I may have to eat my hat. No, it’s not some bizarre pregnancy craving. And, incidentally, nor do I own a hat like the one in the picture. What I am talking about is the fact that for the last goodness knows how long, I have always said that although I adore Clinique make-up and body stuff, their skincare is not for me. Continue reading…
I hate to moan but you know what one of the downsides of this lovely weather is? Apart from the smell of other people’s feet on the bus, the rosé wine hangovers and the daily battle of keeping a hat and sunglasses on a toddler, that is. (Told you how I hate to moan.) Shininess. Oiliness. And then – spots.
The cause? It can be anything from hormones and stress to pollution or even a change of skincare routine. But at this time of year it’s more likely that you’re breaking out due to using suncream (which I hope you are), slapping on fake tan and sweating more than you usually do. Continue reading…
Dullness: who needs it? Although it must be acknowledged that one man’s dull is another man’s flipping thrilling. And I’m sure the world would be a boring place if this wasn’t the case. For example, my husband has recently got his hands on a nine DVD box set of the series Coast. I actually nodded off a bit while typing that. But I’m sure he’d feel the same when confronted by a bumper issue of Grazia magazine. And I’m not sure that this particular comparison reflects very well on me.
Skin dullness, on the other hand, isn’t quite such a matter of taste. It’s more a matter of getting old, and the fact that the youthful glow/radiance/bloom whatever you like to call it that you had in your twenties is frankly gone. Except maybe when you’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. Or applied some of these bad boys. Continue reading…
What’s your favourite sandwich filling? Mine is Coronation Chicken. I don’t know if it’s meant to have capital letters, but in my mind it deserves them (if done properly that is, none of this onion malarkey). The thing is, I have tried – and enjoyed – many other sandwiches. Tuna is a favourite. Hummus. Prawn. I’m pretty broadminded. But I will always come back to good old Coronation. It just really does it for me. Continue reading…
You know how it is. Glee has finished. You’ve just remembered there’s washing in the machine that needs to be hung up. But Cops With Cameras has just come on and there’s still a good mouthful or two of Banrock Station in your glass. Yep, it’s the kind of night where you don’t hit the pillow until it’s actually the next day. Beauty suicide if, like me, you’ll be serenaded by the theme tune to Noddy come 5.36am. (No, not my husband. Although there was that one time…) 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…
Like me, you’ve probably had that moment when you’ve caught a whiff of something, such as a type of furniture polish or an aftershave, and been transported back 20 or 30 years. It’s quite an intense feeling, and it happens because smell is the sense that’s most closely tied to human memory. I always get it when I smell a rose – it takes me back to playing in the garden with my sister as a child, when making ‘perfume’ was one of our favourite games.
As beautiful as the smell of the roses were, the end result of our junior forays into perfumery actually stank. So hats off to our mother, who often dutifully dabbed the mixture of rotting petals, water from the water-butt, talc and Charlie onto her pulse points – without visibly retching. Continue reading…
Who do you actually do? That’s a question I hear quite regularly about my other, undisclosed, day job. (You’d think that writing Product Placement would fulfil me, but no, I feel the need to do other things. Like make money.) In this day and age, it’s no longer possible to just be a Bricklayer or a Sales Manager. There is a ‘trend’ (don’t you just love a trend?) to make jobs sound more inspiring. Whether or not a painter and decorator’s self-esteem would soar once he became known as a Colour Distribution Technician is questionable. And would a barman feel extra-motivated once he could describe himself as a ‘Beverage Dissemination Officer’? Doubtful.
Anyway, if you’re not happy with your job title, you can change it to something gloriously vague and meaningless, and then bamboozle your elderly relatives into thinking what you do is much more important than it really is. It’s simple. You just need three words. The first is something like ‘senior’, ‘lead’ or ‘chief’. The middle word is a noun like ‘solutions’ or ‘communications’. Then at the end, throw in a ‘consultant’, ‘specialist’ or ‘associate’. Bob’s your uncle. Or maybe he’s your Principal Relative Representative. Up to you.
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1995. Emotions were running high after Robbie’s shock departure. But, fighting back the tears, I stood, cheering the brave remaining boys on at the fabled Manchester Nynex Arena. And even back then, I managed to feel like someone’s mum compared to the army of both gay and straight spring chickens around me.
If you don’t know I’m talking about Take That, you may leave now by the nearest exit. And if you do, then all I can say is OH MY GOD how much better are they now? Unfortunately, due to circumstances (babies, mainly), I haven’t yet been able to see them live in their current incarnation. But I will: I’ve promised myself that. And when I do, my attention will not be focused on Howard as it was back in the heady mid-nineties. Oh no. Like a fine wine, a certain Mr Barlow has aged into something very special and has now, in my humble opinion, considerably overtaken the other ‘lads’. And of course he can sing, which helps. Continue reading…
My kitchen cupboard is much like my wardrobe: full of good intentions. There’s a packet of sunflower seeds that I was going to ‘use all the time, you know, toasted and sprinkled on salads’. At least they don’t go off (for a while, anyway). Other purchases that remain similarly unused are probably less fragrant. I just haven’t dared to touch them – I need to save my surgical gloves for fake-tan application. Suffice to say though that a use-by date that thinks Princess Di is still with us is an indicator that I should maybe do a clear-out. If only I was as diligent with my groceries as my products. But then I am the grand-daughter of a great woman who is no longer with us, but will be remembered for an (opened) packet of crisps, stored carefully on the top shelf of the fridge, which, well into my secondary school years, proudly sported a price tag in ‘old money’.
