Apple

Colleague's conversation with her husband:

“The Apple man has died.”

“Oh, no, that’s awful. I didn't know he was ill.”

“He’s been ill for a long time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He’s had cancer for ages.”

“What’s going to happen to his stall?”

“What stall?”

“His stall in Barnstaple Pannier Market."

Big sigh. “Not THAT Apple man.”

Hair today...

I’VE just had my hair cut. This may seem like no big deal to most of you but I have been known to return home after going to the hairdresser’s and sob. And I’m not particularly given to tears.

I hate visiting the hairdresser’s so much that I go only once in a blue moon - or should that be once in a blue rinse? I have had some bad experiences in hairdresser’s and never walk out with the style that was in my head when I walked in. I have taken in photographs of the style I want - and left wondering whether they’d dropped the picture on the floor and accidentally picked one up of Yul Brynner by mistake.

I’ve had haircuts where it might have been cheaper to crawl through a bush backwards and get the same effect.

In the past I've had, amongst others, a feather cut, an urchin cut, a curly perm and a pageboy - all by accident, apart from the perm which I admit I asked for. However, what I didn't ask for was to end up looking as if I'd touched an electricity pylon with a metal bar.

I forget from one visit to the salon to the next what I’m supposed to do. It’s easy for you men. You flop yourself into a chair, chat inanely about the weather, women with big bazookas and football, get something for the weekend (whether you need it or not) and you’re done.

For women it’s a whole new ball game. I’m utterly confused by the gowns. Do they do up at the front or back?

Then there’s the indignity of being bent over backwards over the basin while the gum-chewing trainee with the dyed black asymmetric hair either scalds your head with boiling water or makes your teeth chatter with freezing cold. Whenever  in this position you can’t help but think of the verse from the Victoria Wood song:

“It’s folly, it’s jolly,
"Bend me over backwards
On the Hostess trolley.”

Or is that just me? It’s just me.

Then there’s the musical chairs. I’m never quite sure when you’re supposed to move from one chair to another and I end up doing some kind of nervous bobbing motion like I’m genuflecting to the Queen.

Anyway, this time I managed to get through the extreme water temperature torture and am finally sitting  in the correct chair in front of the mirror with my wet, shoulder-length hair while a very nice girl  is asking me what I want done. And here’s another problem. I never know the terminology. I start to explain that I want it much shorter and layered.

“A graduated bob?” she asks.

A what? I have no idea what a graduated bob is.

Of course, what I really want is to look 20 years younger, several pounds slimmer and be mistaken for Catherine Zeta Jones whenever I visit Wales. That ain’t gonna happen.

Alternatively, just like on America’s Next Top Model, I want to walk in looking like an average woman, allow them to give me a “makeover” which I’m not allowed to see until it’s done, and walk out looking edgy and glamorous. That ain’t gonna happen either.

So I tentatively agree to the graduated bob. As my hair falls to the floor, I begin to wonder about this bob. It seems to be a bit, well, pudding bowlish, which would be fine on lots of women but on me looks, well, pudding bowlish.

So I ask her to abandon the graduated bob. In the mirror I catch a sudden glimpse of fear in her eyes. She’s wondering whether I’m going to ask her to do something impossible, given that my hair is already up to my ears.

I point at one of the hairstyle pictures on the wall, which to my eyes looks achievable. “Like that, only not so choppy,” I say and shut my eyes to preclude any further conversation.

When I opened them, I was moderately pleased. I didn’t cry at any rate, so that was a bonus.

The dearly beloved said he liked it - but he would have said it was OK even if I’d ended up looking like Quasimodo’s sister. He’s learned over several years that when it comes to me and my hair, honesty is definitely not the best policy.

My mother’s response was a bit more muted. She looked me up and down, frowned, and said: “Well, at least it’s tidier.”

Can’t wait now until I have to go again - oh in about a year when it’s not quite so tidy any more.

 

Botox For Beginners

I WAS reading that Botox may soon be available on the NHS. I was thinking about the mountain of Botox it would take to freeze all my wrinkles into submission - and the moral dilemma of costing the NHS so much money (my wrinkles v heart operation for small child, not much of a contest really) when I realised the Botox was being touted as a cure for migraine.

Oh good, that’s one moral dilemma no longer giving me a headache.

Anyway, is Botox – or any plastic surgery for cosmetic purposes - such a good idea? There’s a whole army of actresses of a certain age with wide eyes, pouting lips and a permanently surprised expression who look like they’ve been poked in the ass with a pointy stick.

When I was a teenager I was desperate to look like Cher (yes, that's her pictured above), now I'm desperate not to. I'm sure there's still a beautiful woman in there somewhere but all that plastic surgery has turned her into a caricature of her former self. Her skin is so stretched that I swear the wind changed while she was being subjected to massive G-force and she's stayed that way. Didn’t her mother ever warn her?

Don’t even get me started on ‘trout pout’ lips. Throw most celebs at a wall and they’ll stick there.

In fact it’s now so bad that A-list stars like Meg Ryan and Nicole Kidman are finding it difficult to land roles because they are unable to express emotion. Martin Scorsese has complained that there aren’t any actresses over 35 who can ‘do anger’.

In this strange world they live in, celebrities have the idea that no wrinkles plus big lips equals youthfulness. No, you don’t look younger; you look like a weird waxwork dummy, admittedly with no wrinkles and big lips.

One way of plumping up the lips is take fat cells from the buttocks and inject them into the lips. Kiss my ass. Literally.

They don’t seem to realise that they’ve all begun to look the same. Tiny bodies, expressionless faces, big lips, BIG hair and clothes that are too revealing for a nubile 19-year-old – and that’s just Sylvester Stallone and Mickey Rourke (ho, ho).

Soon the only way to find the real age of a celeb whose face has been frozen in time will be by carbon-dating. It’s enough to make you cry – without moving your face, of course.

Boxing, Boys and Talking Cats

THE Dearly Beloved went to a friend's house for a boys' night out on Saturday to watch two grown men in baggy shorts and tasteless tattoos batter each other to within an inch of their lives - boxing I think they call it. Either that or a typical night out in Chav Land. I couldn't get too excited about it, despite the prospect of rippling muscles on well-toned male bodies... something I don't see much of these days.

He set off down the road with a few cans of beer clanking around in his Sainsbury's carrier bag looking more like a wino than a sports aficionado. 

Now, you women out there, don't let men fool you that when they get together they have intelligent conversations about politics, sport, and business, interspersed with the odd dirty joke and an exaggerated tale about a girl  they knew when they were 20 who went like a train. Actually, that last bit might be true.

No, the calibre of conversation is much more mundane. 

The hot topic on Saturday night was, apparently, braces (that's suspenders to my readers across the pond) and how handy they are for keeping up your trousers when you have a bit of beer belly - intellectual stuff, I'm sure you will agree.

I think a good time was had by all - he rolled in quite late minus the beer at any rate. He hadn't had too much to drink because he could remember that the British boxer in typical Brit-style had put up a plucky fight before losing to the Russian. There's a surprise.

On a completely  different subject, I am now the proud owner of an iPad 2, thanks to a cheap (well, cheap-ish) offer from my employers.

I'm sure they think their staff will be using these handy tools for work-related projects - hmmm, maybe one day.  I have so far downloaded apps for Scrabble, mah-jong, identifying garden birds, crosswords, a dictionary and thesaurus, flick football and a map of the stars.

Then there's Tom the talking cat, ostensibly for when my young nephews and nieces call round. Whatever you say to Tom he repeats in a funny voice. He purrs if you stroke him and recoils if you tap him. There are various buttons you can press which do funny things - all hilarious stuff for seven-year-olds. Also hilarious for grown-up people who should know better, too.

I was showing Tom to my sister and mother. We started laughing and, of course  he repeated the laugh, which made us laugh even more and so it went on, three grown women laughing hysterically  at a child's toy.

The Dearly Beloved and grown-up nephew also had a go - some of things Tom was repeating were QUITE unsuitable for young ears, as you can imagine.

You can even make little videos of him and here's joke I recorded just for you!

(Since posting this, it seems not everyone can get the video. If you want to know what the joke was, go to COMMENTS. Don't put yourself out, though, it wasn't that funny!)

Good Morning People

ON Wednesday morning I had to haul my sorry ass out of bed at the ungodly hour of 5.30am.

But it was OK, I’m more of a morning person than an evening person, unlike the dearly beloved who, I swear, would still be in bed when I get home in the evening if he didn’t have my tender ministrations to start his day - a few kicks to the leg and loud swearing in his ear. What would he do without me?

Conversely, if we go out I’m ready for bed almost before I’ve put on my party harvest festivals (all is safely gathered in) while he’s flexing his muscles to prop up a bar until dawn.

I’m fine until midnight then, like Cinderella minus the youth, beauty and gorgeous ball-gown, I’m ready to flee.

So I was more than a little miffed to read that evening people tend to be more creative, intelligent, humorous and extroverted.

Morning people, on the other hand, are more optimistic, proactive and conscientious. Conscientious? How bloody boring is that? Sounds like the class swot – the one who can reel off the causes of the First World War without drawing breath.

I’m sure Anne Widdecombe was conscientious at school but you wouldn’t want her behind you in a conga line at a drunken New Year’s Eve party, would you?

So I’m going to strive to be an evening person. I’ll add a few more brushstrokes to my masterpiece before going to a party where I dazzle everyone with my sparkling repartee and provoke gales of laughter with my witty bon mots.

Then again, I could do the housework before going to work and in the evening fall asleep in front of the television with a book in one hand, a bar of chocolate in the other and a gin and tonic on the coffee table.

Come to think of it, I think I’ll stay a morning person. Don’t wake me when you come in.

• One or two people have told me off for not posting often enough, which is very kind of them as it implies that they quite like to read my stream of consciousness. Therefore, I'll do my utmost  to get back to my at-least-once-a-week blogging.
• RIP, lovely Auntie Dilys (1921-2011), an incredible woman, full of personality, who, sadly, died just a few days short of her 90th birthday. We'll miss you.

The Royal Wedding

I WAS – briefly - officially designated The Saddest Person In The Family.
The accolade was bestowed upon me by my niece who popped in to see me with her dad on the day of the royal wedding. She was astonished to see that I, who previously had shown no particular Royalist tendencies, was not only glued to the television in the sitting-room but had another one switched on in the kitchen so I didn’t miss a thing as I made a pot of tea.

Sadly, the title was mine for only a day, snatched from me when my niece found out my eldest sister had two televisions switched on in the same room, one tuned to the BBC and the other to ITV.... now that really is sad!

I was pleased to get the day off work – until another niece (sorry, I’m from a HUGE family) who lives in Vienna told me that Austria had also had the day off for the wedding.

Why?

I know we’re all in the European family now, even if the UK is the family’s grumpy gran, but we have no particular links with Austria, unless you count getting bombed by her most famous son, Hitler.

I’m putting in a bid in for a bank holiday when Mrs French President Carla Bruni has her baby. Do you think we’ll get it? I think the answer will be a resounding, “Non.”

Anyway, back to that wedding.

I had no intention of watching the proceedings from beginning to end but was sucked in by the strange mixture of order and chaos, chic and tat and dignity and boorishness that accompany most weddings, whether a commoner’s or future king’s.

What a spectacle – and I’m not talking about the marching bands, the fly-pasts and the horse-drawn carriages. Some of those outfits… well.

Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie impressed with their remarkably accurate impression of the ugly sisters from Cinderella. Princess Anne accidentally wore the dining room curtains and Chelsy Davy (Prince Harry’s on-off girlfriend as I’m sure you know) looked like she’d borrowed an outfit from her slimmer sister – I know how she feels.

The Queen was resplendent in a bright yellow outfit with sensible shoes, looking slightly dumpy and dated – which is just how we like her. No vertiginous heels or Philip Treacy hats looking like boiled sweets clamped precariously on the head for Her Maj.

She dresses for practicality and comfort, spreading an aura of dependability, continuity and duty. The last thing we want is a racy octogenarian at the helm. We want someone we can rely on in a crisis, who’s not averse to getting bouquets from snotty kids and listening to interminably long speeches from boring local dignitaries without nodding off.

It was good to see Prince Philip, 90 in June, with a sparkle in his eye chatting up the bum-pacilious maid of honour Pippa Middleton on the Buckingham Palace balcony. I bet Her Maj has had some trouble with him during their 63-year marriage.

All in all it was a grand day and, whatever your views on royalty, it would only be the most curmudgeonly who wouldn't wish William and Catherine a happy marriage.

Shopping At Sainsbury's

YESTERDAY I did it again. I convinced myself that going through the self check-out aisle in Sainsbury's in Barnstaple would be quicker than queuing behind a granny who wanted to pay her £25 bill in coins of the realm and the woman in dungarees with enough lentils and soya bean curd piled into her trolley to feed a field of people at Peterborough Green Festival.  

Will I never learn. 
  
For those of who have given this facility a wide berth, let me explain. It sounds quick and easy. You take your packet of turkey twizzlers, 3lbs of lard and giant pack of oven chips and scan them through yourself. Insert your own bank card and, hey presto, you're done. 

Not so. 

First you have to indicate whether you have your own bags or are using the supermarket's bags. I duly pressed "using own bags" and was told to place them in the bagging area. I placed them. A disembodied voice comes from the screen "unexpected item in the bagging area".  A loud voice. I felt like a shoplifter, except anyone could see that I had nothing at all in the bagging area except a few miserable looking carrier bags. I think it was trying to humiliate me because my "bag for life" (which incidentally, is what the Dearly Beloved sometimes calls me) was from Tesco.

An assistant comes and presses a few buttons and I'm away.

All goes swimmingly until I have the temerity to move a bag in the bagging area so I can reach another. Off it goes again: unexpected item in the bagging area. Back comes the assistant who presses those buttons and all is well. This happens three more times. By the third visit, the assistant's smile is beginning to fade and she starts to look sideways at me. Do I have a packet of frozen peas secreted about my person?

I'm scared. Will I have to submit to an intimate body search from a 25 stone security guard with dirty fingernails? But she gives me the benefit of the doubt and  I'm doing my impression of a checkout girl once more.

Now, occasionally you have to have an item verified. I've always assumed this is to check you are over 18 if you are buying alcohol, for example, or to stop a 14-year-old with a glazed expression on his spotty face from buying a pump action shotgun.

However... I had the temerity to buy a packet of teaspoons. Yes. Teaspoons. And I'm told to get the item verified.

The assistant who formerly had been giving me the once over, was now smiling.

"Goodness," she said. "I don't know what they think you're going to do with teaspoons. Maybe make a shank!"  Both of us look like respectable (-ish) women, well past the first flush of youth and have no business knowing anything about shanks (knives made in prison out of any bit of metal an inmate can lay his hands on, as I'm sure the less respectable of you will know).  

While she's 'verifying' my teaspoons/shanks we have a little chat about America's Toughest Prisons on Sky.  TV can be soooo educational!

So I finish my shopping at last, complete with the raw material for a shank or two. I wouldn't mind, but the teaspoons weren't even for me. They were my for my mother who is in her 80s. I don't think she'll be filing them down and sharpening them up. Not with her arthritis.