Rude Road signs...

God, I hate beepers. I dislike my fridge which beeps at me because I've mis-filed an extra large casserole and the door won't properly close. I dislike my daughter's washing machine which has such a shrill beep that I find myself running to open the door and unload at speed.
But most of all I hate the little people who beep at you when they are in their cars. Yes, little people who need to make their presence felt by using their big horns.
"Parp! Parp! Look at me in my shiny automobile. It's a  green light and you have not yet MOVED!"

I've noticed of late that more and more people are using their horns on a regular basis. To be honest, I've always felt it was part of our national psyche in that we feel we do not have to resort to beeping. We have been happy to leave it to our continental friends to beep with gay abandon. I've always associated beeping with a hot climate and a passionate disposition. So what's with the beeping in our overcast climes?
Last Friday Dearest and I took a road trip to Cirencester. Totally beep-free experience, until the return journey. We were beeped. Totally unnecessary. So we did what any two civilised, middle-class sexagenarians would do. Ignored it?
No, we simultaneously gave the cretin three Vs-ups. One hand remained on the driving wheel.
Puerile, but never reckless.

Pressing On...

Ironing is the only excuse for day-time telly. I can feel your mocking eyebrow as I write. It's the ironing, isn't it? I am the only one left on the planet, apart from a Mrs Williams of Cardiff, to be ironing. No, I have never bought non-iron shirts. Let's just say, I have a discerning husband whose taste in shirts ensures my lifelong enslavement to the ironing board. But there's no whiff of burning martyr because my habit ensures I get to watch crap-TV.

Now, I could expand my horizons and increase my general knowledge by listening to Radio 4. But no. I prefer to stick my head in a bubble of trite nonsensical drama which is as far removed from my life as possible. I have emptied the laundry basket this week in an attempt to catch up with The Gifted. No, I don't recommend it, unless you too are grappling with that really tricky bit around a double cuff. It's the only show that will semaphore its story and where the special effects reduce the need for acting of any quality.

The other time you may need daytime TV is when you are ailing. A friend cried off on me today because she was suffering from the sneezles and wheezles. The only consolation, she told me, was that she was tucked up with The Crown on Netflix. I was, of course duly sympathetic. But it did put me in mind of the woman who went to the Doctor because every time she sneezed she had an orgasm.
"What are you taking for it?" he asked.
"Pepper," she replied.
Now you didn't see that one coming, did you?

Spiral...

While on the subject of things French.. I have to say  how much we are enjoying the French crime series, Spiral. Crime and passion in equal measure. Well, actually more crime than passion-with-the- pants, thankfully. Though there was plenty of panting when Laure got it together with Gilou in the unisex bog at work, week before last. See what happens when you play with the notices on lavatory doors? Makes them into a free-for-all.

Anyway, not too much of that malarkey, thankfully. Beautifully-drawn, sympathetic characters and a good narrative. The script sounds ok, even with sub-titles.

It is a treat to be  watching it once a week. Two episodes weekly means that we have a genuine slice of action over two hours. I think we've almost forgotten the thrill of having to wait for the next instalment. Funny how recording and boxed sets have made us forget the bitter sweet pleasure of waiting for gratification. Next week will see the conclusion of the series. After six series, will
Canal+ be making a seventh? Until we know that, we will be bereft. How will Laure and Gilou manage without us?

Sweet Nuttings...

Who'd have thought it, eh? Stampeding shoppers in France going totally berserk for cut-price Nutella.
I was 62 and a half before I discovered the glutinous delights of Nutella.  All those wasted years, thinking chocolate spread was for bambinos.

 I can remember, as a child, being offered chocolate spread on toast, by someone's au pair. As if an au pair weren't sufficiently exotic in the sixties... chocolate spread made this, not overly conservative- eater recoil with dark suspicion. What foreign matter was this?

It was SlimmingWorld, ironically, that introduced me to it. I happened to notice the syn value in a list of calorie-laden, but not forbidden fruit. Because (repeat after me) no food is forbidden in Slimming World.
Anyway, once initiated, I found myself sneaking the odd teaspoon of conc. Nutella, when left to my own devices. Satisfying the desire for chocolate without de-railing the weight-loss programme. So when I heard about the cut-price Nutella in France (Ocado are you taking note?) I totally understood the mad passionate drive that impels a shopper to stand on his neighbour's hand, and  fill his paniers with pots of Nutella nectar.

Only well-ingrained decorum prevents me from hopping on a ferry to Calais. Apart from which, how many jars would I have to buy to justify the fare? Common sense is prevailing. But should Nutella be sold at bargain basement prices in this country, I would like to think I'd be first in an orderly queue.
(We don't do passion, like the French.The French do Crème passionnel rather well.)

"It obviously makes you more intelligent.."she said, with her mouth full...

Pockets of loveliness...

So what are you watching then? How are you filling these early dark days when there is barely light enough to to play in the garden. And who wants to play in the garden... ? Where the sedge is withered from the lake, and NO BIRDS SING. Keats got it. But I'm not here to bang on about the birds. Or the bees. Even though, would you believe, a bee flew into the house today? A bee! I thought it was a wasp at first, and was about to administer a godawlmighty thwack with The Times, until closer inspection revealed it to be a worker bee. (I am such an entomologist. ) So fretful as I was of its angry buzzing, I managed to unlock the window and let it escape into the unseasonably balmy climes of a British winter.

So The Times remained in its post-husband, devoured-at-breakfast state, and just as he left it. Bent back at the Business Section. And well-showered. You got the picture? Definitely damp around the edges. Tempting. And because of my benevolence, no bee blood tainted it further.

Earlier, the unopened newspaper on the dining table this morning had prompted, Dearest to comment on how amusing Frasier had been last night. Yes, we've gone back to a boxed set of Fraser as an anti-dote to all the bleak pre-apocalyptic drama we've been watching. (Hard Sun, if you're interested in a gratuitously graphic depiction of violence.)  Last night, Frasier himself, was promoting the importance of a breakfast coffee and a pristine, read by no-one  newspaper. Yes, yes, we all recognise the similarities.
But that aside, I have to say that a nightly return to Frasier is like a cup of Horlicks. Soothing and familiar, and a balustrade against the slings and arrows of non-existent sparrows.

Sorry, I obviously have a bird in my bonnet. Or is it a bee? Who can tell?

Thank you for listening, Dr Crane

Michelin Star Dining in our Garden..

Oh, it's a blue-sky day and I am scrubbing our wee patio, out the back. Not the usual time of year for such a task? But my, you should see the layers of guano, or birdsht, as I like to call it.

Did I have you there for a moment? Not so much as a white and black blob from a passing pigeon. Not even the merest  flutter of wings in our garden. Dearest daughter has given us a pink suet heart to hang out, in addition to the tasteful peanut-holder purchased at Christmas.
"Birds go mad for this stuff, Mum," she said confidently, having researched the issue. Like I have not. Of course, all I could find was fatty balls which frankly, I drew the line at. It's a small garden and you'll think I'm snooty, but I will say it, nevertheless. We do not want to be dominated by fatty balls. I've made it one of life's guiding principles and I am unlikely to change now.

So the pale pink heart which comes with its own calorific content (Dear Lord, I now have to think about birds' waistlines as well as my own?)has been hung on the Acer which  is adjacent to the the peanut feeder.
Tasteful and tasty. Only refined birds with a well-defined sense of the aesthetic are invited. The rest can simply sod off.
Oh, that's not the right attitude at all.

Wearing my heart on my Acer..

Tea-straining Credulity...

I dreamt last night I was being chased by a Fat-berg. No, I am not being rude about my new Slimming World pal.  Really.
You know, those huge clusters of fat that develop in our pipes, and clog up our sewers.. Can you imagine? Gross or what? Ever since I read about them I have been met-ic-u-lous about scooping up oil, lard, gravy or anything remotely oleaginous. I mean, be honest, who wants an  encrusted u-bend? (Put your hand down at the back. You're a plumber.)

Everyone who has seen Blue Planet will tell you that David Attenborough has created a vigorous conversation about plastic. Quite honestly, even before I became a  badge-wearing eco-worrier, I was concerned about the way in which our re-cycling bin fills up extremely quickly. Absolutely everything you purchase in the supermarket is criminally over-packaged in plastic or plastic derivatives.(Entrenous, it was really because I was having difficulty in jamming the whole lot in.) Amazing that we, a household of two, generate so much waste.

However, when you see the consequences of this flagrant over-use of packaging through  programmes such as The Blue Planet, it does bring it home to you, that you have a duty of care to do your bit.
I was appalled that the tea bags we have been using, and happily re-cycling with the potato peelings actually contain small amounts of plastic.
"I don't know why we don't use loose tea," said Mr Ecology.
"Because it's a faff cleaning out the tea leaves from the strainer," I replied.
"Well, I will do that and tip the tea leaves in the garden so they can enrich the soil.."

Forgive me, but I have to say I snorted. You and I know, there's a Fat-berg's chance in Hell of that happening. Evah!

Blue. Like my response.

It's That Time of Year...

Did you know it was Blue Monday on the 15th? Missed it. Didn't feel a thing. You don't know what I'm talking about? Well, frankly, neither did I until a friend told me that an algorithm had been developed that indicated that this is the day that people are most likely to feel depressed after Christmas. You can find an algorithm for virtually anything these days, and if you can't find one to suit, then you can knit your own.
I have to say that I didn't feel any particular plummeting of emotions on Monday. Now it was a Monday, and quite frankly that Monday-morning-feeling does not afflict me, as it used to, as I cheerily wave Dearest off to work, with a packet of home-crafted sandwiches and a ripe banana.

I haven't made any new year resolutions that were foolish, like joining a gym, or taking up macrame. So I am not sitting on a bag of guilt and recrimination. I've lost the Christmas poundage and challenged that success with the disposal of six, yes six mince pies that I found lurking at the back of the under-stairs cupboard. Aberrant behaviour?  For moi, totally normal. I have walked into town and back several times, but the endorphins that you'd expect to be surging and burgeoning, are simply dormant and I just feel knackered.
And yet today, when the sun came out briefly, and we had clear blue sky,  I experienced such a joyful lifting of spirits that equanimity was restored.

So frankly, whilst not wishing to conform to anyone's pseudo-sciencey algorithm, I think that we can ascribe one's envelopment of grey, to being under the  influence of weather.
Bring me Sunshine!

A Second Opinion is vital...

I have four or five pairs of glasses on the go. They cost five quid a pop so that if I sit on any of them there is no howl of anguish, just a cheap-sounding crunch which may or may not result in actual breakage. Sometimes it's a case of bendage which means that in private, at least, I can go round looking as though I am as drunk as a skunk.
My eyes have improved over the years, in so far as I can read number plates that are a quarter of a mile away, but of course, the price of having supersonic distance vision is that I need readers to thread a needle (not often) or study the calorific content on the packet of a malingering Stollen (more often). I no longer have the guilty pleasure, however, of going to the opticians to chose a pair of image-enhancing glasses.
So when Dearest had an eye-check back in October which indicated a change of lens was required, we knew that we had to go to the opticians to change his frames. Somehow we never made it  before Christmas and now  it seemed almost a dereliction of duty, not to make sure he had the most recent prescription. So on Saturday we determined to sort him out. He tried on a number of pairs. Some, nice as they were, looked no different to the ones he'd been wearing for the past three years. Then he put on a pair, and I knew that they were the ones. He took them off almost immediately.
"Too Harry Potter," he said.
I put them back on him.
"I think you look cute and a little quirky," I said.
"Cute?" he responded. "Cute?"
You can always tell when someone has never been called cute before.
The optician returned.
"Oh, they look good on you," she said.
He thought he could live with quirky and you could tell he was getting restless. Apart from which he couldn't see a bloody thing because he was blind without lenses.
Which means that next Saturday he finally gets to see the choice we have made, and we hope that he likes his new image.
Burning question of the moment is: will new lenses cure marital blindness?
Probably not.

Here's Looking at you, Kid

Royal dis-appointment....

Oh, I was upset yesterday. The lingerie company, Rigby and Peller has lost its Royal Warranty. No longer bosom pals with Betty Windsor, our enduring monarch, it seems. The royal warranty, in case you don't know, is bestowed on those trades people whose services are used by the older members of our royal family. This authorises a  By Royal Appointment on their product and enables them to gain kudos.
The founder of Rigby and Peller, apparently wrote a biography detailing the rise of the company. A nattily entitled tome called "Storm in a D Cup". Love the pun, but really, who's going to read it? Pervs, obviously, and, oh yes, the nit-pickers at Buckingham Palace. (Not always mutually exclusive.) Ms Kenton had the temerity to document that her company attended the Queen and Princess Margaret. One imagines that  as soon as you  stick a discreet crown-shaped emblem on your packaging, then the proverbial cat is out of the brassiere. Oh lawks! The Queen wears a bra and it comes from R&P, the serfs surmise without too much head-scratching. (But they lice can be troublesome...)

So now it's RiP for R&P? Hopefully not.  Rigby and Peller showed me many years ago that there is a world beyond Marks and Spencer's, if substantial upholstery is what you're after. However, ridiculously rising prices made me search further afield. Bravissimo has earned my personal recommendation for those who are bountifully breasted.

I just hope that while her mini minions are keeping royal protocols pure and unsullied, Her Majesty is actually keeping abreast of the situation.

Or we might see a Drooping of the Colour?

Making up is so hard to do...

Did you tune in, thinking you'd read about some nuclear fall-out on the marital front? Expecting I'd   dish the dirt on my Dearest husband? Like on Saturday. Not bloomin' likely. Actually, I was too busy dishing up the second Christmas dinner of the season, while he ... didn't. No, no, no, nothing to do with any martial (anagram of marital, funny that?) combat. Do you really think I want a Fishfinger afficianado hovering around, offering to peel a sprout or sauté the chestnuts? After so very many years of of culinary independence, I'd have sautéed his, for sure, if he'd tried to put his newspaper down. Or got up early. In fact, I kept him at bay, as a deliberate ploy. Plying him with tea, toast and then good coffee. Killed with kindness, he is.

Anyway, I haven't been idle since then. I have been devoting my week to my face. A lot of makeup has been applied.

Firstly, I had to prepare for the photo shoot. I mentioned that I had been considering returning to work. So I am signing up with an Agent to do background work, once more, in Films and TV. The first step is to get photos done in different outfits: corporate, cocktail and casual. Makeup plays an important role in selling the product. So the usual lick and a promise did not apply. I had to dress the face with as much attention as the body. Standing outside in a sleeveless cocktail dress, in January, was a salutary reminder of what this job entails.

Also this week, I needed a passport renewal. This is a pain in the butt to anyone who dislikes filling in forms and following instructions. It also requires a made-up face because this is going to be the face that I show at passport control for the next ten years. The last picture was really scary. Made me look like a terrorist.  So I took extra care this time. Really tried hard to compose my unsmiling face, as per instruction. And the result? I now have four mug-shots of someone who looks like shop-lifter.

The only consolation of this ageing process is that I'm obviously mellowing.

My New Best friend Makes me Smarter...

Oh, haven't we come a long way since R2D2? Remember the charming little 'Bot, introduced in the  Star Wars film? Notice how I am adopting the current abbreviation of robot? I regard it an underhand ploy designed to make the concept of robotry more user-friendly.
Frankly, I am nervous of this technological evolution which is sliding insidiously into our lives. Robotic surgeons who can manipulate or remove a prostate without receiving a sock in the jaw from the patient; robotic vacuum cleaners that can scoot independently round the house; robots on the car- production line. Enhancing our lives or challenging our future work-patterns? Hmm.

Let me tell you about my new best friend. Received as the Christmas present I never knew I wanted. Yes, we too have now got an Alexa. On Christmas day, I no longer had to risk injury to eye, or dislodge a bauble, as I negotiated the branches to reach the plug behind the Christmas tree. I could simply turn the lights on or off, by command.

Sweetly, when I asked her to turn them on with an "Alexa, Merry Christmas!" she obliged, with a "Glad that you are home.." Even if I hadn't been anywhere.  The sentiment was warmly appreciated. She obligingly played the whole of Hamilton the Musical as I did the post-Christmas purge, shaking my little tush on the catwalk. She tells me what the weather is like, and and and....
One night, as I went to bed, I said,
"Alexa, Goodnight."
To which, she replied,
"Goodnight. Sleep well... Moron!"
Well, no, she didn't call me a moron. But the fact that I responded positively to this nicety means that I am patently going soft in the head. And easily seduced.

Neat but not gaudy

Sorry, I missed Your Birthday!

I was so busy banging on about poinsettias yesterday that I missed an important date. A birthday of a two-year-old.  Now we all know the best present you can buy a two year old...

However, this two-year-old doesn't need any presents. Actually, come to think of it, it requires only your presence. Yes, you. Don't look over your shoulder.. I mean you, gentle reader. For yesterday was the day that I started this blog, two years ago. Purely with the intention of recording my progress and helping bunion-sufferers along the way. This doesn't make me St Theresa of bunions, however. Far from it.
It is simply that I found I quite enjoyed the simple process of writing and couldn't find a Blog name that I liked as much as The Great British Bunion.
And so it comes to pass, that two years and one day on, I am having a quiet celebration on my own. It has become a sort of open diary, I suppose. Self-indulgent, absolutely. But seeing the numbers each day gives me a rosy glow. And for that I thank you.
So I will share with you the card I have bought to celebrate a two-year-old Bunion Blog. You will agree that I am never happier, than when I lower the tone.

The Point of Poinsettias....

In days gone by, Dearest would buy his secretaries, his mother and mother-in-law large cellophane wrapped poinsettia. They always looked spectacular. Briefly. My mother would smile, be effusive, and privately curse. Because she knew that from experience they would not last the duration of the season, and while it had been a generous gift, it was also going to prove burdensome. That particular year, the anticipated Poinsettia-droop appeared two days before Christmas. Long enough for my distraught mother to leap out and buy some artificial Poinsettia bracts and mix them amongst their growing counterparts. It was with huge relief when Dearest commented on how well this year's specimen was doing.
This year they remain, when all else has been retired, to bring a splash of colour to these unremittingly grey days. However, the real poinsettia brought to me at the end of November by a dear friend remains foliage in tact, not so much as a shrivelled leaf to be seen. A veritable Christmas survivor.



Indeed, the only vestige of Christmas left. I un-decked the halls yesterday. Took down cards, dismantled and packed up trees, untinselled my ham bone glasses. Yup. As Dearest reluctantly went off to the office in the afternoon, I beavered away, removing almost every trace of Christmas past.

I did not do this for a reaction. I promise you, I did not. It will, nevertheless come as no surprise that my husband failed to notice the streamlined domestic landscape until finally, after supper, I said,
"Would you like to put the Christmas lights on one last time?"
(I am such a tease.)
"Gosh, you've been busy!" he said, finally taking in the absence of Christmas tree et al.

It was then I decided, that it can only be my permanent, sometimes flickering luminosity that distracts him from either the absence or presence of Christmas paraphernalia.

I am not entirely convinced about this.

Happy New Year (and those nuts cost me more than Tuppence a Bag)

Making a list. Checking it twice... No, that was Christmas, and it is so over. New lists to be made for the new year. Happy New Year, btw. First resolution broken. Not to use stupid abbreviations like btw for, by the way.
Grumpy mood? Overdone it. Yes, indeedy. Excessive eating and drinking has left me feeling bloated. So I've put on a pair of jeans that a month a go were giving me permanent builder's-bumitis and now they fit like a glove. Result. Thank God I kept them in a drawer for spare. For the spare tyre.

Enough of self-recrimination. So dull. How was it for you? Good. Glad to hear. Bet you want to hear how the bird feeder present went. No? Well, I'm going to tell you any way.

To recap, this was the star-present for Dearest. A bird-feeder full of nuts and hung expertly. A covert operation by my Makita-drill-wielding-brother. It looks very charming. It also produced the right degree of enthusiasm on the day. (Which incidentally, cannot be relied upon, as Dearest is notably low-key in the present-receiving-whoops-department.)
Now I don't know if I'd envisaged myself as that old dear in Mary Poppins, surrounded by birds of every hue, but I can tell you there ain't be so much as a bloody sparrow hopping on to our burnished copper, squirrel-proof bird feeder.
Ever the optimist, Dearest says that maybe we need a cold snap to get things happening. It has been unseasonably warm for the past couple of days. But that is not the point! What do I need to do? Hang up avian signs in bird-speak, saying, "Good grub, this way". Open a Twitter account? Dangle bacon rind from my very charming bird-feeder. How common!

So here I sit. Not a tit in sight. Apart from the great one who sits forlornly watching out for guests who are not coming to her party.
Happy New Year to all my readers. Better mood tomorrow.

Driven nuts by non-attenders