Jon Hamm and Ham Bones...

Mad Men has been beguiling us again. We'd bought boxed sets, in the days when we couldn't opt for a streamed alternative way of viewing. But we refused to be held to ransom by the commercial bandits who wanted to charge for two final series, when we all knew it was going to be one series sliced into two. We were prepared to wait. It wasn't exactly a cliffhanger, after all. Nothing in Mad Men was ever designed to keep you awake at night, pondering. So we were quite relaxed about having a Mad Men-o-pause.
I can't claim that we experienced a hot flush of excitement, or broke out into a sweat when we saw that the whole set was being aired on Netflix. We greeted it with the affection that we show old friends after a two year break. The final series sidled satisfactorily and quirkily to a close.
I think what I loved most about it was its style. Arguably, at times, a case of style over substance.  However,  seeing colours and designs from my fifties and sixties' childhood has made me nostalgic.

I am not sure that I can attribute this yearning to hours spent watching Mad Men, but I do find myself drawn to mid-century glass. In particular, Whitefriars and Medina. I picked up some examples from my friend, Anthony's shop. Then I discovered the thrills and spills of an eBay auction. Delirious excitement. You think I mean when my bid is successful? Not just that. It's the arrival of a little brown parcel that has to be discreetly unwrapped away from a battle-weary husband. I quietly add to my collection, hoping that marital myopia does the rest. (It usually does.)

Jon Hamm

Whitefriars  ham bone or teardrop vases: a Mad Woman collection

The key to success is encouragement...

My piano sounds better than ever since it has been tuned. My piano tuner is one of the most delightful you could wish to meet. I always greet him fully dressed. When I was seven the joke on the playground was of the blind piano tuner. All piano tuners in schools seemed to be blind when I was growing up. The punch line was that the lady of the house, assuming that he was blind, like every other piano tuner, opened the front door to him naked. The punchline, that he could see perfectly well, brought the house down amongst our bunch of saucy seven year olds in the sixties. You can see we were a bunch of sophisticates in Borehamwood..  My new piano teacher hadn't heard that one, but then she is much younger than me.

I am in love with my new piano teacher.  Actually I have renewed my vows that I made seven years ago with  my ancient piano.
Two years of disciplined tutelage from a severe classical teacher; four years recovering from the brutal assault on my self-esteem, and now a teacher who is jolly and looking to make learning fun. She says I have musicality and a sense of rhythm. Well, what do you know? Who'd have thought? But this gentle encouragement makes me want to do more. To practise and to impress. Such a difference from when I could feel every sinew and synaptic connection twanging with tension and terrified concentration. No wonder I grimaced.

Now, never happier than practising a piece. There is nothing like it for cooling the blood, and putting a smile on my face. Earphones are on Dearest's wishlist.
Whatever happened to,
"I'm happy, if you're happy..."?
Hum along, I'm sure there's a chord here that will work with that one..

Move over Mozart...

Longest heatwave since 1978....

The weather didn't actually break today. But it was considerably cooler, and for this we give thanks. We are simply not used to unrelenting heat. We are not sleeping these airless nights. I overheard one woman today saying she got up at two-thirty this morning to hang out her washing as she felt that she might as well do something productive, since sleep eluded her.

Dearest also got up at two-thirty but as he believes the washing machine is self-loading, he did some real work. Until 5.30 when he came back to bed and asked me where I'd put our son's flat keys. Missing keys, particularly those belonging to somebody else, are enough to blast through the early morning grog and send adrenalin levels rocketing.  I flew downstairs to retrieve them They were there, where I'd left them, in his man-bag.

Triumphant, I returned to bed where I was met with the steady snore of one who has crammed yet more hours into the working week.

Reducing crime on the mean streets of London....

An appointment in London, on a broiler of a day. 32 degrees and rising. However, in the spirit of chumminess I'd agreed to ride along with Dearest, who, as usual, was struggling to catch up the missing ten minutes in his day. Traffic lights smiled green; we avoided a reversing driver with a yee-hi as our wagon swerved masterfully. A parking spot next to the pay machine on the outer circle road by York Gate. The gods were with us.

As we negotiated the pay machine, a bloke in his thirties and smartly dressed, spoke loudly on his mobile. He sounded as though he was as hot and and bothered as the rest of us. Seemingly irritated with the friend who was late in picking him up. He was standing by the boot of our car. 

Dearest glared at him. As if he were deliberately invading our personal space. He moved away. We locked  the car, but there was something strange with the locking response. It was almost three o'clock.. 

"You stay here. There was something odd about that bloke. I've got to go."

Aha! I am the defender-in-chief of our car. Not a great track record, if you'll recall the carjacking of my mini.. However, heady with this sudden promotion, I thought I would sit in the driver's seat. This was on the basis I would make a potential carjacking look less enticing, because of my big personality. Not to mention my tendency to scowl when sitting in a large overheated car.

As I strolled round to the driver's side, I could see that the passenger door behind the driver had been opened. Man-on-the-phone had achieved this sleight of hand, as he'd had his loud conversation.

Dear Lord, you need your wits about you.. 

He must be right pissed off that he didn't get those bags of potting compost in the back.  

I would get to plant another hanging basket upon my return. And still have a car! Win win.

I went off in search of my husband, and a little light shopping, as reward for my crime-busting moment.

Fathers' Day..

Never been big on any commercial celebration other than birthdays, and to a minor extent, anniversaries. I don't feel we need to be prompted into family get togethers because Marks and Spencer see this as a golden opportunity to boost their tie and socks sales. However, I have to say that any gathering that we have, relies totally on our desire to spend time together as a family. I give thanks for that.
And a champion card too.

The Art File - another great card

The Queen and I...

I have not given up the ghost.  I have not been away on holiday. And thankfully, no family trauma. I have simply felt disinclined to write anything this week. I don't normally find myself on the same wavelength as our dear Betty Windsor, but when our Queen speaks of our national sombre mood, she is right on the button.
The towering inferno that enveloped the London block of flats has dominated the news this week. Tales of sorrow, mixed with tales of heroism are being superseded by anger that this should have been allowed to happen. And indeed the concern that the flammable cladding could be found on any number of similar buildings, schools and hospitals.
So no, I have not been moved to write of the frivolous or the inconsequential.
Serious decisions have to be made and action taken. We watch on the sidelines, as a government struggles to get itself in order.

The one where the Oldies go to a Rock concert inadvertently...

The Monkees. I loved this group. All these years on, I can tell you their names, Micky Dolenz, Davy Jones, Peter Tork and Mike Nesbitt, without so much as a finger twitching over Google. How sad is that? It wasn't even cool to be a fan of The Monkees, back in the day. Four actors ( I even remember Micky as a boy actor, Corky, in Circus Boy... I'm smoking!) were cast as members of a pop group who mimed to the music because they were not musicians. I believe that their success meant that they had to develop some musical skills given that they had to play in public. They were, I suppose, one of the first manufactured bands.

When my Dearest husband produced tickets for Nashville on tour at the Albert Hall, I was overwhelmed. Overwhelmed as I'd no idea that this was even going to be an event, and touched that he'd struggled to get really good tickets for what was already a sell-out performance. Nashville, the TV series is one of my guilty pleasures. Not shared with anyone, as I set up the ironing board and a pile of laundry, intent on binge-watching as many episodes as the size of the pile will allow. Ever since Revenge ended, this has been my go-to. The music is uplifting and sometimes as I iron, I get some good action going with the hips.

I never imagined that Dearest would consider this as an evening's entertainment. And a secret voice, buried, wondered if I would too.
The taped music beforehand was mood-setting for a night of traditional country and western which, if you know the TV series, was totally misleading. My dears, it was more of joyful, sappy rock concert with actors who are patently accomplished musicians being given a wonderful opportunity to have the time of their lives. Amongst the audience, five thousand strong, on their feet and hand-waving, night lights bobbing from mobile phones, Mr and Mrs Norman Normal sat firmly fixed and genteely applauded.

Charles Eston blinded by the light?

I think Dearest was expecting a bit of Dolly Parton, and I was expecting more songs I recognised from the show. It was, nevertheless, an uplifting evening, and for once, I was at one with my tinnitus.

Charles Eston, playing himself

Post-election reaction...

Hang over and a hung parliament. What a combination. I exaggerate on the state of over-hungness. It was more likely the lack of sleep than the liberal (non-politically aligned) quantity of gin that produced a grogginess that, in truth, has failed to lift.
It was a result that could have been predicted. If Brexit has taught us one thing alone, it is not to count your chickens. The big talk of landslide for the Conservatives at the outset was guaranteed to rattle. The British do not like being told what to do, or how to vote. There is little doubt that in terms of political strategy, May shot herself in the foot mid run-up. Corbin discovered a voice and reached out to the young with promises of free tuition fees. It is a time when Britain needs firm leadership. It feels as though everything is in a state of disarray. Interesting and uncertain times ahead. Time to bite on a cork, everyone.
I'm sure I could liberate one, if you asked me nicely.

It's a Long Day into Night...

Election night.. had to be fortifified  by gins plural. By the third, I needed some sustenance.. pop corn was on offer... Too late, sadly. The alcohol had drained the brain and I was demanding some more Cop Porn. Thankfully nobody obliged. 

The jury is still out. But I have a silly smile on my face. "Tomorrow is another day". (Scarlet O'Bunion.)

Design by urban graphic studio. (Loved by gintle folk.)

Looking for Crumbs of Comfort...or Just looking for Crumbs.

I haven't written anything since Saturday. Yes, Saturday. About half an hour after posting something daft about feet, the news broke about London Bridge, just before we went to bed.
I haven't felt inclined to comment, because it is the same sad story about lives and families torn apart by yet another act of barbarism.
I went up to London yesterday and found a city functioning normally. A one minute silence at eleven o'clock to remember the dead and the injured. Apart from that, life carrying on as usual. So although I am greatly moved by the tales of valour that are emerging as the story of Saturday slowly unfolds, I am not going to make further reference to it in my posts, because to comment on it is simply to give air to the killers and their nihilistic intent.
Tomorrow I will be returning to the warm bosom of Slimming World, after a week's deviation from the plan. Now that is scary in my small world. But I am saying to myself and to you all:

Not entirely sure what it means, but it's warm, comforting and very British

 (Postcard designed by Katie Abey, www.katieabey.com)

No Mean Feet... Yes I do mean your feet..

Too great a temptation. Forgive me for not resisting. But when I saw on Friday morning our ex-Prime Minister's feet entwined with his wife's, featured in a selfie, I knew that my next mission in life was to get Dearest's socks off so we could do the same. Not for Instagram, you understand. That would be far too vulgar. Fine for Davo and Sam Cam, but not for us. Not when we have an extremely exclusive Bunion Blog  at our disposal. Apparently theirs was to celebrate their 21st wedding anniversary. Well, I find it extraordinary that the message it sends out to all their ex-colleagues who are sweating off their political nuts, is that they are footloose and fancy free. Nice one, Cams! 

So here you are: the Camerons, as seen in The Times, and the "Bunions" at leisure. 

"Bloody stupid request if you don't mind my saying..."

"Just read your book. You won't feel a thing.."

Dearest and I are celebrating 37 years of marriage and the miracle of mangled toes on the mean streets of life...

Each dainty leg is white and hairless as an egg...

A brief airing of the great whites on the beach has reminded me that before the summer hols I must finally address the issue of a fake tan for those jolly jambons of mine.

I don't have a great track record with artificial tanning products. In my youth, I read about the post-war use of gravy browning when nylons were scarce. Gravy browning is not the answer, I can assure you. It washes off, certainly. A good summer shower gave me brown rivulets around the ankles. Fetching, or what? 

Then there was a product called Tanfastic. Yes, such a neat name. Always a sucker for a good pun with a hint of spoonerism, I schlepped on the white cream with complete abandon. Only to wake up the next day with brown palms and a torso that resembled a giraffe's. It did not wash off. For days, its mottling lingered. 

Little wonder then that I have been reluctant to experiment with this kind of beauty product. 

But I've pushed the boat about. I've bought some Self-tan Velvet touch Luxe Oil from Marks and Spencer's. 

Burning question of the moment: Will Dearest recognise the  exfoliated burnished beach bunny at the end of the day? Except I haven't a clue how to exfoliate. So let's hope this stuff can cut its way through my foliation..

I can already feel a warm tingling in my calves. It must be the oil working with my skin's amino acids. Oh the beauty of science! ( No, just believing the blurb on the bottle.)