Accessories of Red with Accents of Cat Hair

On Tuesday, with accessories of red and accents of cat hair and newspaper print I headed for a city  conference.  As you know, dear reader, red was the colour of choice for delegates for sprucing the grey when I went to a conference in December. 

 On arrival at the station  I knew I was a fashionista in my attire,  for before me was a vision reflecting my very own comeliness (I can dream can't I).  A bona fide  red riding hood,  minus hood.

 There she stood, amongst the city grey,  in her red velvet heeled slippers. An adornment of rose blooms were neatly spread across her foot as if to catch the early morning light. She wore a  dress embossed with bordeaux rose blossoms and a coat that would rile any wolf of wall street.     Clearly I was on trend I thought as I swished my red telephone box Renee scarf. I felt at one with this walking bloom, I was the telephone box to her bouquet.  She must be going to the conference I thought, with an inner smile. 

Was she at the conference? No. was she a speaker?  No. Was I on trend amongst my city colleagues?  Did  anyone wear red?  No, well, yes, one gentleman had the bravery. (you can just about see him in the picture, if you squint.) 

By lunchtime I'd stripped off the red frippery and succumbed to the Fifty Shades of Business Grey. 

Nails however were another matter and yes I had got that right.  My OPI malaga wine was colour matched to nails waving Ipads and salad forks.  'Reassuring' said one business contact to me as we agreed over champagne that our identical nail colour was spot on.

Next time I'll go to the conference as a rose.    Renee,  a rose scarf please! In red! 

Paunch for sale, free woo woo

Dear reader,  I confess.  Having nagged Mr Him and put him on a diet,  one in which he has not lost a single pound in 3 months, I've put on 7 pounds. In a week.  Aren't we doing well!  Yes, no. Diet a la Anna will not be a best seller.  

Mr Him's protein cereal for stamina (he'll need it to stay on this diet)

Over this last week I have been a lady who lunches 4 times and three of those with desserts.  There was the vanilla ice cream over which I poured a hot espresso (I recommend) in Carluccio's.  There was a cheesecake at a gourmet pub (I also recommend) and there was a lemon meringue pie in Harvester on mothering Sunday (I recommend two too two).  Well if you can't have a dessert on mothers day then when,  Christmas!  I have to say desserts do not linger on my plate long enough for photos.  They move at high speed and become a bit of a blur,  as below.  

For main courses this week I have enjoyed ravioli dripping in butter,  mushroom risotto,  pork belly and mash,  and chargrilled chicken breast and chips.  Have I had starters?  You bet! A salad platter to share dripping in oil, and a pate  in a pot with crusty bread.  

Alcohol?  Yes.

So this calorific intake is all stored  for future use.  My body is not so much a temple but an over crowded attic.  There is only one thing for it.   Paunch for sale.  Free woo woo

Agog over Ambridge

Dear reader,  I've recently been persuaded to dip my toes into the Great Floods of Ambridge.  Ambridge is a fictional town on a radio show that has been broadcast since 1951.  The Archers is a great British  institution. It provided the backdrop to my childhood kitchen, entertaining my mother as she did mother things. She, tells me she listened to this programme of rural suspense  herself when she was a teenager.  So what led me to this long standing radio show last Sunday? It was that the twitterverse and the blogosphere  was agog with the Ambridge floods. 

Not one to pass an agog by I had to find out for myself to see if I would be agogged also.   To do the experience justice I downloaded a full  omnibus edition, not a daily 13 minute episode.   On listening I found that with the rising of the tide and the concerns over the ruin of Coalport dolls and turkish carpets, and even great aunts hiding in haylofts, my agogginess grew. This is not your everyday soap . This soap includes some characters too posh to say please.  I  envisioned cows rowed to safety in row boats and saw, in my head, the high tide drama of  Eddie being used to block a drain.  This episode saw the action  of great aunty being coaxed from the hayloft into a boat that 'keeps moving'   and the drama of a resident sleeping in the rescue centre, church, without their nightie.

When I then looked up the Archers on the internet I found a BBC  industry around not only the programme but also its floods.  There was even a BBC weather forecast website for the fictional county of Borsetshire and the make believe town of Ambridge along with flood warnings.  

Will I listen this week?  I have set my iTunes for automatic daily downloads.  That should keep me entertained in the kitchen as I do mother things.

What soaps do you watch or listen to?  Do you listen to the Archers, dear reader?

My New Money Savvy Pillowcase

A most delightful surprise was in my bed on Sunday.  Now dear reader this is not going where you hope.  I am instead going to tell you about my magic pillowcase. I had ordered myself a special (I hadn't realised how special) pillow case.  It arrived last week, rose pink in colour and satin in feel. Sumptuous.

 It has a little secret pocket, in case you need a secret pocket at night for secret things.

On Saturday night I slept on said pillowcase and to my delight the witch and gargoyle who visit occasionally frequently daily were warded off by the satin sheen, as promised by the blogging community,  Wrinkles were at bay, and frightened upended hair hushed. I awoke all woman and not gargoyle. However the delights of the pillow didn't stop there.  Later in the day I lifted the pillow to shake out any gathered wrinkles and found money.  £400.  Mr Him decided at that point to put his order in for 50 pillowcases.  The speed at which he went on line would only be surpassed by warp drive.

Was my Savvy Sleeper really that savvy?  It turns out disappointingly that no it did not conjure cash.  Just as Mr Him and I were putting the finishing touches to an enterprising business plan the Young Online Shopping Genius texted me to ask if I found the money that she owed me placed under my pillow.

Enterprising business plan is in recycling.

A Crinkled Lay in Brighton by the sea

This week found me sitting beside my sixteen year old as she was accommodated in a hospital bed in Brighton.  The least of my concerns was what to wear but at the same time I wanted to look partly presentable.  I wanted to tread the fine line between using old clothes but were also stylish enough for the fashionista middle age woman that I am. 

Coincidentally I had just rearranged my drawers Marie Kondo style so, in a hurry, I was able to cobble together outfits.  Laying the clothes concertina style in a drawer meant I could quickly select tops to match a couple of oversized cardigans (layering was essential given unknown temperature of the ward.)

Loved and Squashed tops

I should add as a point of note that I haven't read Marie Kondo's book but from the Internet I do know that you feel and love your clothes.  Throw out those you don't have a love-in with and squash the ones you do love sideways. Well that's my interpretation, and it worked. My clothes are squashed and readily visible, sideways. 

Another Internet instagram phase is flat lay photos.  As you can imagine the chance of a chaotic person like myself achieving a flat lay would be impossible.  For myself and other random fashionistas I have invented the 'Crinkle' Lay which lends itself to my photographic style as well as wrinkles. 

Crinkle Lay

My overnight stay wardrobe (as pictured in my crinkle lay) consisted of

1 pair of jeans

1 white vest (tank) top

1 long navy cardigan

1 long beige cardigan

1 beige scarf for warmth and to style as necessary. 

2 necklaces

We were on a cliff side.  Many hospitals in the UK are built on cliffsides. It makes navigation challenging and if you don't arrive with a mental breakdown and swollen joints you leave with it.  A success story I believe it's called. 

The view of Brighton from the ward was quite gorgeous looking down from the panoramic window.  Being there at dawn to dusk brought some photo opportunities that I could not pass up.  

To the right

Straight ahead

Ahead left

Left

The view on the bus going to the hospital not so gorgeous and a photo opportunity I should have passed up.

I shouldn't be let out in public

There's  an Indian restaurant that we frequent locally to the dismay of the staff and owners.  For some bizarre reason I cannot say I have bestowed upon them the best me, ever.  Unfortunately they remember.  I wonder why?

The first meal was on their opening night. The dining room was empty so I decided it would be friendly and most welcome by them if I did a facebook checkin to put them on the map.  After spending 20 minutes playing with my phone at the table trying to get signal I was forced to leave the building and cross the street in order to get a bar.  So much for good intentions and favours.  The food arrived and sat there getting cold whilst I received stares of frigidity from the staff through their now glacial window.  The longer I loitered  at the bar across the street the more the temperature dropped in the restaurant.  When I returned, absent of facebook checkin, my chilli chicken had a frosted topping and icicles garnish.  Mr Him breathed fire and steam at me and luckily some of the vapour headed my plate's way. My chilli chicken was hot, very hot. Now I like a korma madras but the vapour from Mr Him took this meal to another level in heat. Ironic when you consider the icy stares from staff that I was still receiving.

A few months later we planned on taking friends who were visiting us from up North. We were to spend the day in Brighton then go home and become elegant peoples in casual finery for a meal.

As it turned out we had such a splendid day frequenting gin bars and photobombing tourists we didn't care about brushing the salt and sand from our crusty hair let alone changing into casual finery. We descended on the restaurant with the seaside spilling from our flipflops. Still, we had a lovely meal.









The third time we had been for a few drinks and I had  succumbed to a phethora couple of jaegerbombs.  Mr Him and I had only gone out for a quick drink with friends, just one we had said.  We were not expecting an evening out and had not dressed for it.  That, I have to say, was the least of my worries. Mr Him and our friends on that occasion had succumbed more than me to the various drinking establishments visited that night. I at least recollect arriving in this
favoured restaurant and having a meal. The others had no memory of it.  



Then a few months later a female friend and I did manage to dress in casual finery and bling and were allowed in to this fine curry establishment once again. With nudges from one waiter to another and nods to me with associated whispers of 'facebook' we were led to a dark corner in the rear next to the gents restroom.  We imbibed one bottle of wine  between us, we talked and were elegant in behaviour and attire.  In fact my behavior was impeccable and I almost survived the outing without mishap.  Just as I had ordered my liquor coffee a gentleman, heading I had assumed for the restroom, sat on my chair, on top of me! Was I so tucked in to the corner in the dark that he had thought I was the restroom?  It turned out not, for he started to talk.  Either he  usually talked to the restroom facilities or he knew I was there.  As it materialised he was chatting me up, so he told me.  Unusual technique and I can't say it was successful.


Why am I relating all of these so last year outings?  We went again last night, and last night they had their revenge. Once again planned outfits of casual finery and civilised eating hour of eight o'clock were abandoned.  Mr Him and I took his mother to the restaurant and having just spent 4 hours in A&E with youngest we arrived at ten o'clock wearing jumpers and the scent  of antiseptic. Before the food arrived I found my nose blocking, I started gasping for air, my mouth goldfished inelegantly.  I needed to get out.  I ran out and across the street to breathe, breathe, need air.  Once oxygenated I returned to the table only to find the same thing happened.  As soon as I was at the table I could not breathe.  I had been fine in the hospital, fine all day, fine outside but not at the table. I left the restaurant with a full blown cold.  My association with this restaurant has gone viral.

I've got the moves like Tina

Do you do exercise or sport?  As you know, with the twisting of words by Needlework Natalie, I do, remarkably.  Badminton became a part of my life last September.   I have found that stretching in badminton and yoga have increased my flexibility to that of a souped up ground-sloth.  I feel a certain pride in doing taking up these activities at my age midlife and have decided to stop counting my chronological age and replace it with activityage.  As I pass a birthday I like to think my activityage is falling with each upside down dog. 

To emphasise my new found youth my birthday this year saw me squeezing into pleather leggings, donning my favourite only gold outfit and 3 and a half inch  (the half is important at my midlife age) killer wedged heels. As if that wasn’t shocking enough I fluffed out my hair a further  3 inches Farah Fawcett style and even wore contact lenses! 

Why would I do this?  To attend a Tina Turner and 1970’s music night.  Why else?  Mr Him strutted his stuff and I bopped right up to the clock strike of midnight, yes in those heels, at my age!   At midnight my daughter came to collect her aged mother as it was way past bedtime, not to mention that I had been dancing with a young man who had gone to school with her. Oh the horror of it!

As I cavorted on the floor it occurred to me that not once in my youth did I go to a disco on my birthday, which supports my view that I am now the activityage of, oh fifteen.  (I feel a book coming along, the Activityage Traveller’s Husband.) 

Is this a phenomenon of our generation?  Are we younger in spirit than our parents and grandparents.  Well at no point in my life have I collected my mother from a disco and at no point has my mother shimmied with my school friends, that I'm aware.  I rest my case. 

Then Mr Him reminded me of my Aunt Betty, who was in 6 inch stilts when I was in sensible flats, and that was last year!  I have to admit, she was my inspiration to get into heels again.  She is the reason I have regressed to fifteen and I'm not sad about it.