FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – RITES OF PASSAGE

There are few things that direct the mind to the march of time than the arrival of a new baby. 

I can almost hear the gossip now … “She kept that quiet, and fancy at her age!”

Well, I’m pleased to say it’s not me, but Steve’s niece who gave birth to a healthy baby boy a couple of weeks ago.  Baby Luke heralded the start of a new generation in our family, a mantle that James has been proud to hold for almost as long as he could talk.

When the news came, I suppose I was just a little melancholy at the memory of all those rows of baby clothes that lined the wardrobe, the boxes of disposable nappies that filled the boot of the car on each shopping trip, and the thought of all those lovely little semi-spoonerisms that kids utter with such ease.

Of course like most parents, we wished we had taken the time to write them all down, if only to cause major embarrassment at significant times of teenage and young adolescent life.  But alas, we will have to rely on memory to “eke” just a small amount of fun from those happenings and events that cause such great merriment to those of us now in the middle-age and older generation.

Rites of passage are a funny thing.  They can create great pride, cause mayhem or make you realise how time flies.

At around about the time that young Luke made his entrance to the world, we received a letter advising that – as a pending school leaver – James would need a national insurance number.  OMG (!!) it suddenly dawned on me that my once dependent child was soon to be old enough to start contributing to the household budget that he had single handedly sent through the ozone layer; and this had been achieved by him consuming vast amounts of food, cost us inordinate amounts in sports club subscriptions and polishing off enough trainers to provide an emerging economic nation with sufficient footwear to get them through at least three Olympic games!

My once dependent child!

Whilst sitting at the dinner table that evening, I realised that James’ Saturday afternoons out with mates, were slightly alcohol filled forays into early adolescence and a little extra use of his Dad’s aftershave was designed to impress the opposite sex.  Everything I had done (not using my Dad’s aftershave I hasten to add!) to a greater or lesser extent over ?!!@?!!  years ago, my son was now doing and enjoying every moment.

A few days later, after I had sort of regained my composure over this rite of passage, I was slapped in the face with another.  The last official school day was over, and a triumphant return from full time education was marked with the school polo shirt signed by all manner of friends and acquaintances – and there were even some teacher’s signatures sending wishes of good luck for the future.

Now, I must confess I cried my eyes out when the primary school polo shirt came home in much the same fashion five years ago, but to see “smiley faces” replaced by “Luv U ” next to the names of kids I could remember on the first day at school was just too much to bear.

So the polo shirt got lovingly parcelled up and placed with all the other childhood memorabilia and then it was onto the next rite of passage … Preparation for the school prom.

Having bawled my eyes out at the signed polo shirt, I can tell you that the Gents outfitters to which we went to acquire the dinner suit resembled the swimming pool at our local leisure centre by the time we left the shop.  The whole experience was made all the more emotional by the sound of the Alison Moyet track “All cried out” blaring from the HMV store next door.

That left me wondering whether I could cope with the next rite of passage in the form of the holiday “with my mates”.  A couple of weeks ago I had a conversation about this very subject with a few of my “girly” friends, and was reassured when told, that “so long as Mum and Dad are paying, the kids will still want to come away with you”.  But hopefully, I will not have to consider this rite for at least another year.

My now very independent child!

 

I could go on and on about these rites which keep cropping up and how I will cope with them, but I won’t.  Instead, I shall take this opportunity to remind Steve that theatre tickets, romantic weekends and meals out will now be the order of the day. 

So I guess that MY rite of passage has been from “tummy” mummy (and yes, you did read it correctly!) to proud Mum and hopefully in the future (and I sincerely hope the more distant future) to “Nana”.

For the time being I shall have to practice at that latter role with young Luke – ranking behind his Grandma and Great-grandma of course… But hey, the attraction of being transported around on the back of a large dodgem car, by his rather eccentric Great Aunty Rosie, will I hope be just as attractive to the newest generation of the family, as it has been to James and all of his friends. 

We are soon off to meet Luke for the first time and I hope that his Mum and Dad have as much fun at parenthood as Steve and I have been fortunate enough to enjoy.  It’s not over by a long way, but I am reminded of a saying that my Mum told me many years ago “Parents hold their children’s hands for a while and their hearts forever.”

How true that is.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – A RIGHT ROYAL DAY

The carriage pulled up outside the Abbey, and Bride’s father lent a gentle helping hand to his eldest daughter as she stepped out of the limousine, and then the ceremony began. 

For one moment, I was transported back nearly 23 years to the day I got married.  It only seems like yesterday that I had my bridal moment and, just like Kate Middleton, embarked on a new life which would bring many challenges and its fair share of sadness, but yields an overwhelming sense of happiness that is hard to put into words.

Dad giving me away... literally!

Most of us have wedding days that are a world apart from the spectacular event that we saw last Friday, but at its heart the sentiments are the same.  A wonderfully uplifting ceremony, people wishing you good luck, a collection of wedding presents that you are not entirely sure what to do with!

It is a day that most Brides never want to end, and just to bring everything back to reality … A hefty bill for the whole event!

It doesn’t matter whether you have been married six months, six years or sixty years; values may change over the years, but the very essence of getting married is to seal your commitment to each other, which of course is marked by a day to remember long after the confetti has been swept away.

In keeping with this sentiment, I think it is important to mark special or significant occasions in a way that you can remember.  For people of my generation, it will be the investiture of Prince Charles (as Prince of Wales) in 1969, the Queen’s Silver Jubilee in 1977 and of course, the great celebrations surrounding the marriage of Prince Charles to Lady Diana Spencer.  I’m not going to bore you with details of what I did on those occasions, but if you read Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes, you will find out how the marriage of Charles and Diana was celebrated in a small part of Jersey!

For our kids, their generation have only seen one or two major state occasions that they could remember.  Sadly two of them relate to the passing of much loved members of the Royal family – Diana – Princess of Wales, and of course the Queen Mother.  But most recently was the Queen’s Golden Jubilee in 2002.  The Golden Jubilee was the first time the residents of our locality got together and organised a street party.  We were fortunate to have a couple of born organisers who were happy to take on the role of getting the whole thing off the ground and what a day we had … Lots of food, lots of drinking, lots of fun for the kids, and at the end of it, a real sense of belonging to a friendly neighbourhood. 

Unfortunately, time marches on, neighbours’ move, different priorities mean you are drawn in different directions, and so sadly there was no street party to mark this Royal Wedding. 

However, never despair – Rosie is here!  With warm thoughts of how I spent those Royal occasions in the 70’s and 80’s I decided we should organise a Royal Breakfast, where we could munch and drink our way through this memorable event.

We mustered a Moriarty and Simmonds coat of arms, agreed the wording for the invites, and sent them out.  It was to be primarily a ladies event.  After all, no-one enjoys a wedding more than the girls.  So, with tissues at the ready we prepared for the big day.  The table groaned with an array of breads, pastries and “breakfasty” things.  The fridge was packed with the stuff that makes you “hic” very easily, and we even managed to decorate the garden with bunting and Union flags.  It was all very patriotic. 

Our guests arrived in time to see Boris Johnson bumble along the pavement to the Abbey, to see David and Victoria glide gracefully into their pew, and to view the Bride’s mother in all her Middle-England glory lay claim to the biggest prize in wedding one-up-manship – and become mother-in-law to a future King.

We ran out of tissues midway through the morning, a few of us stood as the National Anthem was played, and the few male guests in the house ogled at the second national treasure of the day … the Maid of Honour, and what a Maid she was.

I was quietly triumphant, the Bride was dressed and styled exactly as I’d predicted.  Those of you who have taken time to listen to Rosie “telling it as it is” on Able Radio will know of my predictions; and to those of you who have not – then shame … My viewing figures are dependent on your support!

But I digress – back to the wedding.  I was quite surprised at how patriotic some of my guest really were, and even more surprised that some, who – let’s just say don’t regard the institution of marriage too highly, were moved to tears by the sight of the event.

After the last drop of fizz had been drunk, the last crumb cleaned from the table, and the last guest had left, my mind wandered back to my special day.  Maybe my “Prince” is a little less svelte, and a little thinner on top than he was all those years ago; and my wedding dress wouldn’t flatter my figure as it did way back then, but what does it matter.  At the end of the day, it’s all about happiness.

My wonderful husband Stephen & very happy Rosie on our wedding day.

I hope for William and Kate the memory of their special day does linger long after the confetti has gone.  I hope they are strengthened by the trials, tribulations, good times and bad of their life, even if it is a life less than ordinary.

Whether a Prince or a Pauper, the pathways of life need careful navigation.  For them, as much as for the future of our most British of institutions – the monarchy, it would take a hard, perhaps a heartless person, not to wish them the best of good luck in their future.

And as we packed away the bunting I was just glad that everyone who came to our Royal Breakfast enjoyed themselves, and will be able to look back and remember where they were the day “Wills and Kate” got married.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – RECYCLING, LIFE AND THE ENVIRONMENT

This morning, I had rather hoped to wake up to a stream of sun light pouring into our bedroom through the crack in the curtains; And when my PA opened the window I should have been greeted with the wonderful sound of birdsong that signals that the real start of British summertime.

Instead, what did I get? Grey skies and the merest hint of birds rustling around in the evergreen tree just behind the bedroom.  It’s the last week of March, and for those of us in the northern hemisphere, we should be looking forward to long sunny summer days, when you can open the patio doors and let in the fresh air.  Even if you can’t dine al fresco every evening, you should be able to look forward to a glass of whatever takes your fancy – viewing your freshly manicured lawn, or in our case the freshly manicured portion of green that passes for a lawn, so long as you don’t look too closely for the weeds.

It also appears to be the time of year when (posted through our letterbox) we get an abundance of recycling bags from Charities, some of whom you never knew existed.  These are usually asking for bric-a-brac, pairs of shoes (tied together by the laces of course), good quality clothes – but no books, CD’s or tapes (now is anyone out there willing to admit to owning cassette tapes any longer … No, it really gives your age away doesn’t it!)

Like many local authorities the world over, our local authority here in Cardiff have a penchant for changing their recycling policy every time someone further up the local authority chain says “Ozone”.  Consequently, we currently get black bins, green bins and green bags.  We are told to recycle garden and food waste in a green bin but we dare not put a large tree branch into the gardening green bin, for fear that the Recycling Reich will single our bin out with a label that tells us we will be hauled before the Garbage Gestapo if we ever transgress again.

The net result of our local recycling policy is that paths, driveways, back lanes and previously delightfully pretty front gardens have become homes for polycarbonate pods, that are unsightly at best, and a massive nuisance to wheelchair users, older people and parents with buggies at worst.

Now, I fully appreciate that recycling is the way forward and, in our house we have embraced this process with enthusiasm.  Steve has organised that we have bins for this and bags for that.  In fairness the system does work well, but woe betide anyone who puts the wrong item into the wrong bin.  Suddenly, this relatively tame man becomes a recycling psychopath obsessed with not having one of those stickers that tells the neighbourhood we are failed recyclers.  I have caught him trawling through the green bag at some unearthly time of the night for fear of officialdom honing their environmental antenna in direction of our front door.

There is however, a serious side to the need to protect our environment, the world community, and preserve the natural resources that surround us. 

Listening to the radio earlier on this month, it struck me how many days throughout the year are designated to promoting some area or another of our lives.  Setting aside Patron Saints days, there were twenty nine days in March designated to promoting life, wellbeing, culture and the environment.  I had the pleasure of taking part in two of these event days – World Book Day on the 5th March, and International Women’s Day on the 8th March. 

For World book day, I spent an afternoon with tenants from a local housing association talking about my book, and persuading them that setting up a book club would be a really good way of enhancing the community spirit in the Association.  Then later in the week, I spent the day at the National Assembly for Wales to celebrate International Women’s Day.  Both occasions were very different, but I had the pleasure of meeting some very interesting people.  It occurred to me that those events did much to promote the fact that well being and an appreciation of culture can do so much to enhance quality of life.  And, more importantly, this need to promote a good quality of life transcends race, gender and religion.

A cursory glance at the internet led me to a couple of very different websites on awareness days.  The United Nations webpage promoted a whole host of “world” environmental and cultural days, on topics that we wouldn’t ordinarily think about … Remembering victims of slavery; the promotion of copyright and intellectual property; days to promote environmental issues such as water and meteorology; And the promotion of health matters in the third world – addressing illnesses like tuberculosis and malaria.

Closer to home, I found a site promoting awareness days and events in Britain.  What surprised me was the depth of awareness there is on things that are so relevant to us … Coffee Break Day was held on the 4th March to promote the work of the Meningitis Trust, and World Glaucoma week was concerned with the prevention of blindness.  These are some of the lesser known causes that were celebrated this month, alongside our regular days supporting cancer charities and the work of those involved in other health related research foundations.

Having ambled through the world-wide web, I realised there are many thousands of people who are genuinely concerned with the world that we live in, and in making life better for the millions of people who live in the poorest of conditions.  These unsung heroes quietly go about the business of promoting the wellbeing of the environment and of people who live with illness and impairment the world over.

There is no doubt that recycling is big business.  By 2015 the UK Government expects local authorities to recycle at least 33% of our rubbish.  So it is a fair bet that we can probably expect more of these charity bags to appear in our hallways.

Until recently, I had hesitated to put my old dresses, coats and cardigans into recycling.  After all what would anyone do with a garment altered to accommodate four fingers, or a pair of leggings to fit thirteen toes!  Now, it gives me a good feeling to think that at some point in the not-too-distant future, some of my old psychedelic dresses will be used by a woman in a village in a needy third world country. 

Perhaps, with rose-tinted spectacles, I have this picture in my mind’s eye of such a dress being paraded at a tribal event bringing colour to that occasion in much the same way it would have done on a cold damp day in South Wales.

In thinking about these “World” and ”National” days, it has struck me that anyone can make a difference to life and our environment – no matter what their position.  But, before we can all truly subscribe to the recycling ethos, I believe that “recycling snobbery” has to be eradicated.  What do I mean by this?  Well, certainly in our area of Cardiff, there appears to be a certain sense of “one-upmanship” in the number of green bags you can manage to fill your pavement with on recycling day, and I bet it happens in your area too!

And so, where has all this musing led me.  Ironically, to remember a young Brazilian girl named Rafaela that I met in 1996 – whose story I mentioned in my book.  As one of the second generation of Thalidomide children discovered in Brazil, she and her family lived in the Favelas of Rio de Janeiro and came to the UK for the fitting of prosthetic ears.  Rafaela is now a young woman in her middle twenties, but is unlikely to have escaped the poverty that is so very evident in that South American city. 

I understand that Carnival time in Rio is a time when those who live in the Favelas supplement their income by collecting aluminium cans for recycling.  It saddens me to think of Rafaela possibly having to collect, for a living, what we regard as a bit of a nuisance to put into a green bag for recycling.

It has done me a power of good to think about recycling in new light, and given me an appreciation that it’s not just about landfill and saving the planet.  It is about improving life chances for so many needy and deserving people. 

But be warned … I have already said that recycling is big business, and with that in mind there are rogues out there who are anything but charitable or environmental in their intentions.  Any of those charity bags that are remotely suspicious should be discarded.  But why not, if you don’t already do so, use those unscrupulous bags for your non-recyclables.  That way, those who have no regard for the environment, or our fellow human beings, are consigned where they belong … In the rubbish!

And, just one final thought … wars, natural disasters and conflicts aside, what a wonderful world we are privileged to live in … I hope you agree, and if so you might like to know that World Earth Day is celebrated on the 22nd April.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – SOLVING STAFFING PROBLEMS

Over the last two weeks our news channels have been awash with stories about unemployment and the seemingly endless rise in people finding themselves jobless, in an ever more miserable economy.  I would hazard a guess and say that for the vast majority of the 2.49 million who are recorded as being out of work, they would jump at the chance of doing a worthwhile job.

So, I don’t think I was alone in being more than a little shocked when the media reported that our Deputy Prime Minister had an apparent episode of amnesia over his duties to the country, whilst our PM was in Egypt.    Forgetting your lunch box is one thing, but forgetting that you’ve been put in charge of the country whilst the boss is away is quite another.  So, it was against this background that I mulled over my success or otherwise in the field of employing Personal Assistants.

Anyone who has read my book, or knows a little about me, will know that I employ two Personal Assistants to help me live the full and independent life that I am privileged to enjoy.  In fact, anyone who has the slightest impairment will rely, to a greater or lesser extent, on other people to help do things that are sometimes difficult to manage on your own.

Coming to the conclusion that you need help to live independently is a strange crossroads to navigate.  On the one hand you have a desire for complete independence, but on the other, there is a recognition that a little bit of help can go a long way to making life easier.

I came to that crossroads about 23 years ago, just before I got married, and on the whole reckon I have just about managed to get it right since then. 

When I first started to engage help there was no such thing as Direct Payments, Person Centred Care Plans or user led Independent Living Schemes.  You just had to be content with a home help “carer” who came in and helped you as best they could – Ever mindful that time was pushing and they had another 10 “clients” (as we were called in those days) to get out of bed, do lunch and try and make life as comfortable as possible for the recipients of the service. 

I did manage to get Cardiff City Council Social Services, to agree to me having some control over my care package however.  Thus, the “Helper for Rosie” scheme was set up.  For the first time (in Cardiff anyway) a disabled person (me) sat in on the interviews of the “Helper for Rosie” applicants, and held the final vote in who those ‘lucky’ people were, to become my helpers!

Generally though, this was not the case for the majority of disabled people.  With the introduction of Direct Payments however, all that changed.  This was an opportunity for me to engage Personal Assistants who could help me when I needed help, and not when the timetable allowed.

Becoming an employer is a daunting prospect.  The plethora of forms and procedures that had to be learnt and complied with was phenomenal.  The recruitment process was not for the faint-hearted and   establishing a system of time-keeping was essential.

I was fortunate to have help and support from a number of avenues.  Not least was the Cardiff and Vale Coalition of Disabled People who, through their direct payment advisers, were always on hand with friendly advice, to make the whole thing seem far less arduous.  Also, having been involved in recruiting staff for most of his professional life, Steve had a wealth of knowledge on what to look out for … excellent tea making skills, good telephone manner, and of course to be discreet. 

Now, at first sight, this seems a good basis from which to start.  However, when Steve once employed a receptionist who had a slight hearing impairment – long before the days of disability discrimination legislation, and despite arranging for the amplification on the office telephone system to be increased – he still got messages left on his desk reading “Please could you telephone Mr. Higgins an alien from Porthcawl.” I began to wonder whether his judgement and advice on employing staff could safely be relied upon. 

It would be amiss of me not to explain that Mr. Higgins was not an “alien” at all … but rather a Lion (as in a member of Porthcawl Lions Club) and a good friend.  In fairness to the employee in question, and with a bit of lateral thinking and a large amount of imagination you can see how the mistake was made.  However, I should add, that the young lady to whom I refer did decide a future as a receptionist was not quite for her – I gather she was last seen on the set of the latest Alien movie –“PAUL”.

Back to me – I remember my first month as a PA employer very well.  It was August 1997 and is marked in my memory by the fact that on the very first Sunday I had a weekend PA to help me; it was the day that Diana Princess of Wales died.  Not a great deal was done that day, other than my getting up, and we spent most of the time looking in disbelief at the scenes unfolding on the Television.

After that, I quickly learned that the TV should never be left on when you have a PA working with you. 

I have employed a variety of people over the last 23 years.  Old and young, gay and straight, tall and thin.  Each PA has brought their own unique qualities to the job – some better than others. 

In the preceding 23 years my Psychology degree has come in very handy.  If you took the mailbag of Bel Mooney, Claire Rayner, Victoria Ironside and Marge Proops, to name but a few – you get my drift.  I’ve listened to, and helped sort (I think) a variety of problems. 

If the walls of my bathroom could talk, what a tale they would tell … drink, teenage pregnancies, serious and life threatening illness, failing marriages and family rifts – I’ve heard them all.  I’ve even been able to tell Steve a few things about Coronation Street weeks before the events have unfolded.  Who needs TV Listings Magazines, when you have PA’s who seem to devour the gossip in TV Magazines like the world will end tomorrow!

In general, my PA’s (past and present) have been loyal, caring and have become, in an odd way, an extended member of the family.  But, there are times when I get very frustrated – especially when I think I am being taken advantage of.  One of my biggest bugbears is when my staff sometimes forget the importance of why they are there to help, and decide to take a ‘sickie’ day off for something as simple as a cough or cold.  As far as I’m concerned, no-one ever died of a cold, and a runny nose is not an excuse for failing to turn up for work.  On occasions like that, I have to remind them that one much respected former PA, chose to continue to work during a gruelling course of chemotherapy, and even in the depths of such serious illness, never forgot that the help she gave to me enabled me to lead a fulfilling and independent life.

The job of a PA is an important one, and I always try to emphasis the uniqueness and value of the work they do.  Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.  When it doesn’t, and if all else fails I fall back on the contract of employment that is the benchmark under which my staff work for me.  For example, I have a number of ‘golden rules’ which I expect my PA’s to adhere to.  These are built into the job description and contract of employment.  They are as follows:-

• Must be Reliable, Trustworthy & Honest – The P.A. is providing me with the support I need to be independent. I need someone I can rely on to turn up and do the job when needed
• Must be Punctual
• Have good Communication Skills
• Must be Discreet & Sensitive
• Must have a Flexible approach to hours worked and times needed
• Be able to accept Responsibility but ask if instructions are not clear
• Be Clean and have no Unhygienic habits
• Respect my family and our home
• Must have a ‘good sense of humour’

Whilst I am friendly with my PA’s, ultimately I am their employer, and the employer/employee lines of demarcation have to be observed.  That way, we all know where we are.

When I reflect on being a PA employer, there are a couple of things I think I have learned.  Firstly, you have to have the patience of a saint.  Secondly, don’t put too many “nice” biscuits in the biscuit tin (!!), and thirdly, the shelf life of a good PA is about four years.  After that, interest starts to wane and there is much truth in the saying “Familiarity breeds contempt”.

If I take that last principle, then I think in the not too distant future, I may be looking to a recruit some new PA’s.  When that happens, I shall start to trawl through the CV’s that come with the letters of application.  I’m not averse to considering applications from all gender and religious orientations.  After all I, above all people, who make my living from promoting equality issues, am happy to be an equal opportunities employer … Heaven knows I’ve had enough experience!

There may even be a CV from one Nick Clegg … Previous experience: Deputy Prime Minister … Attributes: Articulate; Personable and with good administrative skills; Reliable and punctual. (I’ll have to footnote this in the reference request to his former employer).

It might be worth calling this candidate for an interview, but then, if he gets through the first hurdle, I just wonder how he will persuade me of his reliability.  After all, if he thinks I’m going to sit in the bathroom waiting for him to hop on a plane back from Klosters, because he’s forgotten it’s a work day, then he has another think coming!

Perhaps after all, I’m better off sticking with idle chit-chat about soaps and family dramas, rather than fiscal policies and the balance of payments. 

I might even be persuaded to open the “fancy” biscuits for the next successful candidate, when I look them straight in the eye over the dining room table and wildly flap one of my four fingers vaguely in their direction, and announce with aplomb that “You’re Hired – Welcome to the mad-house … I’ll see you in the bathroom at 8am sharp.”

Then I’ll just hope, that unlike our Deputy Prime Minister, they don’t forget to turn up for work, and leave me knitting buttons!

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – HANDS THAT DO DISHES

It’s moving toward the end of January, and 2011 appears to be shaping up to be the year of ageism.  Everything we see or read seems to be age obsessed.  

That great British institution, otherwise known as the BBC, fell foul of an ageism judgement as a result of a truly justified discrimination claim by former TV presenter Miriam O’Reilly.  What appeared to follow was a plethora of programmes fronted by well-respected female presenters of the septuagenarian kind. 

During the same week that the “Beeb” appeared to be back-pedalling big time on ageism, I joined Steve and James for breakfast.   It doesn’t happen very often, but as an honorary member of the Moriarty-Simmonds breakfast club, I observed the glamour effect first hand.  Our BBC regional morning news bulletins are fronted by a number of female presenters, but I caught the two men in my life ogling over a particular female presenter.  They say everyone has a double, and I am hers.  We both have blue eyes, dark hair and got married in the same church.  That, however, is where the similarity ends.  I am probably old enough to be her mother; she is tall and slim; and then there is the small matter of a full complement of fingers and toes.  I shall take this discussion no further; for fear of her receiving a ribbing from some of her BBC Wales news colleagues who I know occasionally read this blog!

Then, later in the day, I read no less than three articles based on age, in our daily newspaper.

It started with an article telling me that those of us of who have now entered their 50’s are entering the age of ‘true happiness’.  Turn over, and what did I see, the fabulous Elle MacPherson looking gorgeous at 47 – and in fact probably even better than she looked when she was 22 – if the comparison photographs are anything to go by.  On reaching the “female” section of the newspaper, I read a very interesting article espousing the virtue of 50 as being more about ‘firmness of character than the firmness of the flesh’! 

The article finished by concluding that although you grow into middle age, and it can be quite rewarding, a sensible pair of shoes and a good concealer does make that transition easier to bear.

Now as you will appreciate, a sensible pair of shoes is of absolutely no use to me, but yes, I can testify to the benefits of a “Macs-Factor” or “Polyfillor” foundation that blends with my own tones and blemishes!

Looking back at the photograph of Elle MacPherson it is clear that she does not subscribe to the sensible shoes philosophy.  Killer heels were the order of the day.  However, the shapely pins aside, the give-away age signs were visible on the hands.  Personal trainers charging astronomical daily rates, and hairdressers twiddling tresses for more than the average food bill, can do nothing to defy the age process on the hands.

I’m really not one to boast, but I have to say there is one major advantage to having four tiny fingers, and that is my hands have defied age.  I am proud to say that my hands have remained as smooth as the day I was born, and not a drop of anti-wrinkle washing up liquid has graced the skin.  On further inspection, I also have feet to die for.  Set aside the small matter of thirteen toes and you have catwalk feet … Dainty, delicate and lily-white.

So with wrinkle free hands and feet without a bunion in sight, why aren’t the model agencies clamouring for my services?  I guess it might well have something to do with what’s in between the fingers and toes.   

I feel a discrimination claim based on Sizeism looming on the horizon. 

Should I lay bare my vital statistics in support of the fuller figure, or should I just spare the world of the prospect of a middle-aged Mum (with the trademark of four fingers and thirteen toes) vying for a page three feature in a tabloid newspaper.

I know that James and Steve would be delighted if I chose the latter option.  As James eloquently pointed out, he was not sure if there would be enough column inches on page three to accommodate my photograph – Now there’s a vote of confidence for you!

I am pleased to tell you that Steve and James will be spared the prospect of me bearing all and, at least for the time being, their mornings will remain safely in the hands of my regional news-reading double. 

However, like all good middle aged women who have aspirations of a future in the media, I shall continue my radio work.  From the darkest depths of the Gwent valleys, that see more than its fair share of rain, I shall be an ABLE woman.  I shall champion the cause of the fuller middle aged woman during my air time.  After all, quality and quantity can go hand in hand.

Who knows, if the fear of this ageism culture continues, I could well be the next BBC Radio One Rock Chick … Now that really would give James something to worry about. 

So, to my lovely son who says I have the perfect face for radio, I say, “Turn off the I-Player, stop listening to Fern Cotton and get on with some homework !!!”

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – ‘AIRPORT 2010’

There have been many movies about the life of an Airport … Goerge Kennedy in “Airport”, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in “The VIPs” and more recently Tom Hanks in “The Terminal”.  Add to this the many spoof movies about the lives and loves of air travellers and you have a perfect recipe for a good story.

As you know, I like a good film and a good story line and so I thought I’d add to the list of airport-based stories with my own version of “Airport 2010”.

So, to develop the plot line … there will be a Welsh lass of Irish Catholic origin, married to valleys boy made good, and just for good measure, one brusingly handsome son as the off-spring.  I like to think a comparison can be made between Burton and Taylor – with the only difference being that my characters live in Cardiff in South Wales, and have not got married, divorced and remarried in the glare of media publicity and certainly don’t enjoy the Hollywood life-style of their alter egos.

And so the plot line continues, as my characters are set to enjoy the glamorous surroundings of a snowy New York City for their Christmas vacation (note the American phraseology for authenticity !!)

However, to avoid potential copyright issues, the story starts in the quiet suburbs of Wales’ Capital City and unlike in The VIPs, the action stays firmly in South Wales.

The film cuts to a shot of the black miserable snow that has been munched up with 4 x 4’s trying desperately to find milk and bread before the weather closes in, and life as we know it comes to an end – well, at least for a couple of days.  My glamorous family welcome their relatives to share a glass of Christmas cheer before they leave for the airport.

Another cut takes us to the hall, where the Christmas tree twinkles, casting a warm glow over the suitcases that have been packed with winter woolleys like you have never seen before.  And just for good measure a couple of hot water bottles to make sure that the bladder of my valley boy made good can withstand the freezing temperatures that await him when he arrives in New York – I’ve cleverly incorporated a kindly relative who instead of giving my leading man a bottle of “wee dram” thought it more appropriate to protect him against a “wee leak” !!

Back to the living room, the temperature outside is freezing, the ground has not been seen for at least three weeks, and the news headlines grimly tell of cancelled flights and travel chaos throughout the country.  Around the dining room table my characters are discussing whether the journey to the airport should start earlier than planned, when the shrill ringing of the telephone disturbs the conversation.  The driver of the limousine – well actually a mini bus driver from the Swansea valley, talks in urgent tones about the flights that have been cancelled going out of the airport and urges my leading man to look on the internet.

It would have been nice to suggest they follow the star, but unfortunately the props budget wouldn’t stretch to a telescope!

As the evening wears on, the atmosphere in the house grows palpably more tense … and like Burton and Taylor, my characters become more and more reconciled to being stranded in the airport or anywhere else for that matter.

In anticipation,  woollen hats, two-fingered gloves and thick chunky scarves were prepared for the journey east.  No, not to Bethlehem (you will find our Bethlehem – in West Wales about 70 miles from Cardiff) or even to the one in the Holy Land, but – yes, you guessed it to Heathrow.  Huddled around a computer screen, my leading lady starts to flick her dark hair in a nervous Tayloresque fashion, whilst my leading man ponders whether to throw the laptop into the icy wilds of the garden.  But lo, almost as if a heavenly host appears from the screen, the news came … Flight VS045 had been cancelled.

There was no rapturous chorus of men from the local male voice choir … but rather a stunned silence descended on the family that were to travel far afield – Not to be registered and taxed, but rather to enjoy tax-free shopping!

Unlike Burton and Taylor my characters were not going to be whisked off to some plush hotel to resolve all the problems under the sun with one glass of champagne.  These characters were destined – rather like Mary and Joseph – to celebrate this festive time, if not in a stable then in a house, where the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree had given way to the reality of a house where, there was not even a mince-pie to leave for Santa on Christmas Eve.

Cut to the bathroom where my leading lady dramatically wipes a tear from her eye. Obviously, she is disappointed, but she is more heartbroken for the brusingly handsome, yet deserving son; and for her leading man who having spent a year planning and organising the trip of a lifetime, has just revealed what extra treats he had kept such a closely guarded secret!

Cut again to the bedroom, my weary characters fall exhausted, not into a bed of hay, but fortunately a warm comfortable bed.

In the cold light of the following morning, my characters are unbowed by the events of the previous evening.  Determined to don her two-fingered customised woolly gloves, my leading lady dresses with gusto and takes her leading man and their brusingly handsome off-spring to the Mecca that is the newest shopping Mall in Cardiff.  Therein they find … not gold, frankincense and myrrh … but rather all of the things that make Christmas at home the special time of year that it is.

The closing shot in my movie will be of my three characters hanging up their stockings on Christmas Eve in time-honoured tradition, and looking at the presents spilling out from under the Christmas tree.

And what will be the moral of my story?  Well, firstly there really is no place like home, secondly you appreciate how wonderful it is to have friends and family who share in your upset, but are thankful that you are safe.  And that throughout the world, there are people who would love to have just a small portion of the joy this Christmas brought to my characters.

The final credits will then roll, and the out-takes will show how you can prepare for Christmas in just two days.

As we come to the end of 2010, I hope anyone travelling over the New Year, arrives at the their destination safely.  But, there is one family who will definitely be staying right at home, content to watch : Maid in Manhattan, Westside Story, and to top it all off, Miracle on 34^th Street.

Happy New Year to everyone – See you in 2011.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – SENIOR MOMENTS LOOMING …

A funny thing happened the other day … no, nothing staggering to brighten an otherwise very gloomy November day, but there were strange items of post delivered by our friendly postman Dominic.

Like us, you are no doubt well used to the flood of junk mail coming through the letterbox, and Spam tumbling into our inboxes, but when you approach 50, odd things happen to your junk mail.  The “fifty-something’s” junk mail phenomenon has finally struck.

We had tried to prepare for the moment, by registering with mailing and telephone preference services, but alas, there was no escape from the “Funeral Plan” mailing.

Yes, Steve has reached the age where junk or spam no longer invites membership of the local gym club, or online offers for Viagra with such strength it could satisfy the lustiest lothario on the X factor.  No, he is now receiving mail inviting him to join an insurance plan without medical, or a funeral plan that allows him to decide whether he wants a Mercedes Benz or a Transit van to take him to his final resting place!

Granted, he doesn’t resemble the trim man I married over 22 years ago, but come on … give him a break.  He’s only just got used to the fact that, the hair gel in the bathroom hasn’t been used for (well), an awfully long time.  Or that ‘classic fit’ in a shirt really means, these are shirts for men who like to think of themselves as snappy dressers, but they are now past Ralph Lauren, and should be looking for “Roly ol Men”

So, how do you appease the man of your life who realised that life began at 30… about twenty years too late!

Simple.  You organise a party.  A family gathering with an air of sophistication.  For those of you who have read Four Finger and Thirteen Toes, you will remember that we like a good party.  When Steve and I reached the lesser of our significant birthdays – the age of 40 – we did just that.  We had a jolly good knees up (excuse the pun!) and breezed into our fifth decade with optimism.  However, ten years on, there is not quite so much wind in our sails, and optimism has been replaced by a visit to the optician.  Therefore a more refined celebration was called for.

Ha … no fear.  Having broached the subject of a party, Steve declared that he wanted a 60’s themed party.  So far so good.  However, not known for a major amount of “je ne sais quoi”, Steve promptly issued invitations to a Chinese takeaway night, with a request to all guests to bring something from the 1960’s.  Needless to say the acceptances came flooding in – after all who could resist the allure of a Chinese takeaway washed down with one or two; or three, or four glasses of good quality wine.  In my mind, the prospect of drinking copious amounts of wine, just about made up for the thoughts of a takeaway on this special occasion, rather than a sumptuous banquet.  But again I came up against the obstinacy of this grumpy old man, who had very definite ideas on how to celebrate his 50^th birthday.  Fine wine was out, in favour of a classic 60’s wine – answers on a post card please – but let’s just say, Blue Nun and Liebfraumilch figure pretty high on the wine list!

And then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the FedEx man turned up again the other day, with a parcel.  Neatly addressed to Mr. Simmonds, both James and I decided we might have to call upon the help of the Psychiatrist who lives opposite, when the parcel was opened to reveal the entertainment for the party – a Karaoke disc of 1960’s music!

Now I must confess, I have great difficulty seeing Steve’s Dad gyrating his hips to “Delilah”, or his Mum doing a rather bad Shirley Bassey impression of “Big Spender”.  But horror of horrors I have this recurring nightmare of my middle sister doing her Lulu impression to “Shout”.  She used to do it very well before she had kids!

But stick by his guns he did, and only yesterday, the strains of Gary Puckett and the Union Gap could be heard coming from the living room, with Cardiff’s answer to Robbie Williams fair murdering a rendition of “Young Girl”.

So, although his birthday was the other day, tonight is the party, and all I can do is wait and hope…   Hope that the guests turn up.  Hope that the dishy delivery man from Chinese takeaway is able to make it through the snow (yes we have lots of snow in Cardiff which brought the place to gridlock yesterday), and that Mr. Gary Puckett doesn’t find himself with a Noise Abatement Order after his karaoke performance.

I’m sure all will be well, but there is just one thing I forgot to tell you.  The post arrived this morning, and guess what … They’ve now caught up with me too.

My first “Plan” letter has arrived, and for replying I get a bunch of Marks and Spencer vouchers.  How can I resist, after all I’ve just been told of a new line in “inco-pants”.  Nifty at Fifty??  More like damp and dreary, but what the heck … Where’s that wine – even if it is Steve’s party … [singing]

“Get this party started on a Saturday night
Everybody’s waiting for me to arrive
Sendin’ out the message to all of my friends
We’ll be looking flashy in my Mercedes Benz
I got lot of style, check my gold diamond rings
I can go for miles if you know what I mean
I’m comin’ up so you better get this party started
I’m comin’ up so you better get this party started”.

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – BED BLOGGING – THE ADJUSTABLE WAY

Over the last 18 months or so of blogging, I have shared some of my inner-most thoughts and feelings, and this blog will be no exception.

So today, I shall invite you into my bedroom.  Not literally of course, cyber space would never be the same again if I did that, but to tell you about my journey into the world of adjustable beds.

Some years ago, Steve realised he was getting older when he started reading the mobility advertisements at the back of the weekend newspaper, but I had resolutely resisted the temptation to go any further than the weekend horoscope.  It had never crossed my mind to enter the world of colourful advertisements that tell how easy it would be to step out of your bath tub by using a bath with a door; how fabulous it would be to levitate into a standing position with a rising chair; or indeed how much independence you could have with a mobility scooter you throw into the back of your car.

Now, for those of you who know me, you will appreciate that a bath tub with a door is of absolutely no use to me, using a rising chair would require a miracle of evolutionary proportions, and with my Quickie wheelchair, I would beat any racing granny riding her scooter in the local shopping mall.

But when reality dawns on you, that it takes longer to get comfortable in bed than it does for Ty Pennington and his team to build a fabulous new home, it really is time for action.

And so it was, a number of weeks ago that I ventured past the weekend horoscope and into the world of the adjustable bed advertisements.  I never knew you could have such an array of positions in a bed – which reminds me, I must revisit the Karma sutra!!

The thought of double sprung mattresses, memory foam, storage under the divan and all other manner of accessories, made choosing a bed almost as hard as choosing sweets from the sweet counter when you were a kid.

But, my search was not a long one.  And one simple phone call to Adjustamatic would bring Tony to my door.  This was going to be a whole new experience for me.  Previous bed-acquiring encounters had been limited to waking up the in the morning and deciding that the little dip in the middle of the mattress was just not big enough for both Steve and I, and either he moved into the spare room, or went out and got me a new bed.  Needless to say he opted for the latter.  He never did like the dark!!

Tony duly arrived, and having been told we didn’t want a sales pitch all about the history of adjustable beds, he announced he would bring the demonstrator into the living room.  By this time we were intrigued.  Anyone who has previously delivered a bed to our house has either ended up taking a door with them or the very least left dents in the wall that anyone could follow in darkness if they wanted to find the front door.  However, we were to be prepared for an amazing feat.

Tony brought the demonstration bed into the house in two sections.  Firstly in came the base, all neatly folded onto what looked like a railway station luggage trolley.  Then Tony returned to his rather nice-looking BMW estate to bring in the mattress.  You have probably gathered that when a demonstration bed is transported around in a BMW, this is going to be no ordinary demonstration, and you are right.

Off with the jacket.  Tony was ready for action.  Steve retreated to the kitchen to do what he does best in times of panic, and made a cup of tea.  James became decidedly embarrassed at the thought of his mother trying out a bed in the presence of a complete stranger, and promptly left the building.  All I could do was marvel at how my world was about to change with the simple touch of a button.  This foray into the world of adjustamatic technology would, I hoped, send me into deep slumber in less time than it would take to “Move that Bus” – as they say in Extreme Makeover land.

With the bed duly assembled, all that was left to do was, test drive it.  Not being the type of person to spoil anyone’s fun, I generously allowed Steve to have the first go.

With all the grace of Ann Widdicombe on the dance floor, he eased himself onto the bed, and then the fun began.  Like a friendly wizard, Tony wielded the remote control to lift and separate like no self-respecting under-wired bra could ever do.  Steve was hooked.  But the best was yet to come, another press of the remote, and “brrrrrrrr”.  The sound of supersonic style vibration filled the house.  This, we were told was the ultimate in relaxation.  Mind and body would waft into the most relaxed sleep we had enjoyed for years, thanks to the wonder of the Adjustamatic massage system.  After a minute Steve declared himself to be a convert.  How did he describe the experience?  Not quite an encounter with Claudia Schiffer he said, but I doubt he would be brave enough to say so even if it was – He values his life!!

By this time, I couldn’t wait, and not to be outdone by Steve masquerading as Anne Widdicombe, I did my best pantomime cow impersonation, and dutifully climbed onto the bed.  “Zoop” up we went, “zoop” down we went.  “Brrrrr” into vibration mode, and when Tony increased the number of vibrations to maximum … well, lets just say, who needs the Karma sutra – enough said!!

The demonstration over, and the bed was duly packed away.  The pot of tea was cold and stewed, but did I care?  No, the answer to my sleepless nights was just a signature away.  How quickly could it be delivered?  Will it fit the space in the bedroom? Will I ever want to get out of bed in the morning?  All these questions and more were buzzing through my already vibrating mind.  With the calmness of the most professional sales person, and thoughts of his pending commission, Tony reassured me that the bed would be delivered as soon as possible. Yes, it would fit in the space we had available in the bedroom, and yes, his most loyal customers of the Adjustamatic bed, had to get up in the morning, even it was just to visit the bathroom because of the urge to use the loo, brought on by the vibrating bed.

As Tony left, driving into the night with his adjustable bed, I knew the right decision had been made.  All I had to was wait.

True to his word, the bed arrived on the agreed delivery date, and then the fun began.  I must confess the first night was not the overwhelming success that I had hoped for, but when you realise I am the Princess, and if there is the remotest hint of a pea in my bed, then I can’t sleep, there were bound to be hiccups.

Two weeks in, and we are now getting used to our “zoop-zoop” bed, and it’s great.  Vibration in the evening, and vibration in the morning, added to loads of lovely duvet in the form of our newly acquired king size duvet makes for a different type of bedroom experience.

For those readers under the age of forty, you won’t know what I mean, but for those of us who are fast approaching fifty and then some, you will appreciate my sentiment when I say the plumpness of the pillow far outweighs the passion of the padding.

It now takes the same amount of time to get to bed, as it does to blow up the old house ready for the Extreme Makeover.  So now when Steve asks if I am ready for bed there is no hesitation.  My response, in the inimitable words of Mr. Makeover himself is – “Let’s Do It”

And now, you really have to leave my bedroom … Gosh, it’s nearly time for me to get ready for “zoop-zoop” antics.  Sweet dreams … zzzzzzz

—-

As a footnote, if anyone out there is interested in the adjustamatic experience, just let me know, and I’ll pass your details on to Tony.  I promise you, the experience will be just “Brrrrrrrillll”

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES – WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE SEASONS?

In the Northern Hemisphere, today is officially the start of autumn, and it got me thinking about what different seasons mean to different people.

For some, when the kids first start school, autumn marks the start of a whole new chapter of events in family life.  The first Halloween party, the first Christmas school play, and the endless round of chasing your tail going from one activity to another, until your car virtually does the rounds from after school club to friends house, to swimming and karate all in auto pilot.

Then, of course, you get to the last autumn term before they are due to leave school, and you wonder where the time has gone.

My most favourite season is the summer, and when the time comes, at the end of the holidays, to persuade my Dad to come and pack the cases away in the loft for another year, I get quite melancholy.

A couple of weeks ago, I dusted off some old photograph albums that had been nestling quite nicely in more years of dust than I care to remember, and had a good laugh at the photographs from summer holidays that I have enjoyed with family and friends.  Some of my friends reading this blog will remember America ’87, and some may even go back as far as America ’82.  Some may even be able to reminisce about Haighmoor in Jersey and the summer of ’81.  Charles and Diana got married and we rolled around the garden in plastic bin bags – without any dubious thought even entering our heads as to what the use of black PVC would look like.  How times have changed!

Looking back, some of my most memorable achievements have come to fruition in the summer.  Aside from being lucky enough to pass my School, College and University exams, I was blessed with the birth of a wonderful son in the summer of 1995.  And not to be forgotten, I published Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes during the summer months of 2007.

Looking through those old photographs made me realise that we all evolve rather like the seasons.  The priorities, goals and ambitions that we had 25 years ago do change.  Expectations become more realistic, and are tempered with an appreciation that moving into another generational stage in life, should be viewed as a challenge.   My roots are now firmly entrenched in making sure that my family are happy and I relish every moment I spend with them – even if we do have the occasional battle over whether James should do his homework before going off to the gym.

Steve’s favourite seasons are early summer and early autumn.  If anyone has been fortunate enough to spend time in London or Paris during those times, you will know why … Early summer blooms and early autumn colours – what more could you ask for.  Well, only perhaps for a summer that is a little longer so that I can keep my suntan for a couple more weeks; an autumn that keeps the leaves on the trees with those stunning autumnal colours for a while longer, and a winter that is just a little less cold.

However, that wish-list won’t please everyone, and so it is probably just as well that we are stuck with what we have.  But never despair, just think … in about three months time, included in the Sunday paper supplements we will find the 2011 holiday guide.  The weather men will be predicting another record breaking sizzling summer; and I will then be thoroughly depressed because I will be the mother of a school leaver, rather than the “Mummy” of an early year’s primary school pupil!

By then, a significant birthday will have passed, I shall start to receive unsolicited mail from SAGA and my roots will need more attention that the old beech tree in the garden.

So what will I take into the new seasons?  Well how about pleasing myself about what I do, and when I to do it … and starting that philosophy immediately.

Now, the first thing I must do is not to get Dad to put the suitcases in the loft, and then I’ll get my PA to pack my summer gear.  Next I’ll book a ticket to Greece, and change my name to Shirley Valentine or even Τριαντάφυλλο (meaning Rose) …

Alas, there is just one problem; a Greek waiter could never do my hair to my exacting standard.  Thank goodness for a long-suffering husband who can wield a heated hairbrush as well as mine can!

FOUR FINGERS AND THIRTEEN TOES — DON’T FORGET YOUR TOOTHBRUSH!

So, summer is finally here, and one of the biggest problems for us girlies, is finding the right clothes for the right occasion.  The occasion usually, being a walk, or in our case a wheel, along the promenade with an independent air.  Or at least that’s what the song tells us.

Hence, last week, we made one of our family bi-annual trips to the shops – The kind where every member of the household comes along, and each has a different agenda.  One pulls in the direction of the video gaming shop, one wants to go in the direction of the mobile phone shops and me, I just want to window shop in the skinny section of the latest fashions for forty-somethings – wondering – just wondering …

However, thirty minutes into this family ritual, and in my usual efficient manner, I called a Board Meeting over a rather frothy cup of latte.  We needed a plan of action.

The first essential step was to bring Steve kicking and screaming into the summer – after all there is only so long you can tolerate your hubby turning into his father!!  Secondly, we needed some intelligent summer reading.  I did try and persuade both Steve and James to parade a copy of Four Fingers and Thirteen Toes around the swimming pool, but I was met with cries of disbelief.  “What about my street cred” came the answer from one side of the latte cup and “Well, I had rather banked on brushing up on Cheshire and Fifoot’s Law of Contract” came the other response.  But, little do these two know how persuasive I am in the book department!!

Then, we would have the essential sojourn to take a little peek at the latest gear, in any store that passes for a place with a very expensive price tag on each item of clothing — pressing our noses up against the window and ogling at the contents within.

The last port of call would be to indulge me.

And there it was, our shopping planned, and all in the time it took to scoop the last remnants of coffee from the cup.

Off we marched in the direction of the big man shop.  High and Mighty (or was it Short and Portly – I’m really not sure) which offered some rather fetching coloured polo shirts and various other items of summer fashion.  Having handed his credit card to the shop assistant, Steve promptly went into mourning at seeing all his earning power going into something that would eventually find its way into the washing machine.  However, after the mass hysteria of grief that followed his diminished available credit card balance, Steve was cheered by the thought of me buying the pizza.  How true they were when they said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach!!

Next, to the Newsagents.  How I chastised the young man on the summer reading stand when he told me he couldn’t even pronounce phocomelia let alone spell it.  So, I sent him off to find me some easy summer reading.  He came back with a Psychology Made Easy magazine.  I decided to rise to the challenge to refresh my psychology knowledge.  Apart from that, why not buck the trends of reading a glossy magazine full of size zeros and opt for the more academic look whilst sipping a Piña colada.

By now James had decided enough was enough and marched off in the direction of the trendiest of trendy shops leaving his mother and father outside.  I gather there are some places that you just don’t go with your off-spring!!  We felt like a pair of ornate stone pillars left sitting there either side of the entrance to this ‘no go’ area.  Eventually, said teenager emerged from this black hole, grinning from ear to ear and clutching two brown paper shopping bags. Their contents — shorts, T-shirts and underwear with lettering on the waist that would allow the most visually challenged person to read, were, I am told, would be an essential part of any self-respecting teenagers’ summer suitcase.

Then, for me … I needed dresses that flopped and flounced around like a TV model trying to sell a rather flaky chocolate bar; unmentionables just like the ones sported by Bridgette Jones, and a new pair of sunglasses to keep the glare of the summer sun off my Psychology book.

With the job done it was off for pizza, and a little liquid refreshment.  But it was then that I began to wonder whether the purchases I’d made were really what I wanted.  Did I really want to look like a TV model … Would those flouncy patterns really suit me … and was I being lulled into a false sense of trying to be something that I’m not.

It was then I decided that the dresses would be returned the next day.  I would revel in the summer dresses that regularly come out my wardrobe and are comfortable and homely.  Yes, I would strike out for the cause for the ordinary woman – whether with or without a full complement of limbs.  Suddenly I knew just what Emily Pankhurst or more latterly the Women Libbers felt like.

I would be proud to parade around the pool in something that looked as if it fitted me, rather than me fitting it.

How I now look forward to the admiring glances of those tanned life guards, as I negotiate that fine line between trying to look cool, and desperately avoiding the consequences of a scientific equation which goes something like, water + electric chair = frizzy hair!!

The answer to preparing for summer is quite easy.  “Don’t worry, be happy.”  Just be yourself and enjoy the summer for what it is.  Remember, that next year, you could be looking at the fifty-something fashions, and then we really will have something to worry about!!

Happy Holidays, whatever it is you are planning to do.