The Return of Tights of Death and a Surprising Discovery

Hello ladies, just when you thought it was safe to go back on-line - Tights of Death ("TODs") are lurking, waiting to get you!

These are cracking, a fine example of TODs. What was I thinking? The peachy pinky colour makes my legs look like uncooked sausages with nasty additives in them. Just because they came from TopShop is no excuse.

They are equally ugly off. Look, weird pointy shaped feet! And the stretchy lace material is harsh and itchy, with a horrid lumpy seam up the side of each leg.

I even tried to make them work by channelling Kylie in her "Can't Get You Out of My Head" video. Not a success I feel.

But at least I have outdone Kylie in the plunging neckline stakes, my plunge goes all the way down to my feet. Which makes walking difficult.

As if one pair of blancmange like tights was not enough, I bought another pair in the same colour. I thought they would look lovely with this TopShop dress. Instead on me they look vaguely surgical, as if purchased from one of those large specialist chemist shops.

The label on the tights says it all - I am a "soft touch" to take strange TODs home.

I was so unsettled by the TODS I had to play dress up, to restore my image as a style guru. Note my lions head brooch, all us fashion bloggers are majorly into animal head accessories. And see how I followed the lovely MaiTai's example by folding a silk scarf into a top. I think my colourful outfit looks very "What Katie Wore". Katie wears wonderful clothes in a very original and often quirky way, and is such a pretty girl. In fact Katie often wears vibrantly coloured tights or leggings but never TODs. She carries off her tights with great panache, due to her youth and slender limbs.
http://www.whatkatiewore.com/

The scarf is Kenzo. I like it a lot, not least as it came from the Oxfam charity shop (ever the bargainista).

Finally, look at this, found at the bottom of the bed!

I picked him up at the airport in Sweden years ago and took him home with me - what can I say, I was single at the time, with a weakness for Scandanavians. His name is Anders and he still likes to keep in touch. Mr B is very understanding. The other night Anders and I sat up late drinking Aquavit and talking about the old days; I don't remember anything after that, but it must have been a wild night for him to end up in that state, with my Pervo Glove entangled round his antlers. Life really is full of surprises.

Have a nice weekend everybody and stay away from Aquavit (and moose)!

Colourblind

The other day the really nice man from the Blinds shop came to measure up for a new blackout blind for Boy 1's bedroom. Old one strangely frayed at edges - query - has Boy 1 been chewing it and if so how did he manage this? Also roller making strange rattling sound, possibly Lego inside.

I have been obsessed with blackout blinds ever since Boy 1 was a tiny baby and I became a disciple of Gina Ford's "The Contented Little Baby Book". I have no idea whether Gina is still in vogue but I remember at the time your baby either was or wasn't a Gina baby, and parenting sites would be full of highly charged debates about the wonderfulness or awfulness of the big G.

When we brought newborn Boy 1 home from the hospital Mr B and I were a bit unsure what to do next. Mr B gave him a tour of the flat, showed him his room and explained how the washing machine worked. Then we sat him on the sofa, looked at him for a while and asked him if he would like a cup of tea. We thought we had a new lodger rather than a baby. Imagine our surprise later that evening when our quiet new housemate suddenly transformed into a wailing, all-night party animal; and the partying didn't stop there, night after night it went on...There were moments when I found myself searching through my wallet for a receipt from the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital to see how long I had to return him and get a refund.

It became obvious we needed some sort of users manual on how to operate a baby. When should he nap? Do you change his nappy before or after a feed? How much on-line poker should he be allowed to play?

This is where Gina came in. Gina was all about routines for your baby, and her book contained exacting timetables to follow. Very exacting timetables. I can recall getting quite stressed if it was 9.02am and I still had not put "baby" in his cot for his first nap of the day; I could never remember which breast I had given him (probably one of my own but in my sleep deprived state even this was uncertain) and I never fancied the large glass of water I was supposed to drink after a feed (a cup of tea and a packet of biscuits was more what I had in mind). And Gina gave dire warnings about not letting "baby" nap after 5pm because otherwise he would not Go Down at 7pm, to such an extent that any signs of snooziness in Boy 1 at this time of day would give me panic attacks.

I am sort of coming to a point. Gina was very firm in advocating both blackout blinds and interlined curtains in "baby's" room, to ensure he slept well. The book included terrifying case studies of babies who were Woken by Light Coming into their Rooms. My favourite was where the father, a City trader, left for work at 5am each morning and the Light from the front door opening Woke the Baby; in this instance Gina seemed to condemn at one fell swoop bankers, fathers, and lack of suitable window dressings. So this explains my blinds fetish.

After the measuring up, important discussions took place about what colour blind would match the curtains. The blinds guy had lots of books of swatches, and I found myself telling him about a study on colour perception done by some super clever boffin guy in the US*. So I thought I'd tell you all about it too. I find it so funny. Then again it could just be the sheer relief that Boy 1 won't be Woken by Light Coming into his Room.

http://blog.xkcd.com/2010/05/03/color-survey-results/

Warning - the language, as you might expect of young studenty types is strong, not suitable for children.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Randall_Munroe

Iron Willpower

Mrs B styling her hair, languidly

As a domestic goddess and top housewife, I always action household tasks without delay.

Sorry, just climbed back on my chair, I think I may have pulled a muscle laughing.

So imagine my dismay at this unhappy scene.

(The giveaway as to how long this lot has been lingering is the summery clothes; it’s been at least 2 weeks now since summer ended here in Blightyland).

It was IMPERATIVE that I dealt with this immediately.


Which is why I went straight to the kitchen to make cupcakes. We have no obvious need for cupcakes but I genuinely felt we could not go on without any. To extend the cupcake process further, I debuted an icing bag thingie I had bought from the Lakeland catalogue about 3 years ago (when I was in the full throes of a nasty case of catalogitis freeshippingtons with a side order of kitchen gadget fever). Actually I have used the kit just once before, I had the brilliant idea of using it to pump Bolognese sauce into cannelloni; the results were spectacular, but not in a good way.

I need a lot more practice with the icing bag, more shot out the top than the bottom. I also overdid the food colouring – I am hoping the boys will come down off the ceiling soon.

To my total surprise I then found myself not at the ironing board but in the nearby town, pootling round the shops. How did that happen? I was astounded. Possible explanations:

• I was abducted against my will by aliens, who, later realising I was no good to experiment on, instead dropped me off at the Weeping Willows Shoppe Centre;
• I was just on my way to fill the iron up with water when I fell into a trance-like state and drove to the shops;
• Faced with the prospect of ironing I realised that life as we know it would end unless I got Boy 1 a Reader Windball ™and, for myself, some Seche Vite topcoat for my nails.*
*Both highly specialised items of equipment, both smell strange but only one used by cricketers; actually I wouldn’t be too sure about that.

Mr B will of course be told that the first or possibly the second are the only credible explanations but I am prepared to admit here entre nous that it was the last. Mrs Trefusis, whose blog I enjoy, referred a while ago to the term “Bunburying” which comes from Oscar Wilde’s “The Importance of Being Earnest”. Algernon, one of the characters in the play, has invented an sick friend called Bunbury whom he always needs to visit, when he wants to get himself out of onerous social commitments. The need to visit the shops when faced with unappealing domestic tasks would seem to be my version of Bunburying.

Fortunately for Western civilisation I was able to purchase the cricket ball. I then proceeded to Sallys, a jolly chain of shops which sells beauty supplies to trade and consumers. I had a most enjoyable time there: They had OPI polish. They had Seche Vite. They even had Pervo Gloves.


OPI on sale!! But did not buy. Why??

Moroccan oil

Let's hear it for trouts

I must admit to feeling a bit uninspired and slightly drained. This is probably because today Boy 1 is doing his English Speaking Board exam, to which he violently objects on the grounds that a)it involves poetry and b)he can already speak English. I had to stand firm against the most heart-rending portrayal by Boy 1 of intestinal agony ever witnessed, which came on at precisely 8am this morning, coinciding with departure to school. I am a heartless mother, but at least he will have lots to tell his therapist when he’s in his 30s. There was also a terrific bust up between Boys 1 and 2. I have now re-named Boy 2 “Vuvuzela”.

Luckily, the lovely Faux Fuchsia has provided inspiration by suggesting I do a post on trouts. FF no doubt feels I am well placed to deal with this topic. I do display many troutal tendencies and sincerely hope to grow into a Right Old Trout. (Haha, Mr Blighty, haha). My theory is we need more old trouts to speak their minds, sort people out and generally interfere. Famous Trouts that spring to mind are Bodicea, Queen Victoria, Margaret Thatcher and, of course, my mother, but these gals are all English, we need multi-national trouts, names please!


The trout topic brings me to Cliveden, a huge mansion and country estate overlooking the River Thames in Buckinghamshire. The Blighty family and friends recently went for a walk in the grounds. (Cliveden was where, infamously, the MP John Profumo first met Christine Keeler in the 1950s –see film “Scandal” featuring John Hurt for lurid and most enjoyable treatment of the subject, see v serious report on the affair by Lord Denning if you don't want any unnecessary excitement).


The Thames, a place for quiet repose in your motorboat, until the Blighty mob yomp past

Small boys leaving scene of crime. Where is smaller brother? Can he swim?

Nice little country cottage

In the 1920s and 30s Cliveden was the home of a certain Nancy Astor, the wife of Waldorf Astor. Nancy became the first woman Member of Parliament in 1919. This achievement alone could be evidence of supreme troutdom, and I mean that as a compliment (actually it may have been her husband’s money and the Tory party backing that did it; Nancy was also said to be very witty but later in her career she made some really questionable remarks and fell out of favour).

There are some great anecdotes which serve to enhance her troutal reputation. These are alleged to be exchanges between Nancy and Winston Churchill (apologies as I suspect most people will know these but I couldn't help myself):


“Lady Nancy Astor: Winston, if you were my husband, I'd poison your tea.
Churchill: Nancy, if I were your husband, I'd drink it.”

"Winston, you are drunk"
“I may be drunk, Madam, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.”

(Actually, the second was probably not Nancy but is always being attributed to her).

I do think though Nancy may have taken troutdom just a little too far, as her husband is reported to have had a heart attack after an argument with her about chocolate. I feel there is a lesson in there for me.

So that’s my little essay on trouts. Just hope Boy 1’s poetry recital is as smooth as Winston’s repartee.

STOP PRESS– just looked at FF’s note again. She suggests trout recipes as a topic. **%&$%*!!

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.

The beautiful game - England v USA

No time for blogging tonight - all members of Blighty household required in front of TV.

Don't worry, we have all we need refreshment-wise, and we have accessorised appropriately.

Good Sport

Great excitement in Blightyworld today as it was Boy 1’s Sports Day and Mr B had actually taken the day off work to attend (OK, I admit it, I hid his train pass).

It did not start well. Early this morning Boy 1 burst into tears due to Performance Anxiety Issues. He came last in the 800m last year and was doing the same race again this year, and predicted he would come last again this year, the next year, the next year after that and after that. It is good to see he has developed a positive mental outlook. I got into a complicated discussion with him about winning not being everything; it was all about taking part etc. which somehow evolved into a heated debate about how much footballers earn and why we don’t have a Bentley. But the offer of a pizza after Sports Day smoothed things over.

It was pouring with rain and I kept hopefully checking for a text message calling it off. But those sports teachers are hardcore, nothing short of a blizzard puts them off, and they wear shorts all year round. I wouldn’t recognise those guys with trousers on. If you see what I mean.

Mr B and I dressed for the weather – Mr B even put on his waterproof over-trousers.

We set off for the Sports Ground. I confidently advised going through the town. Mr B favoured the motorway route. I prevailed. The town route was clogged with morning rush hour traffic. I helpfully pointed out that I had said the motorway would be better. Mr B went very quiet.

Once there it was the usual organised chaos: the boys and teachers knew exactly what they were doing, the parents did not and got in the way and failed to Do as they were Told.



The day was all based on the 4 “houses” in the school competing against each other. I am a bit hazy on the house names, they are something like Lumbago, Sciatica, Hernia and Verruca. No, that’s not it, that’s my medical history. I think it’s Leopard, Cheetah, Tiger and Tortoise.

It all turned out well: it stopped raining and Boy 1 did not come last in his race. I had a lovely time chatting to other parents and shouting “Come on darling!” and taking photos of my blonde haired athlete, till Mr B pointed out that it was not Boy 1; Boy 1 was in fact sitting on the grass happily guzzling Lucozade. Some terribly smart and organised parents had brought chairs and light refreshments in the form of designer cupcakes and Moët. I found an old boiled sweet in the bottom of my handbag.

I talked to an amazingly clever and interesting friend, who is also very funny – she explained she had just been hiding behind the Cupcakes and Champers set, hitching up her hold-ups. We had a useful discussion on hold-up malfunctions (so odd that I just mentioned this problem in Tights of Death) and she strongly advocated the use of Pritt Stick glue.

Gradually the sun broke through, it really began to warm up and I told Mr B loudly “Take your trousers off, you’re hot!” I haven't seen Mr B go so pale since our wedding night.

At the end the Headmaster gave a short speech about the building of the school’s new aromatherapy suite and helipad, and asked for contributions to the proposed indoor ski slope. Medals were presented. Boy 1 was then taken away by his proud parents for pizza lunch.




After lunch Mr B, determined to enjoy his day off to the full, went to look at TVs.

I sneaked off to inspect glamour items.

I considered the purchase of Burt Bees cuticle cream as recommended by the nail polish ladies but felt I could not rush into such an important nailcare commitment.

Nail porn - phwoar!

I really need a zippie bag with a cute doggie or puddy on it. Just can't think what I need it for.

Then home for a soothing cup of tea. I feel quite tired now after all my athletics.