Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones has provoked the ire of Twitter with by declaring that mummy bloggers are blinkered dimwits whose lives are spiced by Napisan. I'm afraid I have to sympathise with her, for all of her prejudices echo my own: Writing about my life has pretty much ruined it. Supper last night was an elderly carrot glued to the fridge shelf by a pool of brown mucus and the floor was flooded when I left the bath taps running because Blogger has diverted me from domestic essentials. I've had to shut the children in front of the television when a new post has assailed me and some family members no longer speak to me because Twitter interactions leave me no time to reach the telephone. But there is a big part of me that thinks writing should be hard: you should cringe whenever you press that 'publish' button. Artists – and I'm sorry, I do consider myself an artist – have to wrench the dirtiest, most disgusting part of their inner soul and show it t...
Earlier this week a 40-something blonde journalist called Samantha Brick wrote an article for the Daily Mail about why the world resents her beauty. I have watched the fall-out from her candour with appalled fascination. Hate campaigns have rippled through Twitter. 5,000 mocking comments were left on the Daily Mail’s website. Columnists in rival newspapers have lined up to condemn her delusions. I am a lone sympathiser. For I too am a 40-something blonde journalist and I too know how it is to be condemned for your looks. This is my story. Fifteen years ago, as I hurried for the morning train to work, a voice hailed me urgently. I turned and saw a handsome young man in hot pursuit. As he drew close he held out a flaccid parcel. It was the egg mayonnaise sandwich that I’d packed for my lunch and which I’d dropped on the pavement in my haste. I knew, though, as his eyes met mine, that the favour was a pretext and the alacrity with which he moved off after handing it over confirmed ...
I have always done my own cleaning. Not very often, mind. Once every month or so keeps the funghi at bay. But, each time I've worked out where I keep the dusters, boy do I let rip! Skirting boards. Pelmets. U bends. With my portable radio in one armpit and a sheaf of Miele nozzles in the other, I stalk the vicarage assaulting cobwebs and secretly binning any infant possessions that can't be kicked to oblivion under the beds. But uncooperative lungs have prevented me terrorising the family filth since mid December and even the Vicar is noticing the dustballs that skim in his wake. Sensibly, he seeks out a cleaner for a day to tide us over. I am excited because someone else can fidget the grime out of my daughter's shell collection. And I am nervous because I'm not sure I can cope with someone toiling over my bacteria while I lie on my day bed. What if she forgets to tame the muesli-like stuff under the sofa cushions? (We don't buy muesli. How does it get there?) Wh...
This will get us through the vicar's sermons.
ReplyDeleteNow I know why Spanish beer tastes of cats' pee...
ReplyDeleteI'm guarding the good stuff....hic
ReplyDeleteMy eyes are too beautiful to be seen in public all the time! bye
ReplyDeleteI found the EMPTY box... someone else drank the beer ... honest! hic
ReplyDeleteIf I hide in here I might some beer
ReplyDeleteDon't forget your pets this Christmas
ReplyDeleteSan Miguel's advertising idea of getting a free cat with each cartoon was a roaring success!
ReplyDeleteIs it a coincidence my eyes are the same colour as lager?....hic!
ReplyDeleteTa da! What? Oh, right, you said Puss in BOOTS. Sorry.
ReplyDeleteWho's the designated driver?
ReplyDeleteA cat is for life not just for boozing . . . ;)
ReplyDeleteWhat beer? *hic* *meow*
ReplyDeleteMiaow who drunk all the cats piss?
ReplyDeleteI'll be hibernatingin here for the next few weeks, come and get me when all that darn christmas fuss is over
ReplyDeleteIs it safe to come out? Has xfactor finished yet?
ReplyDeleteAnother reason to drink San Miguel - it comes with free cat carrier! (pet not included)
ReplyDelete