Surprise!

The world is divided into two sorts of people; those who would love it if someone threw them a surprise birthday party, and those who shudder at the very thought. (My husband spent the first half hour of his 40th birthday dinner at Boboli terrified that 20 of his nearest and dearest were going to leap out from behind a pillar.)

Surprises in general are mixed blessing. Some are great – Toddler Niece’s sudden fierce kisses, or cries of “I luff you!” spring to mind – but most are not. For instance, I always forget just how painful a wasp sting is. Ditto treading on Lego. For sheer bringing-you-up-shortness, nothing beats getting your dressing gown sleeve caught on a door handle when you’re carrying a cup of tea.

One of the downsides of country cats is the breadth of live fauna they bring in. My parents have a pond; to date Dad has found a toad in his driving moccasins and Mum a decomposed goldfish under her bed. Up here, a field mouse in the toe of my husband’s wellington was a winner (to be fair, I think the mouse was more startled than he.) Only last night I was quietly enjoying “The Plantagenets” when the cat entered Stage Left with a live finch in his mouth. (I’m pleased to say it was rescued, unharmed, by said husband – he’s a patient man considering he never wanted the cat!) 

The story I’m about to tell you continues the theme and makes my buttock clench with horror. My grandparents lived most of their lives on an RSPB reserve in Suffolk. Suffolk, being dry and sandy, is absolutely chock-a-block with snakes. (It was a great place to grow up given my crippling phobia of the damn things.) Anyway, Gran was answering the call of Nature in her downstairs loo when her cat leapt in through the open window carrying a live, 2-foot adder in its mouth and proceeded to wrangle it like one of those demented preachers from the Bible Belt in America. 

That particular cat and indeed that particular Gran are sadly long gone, but I’ve never used a downstairs loo without closing the window since.

To view a surprised panda, click here: http://youtu.be/EAcdvmnZ_GM

Battle of the sexes

With a reminder that most clichés have a grain of truth in them, here's a rundown of half-a-dozen chief differences between men and women.

1) The “Boy Look”. A phenomenon described by both my sister and myself, the Boy Look is when a man opens a fridge, cupboard or wardrobe door, looks for approximately 0.5 seconds then shouts “I can’t find the...!”. The woman, arriving huffing from the other room, will locate said item almost immediately. This also applies to finding apps on smartphones, pets who are imminently due at the vet, and remote controls.

2) Bedtime. Men clean their teeth and jump between the sheets. Women feel obliged to perform arcane and lengthy skincare rituals involving between 4 and 10 unguents, finally arriving in bed 15 minutes later as slippery as a baby seal. Warning, ladies: Vaseline’d feet and tiled floors do not mix. Plan ahead.

3) Division of labour. In six years of living here, I have never seen inside the loft. See also: lawn-mowing, the location and removal of mice, giving tablets to cats and collecting takeaways. For his part, my husband could be forgiven for thinking we have a self-cleaning woodburner, a self-replenishing wine rack and a Magical Laundry Fairy.

4) Films. Men watch fight scenes or big explosions with intense concentration and slightly lolling mouths, then try to initiate conversation during the tender romantic exchanges. Women the exact opposite.

5) Lighting. There is not much middle ground between “Single overhead 100w bulb” and “six table-lamps and some scented candles.” Women complain they feel like they are in an interrogation suite; men that they can't see to eat their tea and it takes them ten minutes to turn everything off at bedtime.

6) Wrapping presents. Women create visions of loveliness with sharp creases, bows and ribbon. Most men produce something flappy that looks as if they spilled hot coffee in their lap halfway through. The others use so much Sellotape that the parcel is entirely waterproof and requires a craft knife to get into it.

Your stars for 2015

Aries ♈️ The headstrong sign of the Zodiac, this summer you’ll be tempted to argue with Customs officials who challenge you over liquids in your hand luggage. For heaven's sake, don't. 

Taurus ♉️ In April, Venus entering Sagittarius suggests you will form an attachment to an amiable bullock or other large domesticated animal. Treat him kindly.

Gemini ♊️ Mars trines Jupiter this September, triggering a glut of autumn fruit. Make sure you have sufficient freezer space and bags ready or it’ll all go to waste.

Cancer ♋️ You are in for a rubbish Valentine’s if Saturn’s opposition to Uranus is anything to go by. Cancel the restaurant now and prepare to spend the evening weeping on the sofa in stained pyjamas, mainlining Galaxy chocolate.

Leo ♌️ You're the Zodiac’s natural show-off, but Mercury urges caution when selecting karaoke tracks on holiday this summer. Nobody wants to see a drunken 57 year old office supplies salesman performing “Like a Virgin”.

Virgo ♍️ Jupiter enters Leo in early spring. For fastidious Virgoans, it'll be time to clear out that untidy paperclip dispenser that's been bothering you for months!

Libra ♎️ A difficult square between Mars and Pluto points to boundary disputes between you and a neighbour. It may be easier to clip the leylandii now rather than wait for the injunction.

Scorpio ♏️ Your reputation as the dangerous sign of the zodiac will be borne out in August when you form a motorcycle gang (60cc and under). Speeds in excess of 36mph will be attained as you and your mate Ken whiz round the Langtons with a devil-may-care attitude. Watch out for the filth!

Sagittarius ♐️ Neptune conjuncts Mercury in November, meaning there is a very real danger you could accidentally expose yourself to the binmen. Tie your robe tightly.

Capricorn ♑️ Absolutely nothing of interest will happen to you in 2015.

Aquarius ♒️ Fittingly for the “water-bearer” of the Zodiac, plumbing problems triggered by Saturn's opposition to Mars suggest you will spend most of May hauling buckets of water into your house from a standpipe.

Pisces ♓️ In September you will be upset to be mistaken for  Ken Dodd. Be gracious and give them an autograph anyway.

Friday

Presenting my brand new nephew, Benedict, born 8lb 13oz on 9th January 2015. Welcome to the world, baby boy! Here we are when he was 11 hours old:

Merry Christmas

Yes, we're spending Christmas at my parents' with six adults, two dogs of varying degrees of continence, a 2 year old ninja, and my sister due her second baby in 11 days - why do you ask? 

Merry Christmas and a happy, healthy New Year. 

Christmas List

At Christmas the papers seem to be full of lists of all kinds. I don't pretend to know what films you should watch or which islands you should visit, but I do humbly offer 12 tips for a happier 2015.

1) A tip for the antisocial: you’re not as important to other people’s plans as you think you are. You really won't ruin their Christmas party/ hen night /evening wedding reception 200 miles away if you don't go, so why put yourself through it? There are enough things we don't want to do but must (e.g. getting up for work, dental visits). Social events are not obligatory!  Be upfront, though. Faking a headache at the eleventh hour is appalling.

2) Talking of dental visits - however you’ve been cleaning your teeth, it won't be right.

3) A squirt of lime juice at the end improves almost any spicy dish.

4) Unless you have the gardening skills of Alan Titchmarsh, it really isn't worth trying to grow your own food.

5) Give people the benefit of the doubt. They’e probably done the same for you already.

6) Try the bread from East Langton garden centre. Thank me later.

7) Open your mail over the recycling bin.

8) Always have a pound coin in your pocket on a walk, in case someone’s selling free-range eggs.

9) Put the phone down on cold callers. There’s no need to shout at them; equally there’s no need to let them waste your time.

10) Don't watch the shopping channels within reach of your credit card. The presenters have serious sales technique. My husband went to collect a takeaway and by the time he got home I'd ordered a £200 carpet cleaner. (Although I have to admit the living room has never looked fresher.)

11) Don't assume everyone wants to share food just because you’re having Chinese or Indian. I’m totally with Smithy from Gavin & Stacey on this one. http://tinyurl.com/novtv4o 

12) There are very few bad moods not improved by a sandwich, a walk or a hot bath. In extreme cases watch repeats of Bullseye.

An outraged Mollie extends her festive greetings.

It is better to give than receive... Especially if you receive a box of shop soiled Milk Tray

On 4th November a neighbour told me “I'm feeling very smug, because I've just bought my last Christmas present.” Oh, to be in that situation!

My gran - one of eight children of a Suffolk farm labourer during the Depression - used to tell a heartbreaking story about receiving an ugly little second-hand doll for Christmas, her only gift, which gave her the heebie-jeebies so badly that she flung it in the coal shed. 85 years on, the difficulty lies in finding something that people A) want and B) haven’t already bought themselves.

Some magazines suggest buying people more luxurious versions of things you know they like, but this can backfire! I found six bars of posh soap, as zesty and fragrant as an Italian citrus grove, plus three unopened bottles of single malt scotch at Mum and Dad’s. They’re just more comfortable with Lux and Bells, and that’s fine. Actually, now I think about it, my own wine rack features a dusty bottle of Amarone I gave my husband five years ago... “Too good to drink”!

Office workers will be familiar with the dastardly concept of the “Secret Santa”. Invariably the name you draw out of the Jiffy bag will be someone you barely know, yet you feel  obliged to find a £10 gift that perfectly encapsulates their personality, if any. I always seem to receive chocolate, a foodstuff about which I am ambivalent at best. My husband has collected a selection of “comedy” mugs and a pink striped tie that wouldn’t look out of place on Ronnie Corbett. Maybe our colleagues just hate us?

15 years ago “experiences” were in vogue.  Thank goodness Redletter Days went bankrupt! There’s a reason most of us haven't been for tea at the Ritz or hang-gliding: because the thought fills us with horror. Even worse is “gift sets”. Nobody really wants two jars of chutney and a flimsy cheese knife presented in a raffia basket for £16.99, do they?

This Christmas I would like two alpacas and a field to keep them in. Do you think they'll fit down the chimney?

                        An unacceptable gift.

Set in one's ways

I never knew my late father-in-law, but I am told that when new shoes were required he used to go into a shoe shop, sit down, point to his feet and say warmly “I'd like a pair like these, please.” The older I get, the more this seems perfectly reasonable.

If youth is time for experimentation, there surely comes a point when you’ve tried enough things you didn't like to focus on those you do. In the former category I would place ice-skating, jet-skiing and scuba-diving. (I finally tried it after years of nagging from a boyfriend, and was so tense that my mouth kept filling with seawater because my teeth were clenched in a terrified rictus grin.)

Far from being dull, I would argue that knowing what you like saves brain power for more important things. You can shop on autopilot - Gold 99 teabags, Aldi orange juice “with bits”, Davidstowe strength 5 cheddar. I know which dog food doesn't upset Bessie’s digestion; which razors don't cut my shins to confetti; the only cream that turns my scaly claws back into human hands. It would be exhausting to have to make conscious decisions about all that, like when you're learning to drive and have to think about every gear change.

There’s something peaceful about accepting things that don't suit you. I’ve surrendered to the fact that I can't walk in high heels; that red lipstick makes me look like Jack Nicholson playing the Joker in Batman; and “funky” spectacles like the lovechild of Su Pollard and Joe 90. I will never like coffee, fry-ups or Werther’s Originals. I know I am am never, ever going to own a gym membership or participate in a “fun run” (a misnomer if ever I heard one).

All of which frees me up to do Times crosswords; visit stately homes; curate my felt-tip pen collection; go on city breaks; get over-excited when the light is particularly beautiful; paint really quite badly; and eat fish and chips as often as I can without going up a trouser size. Huzzah!

How to... Sleep

This column is inspired by a recent trauma suffered by my Mum. How important a good night’s sleep is, and how many things conspire against it!

The most efficient way to ensure years of fatigue is to procreate. To date my toddler niece has woken up her mother by ramming a finger forcefully up her nostril; pulling up one eyelid and shouting “Helloooo!”, and being sick on her face.

Almost as good as small children are pets. It’s vile when the cat brings in a mouse and crunches it on the duvet, so we keep the the door shut and listen to him yowl and scrat the landing carpet instead. Then every morning (the exact time varies, but it's always too early) the dogs decide they’ve had enough of each other’s company and need to come and see Mummy urgently. Molly took all the paint off the kitchen door before we started tying her to a table leg, while Bessie employs shrill and frantic barking.

Insomnia can be a horrible, persistent disorder and admitting to it brings a raft of well-meant but utterly useless advice - surprisingly enough, it has already occurred to most insomniacs to try warm baths, hot milky drinks and flipping "Kalms”!

Anyway - back to Mum’s tale of woe. One night she was awoken by a sinister “Ssk... Ssk... Ssk... Thump... Thump... Thump...” noise in her bedroom, “like something being dragged out of a pond”. Opening one eye, she was petrified to see a white, blurry face looming at her in the darkness. Drenched in sweat and heart beating wildly, she scrambled for her glasses and snapped the light on... to find my niece’s 30” tall, mechanically-powered “Hello Kitty” doll had somehow activated itself and walked across the bedroom, getting jammed on the side of the bed.

My favourite part of the story is that in her indignation she dumped said toy on the spare room windowsill, whereupon a neighbour later complained that its leering visage gave him a nasty fright as he was walking back from the pub.

Insomnia is never a problem for our cat.

The customer is always... An irritant?

I'm experiencing almost farcically bad service from Max Spielmann so I'm writing to get it off my chest.

I ended up with over 250 photos to develop, which given our risibly slow upload speed of 0.04mbps (thanks BT!) I didn't fancy doing over the internet.

A fortnight ago I visited the local branch mid afternoon and was surprised to find the manager locking up. "I'm just going out to get some photocopying done" he said unapologetically. Little was I to know this was my "CAUTION! Crappy service ahead!" warning sign. Anyway, I killed 15 minutes, went back in with in my SD card, they downloaded it all, I paid (more than I would have on line) and told me it'd be ready Wednesday.

Tuesday I got a phone call to say the download had failed and I needed to come in to repeat the process. I don't live near the shop - I live 8 miles away - so I made a special journey the next day, to find the shop inexplicably shut. I later learned it's the shop manager's regular day off and the area manager failed to find someone to cover that week.

I made Trip 3 a week ago and again found it temporarily closed for photocopying, but waited around (no sorry!) and downloaded them all again.

I collected the photos this morning. Unfortunately, they're not mine. The manager's first reaction when I phoned him (a number I now know from memory) was "Oh. Can you bring them back in?"

It's been left like this: the central processing place for Max Spielmann "think" they've found my order and they "should" be in on Tuesday. I'm not holding my breath.

The mother of all snotty letters is being formulated. If nothing else they owe me 5x 16 mile round trips worth of diesel.

Our holiday in 90 words

Whitstable: Aldeburgh viewed through a prism; floriferous beach; chi-chi boutiques bankrolled by rich husbands.

Canterbury: Christians; tourists; oooh a Lakeland!

Herne Bay: No way am I getting off this bus; take me home now.

Dover: natural beauty; horrendous architecture; lorries; wow - France is really close.

Margate: Georgian splendour; Hattie Jacques and John LeMesurier’s house; grinding poverty; face full of seawater.

Ramsgate: boats, boats and more boats; doesn’t that church remind you of Boston Stump?

Sheerness: Giant bridge; giant sea wall; thank you God for not making me live here.




Footnote: a friend who reads this has just asked "So did you actually enjoy it, or not?" Answer: I did. Whitstable is a very appealing place indeed. But I love where I live, especially at this time of year, and despite only being in my mid (ok, late) thirties sometimes I'd just as rather be at home!

How to... Plan a holiday

France seven years ago: one of only two days we did not receive rain of biblical proportions.

I am looking down the barrel of two fast-approaching weeks of annual leave, which means I am compelled to start Planning Our Holiday. If there is a more stressful way of spending three week’s salary, I can't think of it. How do you choose between literally millions of options?

The trouble is that most people’s concept of a pleasant way to spend a week off fills me with dread. I genuinely envy those sunny-natured souls who are happy as long as their holiday involves a pool, a sunlounger and a variety of brightly coloured cocktails. Unfortunately I am cursed with a low boredom threshold, a mistrust of swimwear and a dislike of sweaty strangers in close proximity to me. (Imagine Eeyore in a sarong.)

I'm never going camping either, despite my husband’s pleas. There is no way I'm sleeping on the ground, with naught but a thin piece of nylon separating me from a hostile world, the nearest toilet a field away by torchlight. If those conditions occurred in normal life it would be considered a humanitarian crisis.

I've had some great holidays afloat, to be fair, but narrowboat hire is eye-wateringly expensive and can be ruined by wet weather. It’s very hard to feel carefree in a cagoule. Canals are also full of self-righteous real ale drinkers with bad beards and worse hats, always ready to tell you when you’re using your windlass wrong (until the offending tool is swung at them at head level.)

Because we live in a tiny village where an unfamiliar dog is something to be remarked upon, I don't want to go anywhere too rural; we might as well just be at home with the central heating turned up. Obviously Butlins, and middle-class Butlins AKA Center Parcs, are out of the question if you’re not a parent. Long-haul destinations are full of snakes, Canada full of bears, America full of Americans.

Maybe I should just stick a pin in a map. Ah, fantastic - glamorous Rotterdam, here we come!

Update

I apologise for the poorly-timed wet weather, which I directly attribute to having purchased a gazebo and some suntan lotion. Still, it was nice to be out of my wellies for five days.

In other news, Bessie (beloved rescue toy poodle of indeterminate age) was good enough to roll in the same pile of badger poo twice on Tuesday. It's a good job five years as a primary school teacher rendered me impervious to blood, urine, vomit, faeces and dead crows. (I reserve the right to dry-heave when picking slugs off my salvias by torchlight.)

Bank holiday weekend. Bottoms up, everyone.

Butter wouldn't melt, would it Bess, you foul girl?

How to... Audition for X-factor

You will need:
* Unshakeable self-belief. In your head, you ARE Beyoncé.
* A memorable voice. (Note: “memorable”, not necessarily “good”. If your singing sounds like spanners going round in a washing machine, or an angry cat trapped in an airing cupboard, all the better.)
* An outlandish hairdo, possibly involving several colours that hair doesn't normally come in
* A tragic back-story.
* The ability to cry on cue.
* A panel of judges and an audience.

Instructions:
1. Strut onstage (try not to trip) and introduce yourself to the judges.
2. When they ask you why you’ve come on X-Factor, make sure you use every cliché in the book about how this has been your dream since you were 7 and saw Bros perform on TOTP.
3. If the judges look unconvinced, deploy your Tragic Back Story. If you haven't currently got a terminally-ill relative, make something up. There is always one tearful female judge who will give you sympathy points if you talk about how devastated you were when your budgie flew away last summer. Try to cry a bit, then say something like “Bluey, this one's for you, because I'll always love you and you were the best budgie ever.”
4. Next, sing your chosen song as loudly as you can. Don't worry if you’re not in tune; most X-factor contestants aren’t. Hopefully the judges will be too busy admiring your Great Hair to notice.
5. Don't be put off when the nasty judge presses the X halfway through - he is probably just jealous of your Great Hair.
6. When the judges are giving their feedback, don't forget to argue with anyone who criticises you. Famous people love being told they know nothing about the music business. If the worst comes to the worst, cry a bit more, then storm offstage in a huff.
7. Finally, if it really has gone pear-shaped, don’t worry. There’s always The Voice.

How to...

When Molly was very small I took her to a puppy class where a smart lady of a certain age was complaining vociferously that her cocker spaniel wouldn't "do his business” on walks, only in the garden, meaning she had to dry his wet feet twice. As the adoring owner of two dogs and a cat, if that's the worst mess she has to put up with, she's lucky!

Cats are mercifully fragrance-free, but inclined to bring in between 1 and 3 rodent victims a day, plus most of the Welland Valley on their paws. Surely I can't be the only cat owner who has to shake the bottom sheet out of the window mid-week to get rid of the crunchy bits?

Talking of the cat - who is a loving brother/ grovelling little git - he regularly brings Molly a freshly-killed mouse to suck. Unfortunately, we often don't realise immediately, then Molly hides it down the sofa cushions for later. It is upsetting to be searching for the TV remote and make contact with something squashy, damp and furry.

Face licking is another delight. One of my friends - yes, I mean you, Mrs P - stoutly maintains that dogs have “healing mouths” when Molly decides to provide an unsolicited face-wash. (To be fair, she hasn't seen her eat as much sheep poo as I have.) I also spend most of my toddler niece’s visits shouting “Molly. Will you stop licking that baby!” and brandishing a damp flannel.

Perhaps most disgustingly to non-pet-people, Molly is a closet alcoholic, and furtively dips her tongue in my wine glass given half a chance. I’m ashamed to say that I tend to think “Ah well, alcohol's antiseptic" and sip on unperturbed.

I consider myself winning, though, because none of my pets have pulled the same trick that Mr Jeebs, my parents’ much-loved CKC spaniel, pulled on Dad one night.

Suffice it to say that he never puts his shoes on nowadays without shaking them out first.










Molly considers herself an essential pre-wash stage for plates.


Footnote:
In case anyone thinks I'm exaggerating, yesterday we had the following conversation about our second dog:

Oh god! Bessie's face is covered in brown stuff - is it poo or just earth?

I don't know. Sniff her.

How to... Detect bulls***

Tip: Bad Science by Ben Goldacre is the most fantastic book to keep in the bathroom. I’ve been dipping in and out of it for a few weeks and it’s really made me conscious of just how much pseudo-science is peddled to try to sell stuff.

My own bugbear is beauty or cleaning products purporting to be “chemical free”. Since EVERYTHING IN THE UNIVERSE is made up of chemicals, this is a bold statement indeed. Water is a chemical. Oxygen is a chemical. Come on, people - you might not have listened in your science lessons at school, but there was probably a periodic table on the wall, no?

On QVC yesterday a £60 face cream was offered that promised to “re-oxygenate the skin”. Hmm. Your skin doesn’t have gills. There is only one place in your body that can absorb oxygen: your lungs. Skin just can’t. If you don’t believe me, take off all your clothes, stand in the garden, hold your breath and see how long it takes you to pass out and crack your head on the bird bath.

Dodgy claims and nutrition go hand in hand. To read the papers at the moment you’d think sugar was crack cocaine, but when did you last see a fat monkey, eh? The mumbo-jumbo is taken to the highest degree where juicing and – pass the bucket – “detox” are concerned. I’ve just read in a free magazine that a certain juice combination “gives your kidneys and liver a welcome rinse”. The mind boggles! The only way to rinse your liver and kidneys would be with the help of a qualified General Surgeon, in which case you probably have problems beyond the remit of fruit juice.

Spend your money on whatever you like, but do yourself a favour and pause just for a second to consider who is making the claim and why. It’s very probable that their marketing skills outweigh their scientific ones. After all, humanity has successfully survived the last 200,000 years despite blenders not being invented!

The picture below shows the only detox system your body will ever need - your liver and kidneys. Ingenious, huh?

How to... Know your class

The British are obsessed with class, and anyone who says not is deluding themselves. Trouble is, everyone now claims to be middle class, from champagne-swilling Range Rover drivers (hopefully not at the same time) to people who consider a KFC Family Bucket “dinner”. So where do you fit into this all-encompassing swathe of middleness? Let's find out...

1. Where did you buy your last sofa?
A) DFS.
B) John Lewis.
C) BUY furniture? How very vulgar.

2. Your dog is called...
A) Tyson.
B) Timmy.
C) Troilus.

3. Your typical summer holiday?
A) A static in Ingolmels.
B) A holiday cottage in Port Isaac.
C) Cannes or St. Kitts.

4. As a child, you had lessons - but in what?
A) Smoking, from your brother's mates on the rec.
B) Cello
C) Dressage/ shooting.

5. What's on your wall?
A) A 60” flat screen with full Sky package.
B) A Lawrence Coulson landscape.
C) Family portraits from the 17c onwards.

6. How do you keep warm?
A) Turn the gas fire up.
B) Another armful of logs on the woodburner.
C) By wearing lots of jumpers and burying yourself under shooting rugs and eight spaniels.

7. When you see Michael Portillo, do you think...
A) Who?
B) The poor man. He must be colour blind.
C) Lovely red chinos. I must ask Mike for the name of his tailor.





Mostly As:
Middle-class wannabe. You think The One Show is highbrow and live on an estate.
Mostly Bs:
The middliest of the middle classes. You only drink real coffee and dream of living next door to Nigel Slater.
Mostly Cs:
Upper-middle-class. Posh in denial. You also live on an estate, but in a very different way to the “mostly As”.

As if to prove my point...

All joking apart, the third paragraph makes me physically angry.

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/jan/18/what-thinking-bikini-waxer

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.

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!