All joking apart, the third paragraph makes me physically angry.
http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/jan/18/what-thinking-bikini-waxer
Sunday, 19 January 2014
Thursday, 16 January 2014
Pampering
“Pampering”. What a misnomer that is! An Indian head massage while you are gently basted with sweet-smelling oils, fair enough, but many of the treatments we women gladly pay for under the guise of “pampering” would be illegal under the Geneva convention. We are sold the idea that going to a beauty salon is relaxing, essential "me-time”. Reader, they lied.
I've never endured professional waxing but I have A) accidentally stuck my finger in a hot tea-light and B) removed plasters. The thought of combining both experiences is plain wrong. Aggie McKenzie of “How clean is your house?” describes having her underarms done as “like giving birth to oversized twins”. I’ll stick with my Lady Bic, thanks.
Even seemingly innocuous treatments can hurt. A friend once “treated” me to a pedicure that began with a dry salt scrub to exfoliate the lower leg. Imagine an angry wrestler rubbing handfuls of gravel into your shins and you’re halfway there. My barely-stifled “oohs” and “ahs” must have left the therapist feeling like she was working on a PG Tips chimp instead of a human being. The subsequent cuticle removal brought to mind the techniques of the Spanish Inquisition, over a background of doleful whale music.
Spray tans are another anathema to me. Anything that involves standing in front of a stranger wearing nought but paper knickers can't be that fun. I've never met anyone with a fake tan who didn't look creosoted and smell faintly of biscuits. The proper setting for an English person is to be faintly blue for ten months of the year, then lobster pink from late June until the August bank holiday.
A little maintenance is a necessary evil if you don't want to end up looking like a cross between Bilbo Baggins and Cousin It from The Addams Family, but could we come up with a new term that doesn't suggest A) relaxation or B) enjoyment? Beaut-orture maybe. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go and sandpaper my feet.
I've never endured professional waxing but I have A) accidentally stuck my finger in a hot tea-light and B) removed plasters. The thought of combining both experiences is plain wrong. Aggie McKenzie of “How clean is your house?” describes having her underarms done as “like giving birth to oversized twins”. I’ll stick with my Lady Bic, thanks.
Even seemingly innocuous treatments can hurt. A friend once “treated” me to a pedicure that began with a dry salt scrub to exfoliate the lower leg. Imagine an angry wrestler rubbing handfuls of gravel into your shins and you’re halfway there. My barely-stifled “oohs” and “ahs” must have left the therapist feeling like she was working on a PG Tips chimp instead of a human being. The subsequent cuticle removal brought to mind the techniques of the Spanish Inquisition, over a background of doleful whale music.
Spray tans are another anathema to me. Anything that involves standing in front of a stranger wearing nought but paper knickers can't be that fun. I've never met anyone with a fake tan who didn't look creosoted and smell faintly of biscuits. The proper setting for an English person is to be faintly blue for ten months of the year, then lobster pink from late June until the August bank holiday.
A little maintenance is a necessary evil if you don't want to end up looking like a cross between Bilbo Baggins and Cousin It from The Addams Family, but could we come up with a new term that doesn't suggest A) relaxation or B) enjoyment? Beaut-orture maybe. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go and sandpaper my feet.
Sunday, 22 December 2013
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!
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!
Thursday, 19 December 2013
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.)
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.)
Thursday, 21 November 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, 12 November 2013
Sunday, 10 November 2013
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.
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.
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