What goes around comes around

Mr Blighty came home from work earlier than usual last night. He was in a very good mood and looked very pleased with himself. "Why are you home so early?" I asked suspiciously (I had only just had time to untie the tennis instructor*). "Oh, so I'm not allowed to come home to my own house and see my lovely wife?" replied Mr B. That did it, I was extremely suspicious. I scanned the hall and noticed an interesting looking package sitting there. "What's that?" I said. Mr B told me to wait till after supper (he was already climbing into his protective suit and putting on his helmet and visor). While he was wielding the hammer and chisel (my macaroni cheese tends to be very robust) I tried to wheedle further information out of him. Is it a present for me? Yes, he responded. I was now beside myself with excitement. And when he added that it was something I had always wanted, I almost fainted with joy.

At last Mr B finishes his supper and I hose down the kitchen, and Mr B does some quick dental repair work.

He hands me over the package, inside is a large box tied up with a red bow. I rip it open, like a frenzied toddler with a Lindt bunny at a Easter egg hunt.

This is what I find.

What a difference just 2 letters can make.

Mr Blighty is now back in the spare room. Indefinitely. And pointing out he got me the chrome version is not going to help.

*Joking of course. It was the plumber.

**Thanks to Amazon and Rolodex for use of the picture.

Brands and Blighty

I think I've worked out what you guys like best. Having carried out an extensive survey I realise the most popular posts include 2 elements: brands and a soft toy. So here you are:

No, that didn't quite do it, not the right sort of brands I suppose.

Much better! Here I am reclining seductively on a cushion, wearing a Karl Lagerfeld frock arrangement put together using a scarf I bought in Selfridges hundreds of years ago when I earnt and spent my own money. Visionary!

I also channelled MaiTai and her marvellous way with scarves, her blog is just gorgeous. (Also love MaiTai as she did a post on Aix en Provence, she lives near there; I spent a year in Aix in pre-historic times, studying French law. I completely wasted this great opportunity - skiing, sailing, beach, bars, cafes, liaisons with handsome Frenchmen; no, instead I dutifully attended 8am lectures and tutorials, and studied conscientiously).

I spent a couple of most happy hours following MaiTai's very skilful scarf tying demonstrations but I think I may have gone wrong quite early on (step 2?) as I now cannot move. Help, somebody! Anybody!

In the pink with books and polish

Here I am all togged up for my trip to the supermarket (note small boy swim trunks on radiator, a reminder that it was once hot and sunny). It is diddling down with rain here today, so I felt a cheerful raincoat was required. You know what they say about buying clothes the same colours as the ones you are wearing for your shopping trip? I have taken this a stage further.

Look! Matching loo cleaner!

I was thrilled to get this, as it is a Limited Edition, so there is bound to be a run on it - er, not a good choice of words in this context - it is bound to be sold out soon, just like Chanel Particuliere. Remember ladies, you heard about it here first!

Also, it promises a "Fruity Burst" so was worth buying just for the hilarity it will provoke in the Blighty household (obviously not Boy 1 and Boy 2 as they are really quite mature now in their humour and well past that lavatorial stage, but me and Mr B will be giggling and going on about it for hours, like geriatric Beavis and Buttheads).

Oh dear, let's move swiftly on to polish and books.

The book: Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.M. Delafield

This had passed me by until fairly recently. Now it is one of my all time favourites, up there with the Nancy Mitford novels. (Delafield was a contemporary of Mitford). It started life as a serial for a magazine and is written as the diary of a wife and mother trying to keep her household under control in 1930s Devon. The diarist has two lively children and a husband most often to be found hiding behind the newspaper. She is always worried that her cook is about to resign, and she has to juggle bills to keep afloat. She has a lovable but sometimes tiresome French governess, prone to either unencouraging or wildly sentimental comments in French, and the Vicar's Wife always turns up at the wrong moment and stays for hours. Her son's school is obsessed with building projects (no change there then!). Though sadly I have no cook and governess (I know, Mr B is a beast), the book is strangely reminiscent of my own life (for governess substitute my mother, sorry mummy!). Also, Provincial Lady is how I would like to be: for all her muddles and worries, she has a kind heart and never seems to get cross with her children!

The edition I have is another Virago 30 year anniversary one, and the cover is designed by Cath Kidston, using one of her fabrics called "New Rose Bloom".

I am a big fan of Cath Kidston and have a lot of her stuff around the house, in an attempt to pretty it up and fight against the testosterone fuelled Lego and plastic tat mountain.

Above is another edition of Provincial Lady. I don't like the cover at all as the woman on the right does not look like a harassed mother but rather a Vogue model. But this edition (again Virago Modern Classics) contains not only the original book but also all the sequels: The Provincial Lady Goes Further; The Provincial Lady in America; and The Provincial Lady in Wartime. I am in the middle of the first sequel, and can't wait to get to bed each evening to read more (Mr B found me there at 6pm the other day while the boys happily soaked the bathroom floor).

Matching nail polish to the cover was a challenge and so was taking photos. Still my fingers look like wrinkled sausages! I have immense respect for the Swatchaholic, that girl takes nail polish seriously and is a superb photographer. When I first discovered her blog, Mr B had to prise me off the computer at 11pm, so mesmerised was I. (I love the post where she tries to get a colour match for the Tiffany eggshell blue, just thrilling)#. Go check her out, she's on my blogroll! #OOPS HAVE JUST REALISED THAT IT WAS POLISH HOARDER DISORDER THAT DID THE TIFFANY THING, SHE IS V GOOD TOO; SORRY POLISH LADIES! Swatchaholic did marvellous colour comparison of Particuliere lookalikes!

Above, from left to right, OPI Tropical Punch; OPI La Pazitively Hot; OPI Conquistadorablecolour; Rimmel Pro 295 Fancy Fuchsia*

In the end I went with the Conquistadorable.

*Mr B has told me to stop name checking FF all the time as it is sounding stalker-ish, also FF's lawyers have sent me some sort of letter about an injunction, but this really IS the name of the polish.

Must go now introduce pink loo cleaner to loo, ooh fun!

The Morning Scramble

The boys are back to school today after half-term, so the morning scramble has also re-started. No matter how hard I try to prepare ahead (clothes hung on hooks, bags packed, cattle prod fully charged) it always seems to descend into frantic chaos. I realised things were getting out of hand a while ago when a neighbour, a very nice retired lady, told me she and her husband always enjoyed watching our progress (or lack of it) up the road every morning (for example, Boy 2 lying in protest flat out on the pavement, me pulling Boy 1 out of a hedge or from behind someone’s dustbin..)

It was already a challenge. Then, in a brilliant attempt to make my life even more exciting, I decided to embrace glamour, or at least, try to get myself out of the house looking presentable rather than in Nutella-covered pyjamas. It is all to do with getting older and realising I need all the help I can get, looks-wise, and this means blowdrying my hair into a respectable shape – beautiful young girls can get away with straight, shoulder-length hair still damp from the shower, but I was looking haggard and worryingly like Rasputin on a bad hair day.



Parlux as recommended by FF and top hairdressers
So the morning timeline now goes something like this:
5.45am Mr B arises, ablutes, breakfasts and departs in one swift, fluid operation (that man can really move when he wants, as evidenced by the wedding escape attempt, so glad I went for the armed guard option when arranging the wedding cars).
6.35am I dream about Leonardo di Caprio, though worryingly fantasy involves me going to collect Leonardo’s car from valet parking; so sad that even my dreams involve boring admin tasks and even sadder that I find this really quite exciting.
6.45am Boy 1 standing by my bed fully dressed including school tie, looking vaguely menacing.
6.47am Haul sorry carcass to shower.
7.05am Prepare myself mentally and physically for Blow Drying Operation. Apply Sectioning Clips as advised by hairdresser (had never heard of these before and Mr B v amused, saying he always thought I needed sectioning*, ha ha, Mr B, ha ha).
7.06am Begin drying operation.
7.07am Incredible wailing and screaming from region of Boy 2. Ignore, carry on drying.
7.08am Boys 1 and 2 now involved in violent verbal altercation, then hysterical crying from Boy 2. Switch off dryer most reluctantly and investigate. Boy 2, clad only in underpants, is puce and covered in tears and shouts “He’s stolen my £5 note.” Go into top investigative mode and finally, after extensive cross-examination and forensic work, ascertain that:
Boy 2 gave Boy 1 £5 note (gift from Grandma) in return for 2 Pokemon cards several weeks ago;
Boy 2 now wishes to undo deal;
Boy 1 feels a contract is a contract.
7.30am I invoke dodgy equitable principles à la esteemed judge/lawlord, cite “restitutio in integrum” which I vaguely remember from term 1 of law degree and make Boy 1 give back money and Boy 2 return cards.
7.35am Return to hair which has now dried in funny way and sticks up due to sectioning clips.
7.40am Realise time, abandon hair, rush downstairs, frantically get Nutella all over kitchen worktop and self, throw assorted foodstuffs at boys, make hot chocolate which Boy 2 NEVER actually drinks.

Breakfast, a time of calm and quiet and undrunk hot chocolate

7.50am Boy 1 now lounging comfortably on sofa in kitchen deep in book, refusing to do teeth, put shoes on or remove Nutella from face, on grounds that we are irredeemably late, and it is all my fault for “lying in bed snoring”.
7.55am Chase both boys round kitchen table as part of morning exercise regime.
8am Load boys, rucksacks, tennis rackets, cricket bats, book bags etc into boot of car.
8.01am Let boys out of boot of car so they can climb into car seats.
8.04am Decant boys at school, wave merrily and drive off at top speed.
8.06am Return to school as have forgotten to unload clobber from boot.
8.10am Return home and survey the scene, lie down till feelings of futility and exhaustion pass..
And the best thing? We get to do it all again tomorrow!


Has that child gone to school without socks on again?

Dental hygiene is so important

No, words fail me, I'm off for another lie down

* UK Mental Health Acts

Mr Blighty gets shirty

The other morning Mr B left me another of his adorable little love poems; once again I was Lady Antonia and he was Harold*.

"Have no shirts left
All in wash
Boy 1's Hawaian shirt
My sole option"

Mr B feels this blogging business has gone to my head and I have been neglecting my duties as wife and mother. I feel this is a little unfair, I have been exemplary during boys' week long half-term holiday: for example, I successfully disarmed Boy 2 of bread knife which he was brandishing at Boy 1 when he was a teeny bit upset; I prevented Boy 1 and his partner in crime - er, sorry, his playdate - from throwing Boy 2 over the balcony by putting him on picnic mat and then each grabbing a corner...(Boy 2 quite happy to go along with this scheme for reasons unclear to me); I have properly supervised their TV viewing (though there was a close call when Boy 2 informed Boy 1 he had got a DVD from the local library entitled “Hot and Hard”; a few moments of maternal panic happily relieved by discovery that in fact DVD was “Mario Bros, too hot to handle”).

But when I carried out an on-site inspection, this is what I found waiting for me by the washing machine. AAAAAAAAAAGH, dreadful.

I realised I needed to action this straightaway, this Could Not Go On! I set to work, feverishly.

There, much better! Job done. I find completing household tasks so satisfying!
*have not been the same since reading Lady Antonia Fraser's book about her life with Harold Pinter, "Must you go?" He was always writing her poems, and her life was full of glamour, literati, parties, and stimulating political discussions, but I felt a bit disappointed she did not cover the weekly supermarket shop or how she kept Harold sorted for clean shirts.

Tights of Death ("TODs")

This topic is inspired by what is going on in my drawers.
Sorry, I’ll re-phrase that. Let’s try again.
As a 40++++++ woman you would have thought by now I would have learnt to stick with what suits me, sartorially. I have short legs. (I suspect I am descended from a Welsh pit pony, which raises questions about my forbears I don’t even want to begin to think about). So I know that the most flattering tights for me are plain, black, dark brown, and if I want to be adventurous, grey. Plain, plain, plain. Any sort of pattern will increase my calf diameter visually by 100% and will further emphasise the shortfall in the leg length department. Bright wacky colours will also draw attention in the wrong sort of way, risk provoking a migraine and, most seriously, cause Mr B to enquire when the pantomine season starts.

Please don't think I'm against groovy tights in principle. Gals with long lanky limbs can do fancy: the other day Sea of Shoes was sporting a very nice leopard patterned pair, but she has very long, slim legs and so can get away with it. The lovely Faux Fuchsia was totally rocking some fishnets a few months ago, but she has Killer Pins. They are just not a good idea for me.

Also, I am old enough to have already tried lively tights in the 1980s and so Should Know Better. (I still get horrific flashbacks of a royal blue pair with black polka dots, which I paired with a matching royal blue jacket, yikes).

I include in the TOD category those annoying tights which are so voluminous they pull up to under my armpits and the kind, big or small, whose crotch creeps persistently downwards leading to manoeuvres normally only seen in certain bars in Bangkok.

And don't get me started on my adventures in stocking and suspender land, and the dread holdups, which malfunctioned on one leg at the end of a meeting during my former life as a lawyer; how come normally at the end of meetings everyone scarpers leaving me alone gathering up my papers and eating the last of the biscuits, but on this occasion I appeared irresistible to one chap who lingered, thus preventing a discreet rearranging of undergarments?

Plain tights are a good and classic option

No, no, no, TOD alert!

Why then do I have a whole drawer full of TODs? And when do I buy these? I can NEVER recall doing so, but unless there is some sort of random tights fairy who breaks into the house and deposits strange tights while I am sleeping, I must have done.

The TOD drawer can really drag you down

Finally, I should explain why TODs have this rather tasteless moniker. Apart from my sad need to over-dramatise trivial everyday annoyances, the story is as follows: A few months ago, I pop on what I considered to be very jaunty black dotty tights. When I appear in the kitchen Boy 2 shouts cheerfully, “ERRRRRRRRRG, Mummy’s got spots all over her legs. That means she’s going to die!” How lovely, what a sweet, caring child. Boy 1 chips in, “No you mustn’t say that.” My heart lifts, at least one of them is developing some sensitivity and so may not grow up a psychopath after all. Boy 1 adds in a deep, lugubrious voice, “You must say “Mummmmmmmeeeeeeee is going to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie.”

Eeeeek!

Bowled over by fashion

I can’t put it off any longer. I need to deal with one of the most Important Issues facing us today. An issue upon which Vogue, The Sartorialist and other influential fashion commentators and stylists have remained sadly unhelpful:
How to Style Bowling Shoes
No expense is spared here at Blighty Inc. I quicky pulled together a team of top models for an on-location shoot to show how to pull off Bowling Shoe Style. I seem to recall Bruno saying there should be a Nobel Prize for Fashion. Well, I’m definitely in the running now.

Boy 1 rocks the look with long shorts and ankle socks in dishwater grey which cleverly match the bowling venue floor

Boy 2 goes chavtastic in Primark white trackie bottoms with blue go faster stripes, and completes the look with grey and red stripey socks

Mrs Blighty goes for broke with synapse shocking tomato red skirt and some tights she found in the bottom of the drawer that morning

So there you have it! Effortless bowling shoe style. And did you notice the tights? More to come on these in my next post, the All NEW and EXCITING FEATURE, TIGHTS OF DEATH

Don't miss it!




Blighty Models stayed at Lane 15, AMF Bowling, bumpers were used at all times, Boy 2 won after an unfeasible number of strikes, Mrs B got her fingers stuck in the big purple ball and everyone got cross and grumpy, and had to be taken home. Mrs B would like to thank the management of AMF and hope they can reopen soon.