Chambermaids who aspire to the Turner prize

See now, I'd rather pay £20 less per night and live without the towel sculptures. (Still, they beat Tracey Emin's unmade bed hands down.)

Warning: contains allusion to sexual activity

OK. I've decided that I'm no longer worried about the people* who get here by searching the interweb for photos of 'defecating women'.

I'm now concerned that someone from Australia arrived here having looked for advice on 'how to lick out a chick'. [Don't complain - I told you in the title what you were to expect from this post. Quick! Hit 'next blog'.]

But what makes me laugh more than the thought of how disappointed this person was to end up here is what MSN suggested they might really being trying to search for.

How or why might one try to lock out a check**?

* including yesterday's visitor from Baghdad
** assuming that what MSN means is what we in Britain call a 'cheque'

Guilty pleasures (not the first either)

 
An hour.

An hour was all it took in TK Maxx and I was walking out the door with not one, but two handbags.

The Other Handbag very much fell into the Notablinkoftheeye category insomuch as it set me back under a tenner.

But this one. Oh, THIS ONE.

In no way, shape or form can I justify the purchase of this one. Other than...

it marks a welcome departure from my dark colour leanings. (Woo hoo, I thought, it's burnt orange in a sea of browns and blacks. Actually it's more tangerine.)

it's simplicity personified (nay, handbagified) in an age of endless and excessive buckles and clips.

I've never done a handbag which you have no choice but to loop over your arm or swing at knee level. I usually insist on tuck-it-under-your-armpit-length straps or a sling-it-diagonally-across-your-person-so-as-it-cuts-into-the-crevice-between-your-boobs style.

But alas, I am not Catholic, so there are no rosary beads to rub, Hail Marys to recite or confessions to attend.

So...I have vowed to donate two old handbags to my local Oxfam shop.

Oh, and I might buy a packet of Fairtrade coffee whilst I'm in there.

(I think that pretty much cancels it out.)

The lies parents tell

Overheard in a London restaurant earlier this month:

Woman [talking into mobile]: 'Hi Dad. Yes, I'm just having a drink with a work colleague, so I won't be home until 8ish. That OK? Great. Yes, put him on...Hi, sweetie! How was your day? Good! Now, listen, Mummy's train has been delayed so she won't be home in time to give you your bath, but Grandad will bath you. Is that OK, darling? I'll come and kiss you goodnight when I get in. Be a good boy for Grandad now, won't you? Bye!'

Whenever I see James Spader all I can think of is

sexual perversion.

Which might be somewhat unfair.

I mean, what if in real life he is a pretty straight sort of a guy?

Oh no. That's Tony Blair.

Always get muddled up.

[See what happens when you take a break from blogging?]

Later, 'gators!

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Vicarious shoe joy

Ah...blue leather Mary Janes.

Chicklet #1's verdict: "Oooh! Shoes! Nice! Like it!"

**UC beams with pride**

(Sadly there were none in my size.)

Grey is the new grey

Sometimes I feel a desperate urge to belong. To feel part of some greater whole. A small, yet significant something in the grander scheme of things. On this particular day, however, my brain just would not stretch to concepts of The Universe or The Solar System. So I decided I would settle for the greater whole that is a large department store in central London.

As politicians and civil servants are wont to say, I was minded to acquire New Make-Up Habits. Yep, not just Products, but Habits.

A whole new me. Oh yes.

Having briefly consulted The Plate Invigilator (she being my own personal font of beauty and fashion knowledge), I had been tipped off to take a stroll past the MAC make-up stand.

And right enough, a leisurely stroll was all it took before I was accosted by a MAC make-up consultant.

'Can I help you?'

'Oh yes! I'm just looking for some tips, really. Well, a whole new look, actually. Thing is I've been wearing the same make-up for, ooh, decades. Seriously! And I'm just wondering: am I wearing colours that suit me? Do I need to think about changing my lipstick colour? Stuff like that....'.

[Suddenly words are tumbling out of my mouth at a rate of knots. This is so not like going to the hairdressers.]

'O-kay,' she replied. 'So...foundation?'

'Oh God no! I haven't got time for that! I have two young children and about four and a half minutes to devote to putting on make-up each day, if that. Basically, I can manage a bit of eyeliner and mascara and maybe lipstick if I'm going out.'

[She looks at me as if to say: 'My God, your life SUCKS!']

I ramble on: 'I mean, I've been wearing grey eyeliner FOREVER. See? Maybe you're going to say it doesn't suit my eye colour...I am totally open to suggestion here.'

[She looks my face up and down a bit.]

'Well, here, you could try this Super Duper Paint-It-On-Anywhere Stick Liner in taupe. That's a good colour for you.'

'Oh, so grey is not?' [I feel thrilled. A poor choice of eyeliner colour is what's been causing me to look like death warmed up! Hoorah!]

'No, grey is good for you too. Greys and browns are good.'

'Oh.'

She applies some of the taupe stuff and it looks pretty good so I say I will buy some.

'Mascara?' I inquire.

'Hmmmm, let me see...you have a lot of lashes [YAY!] but they are quite thin [BOO!], so I'd recommend Super Duper Lash-Thickening Gorgeous-Making mascara in black.'

Again, I try some on and commit to a purchase.

She saunters over to the till indicating that I should follow.

Thing is, I'm getting a taste for this make-up makeover thing, so I ask:

'As for lipsticks, I always go for a dark plum colour, but maybe I'm not choosing right? What d'you think?'

She scurries back from the till and takes me over to another stand.

'Pinks are good for you,' she muses.

'So not plum?'

'Oh no, plums are good. Here, let's try this one. OK, part your lips just a little - I'm going to put on some lipliner first.'

This takes about five minutes. Crikey. By now, the chicklets would have broken into the cupboard under the sink and downed a litre bottle of cleaning fluid. Besides, I am starting to feel like a porn star posing for a shoot. I hope I don't see anyone I know.

She disappears off, returning seconds later with the lipstick.

'Oh no! You licked your lips!'

Did I?

On goes the lipstick. Another five minutes. At this point the chicklets would have figured out how to climb onto the gas hob and given themselves third degree burns by delving their arms into a vat of boiling soup. This, I think, is why I never wear lipstick.

I'm not so sure about the lipstick. It's a bit too pink. I decide to stick to dark plums.

No matter, because now I am on a roll.

'Alright, so say I did want to wear foundation, y'know, for a special occasion...do you have some that is VERY QUICK TO APPLY?'

[I hope by now she is getting the whole 'time is of the essence' message.]

Together we scuttle off to yet another stand.

'This is a stick. You just roll it over your cheeks and forehead and blend it in with a brush.'

This sounds marvellous. She invites me to sit on a stool in front of a big, well-lit mirror.

'Oh God, I look dreadful! I look as if I haven't had a decent night's sleep for months!' [I haven't, so I guess that figures.]

She smiles. I wait for the 'no, not at all! you look great!'. She nods.

Work your magic, lady, WORK YOUR MAGIC, I think.

She starts painting the foundation on and my verbal diarrhoea continues:

'Thing is, I have two young kids. I care for them full-time, so there's not much time for beauty routines!' I chortle merrily.

'So, you don't get out much then?' she asks, her eyes full of pity.

I shake my head dolefully.

'So this is a rare afternoon off?'

I nod.

'Oh well then, we had better make the most of it! How about a bit of blusher? And I'll put some concealer under your eyes.'

I briefly feign reluctance but then say 'oh, go on then!'.

Once our session is over, I look at myself in the mirror. Yikes, I hope I don't scare the chicklets when I get home. Mr Chick will most probably think I've developed a secret amateur dramatics habit.

Still, I now possess a whole bunch of beauty secrets and tricks to rival those espoused by make-up 'I worked on The English Patient' experts on TV, and this was by far and away the most productive use I've made of the chicklets' Child Benefit.

I scoot upstairs for a cup of tea and a piece of cake. As I am shovelling the last morcels of pear and almond tart into my mouth, I find myself licking my lips. I quickly check myself in the mirror of my compact - my lipstick has half-disappeared! This explains a lot. I can't get along with lipstick because I lick my lips! Because I EAT! Dammit, there's another habit I'm going to have to kick in 2006.

Anyway, I take a long route out of the store to avoid the accusing eyes of my consultant and tootle home, stopping to pout and admire The New Me in each shop window I pass.

When I get home, I race upstairs to give the chicklets a goodnight (air)kiss.

Mr Chick looks me up and down:

'Decided to audition for 'The Mikado' after all, did you?'

Ha bloody ha.

[Image courtesy of Natalie Dee.]

Just another Friday morning at Casa Chickadee

hanging out with our squashes*: Eddie (left), Mabel (middle) and Hans (right).

(Mabel is pretty pissed off with Hans, after he took Class A drugs on their anniversary, so best friend Eddie - who's always had a thing for Mabel - is hoping to move in on her broken heart.)

* of course, the chicklets are calling them 'beans' and giving them cups of tea from their pretend teaset...which is fine

Happy Friday, y'all!

I just blew in from the Windy City

A family favourite. Gotta love Doris. (At least, I do.)

My own personal favourites

I mean, even I like some of my own nonsense. Frinstance:

• From here to a G-cup and back
• A message for the sisterhood
• I might yet be cool...
• Time for a confession
• The modern world is too complicated
• Darwinian toast
• Because gynaecology can be funny too...
• In memoriam
• Ritual torture in the form of
• How to be authentic
• Dear brown suede knee-length boots
• Parenting and food fascism
• Some of my best friends are chromophobes
• Waiter, waiter, there's bile in my soup!
• Myth-perpetuation and children's programming
• Deck the halls! Slash the car tyres!
• UC investigates...
• Grey is the new grey

If in doubt, blog about a new handbag

Specifically, the pleasure derived from a new, unanticipated handbag, which took the form of a belated birthday present from a friend.

The picture betrays its monstrous capacity. Today, in addition to my own essential items, I managed to transport a pack of nappies, a hardback copy of 'War and peace', an industrial-sized jar of lime curd and a small child in its voluminous pockets.

Marvellous. Just plain marvellous.

(Thanks, C!)

Complete the following sentence

Sitting in a queue of traffic coming back from the shops, I was tantalised by the sticker on the rear window of a white Ford transit van:

'When I die, bury me upside down so the whole world can [AT LEAST TWO WORDS OBSCURED]'

I've been wondering what those words might have been ever since.

It seems I will never know the answer, so I thought a second best would be to ask you folk to come up with some suggestions for my amusement.

[I might even offer a small prize to the winner! It might even be a postcard from me! This might be an added incentive for some people! But I doubt it.]

An aside:
Oh-oh. The people looking for 'defecating women' are back again. This time they're from Italy. And they join the splendid ranks of folk who have unwittingly hit upon my blog whilst searching for a 'chick with balls' and a 'chick f*cking a dog'. Welcome one and all!

What in tarnation...?

Prize for the first person to send in a translation of this.

Gosh, it's tough being northern European

Y'know...

the Protestant thing.

the work ethic thing.

the puritanical thing.

the cold climate thing.

Better to be Catholic. And warm.

Right?

Give me an old-fashioned polymath every time

Man, have I had it* with experts and specialists! If they're not telling us how to raise our kids, they're telling us how and when to have sex, or how best to lose weight, or how environmental destruction is going to mean another ice age or how it will mean subtropical climes in Aberdeenshire. (Dammit, these experts don't even have the good grace to agree with one another.)

A self-penned Etiquette Expert** - a rather pompous woman with a double-barrelled name who had to tip her head back to open her over-made-up eyes - ranted on Channel Five's Greatest TV Cock-Up Moments about how shocking (yes! more shocking than global poverty!) it was that no-one told Her Majesty how to take part in a rendition of Auld Lang Syne at the Millennium party in the Dome.

Heavens to Betsy! The Queen did not know to cross her arms and link hands with her two neighbours! The Prime Minister didn't tell her! Sack him! She didn't even look as if she knew the words! Sack her!

Hey! You know what? We need to big up The Polymath in 2006! Here's to:

• General Practitioners who are willing to try their hands at a little light brain surgery now and again. Hoorah!
• Jacks of All Trades who consider it a badge of honour to be Masters of None. Yay!
• Jonathan Miller. Wahoo!

And me: I can blog, care for young children and sing all the verses of Auld Lang Syne - sometimes all at the same time! You're thinking 'wow!', right?

See! Someone has even blogged about it.

* when I say 'it', I don't mean sex or Coca-Cola
** of course, an exception can be made for Nancy Mitford

I've seen the future

and let me tell you this: it does NOT involve blogging on a hand-held Blackberry from rural Derbyshire.

[Thank heaven I'm back, all snuggly inside the M25, with high-speed broadband and a Starbucks on every corner.]