For red-blooded women everywhere

It was kinda embarrassing having to ask Mr Chick to get down on his hands and knees each day. (Well, only kinda.)

If I'm honest, I rather enjoyed the position of servitude it implied.

But then I rummaged through my wardrobe and found this.

A gift from my dear, enlightened friend Mark.

It's funny the things that gained appeal during pregnancy...

I mean, dammit, it's not easy to get into your work shoes with swollen feet and a large belly.

Razorgate

It doesn't exactly surprise me to learn this but the weaker sex have been at the receiving end of yet more pain and suffering.

And the people who are supposed to help are only just coming clean.

Listen up, sisters!

Despite being told that they were being provided with products which were 'the best a man can get', it seems our menfolk have been quietly putting up with sub-standard razors which put pressure on their skin. Sheesh.

Hey! I saw it with my own two eyes! On the TV ad! I saw a guy wince when the nasty retro-razor glided over his stubbly cheek!

And it's only now after years, nay, decades of silent suffering that they have help in the form of a Gillette Fusion razor.

So guys, throw out your MachTurbos, your Mach3Turbos and your ArbeitMachtFreiTurbos, 'cause, rather surprisingly, the noo Gillette Fusion features blades that only fit Gillette Fusion handles. Fancy that! (I guess they need to recoup some of those research costs somehow, poor loves.)

But maybe it's not so bad. I am reliably informed by the Gillette website that only 31% of European men have facial hair. Hoodathunkit? I guess I am only hanging out with the alpha male, testosterone-charged third, then.

Gillette: the best a man can get. (For now. Until we try harder. Well, at least until you've invested heavily in this product line.)

Lesson in life: procrastination pays

Have you done your History revision? I'll do it tomorrow.

Did you book that dental appointment? Not yet - what's the hurry?

Isn't mid June a little late to be planting tomato seeds? Hey! I have faith in the Scottish weather!

*******

So.

They didn't ripen.

So?

So!

They made a wicked green tomato chutney, so give over already!

The 'cool at school' formula unpicked

[Clearly, I am talking about coolness amongst the female pupils. Large bosoms were not a 'cool' quotient in the male pupils. Well, not mostly.]

Straight hair is the new safe sex

Back in my day, the toilets in student buildings had condom machines.

Maybe some overpriced sanitary wear.

But always three-packs of novelty condoms.

And now? Not a flavoured Durex in sight.

Huh?

Well, it seems that frizzy hair is the new social disease.

The good people at Beautiful Vending tell us more:

"We all know how frustrating the British weather can be, the rain, wind and even the heat can cause perfectly styled hair to 'frizz' and ruin the best night or day out. The saviour of bad hair days has arrived, the Straight Up machine is now available in clubs, bars and gyms, so for those occasions when sleek and sexy turns to shock and horror, we have the solution."

Heavens alive.

So now, £1 buys you 90 seconds (yep, just 90 seconds, gals - get busy with those tongs!) of hair straightening fun.

Compared with a three-pack of strawberry-flavoured condoms, which buys you...well, y'know...

I know which one I would choose*.

But my favourite testimontial came from Steve McColm, Business Development Manager at Luminar Leisure:

"The Straight Up machines have brought increased value to our female customer's** 'going out' experience and the guys aren't complaining either."

What????????

* Motherhen/Ol' Rooster: the hair tongs, obviously
** sic: yes, just the one customer, it seems

Yet more vicarious footwear thrills

Warning: navy blue Mary Janes can be habit-forming.

Ode to Ed Stourton

Ed Stourton, Ed Stourton -
Have you ever shopped in Burton?
Your plummy tones suggest
Your suits are double breast.

Ed Stourton, Ed Stourton -
You're tall (of that I'm certain).
But taller than Jon Snow?
Of that I do not know.

Ed Stourton, Ed Stourton -
Are you friendly with Paul Merton?
He doesn't seem your type
(And nor does Michael Stipe).

Ed Stourton, Ed Stourton -
Your voice seeps through my curtain.
As morning tea I sup,
I know I must get up.

Ed Stourton, Ed Stourton -
It's somewhat disconcertin'
To think you'll never see
This ode to you from me.

'An ode to Ed Stourton' is the second in a very long, drawn-out (read: patchy and intermittent) series of poems about male British journalists. The first poem in the series was 'Advice for Mark Austin'. Still wondering who Ed is? (I'm horrified.). Click here for more information. *tuts incredulously*

Irked

I've always been a (conscious and conscientious) objector to the whole ninety nine pence thing. Y'know, the whole 'well, if we make it £19.99, no-one will really realise that it's actually twenty quid, because paying twenty-something quid for [insert name of unnecessary consumer item] would create a psychological barrier in the eyes of the potential purchaser' ('yah, yah, Tristan - good point!'). Et cetera.

I mean, what a dim view the marketeers of the world must have of the Great British Public!

Up the revolution and all that (provided guillotines are not involved...public beheadings? very unpleasant, I should imagine).

But cut to yesterday in Waterstones, when I find myself making an impromptu purchase of Hilary Mantel's autobiography (£7.99).

'That'll be eight pounds!' trills the assistant.

Huh?

I screw up my eyes and check the liquid crystal display on the till.

Nope, seven ninety-nine.

I hand over a tenner.

The till drawer shoots out.

The assistant passes me the receipt, two pound coins and A PENNY.

*******

This lack of precision irked me.

I am clearly not ready for The Revolution.

Paid to ask the difficult questions

The Downing Street morning press briefing from Monday 7 August covered hostilities in the Middle East, the UN's proposals on Iran's development of nuclear weapons and the death of a British soldier in Afghanistan before the Prime Minister's Spokeswoman (PMS*) was questioned on an announcement from the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA):

Asked further about DEFRA's fishing announcement on Wednesday, the PMS said she believed it was about sea bass. [A journalist] asked if it was about how to cook sea bass, the PMS said it was not, but people should speak to the department for further information.

Earlier in the summer, there was an extended Q&A session on the watering of the gardens at Number Ten:

Asked by Bloomberg if the Prime Minister's Official Spokesman (PMOS) had any tips for getting rid of nettles in his garden, the PMOS said that depending on the question asked, his reply could be to go and jump in them! However, people should take the sting out of this issue...[groan]

Asked if the Prime Minister ever "had a go at the watering", the PMOS said that he had never known him to do so.

Asked by The Times if the roses were in bloom at the moment, the PMOS replied that he had not recently inspected the roses.

Put that the Prime Minister "was known" to have had a kick around in the Downing Street lawns, and would he recommend that during a period of drought, the PMOS said that he had never seen the Prime Minister have a kick around in the Downing Street lawns, therefore, he could not comment on that.

Oh, there's plenty of good craic over at Number Ten of a weekday morning...

* I know: unfortunate

The unsaid

It's early evening at my corner shop on a Friday night.

The man (boy?) in front of me - blonde, faintly tanned, three quarter length shorts in a garish shade of pink doubtless professing his comfortableness with traditionally feminine colours - is wielding a very large bottle of something resembling diluted urine and seven bananas.

As the shop assistant swivels this oversized receptacle to flash it over the barcoder reader, my worst fears are realised: it is a 1.5 litre bottle of Lambrini. And I can see from the till display that it's costing him the equivalent of a couple of lottery tickets. Egads.

I'm thinking: here we have a beer drinker who has been asked out to A Girl's House for dinner. He's probably decided: girl's house for dinner? Must Take Wine. Don't know wine. Only know beer. Want to look generous. Have limited budget. Woooooo! A big bottle of wine for £2.75? T'rrific! (Oh. And need bananas for tomorrow's hangover. Replace lost potassium. Seven??)

I want to say: NOT LAMBRINI! Jesus, no! No gal is gonna respect you for turning up with a giant sized bottle of fizzy urine! If you can't stretch to a regular sized bottle of something from one of those countries who've recently joined the EU, then for God's sake, just take a four pack of Guinness. OR EVEN STELLA!

But of course, I say nothing. I buy my two pack of Gu chocolate souffles and emergency can of Coke and get the heck home.

*******

He says: So! Are you planning on remaining a Full [pause for dramatic effect] Time [pause for dramatic effect] Mum for the forseeable future?

I hear: So! Are you planning on remaining a (More) Fool (You) Time Mum for the forseeable future?(!)*

I want to say: Man, am I ever! I just adore the high status accorded Fool Time Mumhood by so-sigh-it-ee! And the support we get from some corners of the sisterhood for the choice we have made to stay at home with our children? Hell! That's just a bonus. And you know how everyone jokes that our brains must be mush on account of talking about human excrement all day? That is so funny!!

What I actually say: Yes.

* optional exclamation mark was purely my (most likely correct) interpretation of his tone