Monday, April 30, 2007


Thirty was fun - kind of “I’m a woman now and shall buy expensive face creams and underwear should I so desire.” I actually have trouble getting the words out now. “I’m thirty…….one.” And the worst thing is? I’ll only get older each year. I have not made peace with thirty one. I want my twenties back. I want to get sloshed in the sun and end up at a gay policeman’s house belting out my karaoke rendition of Club Tropicana whilst wearing my friend’s furry slippers. Oh, I did that last weekend.
Anyway, I’ve always looked mature for my age. It’s true there were many positive sides to this. Uninterrupted teenage boozing and clubbing as I was never asked for I.D; a certain cachet to being the one who collected everyone’s dosh and scampered off to the corner shop to purchase 120 B&H, 80 Silk Cut and 70 Marlboro Lights, all in packs of ten to be doled out amongst my lovely school chums. Ah, the heady whiff of childhood. I didn’t really smoke much myself and don’t at all anymore – terribly ageing.

It wasn’t all harmless fun though. When we were up to no good it was me who got an earful, told I should know better and should have set an example to the younger ones, even though I was eight and they were all eleven. But I played on my apparent maturity, even insisting on wearing make up – pearlised pink lipstick and electric blue eyeshadow – the height of sophistication in 1985 I assure you.

Being about a foot taller than everyone else in my formative years meant I could hit a tennis ball no one else could reach. But while my cousins were nicknamed La Plus Belle and La Plus Jolie by our (ridiculously sexy) Belgian tennis coach, I was given the ungracious moniker of La Grande for six consecutive summers. Cheers Philippe.

Somewhere during my twenties I started to dread people guessing my age – why do people always play that game when I’m with friends ten years older than me who apparently look five years younger? Can’t they guess shoe sizes, star signs or how many people you’ve slept with instead?
And though I love the easy low key clothes made by Toast and Margaret Howell, I have to be careful to mix it up so I don’t look mumsy. I have a morbid fear of looking mumsy. I suppose on those rare occasions when I can’t avoid going to the supermarket, what’s to distinguish me from a housewife pushing their trolley round and round. Except that on Sunday my trolley contained a bottle of Campari, a bottle of soda water, some oranges and two fillet steaks.
At the checkout I couldn’t catch what the cashier was asking me.
“No, I’m not collecting those school vouchers and I haven’t got a Clubcard,” I guessed.
She leaned closer, holding up the Campari as she uttered those sweet forgotten words…“You’ll have to show me some I.D; I can’t place your age.”

Thursday, April 05, 2007


I just can't keep away. I have taken up residence at the broken chair in the corner of a friend's living room where I can tap away on a keyboard used mostly by friend's teenage brother who is at "that awkward age".

Oui, I am a creature of habit. I like my laptop, set up where it always is (kind of defeats the object) with my cat on one side, a cup of tea on the other and the comfort of home. I could go elsewhere but...........are you asleep yet? Apparently I have been boring everyone to death with my constant internet breakdown ramblings and blow by blow account of my soon to be ex ISP's crappy service. Sorrreeee.

So. What I really wanted to say is that I am old. I went to a gig last night - half the London fashion crowd was there; you couldn't move for people from I.D, Tank and Pop magazines jostling to take pictures of the band. I had my first real life sighting of a Christopher Kane dress and also pondered upon what kind of lifestyle one would have that would lend itself to going out midweek wearing a cat ear alice band, a stretchy lycra op art mini dress and huge Vivienne Westwood platforms. And how one would carry that off whilst still looking gorgeous, comfortable and relaxed.
I also pondered on how easy it is to lose perspective as I suddenly felt like a giant elephant being a UK size 10 amongst a horde of very very skinny, glossy, young and pretty fashionistas.

Sigh. The kids these days. I have passed that point and I am no longer one of them.
I can only observe.

Monday, April 02, 2007


Oh joy. I've had no internet access for over a week now and let's just say I am climbing the walls.
I am now in a charming little internet cafe where they charge you a pound to use their crappy computers with keyboards that have no letters printed on the keys - who knew I could touch type?

I was lured by a great package internet/phone deal and stupid, stupid girl that I am I believed their lies. It was no problem at all, it would all be a smoooth transition madam (they talk like that), don't worry about a thing.


I really wish I'd upgraded to the package that includes a week at a Swiss sanitorium (sanitarium?) by a lake where I could lie looking at the view wrapped in a blanket. Only then might I recover from spending three or so hours a day, every day speaking to to various technical people at a call centre in India who sound like they're speaking from the bottom of a well. And who start to panic if you ask them anything that's not in their pre-prepared script. I just love the way each person I speak to contradicts exactly what the previous person told me.


Also fabulous is that my call display no longer works, my phone line is fuzzy and when I'm on it my voice apparently cuts out every few seconds.


I want my innernets back.
I miss you all...