The F word, Pervo Gloves and my new role model

We are not mentioning the F word this morning in the Blighty household: the England v US football match last night did not go according to plan, Boy 2 in particular was beside himself with fury at England's performance and had to be put to bed quite firmly by his manager/mother.


It was a very English sort of affair, early promise followed by awful fumbling. At least it gives us the opportunity to indulge in the self-flagellation so enjoyed by the English, with Mr B helpfully citing statistics showing that England is the most consistent country in the penalty(bottling of)department. There were compensations: I noticed a US player called Buddle which I found inordinately amusing. I wondered if his daddy was an accountant and so could run ads along the lines of "Accounts in a muddle, Call in Buddle!". I also suggested Buddle (as a contraction of Bl**dy Muddle) as a new pet name for Boy 1 but he indignantly said he would prefer Zorg the Mighty Pants Destroyer.


The other bright spot for me personally was Stephen George Gerrard removing his shirt at the end of the game, but coverage was very fleeting and there was not enough analysis of this particular aspect of the game. We always refer to his name in full ever since Boy 1 and Boy 2, having been given a fanzine packed with exciting footie facts, chanted "Stephen George Gerrard" non-stop on a 20 minute car journey. They were either in the throes of starting a cult or it was just step 207 in Drive Mummy Mad (plan B).


I was quite unsettled by the football and so took refuge in the wonderful world of the Nail Polish Ladieshttp://polishhoarderdisorder.blogspot.com/ and http://the-swatchaholic.com/. I noticed the superior condition of their hands. Inspired, I went to bed wearing handcream and what Mr B kindly refers to as my Pervo Gloves. (The first time I wore them during the great pre-wedding self-improvement push of 1998 he fell out of bed laughing, he really has no grasp of handcare at all).

Now ladies, this is where I need your help. When I woke this morning, one glove had completely vanished. As ladies of great wisdom and savoir faire please let me know what has happened, answers on a postcomment please!


My own theory is most disturbing: yesterday we all went to the most lovely cricketing/barbecue affair. The food was scrummy. The puddings included the most delicious meringues - is it possible in my sleep that I thought I was eating a meringue and ate one of my Pervo Gloves? This is too chilling. Mr B has his own theory - I sent my glove to the poor England goalkeeper to assist in firm ball control. But this is just too silly. Please ladies, I need your insights!


Finally, I have noticed that many blogs mention wonderful, inspirational characters the blogger has met or is lucky to count as a friend. Never one to be left out, I am thrilled to introduce to you a lovely lady I met at yesterday's party. She is a fantastic mother, and also very committed to the benefits of natural, mud-based skincare. Definitely my kind of role model.