a wrench for both of us – it took me about a decade to get over the nagging feeling that I had ruined his life.

The thing is, the strongest relationships don’t rely on physical proximity and I don’t think I could be any closer to Dad if I only lived a mile away. The last time I had a general anaesthetic, Dad had said “Imagine me stroking the back of your hand like I used to do when you were little”, and it was indeed imagining that which calmed me down as the needle went in.

9.15am. He’s probably up by now. I need to go and make a Father’s Day phone call.

 

15 hours

10.30pm - prepare for eight blissful hours in the arms of Morpheus.

10.55pm: woken by dog barking its head off. Go downstairs. Try to relax dog with kindly words. Return to bed.

11pm: dog starts barking again, if anything more frantic and desperate than before. Go downstairs. See if dog wants wee. Dog barks shrilly outside. Fear lynching from neighbours. Grab dog and haul indoors. Put dog to bed in very firm tones.

11.10pm - 11.59: listen to husband's signature Nocturnal Symphony with variations. Consider homicide, or moving into spare bed.

12.01: move into spare bed. Sleep fitfully. Too cold. Keep lying on knot of dressing gown cord.

6.39am: face of spouse swims into view. He appears to be dressed. Find out his car won't start and he needs to be at Market Harborough station for 07.10 train.

7.20am Arrive home, call RAC. Shower. Unload dishwasher. Break dip bowl. Sweep up shards before dog eats them.

9.00: RAC man says will have to take car to Dealership. Have only driven car once before, but no option. 18 miles in torrential rain with every f***ing cattle grid underwater.

9.50: Counsel RAC man over layabout brother in law.

10.10: Return home to overexcited and full-of-beans dog. Wonder if it is too early for a nap, or gin.

12.40: Demented squawking is overheard. Swallow flying around bedroom. Have a bit of a thing about birds.

12.42: Attempts to rescue swallow (while maintaining stance of hostage in bank robbery) result in it getting stuck in the sash window.

12.45: Traipse around village looking for someone to help. Can't find anyone suitable.

12.55: Gird loins, think logically, free bird. Run screaming from room feeling like Tippi Hedren.

1.10: Swallow still hasn't found open window. Curse same. Ring father for sympathy.

2.00: Bedroom seems quiet, if a bit soiled. Do some work and await next disaster.

How to... Get body confident for summer

How to... Get body confident for summer

I have a fetish about old women's magazines. (I mean that the magazines are old, not the women.) I've just bought a job lot of 1973/4 Family Circles from eBay and it really stands out how weight loss was a major concern by then, whereas the only concession to dieting in my 1967 edition was a 4-page spread entitled “Summer’s here - it’s time for cottage cheese!”

From tapeworm pills to now, diets have always been as whimsical as fashion. The 1970s, if my trusty periodicals are to be believed, were all about meal replacement. A particularly dodgy-looking product called Bisks were heavily advertised (although perhaps not that bad, looking at their recipe section: kidney stroganoff, anyone?)

The 80s were all about fibre, before people realised that All-bran is less tasty than the box it comes in. In the 90s you couldn't turn on daytime TV without Rosemary Conley prancing about in a leotard, extolling the virtues of complex carbohydrates. Dr Atkins changed all that in 2003 with his high-protein, zero-carb regime, and overnight farm animals began to look a bit worried.

Currently, the 5:2 diet is all the rage. The idea is that you eat normally for 5 days a week then <500 calories on the other two. I can see the logic, but as I'm nicknamed The Incredible Sulk because of how bad-tempered I get when hungry, it’s probably not for me lest I lose my husband along with the extra poundage.

Gregg Wallace, the shouty barrow-boy from Masterchef, is currently being paid £££ to advertise Weightwatchers. Of course he is really on the heartbreak diet, considerably more effective than spending two hours a day calculating points to see if you can afford a sneaky Jaffa cake after tea.

~ remember that nobody but you cares, or even particularly notices, how much you weigh. (Well, your spouse might, but they swore “for better for worse” so tough.)

~ use optical illusion to your advantage. If you only have your photo taken next to big round things, like bulls or hay bales, you will look comparatively thinner. Why not keep a deflated beach ball in your handbag just in case?

~ buy clothes one size bigger and cut the labels out. Then go and have a biscuit.

How not to do customer service

HSBC, you tools - try employing some staff to actually serve on the counter on Saturday mornings, rather than two people standing like lemons by a bank of automated machines, none of which were capable of doing what I needed, i.e. paying a birthday cheque in.

Supercilious Woman in a Sash, Peterborough branch: you will never know how close you came to the mother of all tongue-lashings this morning.

Happy birthday Chronicle

We have just come home from a very lovely celebration in honour of the Kibworth Chronicle's 35th anniversary, where I was very pleased to learn that I have at least one reader, and ate my own body weight in spring rolls.

How to... Go to IKEA

IKEA is a rite of passage. You know you are a proper grown-up when your idea of “Saturday shopping” ceases to mean trying on forty pairs of high heels with your best mate and starts to mean purchasing industrial quantities of paper napkins in a giant blue and yellow aircraft hangar while your significant other trails forlornly behind you.

There are a number of Universal Truths about IKEA.

1) Nobody has ever left without buying a 100-pack of tea lights (females) or a pack of 10 AA batteries (males).

2) The lunacy of some prices means that otherwise unappealing purchases become absolute “can’t miss” items. The pets eat from horrible little beige bowls I wouldn't have chosen in a million years, but they were 39p each. 39p! Other cheapo items you may suddenly decide you can't live without include scissors, wine glasses, washing-up brushes and ersatz Tupperware containers.

3) If aliens landed and wished to study our species, they could do worse than IKEA cafes. All human life is there: all ages and classes seem content to mingle in a vaguely depressing school-canteen-like affair to get their fix of well-priced meatballs and Daim cake. I myself am a big fan of IKEA chips, but portion sizes are heartbreakingly variable. I suspect staff are trained to dish them out according to the customer’s size. This would explain why my chip allocation is barely into double figures, while Captain Lardy’s on the next table are falling off his plate. I sound bitter and indeed I am. Next time I will wear two jumpers.

4) No matter how many blue bags you have bought in the past you will never remember to take one with you, meaning you either fork out another 75p or play a fun but perilous game we have christened “IKEA Buckaroo”.

5) Men really, really hate going to IKEA. If you listen carefully you can hear their doleful murmurs of “More chuffing pillows” or “How long does it take to choose a bleddy bath mat, the footie's on soon.” Only take your husband to IKEA if you are very secure in your marriage, or he has done something he needs to make up to you.



NB There was a hilarious but very sweary IKEA map doing the rounds last month - click at your own risk!

Resolutions update, 13 weeks in

I will stop using “I’m only taking the dog for a walk” as an excuse to go out looking like Worzel Gummidge’s scruffier cousin.

Erm, I kept it up for two weeks them reverted to my Compo-like ways. Best not mentioned. Success: 1/10

I will not get hopelessly drunk in the kitchen as a Pavlovian reaction to hearing “Sometime Around Midnight” by Airborne Toxic Event.

Achieved on two occasions! Success: 10/10

I will come up with a semi-convincing answer to the question “So, what have you been doing with yourself all day?”

Realised there's absolutely no point doing this, because however comprehensive a list is supplied the husband interrogator will scan it with a slight sneer that suggests they could have done it in half the time AND gone for a 10 mile jog, even if you know they haven't operated an iron since 2007. Success: 5/10

I will NEVER again use Cambridge park-and-ride.

Achieved. By not having gone to Cambridge. 10/10.

I will not buy any more body lotion until my current stockpile of nine unopened tubs is used up.

Achieved, but a struggle. Superfluous day cream was bought instead. Success: 8/10.

I will not go through my parents’ fridge, sighing heavily as I discard bottles of ketchup that expired in 2008 and miscellaneous furry cheeses. In fact, I will stop commenting on other people’s hygiene full stop, as it is surely only a matter of time before somebody punches me on the nose.

Achieved, by the hand of fate. Poor old Mum broke her ankle and by the time I went to visit, my aunt had cleared out the fridge. It was quite a shock to find it full of edible food.

I also maintained a fixed smile when someone was banging on about there being no need to use washing powder because some weird hippy eco-pellets that "aerate the water" do the job just as well. (These have been proven by Which? Magazine to be no better than nothing. But my smile did not slip.)

Success: 9/10. One point deducted for judging her inside.

How to... Enjoy horoscopes

Obviously nobody with more intelligence than a daffodil actually "believes" in horoscopes, but a lot of otherwise rational people seem to read theirs anyway. Like mediums, the astrologer's only secret is to generate stuff that is so open-ended that it could apply to anyone. (If Shelley Von Strunckle predicts that I will experience changes that are unsettling at first, but ultimately beneficial, one more time, I will run naked down the A6.)

Here are your stars for this week - let's face it, they have just as much chance of coming true as any others.

Aries: on Thursday you will be startled by a pheasant. Lucky outfit: pyjamas.

Taurus: a tall dark stranger will come to read your electricity meter. Don't leave your handbag in sight when you make him a cup of tea. Lucky musical: Oklahoma.

Gemini: have you checked your tyre pressures lately? You really should, you know. Lucky bath salts: lavender.

Cancer: on Friday you will cook a disappointing breakfast, but Saturday's will be much nicer. Lucky country: Germany.

Leo: all eyes will be on you, Leo, when you accidentally get toilet paper stuck to your foot in a public toilet. Lucky Revel: coffee flavour.

Virgo: you've been overdoing it. Try to relax a bit more. Have you considered taking up macramé? Lucky utensil: fish slice.

Libra: usually the “beautiful” sign of the zodiac, you will suffer an unsightly facial blemish midweek. Try not to pick at it. Lucky tree: sycamore.

Scorpio: a slipper-related accident is waiting to literally trip you up. Keep two 9s dialled on your mobile, just in case. Lucky TV gameshow: Pointless.

Sagittarius: you will have a lovely surprise when you change your duvet cover. Lucky scratch card: Scrabble.

Capricorn: check your change in Holland and Barrett. An otherwise uneventful week. Lucky supplement: Glucosamine.

Aquarius: you will get the urge to rearrange your living room furniture. Get your son round to help in case you trigger an attack of lumbago. Lucky fruit: pear.

Pisces: make sure you chew your food thoroughly to avoid mishaps on Wednesday. Lucky Monopoly token: ship.

I think Shreddies suck, actually.

I'd like to apologise for the sudden appearance of ads on this site. Wordpress, the hosting site, did not warn me they would appear, and the only way for me to get rid of them is to pay $30 a year for an upgrade, which frankly ain't gonna happen!

(Other breakfast cereals are available.)

How to... Tell if you live in the country

Sometime in the 19th century, country living suddenly became less a sign of woeful unsophistication, more the rural idyll to which a nation aspired. Nowadays any home sited towards the edge of a suburban housing development is described as “semi-rural” and you only have to back onto a scrubby patch of wasteland to have the estate agency frothing at the mouth at your “rolling countryside views”.

So how do you know whether you’re a real bumpkin, or just playing at it? Our handy quiz is here to help.

Question 1. Wellies are:
A) a crime against fashion
B) cute for festivals (but you’d only be seen in Hunter or Le Chameau)
C) your footwear of choice for five months of the year. You only buy cheapies because you know they all split after 6 months anyway.

Question 2. You run out of milk. Do you:
A) Nip out to Starbucks
B) Walk to the corner shop
C) Grudgingly get in the car and drive 12 miles round, cursing yourself for having allowed this to happen.

Question 3. How well do you know your neighbours?
A) Wouldn't recognise them.
B) We exchange Christmas cards, and occasionally the kids play football together.
C) I turned up on their doorstep in my bathrobe for a shower when the hot water broke. They didn't bat an eyelid.

Question 4. Mud is:
A) That embarrassing 70s band your Dad used to like
B) Horrid, horrid, horrid.
C) The inevitable patina of your house and car between October and March.

Question 5. Describe your takeaway options.
A) Manifold.
B) We can get pizza, Chinese and Indian delivered.
C) Once a week I drive 3 miles out to the mobile chip van.

RESULTS

Mostly As: An urbanite through and through.
Mostly Bs: You are as suburban as Terry and June. Your privet hedge is neatly trimmed and your Joules wellies fool no-one.
Mostly Cs: Congratulations, you are a fully fledged country dweller! You will probably die from being trampled by cows, but you wouldn't want it any other way.

Beaches

Having grown up on the Suffolk Heritage Coast, I always think of myself as a beach lover. That is, until I get to a beach. In the post-Christmas gloom, many of you will be thinking about booking beach holidays. Don't do it without reading on!

Remember all the photos in your holiday brochure would have been taken with expensive lenses and filters, crucially, BEFORE EVERYONE GOT UP. In Cala Galdana two years ago, the beach beyond my balcony was identical to the turquoise-hued dream in the brochure - except that there was approximately one person per square yard on it. Trying to get near the sea was rather like trying to get a drink during a theatre interval, except with more jiggling sunburned flesh.

As someone deeply uncomfortable with exposed skin (my ideal beach outfit would be a babygro, with feet) I spend most of my time south of Dover in a state of acute embarrassment. I remember laying Margaret Rutherford-like, in a full-length sundress on the beach in Sharm-el-Sheikh, staunchly ignoring a topless Italian aerobics class two metres away. Wherever I choose to deposit my towel, I guarantee that within 10 minutes a pair of nubile and uninhibited teenagers will begin playing ping-pong right next to me and sometimes, over me. Oddly, my husband never seems bothered.

Worst still is France. Elderly naturists lurk round every rock and cove (nearly always male.) In Brittany I was confronted with such a specimen at the base of a cliff. I could either saunter nonchalantly past him or head straight out to sea. “I stand by my decision” I remember thinking, as the water closed in over my shoulders.

UK beaches are great as long as you keep your coat on. It has been scientifically proven that nobody has ever felt warm in Aldeburgh.

All in all I conclude that I AM a beach lover, given that I am looking at it through the wound-down window of a car, preferably with a bag of chips. Roll on summer!

Real resolutions

I will stop using “I’m only taking the dog for a walk” as an excuse to go out looking like Worzel Gummidge's scruffier cousin.

I will not get hopelessly drunk in the kitchen as a Pavlovian reaction to hearing “Sometime Around Midnight” by Airborne Toxic Event.

I will come up with a semi-convincing answer to the question “So, what have you been doing with yourself all day?”

I will NEVER again use Cambridge park-and-ride.

I will not buy any more body lotion until my current stockpile of nine unopened tubs is used up.

I will not go through my parents’ fridge, sighing heavily as I discard bottles of ketchup that expired in 2008 and miscellaneous furry cheeses. In fact, I will stop commenting on other people's hygiene full stop, as it is surely only a matter of time before somebody punches me on the nose.





NB This list has been accused of being under-aspirational. I can only say that that person obviously doesn't realise how addicted I am to scruffiness, fridge-tutting and the purchase of unnecessary toiletries.