More conversations I’ve overheard this week (and wish I hadn’t)
Is there no limit to what people will openly discuss in public places? It would appear coffee shops, where regular followers will know I can often be found bashing out a story or two when I’ve swapped my mummy hat for my journalist one, are now the place to conduct business. Apart from failing to give anyone involved any privacy, I don’t think I’ve ever come across anything more unprofessional than discussing the inner workings of a company or individual next to yummy mummies sipping their skinny lattes or journalists on the hunt for story ideas (aka moi). These are (just some) of the exchanges I’ve been unable to avoid overhearing this week: 1) A testosterone battle between one suited man and his colleague, one of whom had flown to their coffee shop meeting (in Sussex) from Liverpool. After outlining the agenda of their meeting – how best to bid for funding for the charitable trust they worked for – they then spent more than an hour criticising each other’s decision making skills. Not very charitable. And surely this could have been done over the phone? I still can’t help but wonder how much the flight cost the poor charity. 2) An interview for a new coffee shop manager. It transpired the existing senior barista wanted the job, but the man from head office conducting the interview told the applicant he didn’t think this chap was ‘quite suitable’. I’m not sure if they’ve told the poor guy yet – when I ordered my cup of tea this morning he’s still being super helpful and friendlier than usual, although I’m not complaining. But something’s not right when the customers are one step ahead of the staff. […]
The hoarder next door: yep that’s me
Two weeks after committing (online) Tesco suicide, things are going swimmingly with Asda. Not only does the weekly shop now arrive on time and in date, it is cheaper and so far has come with one of my favourite things in the whole wide world: free samples. These appeal to me on a number of levels: 1) They’re free 2) They come in the cutest, minniest sizes you’ve ever seen. Think Honey I Shrunk The Pantene 3) They are trussed up in equally miniature bags, often featuring a bow This is the little stash (pictured) which arrived this week: eight tubes of Colgate toothpaste and five sachets of stir fry sauce. Of course they can’t possibly be used. Because they might come in handy one day. Like the miniature pots of Sudocrem, the tiny tubes of Johnson’s and a hessian pouch of cotton wool balls that came in the hospital bounty pack when I had BB. All of which are in the drawer under her cot, still in the little bags they came in. […]
Comfy shoes: the thin end of the wedge gets thicker
If my plastic glasses were the thin end of the wedge, then the wedge has just got thicker. Decidedly thicker. Check out my latest shoe acquisition. Designer? No. Gorgeous? Sadly not. High heeled? Don’t be silly. It is with the greatest regret I must admit, for the first time ever with the exception of trainers, I have bought a pair of shoes based on their comfort, durability and affordability. From Clarks. They look like the sort of thing my 87-year-old Granny would wear. Worse, they are the sort of thing my 87-year-old Granny does wear. Even my 91-year-old Granny, who owns a pair of Ugg boots, is more on trend than I am. Worse still, my new pair of shoes boast WaveWalk technology. Attractive. […]
Passport photo shocker
I’ve done it. I’ve scarred BB for life. Despite best efforts, this is her first passport photo. It’s going to haunt her for the rest of her life. And she’s going to hate me for it. Kissable lips and delightfully chubby cheeks aside, how is it possible that she looks as though she’s been shouldered into the frame with her hands behind her back by a burly police officer having done something she knows she really shouldn’t? And how is it possible that what was a fairly expensive salon bob looks like I’ve put a pudding bowl on her head and cut round it. Badly. […]
When I grow up I want to be…a gardener or tree hugger
She’s only 19 months old, but I already know what my daughter is going to be when she grows up: a gardener. The seed of thought was first sown in my mind when I caught her singing, yes singing, to a pot of campanula while stroking the leaves. She jumped when she saw me, and then smiled and carried on, making her way from one plant pot to another in our sun lounge. The process is now repeated several times a week. Her Granny then bought her a miniature gardening kit for Easter, which she didn’t pay much attention to until we got home. I put it away in her bedroom, and the following morning, realising things had gone Very Quiet, I discovered she had extracted the watering can and fork from the kit, and was in the sun lounge pretending to water the flowers. While singing. […]
The joy of…chocolate
I think the picture speaks for itself...
I’ve finally committed Tesco suicide
I’ve committed Tesco suicide. That is, online Tesco suicide (vowing never to shop at any Tesco, ever again, is likely to inconvenience me far more than it will inconvenience them). The action comes after our home shop was late for the second time in a row, the third time in a month and the fifth time this year. I don’t just mean 10 minutes late; I mean three hours late. Of course things happen: first the delivery van was in an accident. Then it broke down. Twice. Then it never arrived at all thanks to the snow, and after being trapped on the M23 for eight hours in blizzard conditions I’ll give them that. Then the delivery driver fell down a flight of stairs. All I can deduce from this list of excuses is this: we must have the most hapless delivery drivers in Christendom. This ‘service’ incenses me beyond belief. What is the point of offering a one hour delivery slot if you can deliver the groceries at any other time except the allotted – and paid for – time? Why run such a service without a contingency plan for when things break down or said hapless driver finds him (or her, but highly unlikely) self in an accident? Why only text to tell your customer their order will be late half an hour into their delivery slot, when you must have known hours ago? And why not offer to refund the delivery charge? Anyone other than a supermarket giant would have gone out of business, and deservedly so. […]
The real meaning of Easter is…?
Feeling slightly guilty following our Easter celebrations. Not I-ate-too-much-chocolate-and-now-regret-it guilt, but what Misery Guts would call my Catholic guilt: the feeling I really ought to have carried out a duty, but didn’t. I don’t mean Easter bunny duties – BB was left in no doubt the Easter bunny had graced us with his (or her) presence. An Easter egg hunt, complete with shiny arrow signs, glossy bunny footprints and printed paper bags to collect the spoils (when did Easter Egg hunts become so sophisticated?) was planned with military precision, and discovering foil wrapped chocolate among the daffodils (pictured) had to be the highlight of her day. But after chocolate cornflake nests were eaten, the hours-old ring of chocolate around her mouth had been wiped away and BB was asleep, bunny ears next to her cot, it suddenly occurred to me the real meaning of Easter had not been mentioned. Once. […]
Who does Gwynnie think she’s kidding?
It’s been niggling at me all week, and it’s no use, there’s nothing for it but to have a good rant. I’m talking about Gwyneth Paltrow and the promotion of her latest cook book, which reveals her kids live on a gluten free, low carb, low sugar diet. That’s right, no wheat. No bread, no pasta, no rice, no ice cream, no chocolate and no cow’s milk.Apparently they eat raw fennel as a snack, kale chips instead of crisps and carob bars instead of chocolate. Lucky them.But it’s not what she is (or isn’t) feeding them, the poor souls, that bothers me – it’s the way her lifestyle is portrayed as ‘right’ and the implied pressure that puts on everyone else. One particular newspaper printed the recipe for ‘Gwyneth’s breakfast smoothie’, ingredients of which include half an avocado, half a courgette, chia seeds, flax seeds, dark fruit concentrate, almond butter, etc, etc. […]
Let’s get ready to rhumble…again!
It looks like a minor victory is about to be won. Let’s Get Ready to Rhumble is set to become the UK’s number one single this Sunday – 19 years after Ant and Dec, aka PJ & Duncan, first released it. This is the sort of thing (my) dreams are made of. The song only made number nine in the charts the first time round – when did Ant and Dec suddenly become so cool? They certainly weren’t cool in my neck of the woods in 1994. The only teeny boppers in our school, my partner in crime and I were routinely ridiculed for our love of PJ & Duncan and, mainly, Take That. To be fair, we didn’t help ourselves. All of our pocket money was spent on concert tickets and haring around the country in pursuit of our idols, with some interesting results. Sitting on Robbie Williams’ lap, aged 17, in the passenger seat of my aforementioned partner in crime’s Ford Fiesta has to be the highlight, although there were lows. Like standing outside the Top Of The Pops studio in the pouring rain for a glimpse of I can’t remember who, only to get a glimpse of Ian Beale from EastEnders instead, the set of which was at the same studio. […]
Oops…I’ve been Outlooked
Unless you’ve been on another planet for the last six months, or are otherwise engaged in the fug of new motherhood, which, let’s face it, is like living on another planet, you’ve probably heard that Microsoft has been automatically ‘upgrading’ Hotmail users to its new Outlook programme. Whether you like it or not. I’ve finally been Outlooked, and while I can see the benefits, there is one slightly alarming feature: a profile image of the email sender now appears next to their name. This is all well and good, in theory, however said image is programmed to be taken from your social networking sites, meaning if you’ve (unwittingly) saved a picture of yourself on Twitter or Facebook, it will automatically appear next to your name when you send an email. I’m not sure whether a picture of me peering out at my recipients through my plastic framed glasses with an ‘is this webcam working’ expression on my face (pictured) is a good idea or not. If I’m sending an email to my mum its harmless enough, but a managing director I need to interview for a story? Presumably I could disable the function, if I knew how. This is continuing to trouble me, but in the meantime it’s an endless source of fascination and entertainment. I’ve finally got to see the faces behind the emails of people I’ve been communicating with for ages, but have never met, and of course no-one looks like one had imagined. And the pictures popping up range from the boring to the deranged to the frankly pornographic. Does the PR girl from one particular agency I deal with realise what appears to be a picture of her having had one too many while wearing a very short skirt on holiday in Torremolinos now pings up alongside her professional emails? […]
