FLOWER GIRL

For a few weeks, I have been haunted by a statistic that I read on blogland.  A statistic which stated that the average blogger lasts for three months.  My three-month anniversary is this weekend, but I’m off for a few days to a 'family do' so this is my last post.    I hope to be back next week.  

Oh dear.  Last sounds a bit final.  Hope sounds a little negative. But I often find that when I’ve been away from blogging for a few days, I find it hard to get back in to it.  Are these two facts on a collision course?  Is this crunch weekend?  Will I be hit by the three-month curse?   Will the will to blog simply evaporate?  And what on earth will I find to do to fill the hours previously spent blogging? 

Well, whatever it is, I hope it’s better than spending a day cooking for dozens of relatives, slicing off the top of my finger, bathing a stinking dog, and reading about bloody statistics.

*goes off to wrap presents, bottle up toffee sauce, spray dog with perfume, singing*

"Oh no, not I
I will survive
as long as i know how to blog
I know I'll stay alive
I've got all my life to live
I've got all my waffle to give
and I'll survive
I will survive..."

Have a good weekend everyone.

Dog knew something big was about to happen.  Her blanket had been washed; her suitcase had been packed with dog biscuits, bowls, squeaky toy and lead, and the magic word ‘car’ had been mentioned in the same sentence as her name.  It could only mean one thing: a trip to the extended family.  The only downside to date was that her offer of helping to pack her suitcase with dog biscuits had been firmly rebuffed and that she had had an unwelcome bath.

MumBoss had had to forego the morning walk in order to do the shopping for ‘a big family-do’ at the weekend.   A double bonus, thought Dog.  Not only would her walk be under the far more casual supervision of DadBoss, but she would come home in time to help with a big cooking session.  

MumBoss didn’t seem that keen to see her when she returned from her walk.   In fact she yelled at DadBoss.  ‘Christ, what’s that stink? Oh no, she’s rolled in something.  It’s all over her blanket – the cupboard – the door… didn’t you keep an eye on her?’.   DadBoss had had to wash her again.  He was a bit sulky about it – almost as sulky as Dog, and almost as equally wet by the time they’d finished.  But they both had enough sense to keep out of MumBoss’s way, as she was making pastry for a treacle tart whilst simultaneously trying to make Sticky Ginger Toffee Puddings.  ‘Not a good idea,’ thought Dog ‘It’s bound to go wrong –she can’t walk and chew bonios at the same time’.  Sure enough, MumBoss began cursing as she sliced open her finger and burnt the other hand on the other door.  Dog knew it made sense to hide under the kitchen table and not draw attention to herself.   But soon the kitchen began to fill with delicious smells. Dog decided it was time to supervise a bit more closely.  

A short while later, whilst sat out in the cold porch, Dog reflected that it had been a mistake not to have warned MumBoss that she had followed her to the oven to help get out the treacle tart.  MumBoss had been rather clumsy again, and after stepping back onto Dog, she had knocked the pastry against the oven door.  She hadn’t even apologised to Dog, let alone let her help to clear up the pastry.  Now it was the normal time for dinner preparation, but MumBoss had disappeared with a glass of wine.

Dog thought she’d better remind MumBoss that the sausages needed to be cooked.  But after the eigth bark, MumBoss just shouted ‘Shut up, Dog’.  Dog thought she’d might as well go and lie on her bed and wait for the sausage session to start,.  But she regretted her decision when she realized that her blanket was extremely smelly.  'Oh, blimey, she thought.  I’ve got to sit on this in the car for five hours tomorrow'!'

In his prime, my dad was a more than capable person.  He built this, invented that – no challenge was too great.   He is still like this, as he approaches a youthful 80.  But  I am beginning to assume that he achieved all these things the Stonehenge way, without the aid of technology.  Because my dad is in a running battle with technology, and so far it is Technology 8, Dad 0.

We are the only family I know who bought a dish-washer only for it to catch fire.  On his first outing with a ride-on lawn mower, after months spent persuading him to part with the cash instead of moaning about how long it took to cut the lawns, he drove it into the pond.   The list is endless.

His latest bête noire is the telephone – and in particular, the answering machine element.    He has got through three sets in the last two years.   For the latest version, he sought assurances from BT that it would meet his requirements: hands-free, took answers, different handsets for different rooms etc.   The first time I rang home, it rang for several minutes, then a woman’s voice (not my mother’s) told me that no-one was home and to try later.  

When I mentioned this to my dad, he was outraged.  It was supposed to take a message, he said indignantly, before revealing that they were home at the time of my call but wanted to test out the new phone.     So he is now re-reading the manual to try to work out how to get the answering bit working.  And I thought I’d help by suggesting a few suitable answering messages for it:

• Hello. Now you say something.
• Hello, I'm not home right now but my answering machine is, so you can talk to it instead. Wait for the beep.
• You know what I hate about answering machine messages? They go on and on, wasting your time. I mean, all they really need to say is, "We aren't in, leave a message." That's why I've decided to keep mine simple and short. I pledge to you, my caller, that you will never have to suffer through another long answering machine message when you call me...
• Hello. I'm John’s answering machine. What are you?
• Hello! John's answering machine is broken. This is his refrigerator. Please speak very slowly, and I'll stick your message to myself with one of these magnets.
• Hello. I'm home right now but cannot find the phone. Please leave a message and I will call you back as soon as I find it.

And lest you should think I am being somewhat unsympathetic, particularly given his age, he should be able to cope with the phone at least.  He worked as a telephone engineer for much of his life.  

One of the good things about this time of year is the proliferation of 'gift' books. The type of books that feature quirky, oddities about life. Seeking out something for my dad's birthday, I came across 'The Book of Fascinating Facts'.

It should be called the book of alarming facts. It claims an apple a day can kill you because the pips contain cyanide, that bananas are radio-active as are mussels and brazil nuts, that bone China is really made from bones, albeit animal bones (as if that makes it better) and bluebottles can smell meat from four miles away.

That's it. I'm going on a chocolate-only diet - I couldn't find any bad news about that. Except that it is poisonous if given to dogs. As if, she'd have to fight me.

I was having a clear out over the weekend and came across a box of stuff in the loft with the words 'keepsakes' scrawled across it. Almost top of the pile was a little notebook that I used to write down the titles of all the singles that I used to collect.

Oh, boy! I hope my taste has improved over the years. For though there were a few songs I still love, the rest of them were - well, frankly, complete pants. So here, some from my 'collection', some from the 'Top Twenty' chart lists I pasted in my notebook (probably cut out from 'Jackie') and some that are played as 'classics' on the radio, are a few of the songs that must rate as the worst songs ever:

‘Ernie’ – Benny Hill
‘Agadoo’ - Black Lace
‘Rabbit’ – Chas and Dave
‘If’ – Telly Savalas
‘Save your love’ – Renee and Renato
‘Macarena’ – Los Del Rio
‘Two Little Boys’ – Rolf Harris
‘Chirpy chirpy cheep cheep – Middle of the Road
‘Shaddap you face’ – Joe Dolce Music Theatre
‘Granddad’ – Clive Dunn
‘The Birdy Song’ – The Tweets
'Achy Breaky Heart' – Billy Ray Cyrus
‘Lady in Red’ – Chris de Burgh
‘Where do you go to my lovely?’ - Peter Sarstedt
‘Seasons in the sun’ – Terry Jacks
‘I will always love you’ – Whitney Houston

Needless to say, none of them have been downloaded onto my ipod!

When I visited the library at the weekend, one of the books I brought home with me was 'The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook'.   i'm not sure why - I suppose I might have have been panicked by its exhortation that 'You must have a survival plan.  And your plan should consider the following essential elements: food, fire, water and shelter, as well as signals and first aid.'

Well, it must have triggered of my 'Be Prepared' alarm switch, because minutes later I had dived into the Co-op and stocked up on wine. peanuts, chocolate and fire-lighters for the evening ahead.  Then I got into the shelter of my car, and made a  signal at the old duffer in front  who had mistakenly put his car into reverse instead of 1st when about to leave the car park.  Fortunately, I didn't need the first aid essential element after that particular signal.

I now know, however, how to escape from quicksand, a mountain lion and killer bees, how to wrestle free from an alligator, and how to fend off a shark.  I also know how to jump from a building into a dumpster, how to leap from a motorcycle to a car, how to manoevre on top of a moving train and get inside and how to win a sword fight.  What I am still left in the dark about is why I would need to know these things, living as I do on the Isle of Wight.

What is potentially useful is the advice about how to deal with a charging bull, since there is a bull in the National Trust field next to us that we walk through with Dog.  He seems more interested in his lady friends than us, but you never can tell.   But now I know that I should not antagonise him.  As if!  And I should look around for a safe haven - but running away isn't likely to help as bulls can easily outrun humans.  And it is a very large field - even Paula Radcliffe would struggle to run from one side to the other.

If the bull charges, and if save haven is not available, one should remove one's shirt, hat or another article of clothing to distract the bull.  The bull will react to movement, so throw the article as far as possible and the bull will move towards it.

And there the advice stops!  So do you risk running when it is checking out your tee-shirt or do you stand as still as a statue until completely naked, and hope another rambler comes along?  And will it become even madder when it realises that it is a stinky, Primark rag worn for six days by a rambler trying to walk around the island without stopping?

Frankly, the thought of ramblers and my neighbours stripping off makes me want to try my chances with the  alligator.

My friend, Mr. Flighty, had a horrible experience at the weekend, thanks to children being allowed to run amok over his allotment, on which he has spent an immense amount of time, not to mention money, over the last few months.  Why does it seem so difficult for some parents to discipline their children these days?  Not harsh discipline, but the meaning of the word 'no', and respect for other people and their belongings.

This afternoon, I called in at the supermarket.  I was tired and slightly stressed from work, and not frankly at my most tolerant best.  (Oh, all right, I was downright irritable).  I normally avoid the supermarket cafė, as it is a noisy place at best of times .  But this time I was desperate for a coffee and it was relatively empty.  So I sat down with my coffee and the paper.  Minutes later, two women with three children, aged from 5 to 8, sat down at the table behind me.  At least the two women did.  They began a good gossip.

Their children began to play catch.  They ran around the tables.  Again and again.  They barged into my chair, they barged into the bloke at the next table, they barged into an old lady's shopping trolley.  Again and again.  Periodically, one of the women would go 'Shhh!', which the children ignored with contempt.   Eventually, the bloke next to me and I must have simultaneously blew a fuse.  He got up with an irritated 'tut' and left.   I swivelled around in my chair and glared at the two women.

To their credit, they weren't the kind to hurl abuse back.  They got the message and managed to call over their children.  A lot of whispering followed.  A few minutes later, the children walked past my table.  Tthey looked at me with eyes  as big as saucers - their mothers had obviously warned them that I was the female equivalent of the bogeyman.

And I couldn't help it.  I pulled a 'Grrrrr' face at them.  And they rushed back to their mother, sat down, and drank their drinks.   I may well have given them nightmares and induced bed-wetting.  Do I care?  No, I want to rush out and buy that book 'Warning: When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple'  and see what else I can do to out-badly behave badly behaved children.

President John F Kennedy was assassinated?  I don' t, but then I was only four at the time..  But over the weekend I read again that people always remembered what they were doing when they heard the news and it made me wonder what events had had a similar effect on me.  So far, I've come up with the following events, when I can visualise the exact moment .

• The first moon landing on 20 July 1969. ( I sat holding my breath, convinced that an alien would emerge from behind a rock);
• John Lennon's assassination on 8 December 1980;
• The news that Princess Diana had been in a car crash and was injured (31 August 1997);
• 9/11 - 11 September 2001,

There have been other events that I can recall clearly, but no others that I can see as if the moment was frozen in time.  What about you?

Phew! Why is it that no matter how fit you get from one form of exercise (or two in my case - walking and cycling), you still feel completely crocked after doing another. I've spent the last two days clearing the garden of leaves and dying plants. My legs and back are aching, and I feel more tired than if I'd spent a day walking. It's not exactly an unknown activity for me - but I suppose I've spent less time out there and on the allotment for the last couple of months (BAD, BAD, BLOGGING!)

Clearing up the leaves produced a happy wildlife moment. A toad had squashed himself into the soil under a pile of leaves, presumably to hibernate. I've covered him back up and hope he won't change hotels as a result of my interference. And the compost bin is providing a mystery. Normally this is full of vegetable peelings and plant debris that seem to stay uncomposted for months. (I would try turning it more often, but last time managed to chop a poor slow worm's tail off in the process so have decided to delay disturbing it until Spring). However, over the last couple of weeks, the vegetable peelings keep disappearing, and there are two holes in the compost. This is making me a bit anxious every time I lift the lid - if it is a mouse, I'm ok. If it is a rat, you will hear the scream on the mainland.

Aches apart, I've enjoyed the last couple of days. It is amazing how a bit of sunshine, nature and fresh air can drive off the negative cold feelings and help a bad headache.

I’ve made up my mind.  I am going to follow the Queen’s example and have an official birthday rather than a birthday that coincides with the run up to Christmas.

I’ve long resented this close proximity of the two events.  How many times have I been told ‘Oh, we didn’t post your present to you, as we’ll be seeing you over Christmas’. It is pointless going out for a celebratory meal, because the only menu is a Christmas one. and you are surrounded by work parties trying rather over-determinedly to have fun.   It’s usually a gloomy, grey day, which hardly helps you to celebrate being another year older.  

By the time my birthday arrives, most of Britain have already put up their Christmas tree, lights and decorations weeks ago – and are now sweeping up pine needles and replacing light bulbs.   Everywhere you go, there are weary Christmas tunes and signs of the greed, excess, tension and discord that will end in depression, marital break-up, obesity and massive debt.  Who can feel good about a birthday in those conditions?

And it’s no fun for my husband either – he has to do double present duty.  It is a credit to his imagination and determination that I get really inventive, fun presents for both events rather than – ‘Here’s a cheque!’.  But it must make a considerable dent in his wallet and his time.

So henceforth, my official birthday will be in June, in sunshine, with a lunch celebrated outside in a garden full of roses.   And, while I am at it, I regally decree that henceforth I shall live my life according to the EllieGantian calendar, which counts birthdays backwards.  

I've mentioned before the joys of shopping locally at our thriving village shop. Now I have another reason to be celebrate - well, two in fact. I bought some eggs today - local, free-range ones, naturally - and to my excitement one of them turned out to be a double-yolked egg. I haven't come across this since I was a child living in the countryside.

My husband - a townie by birth and upbringing - had never seen one ever - so it was a double celebration until I clumsily broke one yolk during the frying. And who knows, given my luck, next time I visit the shop maybe the bottle of wine I buy will have a second hidden inside it too... *exits stage left singing 'I'm so very lucky, lucky lucky lucky' out of tune ...

Once again, I am left absolutely disgusted by another abysmal England performance. You would think that by now at least one of a bunch of men with umpteen-odd caps under their belt would know the words to the National Anthem. Their music coach must go, NOW!

Once again, it has been brought home to me that I have a sadly puerile mind.  For whenever I hear the news that Chancellor Alistair Darling is having to deal with yet another embarrassing incident, all I can think of is the Blackadder scene when Stephen Fry's General Melchett said 'Captain Darling will pump you thoroughly in the debriefing room." 

I would like to congratulate the woman who went to the theatre the other night. I would like to commend her for her success in drowning out about 50% of the performance by sneezing, sniffing and rustling in her handbag for tissues and cough sweets. I would also like to thank her for her generosity in sharing her cold with other theatre goers. Either that or I would like to kick her arse really really hard.

'STAY AT HOME NEXT TIME, YOU SELFISH COW!!!!'

(Oh, did I mention that I have a cold?)

http://www.lookandlearn.com/history/index.php

When I was a child, my parents used to treat me, my brother and sisters to a weekly magazine.   We girls used to get ‘Jackie’, and would spend hours poring over such treats as the ‘Cathy & Claire’ problem page, reader’s true life experience and fashion and make-up tips – the latter ensuring that we went out looking like blue-eyed pandas.  And the pull-out posters of pop stars and bands were fought over - I won Donny Osmond and The Sweet.

My brother, however, got Look and Learn.  I can see the reasoning behind this.  My brother was cast in the Just William mould, the bane of our teachers and the despair of my parents.  Buying him Look and Learn each week was a noble, but futile, bid to channel his attention from mischief-making into more educational matters.  It didn’t work, of course.  I remember my mother almost weeping during a birthday party for my brother.  He had dared his pals to jump from the cowshed loft onto a nearby pile of straw.  A daring-do in itself – but he neglected to inform them that it was a manure heap.  My mother spent the afternoon frantically washing a pile of socks and shoes before parents’ turned up to claim their sons.

When my brother finally left home, my mother cleared out his room.  It was something like a Dickens scene – piled high with clutter accumulated over his youth.  Birds eggs, animal bones, air rifle pellets and cartridges, fishing tackle, broken penknives etc. lay everywhere – all propped on pristine piles of unread Look and Learn magazines.  

But there is still hope for my brother.  To my astonishment and joy, I discovered that Look and Learn lives on.  It is possible to buy a subscription for the ‘Best of’ – so that’s my brother’s Christmas present sorted!

I was awoken this morning by rain splattering against the window like tracer bullets.  Not again, I thought.  Yesterday evening’s dog walk was a miserable experience in a force 7 gale wind, icy rain driven in from the sea in horizontal sheets and ivy-clad trees coming down along the footpaths.  I got home soaked to the skin, with numb hands and a dripping nose and hated every minute of it.

But this morning was a distinct improvement.   It rained, but a steady splattering rather than horizontal sleet, and the wind had dropped.  Down at the Bay, the sea was still wild. The air smelt wonderful – tangy, seaweedy, salt.  The beach and part of the promenade were covered in seaweed.  The waves roll up the lifeboat and boat slipways and were it not for a wooden barrier put in front of the lifeboat house, the sea can flood the road, making the prospect of the Island of West Wight a distinct possibility.
 
Whenever I see the waves boiling and smashing around the stacks in the Bay, I always feel in awe of the courage of those who volunteer for lifeboat service.  Today, most of their rescues involve yachts with broken down engines or people stranded on the cliffs or floating out to see on lilos.    But a century or so ago, it was a very different scenario.  The South coast of the island is littered with the wrecks of ships that came to grief on the rocky ledges- forty-seven are recorded between The Needles and St Catherine’s Point, the southern-most tip of the island.   For the lifeboat men, often it wasn’t just a case of launching the boat and attempting a rescue.  Sometimes, sea conditions meant hauling the heavy lifeboat to a less dangerous launch spot along the coast.

The wreck of the Sirenia in 1888 exemplifies the selfless courage of the lifeboat men who risked their lives regularly in the sort of weather – and worse – that I found difficult merely to walk a dog in.  

Can anyone tell me how to insert a link into a post, either to someone else's post or a web article, by just writing in a clickable word, like 'here'? All I've managed to do so far is to cut and paste an http line, but it's rather unwieldy and unattractive?

Any advice gratefully received!

I got up this morning, awoken by the sound of gale force winds and rain rattling the windows. Unfortunately, my brain decided to have a Sunday lie-in.

The Plan:

a flurry of household chores so that I could spend a cosy day on family history research and blogging.

The Reality:

Hoover lounge, hall and kitchen.
Clean out wood burner.
Spill ashes on lounge floor. Curse.
Hoover lounge floor a second time.

Take ashes out to compost bin at the end of the garden.
In gale and rain - return to house resembling a grey seal.
Wash face and hands.
Put load of washing on.

Wash breakfast things, tidy kitchen, take out rubbish.
Leave wet footprints on kitchen floor. Mop up.
Wipe down units.
Dog and Man return from walk.
In gale and rain - both resembling black seals.
Man hands me towel to dry off Dog. Dog decides it will be quicker if she does it herself.
Wipe down units. Mop up.

Got bottle of brandy out of cupboard - to feed Christmas cake only but sooooo tempted.

Yell 'Oh, nice of you to get up brain!' Brain mumbled back.

To be continued - hopefully not.

Or rather Ho, ho, ho!  Offended yet?  I’ll say it again, even louder, in case you didn’t quite get the gist?  HO! HO! HO!  Hands up if you are a female and I have offended you. I thought so - I can’t see anyone.

Most of us know that ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! is just an expression of forced jolliness by a fat guy in an ill-fitting suit in Santa’s Grotto.  The lack of sincerity being due to his goodwill wearing a little thin after hours of enduring small children scream at the sight of him, ungrateful children complaining they didn’t like the present he had given them or suspicious children trying to pull his beard off.

Boy, are we stupid. What? You didn’t know he was accusing you of being a lady of the night?  I can understand your scepticism. Had he shouted “You’re a ho, you are” you might have understood his accusation perhaps.  But then again, if you are unfamiliar with US slang, you might be astonished to learn that Santa thinks you are an instrument for attacking weeds, and worried that he might have slipped through the social services and police screening net.

As it is, logic suggests that the only time three American slang ‘hos’ makes sense is when a man is standing in front of three ladies and you left the mother-in-law and sister outside.   Perhaps its transatlantic roots are the US equivalent of ‘eeny meeny miny mo’.

Well, if you are offended, then by all means book your Christmas holiday in Sydney.  Santa should greet you with a cry of ‘ha ha ha’ instead.  Perhaps not.  You might be inclined to assume that he might be calling you a harpy.  Better to stick with the traditional – book a trip to Lapland. If you still can - it’s surely only a matter of time before it ceases to exist, expunged from maps and minds alike because it sounds just too smutty to PC people like you.   

Whatever you do, don’t go to la-la land.  Some of us need to go there to escape the sad reality of PC party-poopers.

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/afp/20071115/tod-lifestyle-australia-christmas-offbea-37b0eca_1.html

Lists featured quite prominently in my excursions into blogland yesterday. It prompted me to write a couple of my own.  One was a list of my favourite smells.  When I am feeling a bit down, a whiff of some of these can be extremely uplifting:

1. Freshly dried hay or freshly mown grass
2. Washing that has been dried outdoors on the line
3. The smell of woodsmoke at dusk in the autumn/winter
4. The Sea
5. Freshly baked bread
6. Lavender scented candles
7. Roast lamb infused with rosemary and/or garlic
   
8. Verveine Savon de Marseille
9. Resin in a pine forest
10. A large bunch of lilies
11. Night-scented stock in the garden on a starry night
12. Candyfloss at a fair
13. Fried bacon
    
14. My favourite perfume – Eau d’Hadrian by Annick Goutal
15. A baby’s newly washed hair

I know that I am not the world's best person at keeping up with showbiz gossip. But surely the whole point of 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me out of Here' is that one should be, um, a celebrity. I've just had a look at this year's stars contestants' lineup and I only recognise three names.

How on earth can I be expected to enjoy watching someone being humiliated if I don't know whether they deserve it or not?

Oh, silly me. The mere fact that they signed up means they deserve the humiliation and the prospect of a top prize future of advertising frozen food.

My friend Tylluan Penry wrote a post yesterday called Thought for Today  about the importance of appreciating our lives.  Her post brought to mind one of my favourite poems by William Henry Davies:

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

This afternoon, Dog and I took the long way round to post my letters - through the field with the g(r)azing cows, across the downs, down through the wood, along my favourite lane, which is covered with wild clematis seedheads, shining like snow in the sun.  A crisp, sunny, blue-sky, autumn day, so I sat on the gate and stared at the sea whlst dog hunted for squirrels, mice and rabbits.

 And we both came home feeling that it doesn't get much better than that.

 

I knew I tempted fate when I wrote, a few weeks back, that we hardly ever get any frost on the Isle of Wight.  I awoke this morning to the sound of windscreen scraping and the realisation that I was cold, despite being the possessor of 75% of the duvet.   So I have come up with a four-point plan to beat the cold:

1. Clean out the woodburning stove, get a pile of logs and newspapers ready for a match and take a bottle of wine out of the larder to ensure it defrosts warms up in time for a cosy evening in front of a roaring fire.
2. Turn the house upside down looking for the winter tog duvet.
3. Put on as many layers of jumpers and fleeces as possible until arm movement is restricted to unavoidably necessary movements like typing, eating and drinking but not cleaning or ironing.
4. Eat a really sugary jam doughnut.  This doesn't exactly make you feel warmer, but since the layers ensure that no-one can tell where the fat you ends and the puffy wool starts, who cares about its detrimental effects on figure until Spring.

That's it.  I am bravely attempting to work without switching the central heating to full time, or turning it up 10 degrees.  And all I can say about the person who recommends that you turn down the thermostat by a few degrees to save the Environment is that he or she must live in the Tropics.  Bah!    Brrrr.

Another booklet giving useful advice on how to have the perfect Christmas has arrived.  It came with a woman's magazine that I have read, on and off, for years.   A few years ago, there were two recurring themes in the magazine.  The first was "How to be Superwoman'. 

This was to be achieved, apparently, by organising your life until it was trussed up tighter than a Christmas turkey.  This would then enable you to have a full-time, ladder-topping career, whilst being a loving, supportive and nurturing wife and mother.  Your children would be well-behaved,  articulate high achievers, and you yourself would have a whole raft of creative, fulfilling leisure interests (many of which could  be turned into money-making ventures because you were that good at them).   It went without saying that you would be a good cook, cooking all meals from scratch (despite a twelve-hour day in the office and a frantic dash around the supermarket en route home, after collecting the children from their activities). You would be an accomplished party giver, and you would have a tastefully decorated, lovely home (the soft furnishings having been made by you, naturally).  You would also have dozens of dear, close friends with whom you shared your secrets and aspirations over a glass of chardonnay at least once a week and you would achieve all these things whilst being beautifully and stylishly turned out and made-up.   And. naturally, your sex life would be amazing.

The other recurring theme was 'How to Cope with Stress',  

In time, someone appears to have worked out that it was not possible ‘to have your cake and eat it too’ and ‘that way madness lies’ and it was highly possible that rising stress levels and super woman efforts were linked.

 More recent themes have focussed on quality of life issues.  But the striving for womanly perfection cannot be quashed entirely, it seems.  The booklet is entitled ‘A Busy woman’s guide to Christmas – great ideas for a stress-free day’.  Thirty-two pages of recipes, advice, entertaining, getting children involved and ‘finding new ways to jazz up tired decorations’ to cope with panics, dilemmas and challenges.

Panic? Dilemma? Challenge?    Christmas last for two days at most. It is a slightly more complex Sunday lunch with a buffet supper and lunch weekend with perhaps a few more people around than usual. Complex only because the roasting pan, even oven, might not be big enough.  And if guests find my decorations ‘tired’ – well, tough.  They are all treasures to me, collected over the years from different towns, even countries, and I love them.

It reminds me once again that I am never, ever going to become a contender in the ‘Super woman of the Year’ Award.  If I wanted to try, I would turn to organising famine relief in a disadvantaged country.  It would clearly take less effort than organising Superwoman’s perfect Christmas.