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The Day My Lady Garden Went Grey

I’m forty three and last Tuesday I found my first grey pubic hair. ON MY BODY! ATTACHED!  I’m not sure that Tuesday is relevant, it could have been a Sunday, there’s probably not a preordained day on which your lady garden is going to betray you.

The funny thing is, I don’t remember my first ever pube but it should have been a momentous day, surely? I’m convinced this is something young women have documented in their Hello Kitty diary in their thousands: “Monday 6th June, PUBE!!! I’m a woman! Bought a soul belt today and dreamt about George Michael – he will be mine one day….etc..”

I’ve had grey hair on my head for some time now but I have it disguised regularly by a lady called Amanda who can do wonders with ‘natural brown’ and ‘spicy red’. What I know from this experience is that grey hairs are like fleas; if you can see one there are another million hiding somewhere. As soon as you see your first greyer, more start erupting out like those pop up games at the fair you bash with a plastic mallet.

So, I’ve been on fanny watch each morning since my gruesome discovery. So far, still just the one but I’m ready with my mascara wand should another appear.

I would ask Amanda if she does ‘collars and cuffs’ but, to be honest, it’s only my husband who’s going to see the offending threadlike growth so probably not worth the £68.50 she’d charge me. And I’m not sure how you’d get a good rinse with your legs dangling over those crazy hair washing bowls that hairdressers like to use.

The important thing is the significance. It’s the last awful sign of ageing, isn’t it? You cope with your first wrinkle with expensive anti-ageing creams and always ensure you’re holding a camera up in the air when taking photos so your chicken neck is fully extended. Once your child reaches fourteen, you know you’re completely not ‘with it’ but get pay off by embarrassing them in front of their friends.

But the private horror of a greying love chamber? You’re alone in your grief. People tell you that you look good for your age and inside you’re screaming “IF ONLY YOU KNEW! I’M A FRAUD!! I’M AS GREY AS A SCHOFE DOWN THERE!!!”

So, since old age appears to have started the second phase of it’s attack, I’ve stocked up on Tena Lady. I know what’s coming next……

Farewell February

February is the ‘coalition government month’ of the year; it achieves nothing, no-one wants it and it goes on for far too long.

Ok, February tries to make itself more interesting with its Valentines and Pancake days but neither of those do anything to dispel the depressing greyness of each crawling twenty four hour period.

The problem is that by the time February arrives I’ve had enough of winter, with its dark nights and mornings, and most of my winter clothes are either rubbish or my husband’s jumpers so I look like an extra fromFargo.

I have wondered before whether I, like so many people, suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and found some information on the MIND website which explains that ‘the cycle of light and dark determines our sleeping and waking patterns. Until the widespread use of electric light, people used to wake and get up with the dawnlight and sleep when it became dark. In winter, people would sleep longer and be less active’.

Damn you electric light! Perhaps, I need to go back to those more primitive times and obey my natural body-clock, I’m sure the office will understand if I roll in at ten. The problem with this approach, though, is that it doesn’t work out so well for me in the summer months.

Anyway, MIND lists the symptoms a sufferer of SAD may present with and it appears that ‘you want to punch February in the F’ isn’t one of them so I have to surmise that I don’t technically have a mental illness. I simply have to accept that February is just there to be hated and this year it’s clinging on like grim death with its extra leapy day.

So, I welcome March with open arms and the anticipation of warmer, lighter days. I look forward to the orgasm of daffodils, sprightly lambs and Britain’s Got Talent which will climax in a ‘clocks going forward’ frenzy in around four weeks time.

Farewell February. You make everybody sick.

It’s Just My Opinion….. Ok?

Today I realised I’m afraid to have an opinion. (Well, my husband would probably disagree with that  as we’ve had the odd evening of silence after a heated discussion). What I really mean is I’m afraid to have a public opinion. (If anyone reading this follows me on Twitter they may also take issue with this statement but I’m generally following/followed by like minded people).
Don’t get me wrong, I have tweeted many an anti-Bieber tweet and regularly ridicule both panel and audience members of Question Time live on a Thursday night. But I wouldn’t directly send a hate tweet to @justinbieber and I don’t understand why people follow a celebrity simply to send them offensive messages.
I’ll also happily partake in many a debate in the local hostelry when the mood takes me. However, this isn’t the sort of opinion I’m talking about; I’m referring more to opinions on news websites or perhaps another blog where they’re there for everyone to see. People I don’t know. For. Ever.
The fear is twofold. The first is that I don’t want to appear stupid. What if I don’t know enough about the subject? What if I’m ridiculed by other commentators? What if it people don’t like me because of what I say?  The second is that I don’t like upsetting people, I like everyone to be happy. I feel sorry for the boxer who is losing the fight; I felt sorry for nasty Nick when his heinous crime of writing was exposed in Big Brother; I feel sorry for cats with no fur. Usually these are people or things I don’t like but I don’t want to offend them.
But this can’t be healthy, can it? My opinion, however misinformed it may be, is as valid as the next persons.
So I’ve decided I need some self-imposed therapy. Every day I will find a news story or article of interest and make a comment for all to see and, if necessary, deride. I’ve started already. Today I commented on an article about a comedian who is experiencing a rise in popularity but whom I don’t find funny in the slightest. I made this clear in my brief comment but finished with something like ‘some people like his stuff so good luck to him. Who am I to judge?’
Yes, I know, needs work….

Putting the ‘Pump’ into Pumpkin

When it comes to festive occasions I’m a serial‘joiner-inner’. If it’s a fancy dress party I’m all over it; I’ll happily trawl the woods for cones and fir to make decorations at Christmas and if you’re not still up at 12am on New Year’s Eve you are dead to me.
So, it’s Halloween and time to carve the pumpkin which willsignal to children dressed in black bin bags and skeleton masks that this household is ‘trick or treat friendly’.
I began the task with enthusiasm, attacking my ‘medium’pumpkin with my sharpest knife, deciding to adopt the freehand approach. Nodownloaded templates for me, no sir! The trouble is I’m not very good at‘creative’. My snowmen are usually a half-arsed disfigured affair incorporatingdog poo, I’ve never successfully iced a Christmas cake and I can’t colour within the lines.
Ten minutes later I delegated the job to Jeff. I mean, have you ever tried to cut into a pumpkin? Those things just don’t want to be eaten and they sure as hell don’t want to be carved into ghoulish proportions and have a tea light stuck into their insides only to be left languishing on a lonely window sill.

 

Jeff spent half an hour on his creation with me shouting helpful tips from the kitchen and him replying ‘why don’t you bloody do it then?’
He presented me with his finished sculpture declaring it‘crap’ and I praised his efforts as if he was a seven year old boy who’d done a‘really good job’.
What a smashing pumpkin!
Satisfied with our spooky offering, it was laid to rest on aforementioned window sill for all the young ghouls and witches to see. Sitting next to it was a bowl full of treats so they could be in no doubt that this was a house that joins in.
Then @keileybobs posted on Twitter ‘This years’ pumpkin’.‘Oh, another joiner-inner’ I thought ‘I wonder if she’s gone for a triangle nose or two dots like us..’ so I clicked the link and was greeted with a carving which wouldn’t be out of place in the National Gallery.
@keileybobs far superior creation
Ah well, practice makes perfect I guess. Now, time to research some ideas for this years’ Christmas cake…..

Eau de Free

I have purchased one of those air fresheners which automatically spray the scent of happiness, wonderment and calm into your room. It claims not only to deodorise regularly, but will actually spray if it detects odours in the room due to its special sensor.
Anyway, it was half price so I bought it.
The Tesco’s delivery arrived and I rushed straight to the bag which had been thoughtfully packed to combine the air freshener, washing liquid, carrots, onions and hot dog rolls.
I ripped open the pack and was delighted to find that ‘batteries were included’! This meant my home could be odour free within minutes!
Ignoring the instructions, I assembled the wonder item and pushed the controller to maximum. It even had a flashing light! After fifteen seconds it sprayed the aroma of a winters evening into my face (should have read the instructions) and I had to agree it was as if Christmas had already arrived.
I was slightly concerned that the combination of Gypsy (the still-not-housetrained-puppy) and Jeff (homo gasiosos) would surely mean it would be on constant spray twenty four hours a day.
I needn’t have worried; it hasn’t been spraying continuously despite the myriad of odours which currently fill my sitting room rendering it off-limits to visitors.
In fact, I am beginning to doubt its ‘automatic odour detector’. So much so that I actually made Jeff fart right at the sensor last night and nothing happened. Not so much as a teeny spray. It didn’t even look away in disgust.