As soon as the email popped into my inbox, I knew I was going to like this one. A new launch, which is exciting, and by Liz Earle, which is even more exciting. But what is truly flipping thrilling if you live in my strange little world is that it is a haircare range. Yes, you heard me right. Haircare. Liz Earle. Take a second to absorb this. Continue reading…
I’ve bored you before about my penchant for stealing from my offspring. Nothing is sacred. Easter eggs (they don’t need that many), nail varnish (my stepdaughter has some cracking shades these days), money (I’m joking, although there was that time I was short of bus fare and I raided a piggybank). Bad mummy. Continue reading…
The winter allows you to get away with all sorts of short-cuts and laziness when it comes to your appearance. Well it does me, anyway. Why shave your legs when it’s so horrendously cold you’re going to wear your opaque tights to bed anyway? Why file and paint your toenails when the mere thought of doing anything barefoot makes you shiver? Why worry about your hair when you’re just going to tuck it under a hood or put it in a winter-friendly chignon (i.e. neck-warming bundle)? Continue reading…
“It takes more than a cold flannel and some Body Shop oatmeal scrub for me…” Not one of my own pearls of wisdom this time. No, it’s Edina talking to Saffy in Ab Fab. Even in my late teens I knew I had more affinity with the mother than the daughter. Not something I should necessarily be proud of, I know.
But the Body Shop has thankfully moved on – as has the whole industry. And these days, what were in the time of Lacroix and Bolly tentatively called ‘natural’ beauty products, are better known as botanical, pure, organic, plant-derived… (Organic beauty stuff obviously has to be organic, and there are a few pretenders out there so if you’re not sure – and organic is what you want – then check their credentials first.) Continue reading…
I’ve never been much of a scientist. I toyed with it at about 14 when I took physics, chemistry and biology as my ‘options’. It was partly because I wanted to be a vet (like most 14-year-old girls), an idea that seems farcical now. I feel under pressure removing a woodlouse from the living room – imagine how I would feel wrist-deep in Yorkshire terrier?
The other reason I took ‘The Three Sciences’ was because I had a small crush on the tweed-jacket-sporting physics teacher Mr Keen. But don’t worry, I didn’t even last a term before I switched to the much more airy-fairy choices of Art History and Italian. I had a Road To Damascus moment when Mr Keen was teaching us about Ohms. I looked at him and thought, I might fancy you, but this is just not worth it. Continue reading…
I’m not really a hat person. Usually, my mop of hair is enough in itself to keep my head warm. But this winter I was forced by the extreme temperatures to become one, and it wasn’t a comfortable experience. I had to invest in a head-covering that did slightly more on a thermal scale than my manky tresses – but how much of a ‘statement’ was I meant to make? Continue reading…
I need a haircut more than I have ever needed a haircut. I look like a cello teacher. All I require is a velvet dress and some Celtic jewellery and I’d be set. Thankfully, I am having it ‘done’ next week. At last, I shall be free from the four-feet long witch-like tresses with several inches of un-highlighted roots at the top. I cannot wait. I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to sitting in the same chair for three hours sniffing peroxide since my hedonistic twenties. (I’m joking, mother.) Continue reading…
We’ve all had them. Those presents that make you incredibly grateful that someone came up with the idea of gift receipts. I should know. My other half once decided to enter into ‘clothing and footwear’ territory. (It’s OK, he won’t do it again.)
What happened? Well, he knows I have small feet. But what he didn’t fully understand is that they are small for my height, not for a human being. So, after venturing into The White Company and scaring the staff (who naturally assumed he was a vagrant and tried to hasten him to the exit with spritzes of room spray), he managed to purchase a pair of slippers. And not only were they white, as opposed to my desired Mushroom, they were a size two. Yes, TWO. (Bear in mind I’m about 5 feet 10.) They looked like babies booties. When I opened the box, I thought he had some News for me. Continue reading…
The other day, I told my stepdaughter that something was an Old Wives Tale and she looked at me blankly. What are they teaching kids these days? Surely they should know that if you pull out a grey hair that ten will grow in its place? Or that chocolate will give you spots? Or that if you go swimming after eating ANYTHING, you will undoubtedly get stomach cramps and drown?
My late grandmother was a genuine Old Wife. She would often give my sister and I an apple each instead of getting us to brush our teeth, feed us bread crusts to make our hair curly and refuse to cut our fingernails on a Friday – much to my mother’s horror. Continue reading…
My other half and I have been known to go out for a sherry or two together. These days, thanks to Offspring, it’s a rarer treat. But when it does happen, I find that during the evening, our tastes are remarkably similar. We both like a reassuringly expensive lager or two. Tops, if you don’t mind. And neither of us would say no to a famous bourbon with an equally famous cola-flavoured mixer, if you know where I’m coming from. All, obviously, in strict moderation, and never – ok, rarely – descending into any kind of consumption of the mutually venerated aniseed flavour liquor that’s usually drunk from small shot glasses.
It’s the next day that our tastes differ wildly. Feeling a little toxic, I can’t think of anything nicer to put into my battered constitution than some really fresh, healthy food. It feels like it’s only fair. I’ve done the crime, now I need to eat wholemeal toast with organic grilled tomatoes and poached free-range eggs. Thankfully, there’s no fighting over the hob. That’s because hubby is happy to pull from the fridge the likes of a Ginster’s Buffet Bar. It’s a kind of penis-shaped Scotch egg, with the egg part substituted with coleslaw. Seriously. Continue reading…
