Losing it!

According to The Wall Street Journal, the average person misplaces up to nine items a day.  And one-third of respondents in a poll said they spend an average of 15 minutes each day searching for items such as mobiles, keys and paperwork.  I beg to differ.  I think it's more like 60 minutes, maybe 120.  Well, it certainly is in our house.  For want of rolling out a familiar cliche, if I had a pound for every minute one of us has spent searching for something, I'd have around £2100.  And that's just September!

Apparently, our genes are at least partially to blame, experts say. Stress, fatigue and multitasking can exacerbate our propensity to make such errors. Such lapses can also be linked to more serious conditions like depression and attention-deficit hyperactivity disorders.  More often than not, at No 1,  it has something to do with alcohol and the resulting fuggy, blurry, morning after which has the ability to wipe one's memory.  I'm not referring to me, of course.  It never gets that bad, mainly because my capacity for alcohol now doesn't extend beyond a small Tia Maria and coke!  Mr H, though, has kindly taken over my capacity.  In fact he's embraced it with great gusto and enthusiasm.

So last weekend was a perfect example of this genetic phenomenon.  I had tickets to the festival for the over 50's, (or Radio 2 in the Park as it's more commonly known).  We got there eventually but only after a monumental hunt for Mr H's wallet.   Clearly it wasn't in it's usual place - his pocket or bedside table.  Neither was it in it's unusual places - down the side of sofa, in the kitchen or in the car.  So then mild panic set in and the task of trying to remember where the friggin hell it was when you're horribly hungover began.  Normally, the act of physically and mentally retracing your steps when looking for lost objects can work. "The more you can make your brain act like the way it was when you lay down that original memory trace," the more successful you will be", says Kenneth Norman, a psychology professor at Princeton University.  But trying to do that when you can't remember your own name is bloody impossible.

Finally, we came to the conclusion that it had probably been left on the counter of the Happy Cockroach, the Thai takeaway where, due to a lack of inspiration, we ended up getting our evening meal.  And as they didn't open til 5pm, it looks like our elderly rock fest would be somewhat hampered by lack of funds.  Pity I didn't tell him to look in his shoe.  Because that's where the bloody thing was!  I mean, who on earth puts their wallet in their shoes!  Mr H does.  Of course.  He remembers.  He put it there for safekeeping.  Who on earth thinks, "I know,  I won't leave it in my jeans or put it on the bedside cabinet as I usually do.  I'll put it in my shoe for safekeeping!  Where I'll never look.  Until I need to put them on.  And then I won't be able to get them on because they'll be something in it.  Oh. My wallet"!

This, to be fair, isn't unusual.  It's just another in a long list, which has yet to be topped by finding a lost mobile phone in a bag with the bread rolls in the freezer compartment of the fridge.  However, the older we get, the more things we need and therefore there's more things to remember not to lose.  Glasses - 2 pairs each plus spares, tablets - which has resulted in a whole new shelf creation housing a plethora of medication required to keep us functioning, various limb supports, spare keys, spare spare keys.  I'm seriously thinking of never planning to book up to go anywhere ever again.  There's so many things to remember, that by the time we've applied/found everything, it's hardly worth leaving the house.  At least then I can have a couple of large Amarettos and not worry about losing the kids, the car or forgotten to take something to stop something else dropping off.  And Mr H can down a few bottles of Marston's Grumpy Old Fucker, safe in the knowledge that it doesn't matter if we've lost something because we're not going anywhere anyway.

I just hope that the we don't acquire any thing else to remember not to lose.  I'm running out of places to look.  And I'm running out of shelves to put things.  At a push, I suppose I could always put whatever it is on the shoe rack.

Not that there's any shoes on it.

They're in the dishwasher.

Of course.

Losing it!

According to The Wall Street Journal, the average person misplaces up to nine items a day.  And one-third of respondents in a poll said they spend an average of 15 minutes each day searching for items such as mobiles, keys and paperwork.  I beg to differ.  I think it's more like 60 minutes, maybe 120.  Well, it certainly is in our house.  For want of rolling out a familiar cliche, if I had a pound for every minute one of us has spent searching for something, I'd have around £2100.  And that's just September!

Apparently, our genes are at least partially to blame, experts say. Stress, fatigue and multitasking can exacerbate our propensity to make such errors. Such lapses can also be linked to more serious conditions like depression and attention-deficit hyperactivity disorders.  More often than not, at No 1,  it has something to do with alcohol and the resulting fuggy, blurry, morning after which has the ability to wipe one's memory.  I'm not referring to me, of course.  It never gets that bad, mainly because my capacity for alcohol now doesn't extend beyond a small Tia Maria and coke!  Mr H, though, has kindly taken over my capacity.  In fact he's embraced it with great gusto and enthusiasm.

So last weekend was a perfect example of this genetic phenomenon.  I had tickets to the festival for the over 50's, (or Radio 2 in the Park as it's more commonly known).  We got there eventually but only after a monumental hunt for Mr H's wallet.   Clearly it wasn't in it's usual place - his pocket or bedside table.  Neither was it in it's unusual places - down the side of sofa, in the kitchen or in the car.  So then mild panic set in and the task of trying to remember where the friggin hell it was when you're horribly hungover began.  Normally, the act of physically and mentally retracing your steps when looking for lost objects can work. "The more you can make your brain act like the way it was when you lay down that original memory trace," the more successful you will be", says Kenneth Norman, a psychology professor at Princeton University.  But trying to do that when you can't remember your own name is bloody impossible.

Finally, we came to the conclusion that it had probably been left on the counter of the Happy Cockroach, the Thai takeaway where, due to a lack of inspiration, we ended up getting our evening meal.  And as they didn't open til 5pm, it looks like our elderly rock fest would be somewhat hampered by lack of funds.  Pity I didn't tell him to look in his shoe.  Because that's where the bloody thing was!  I mean, who on earth puts their wallet in their shoes!  Mr H does.  Of course.  He remembers.  He put it there for safekeeping.  Who on earth thinks, "I know,  I won't leave it in my jeans or put it on the bedside cabinet as I usually do.  I'll put it in my shoe for safekeeping!  Where I'll never look.  Until I need to put them on.  And then I won't be able to get them on because they'll be something in it.  Oh. My wallet"!

This, to be fair, isn't unusual.  It's just another in a long list, which has yet to be topped by finding a lost mobile phone in a bag with the bread rolls in the freezer compartment of the fridge.  However, the older we get, the more things we need and therefore there's more things to remember not to lose.  Glasses - 2 pairs each plus spares, tablets - which has resulted in a whole new shelf creation housing a plethora of medication required to keep us functioning, various limb supports, spare keys, spare spare keys.  I'm seriously thinking of never planning to book up to go anywhere ever again.  There's so many things to remember, that by the time we've applied/found everything, it's hardly worth leaving the house.  At least then I can have a couple of large Amarettos and not worry about losing the kids, the car or forgotten to take something to stop something else dropping off.  And Mr H can down a few bottles of Marston's Grumpy Old Fucker, safe in the knowledge that it doesn't matter if we've lost something because we're not going anywhere anyway.

I just hope that the we don't acquire any thing else to remember not to lose.  I'm running out of places to look.  And I'm running out of shelves to put things.  At a push, I suppose I could always put whatever it is on the shoe rack.

Not that there's any shoes on it.

They're in the dishwasher.

Of course.

Getting On.

"I SAID HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED VARIFOCALS, MRS H??" The nice lady in Specsavers said to me for the third time, clearly becoming irritated.  She glanced up at the poster behind her. "AND DID YOU KNOW WE ALSO DO HEARING TESTS??"  I didn't know, actually.  I'd been staring blankly at her for several minutes as she was blathering on and I could have sworn she said "My goodness, you look just like Angelina Jolie", or "I can't believe you're over 40".  But obviously she didn't.  And varifocals?  Aren't they for the over 80's?  That's just one of those words I tend to associate with the elderly, along with dentures, boiled sweets and surgical stockings.  Actually my dad swears by them (the varifocals, not the stockings).  But then again, my Dad is 78. And I'm nowhere near that.  No.  Most defnitely nowhere near it at all.

She finally convinced me to give them a go.  In fact, she also offered me a free pair and a contact lens trial.  I was totally and optically overwhelmed.  I'm sure she was starting to feel sorry for me. I went in there thinking I was getting a new pair of reading glasses, then suddenly I'm classed as elderly, practically blind and hard of hearing. Ah what the hell.  I can move with the times.  I'm up for the challenge of radical eyewear.  I've never fancied poking myself in the eyes on a daily basis and if I had a pound for every time I'd lost my reading/distance/spare/sunglasses, I'd have approximately £59.  They've taken getting used to I can tell you.  I was like a nodding dog for weeks.  People thought I was constantly agreeing with them. Which invariably I wasn't.  I had a stiff neck too.  But I'm getting used to them.  In fact they look quite stylish.  And now I only have one pair to lose instead of 4.  Which is one less thing to worry about when you can't hear the juggernaut!

Not Angelina Jolie!

They also came in handy when I recently had to go and see the specialist about my hip.  It had been niggling ever since I'd danced like a large orange twat at my 80's themed birthday party dressed as a shit Madonna (the over-rated ageing singer, not Jesus' mother - that would have been a totally different night altogether!).  I was also wearing inappropriate footwear for my age but gargantuan amounts of Jagermeisters seemed to numb the pain. The next day I couldn't walk. I'd partied like it was 1983 and now I was walking like I was 83! Sparing you the long boring bit of copious visits to the GP, I eventually got a referral to a big knob, got x-rayed and there I am, suddenly staring at my misshapen pelvis, from a distance, clear as anything.  I could have sworn he said "You've got fantastic legs".  What he actually said was "You've got osteoarthritis.  You need a hip replacement. I reckon you've got about two years".  Crikey.  I really need that hearing test.

Large orange twat

I was too speechless to ask whether 2 years was how long I had left til the replacement or whether he'd noticed that I was wearing varifocals, decided I must be at least 80 and thought I might as well just be put down. I hope not.  I've just spent a small fortune on new fricking glasses!  But maybe it's not such a bad thing.  Maybe I can choose my new hip.  Maybe I can ask for a thinner one. Like Angelina Jolie's?  

Barley sugar, anyone?

Getting On.

"I SAID HAVE YOU EVER CONSIDERED VARIFOCALS, MRS H??" The nice lady in Specsavers said to me for the third time, clearly becoming irritated.  She glanced up at the poster behind her. "AND DID YOU KNOW WE ALSO DO HEARING TESTS??"  I didn't know, actually.  I'd been staring blankly at her for several minutes as she was blathering on and I could have sworn she said "My goodness, you look just like Angelina Jolie", or "I can't believe you're over 40".  But obviously she didn't.  And varifocals?  Aren't they for the over 80's?  That's just one of those words I tend to associate with the elderly, along with dentures, boiled sweets and surgical stockings.  Actually my dad swears by them (the varifocals, not the stockings).  But then again, my Dad is 78. And I'm nowhere near that.  No.  Most defnitely nowhere near it at all.

She finally convinced me to give them a go.  In fact, she also offered me a free pair and a contact lens trial.  I was totally and optically overwhelmed.  I'm sure she was starting to feel sorry for me. I went in there thinking I was getting a new pair of reading glasses, then suddenly I'm classed as elderly, practically blind and hard of hearing. Ah what the hell.  I can move with the times.  I'm up for the challenge of radical eyewear.  I've never fancied poking myself in the eyes on a daily basis and if I had a pound for every time I'd lost my reading/distance/spare/sunglasses, I'd have approximately £59.  They've taken getting used to I can tell you.  I was like a nodding dog for weeks.  People thought I was constantly agreeing with them. Which invariably I wasn't.  I had a stiff neck too.  But I'm getting used to them.  In fact they look quite stylish.  And now I only have one pair to lose instead of 4.  Which is one less thing to worry about when you can't hear the juggernaut!

Not Angelina Jolie!

They also came in handy when I recently had to go and see the specialist about my hip.  It had been niggling ever since I'd danced like a large orange twat at my 80's themed birthday party dressed as a shit Madonna (the over-rated ageing singer, not Jesus' mother - that would have been a totally different night altogether!).  I was also wearing inappropriate footwear for my age but gargantuan amounts of Jagermeisters seemed to numb the pain. The next day I couldn't walk. I'd partied like it was 1983 and now I was walking like I was 83! Sparing you the long boring bit of copious visits to the GP, I eventually got a referral to a big knob, got x-rayed and there I am, suddenly staring at my misshapen pelvis, from a distance, clear as anything.  I could have sworn he said "You've got fantastic legs".  What he actually said was "You've got osteoarthritis.  You need a hip replacement. I reckon you've got about two years".  Crikey.  I really need that hearing test.

Large orange twat

I was too speechless to ask whether 2 years was how long I had left til the replacement or whether he'd noticed that I was wearing varifocals, decided I must be at least 80 and thought I might as well just be put down. I hope not.  I've just spent a small fortune on new fricking glasses!  But maybe it's not such a bad thing.  Maybe I can choose my new hip.  Maybe I can ask for a thinner one. Like Angelina Jolie's?  

Barley sugar, anyone?

A letter to the big man!

Dear God

How are you?  Good?  Splendid!  I know, I know, I don't write, I don't phone, I don't pop round for a slug of wine and a wafer like I used to before I got slung out of the Girl Guides for throwing eggs at choir boys and calling The Captain of 1st Wanstead a fat Myra Hindley!  And I am still feeling bit guilty about that incident during Midnight Mass in 1978.  I don't condone under-age drinking either but alcohol does funny thing to a young girl guide's brain. I'm pretty sure none of the dry martini and lemonade I threw up would have stained the kneelers, though.  And the crib did look lovely, even though we had a fit of the giggles because we thought the baby looked like Kojak.  I know I didn't do myself any favours as a bell ringer.  Who'd have thought front-fastening bras could cause distress to my fellow campanologists. But I know it's no excuse for not staying in touch. I don't suppose you're on Facebook?  Or Skype?  No, I thought not. Time just flies, doesn't it.  And there's always something else to do. You know how it is.  That pile of washing to do.  That bin to go out.  Those socks to darn.  Not that I've suddenly turned into a 50's housewife.  It's just better than saying I've probably over-done it on the Tia Maria and HRT.

Shame I got expelled.  That beret was rather flattering.

Anyway, talking of time, well that's really what I wanted to talk to you about.  Is there anything you can do about slowing it down a bit?   I feel like life has become one of those comedy time-lapse calendars.  I'm sure I've only just left school.  And now this year's birthday has come round much quicker than expected and I'm somewhat unprepared emotionally.  Yes it's that birthday.  The one with the big numbers in it that you used to think was really old when you were a child! I know there's the obvious way of staving it off but I'm not quite ready for a face-to-face yet.  For a start, I'm dreading those stairs.  My knees are ruined.  Years of  trying to attempt step classes and wearing unsuitable footwear, no doubt! And white so doesn't suit me unless I've got a tan.  And don't even think about getting me to learn the harp.  I may be a grade 8 cellist (with merit) but that was only 4 strings!!  Old dog, new tricks, etc.

You see, I've still got some unfinished business here.  I'd like to see my kids get married and have children.  And then I'd like to go round to their house, pretend I'm deaf, leave my knickers on their bathroom floor and at least 3 pairs of shoes positioned to cause maximum injury. It would be a shame for them to miss out on that!  Before they have me institutionalised!

 I'd also like to see a bit more of the world that doesn't start and end with 2 hours on an easyjet flight with the obligatory screaming baby and the complimentary tea/coffee (and I don't mean either/or.  I can't often tell which one it is).  But there's countries I'd love to visit and seas I'd like to sail.  I want to sit on remote beaches and explore interesting cities.  I'm not looking to do anything overly stressful. I don't want to go backpacking across India or paddle a canoe to reach remote Amazonian tribes (mainly because they never seem to wear any clothes and I never know where to look.  Some of those poor women really do need a good supportive bra).  Plus there's nowhere to plug in a hairdryer.  Neither do I particularly want to hang out with Polar bears and penguins. I've been ski-ing and I couldn't be doing with an endless runny nose and unflattering outerwear.  I just want some time to look out of the window of my 5 star hotel and wonder at the world.  I mean, if you went to the bother of creating it, I think the least I should do is have a look round.  I just seem to have run out of time.  Again!

Talking of time, I must dash.  These nails won't paint themselves you know.  But maybe have a think. And if you do get any bright ideas - tweet me?

A letter to the big man!

Dear God

How are you?  Good?  Splendid!  I know, I know, I don't write, I don't phone, I don't pop round for a slug of wine and a wafer like I used to before I got slung out of the Girl Guides for throwing eggs at choir boys and calling The Captain of 1st Wanstead a fat Myra Hindley!  And I am still feeling bit guilty about that incident during Midnight Mass in 1978.  I don't condone under-age drinking either but alcohol does funny thing to a young girl guide's brain. I'm pretty sure none of the dry martini and lemonade I threw up would have stained the kneelers, though.  And the crib did look lovely, even though we had a fit of the giggles because we thought the baby looked like Kojak.  I know I didn't do myself any favours as a bell ringer.  Who'd have thought front-fastening bras could cause distress to my fellow campanologists. But I know it's no excuse for not staying in touch. I don't suppose you're on Facebook?  Or Skype?  No, I thought not. Time just flies, doesn't it.  And there's always something else to do. You know how it is.  That pile of washing to do.  That bin to go out.  Those socks to darn.  Not that I've suddenly turned into a 50's housewife.  It's just better than saying I've probably over-done it on the Tia Maria and HRT.

Shame I got expelled.  That beret was rather flattering.

Anyway, talking of time, well that's really what I wanted to talk to you about.  Is there anything you can do about slowing it down a bit?   I feel like life has become one of those comedy time-lapse calendars.  I'm sure I've only just left school.  And now this year's birthday has come round much quicker than expected and I'm somewhat unprepared emotionally.  Yes it's that birthday.  The one with the big numbers in it that you used to think was really old when you were a child! I know there's the obvious way of staving it off but I'm not quite ready for a face-to-face yet.  For a start, I'm dreading those stairs.  My knees are ruined.  Years of  trying to attempt step classes and wearing unsuitable footwear, no doubt! And white so doesn't suit me unless I've got a tan.  And don't even think about getting me to learn the harp.  I may be a grade 8 cellist (with merit) but that was only 4 strings!!  Old dog, new tricks, etc.

You see, I've still got some unfinished business here.  I'd like to see my kids get married and have children.  And then I'd like to go round to their house, pretend I'm deaf, leave my knickers on their bathroom floor and at least 3 pairs of shoes positioned to cause maximum injury. It would be a shame for them to miss out on that!  Before they have me institutionalised!

 I'd also like to see a bit more of the world that doesn't start and end with 2 hours on an easyjet flight with the obligatory screaming baby and the complimentary tea/coffee (and I don't mean either/or.  I can't often tell which one it is).  But there's countries I'd love to visit and seas I'd like to sail.  I want to sit on remote beaches and explore interesting cities.  I'm not looking to do anything overly stressful. I don't want to go backpacking across India or paddle a canoe to reach remote Amazonian tribes (mainly because they never seem to wear any clothes and I never know where to look.  Some of those poor women really do need a good supportive bra).  Plus there's nowhere to plug in a hairdryer.  Neither do I particularly want to hang out with Polar bears and penguins. I've been ski-ing and I couldn't be doing with an endless runny nose and unflattering outerwear.  I just want some time to look out of the window of my 5 star hotel and wonder at the world.  I mean, if you went to the bother of creating it, I think the least I should do is have a look round.  I just seem to have run out of time.  Again!

Talking of time, I must dash.  These nails won't paint themselves you know.  But maybe have a think. And if you do get any bright ideas - tweet me?

No Sex Please I'm Over 40

I'm wondering at what point did I stop waking up in the morning thinking 'Mmmm, sex!!' and start thinking 'Mmmm, bins?'  At what point did I stop wanting to rip all his clothes off and start telling him to put on a vest!!  Or an extra jumper.  Or a balaclava!  OK this is just my humble grumblings but I pretty sure, somewhere been giving birth and 40, somebody stole

my sex drive!  And suddenly it's all  become such a hassle. Spontaneity is just a long word.  Lust is lost.  And passion is just a type of exotic fruit. And the seeds get stuck in your teeth!

So, rather than succumbing to this Miss Jean Brodie situation, I thought I'd try and rekindle the spontaneity, lust and passion that has gradually waned over the years and try and unearth that sex kitten I one was.  Surely it's not gone forever.  Surely there's a way to put the xxxx  back into sex?  And in such situations, there really is only one place to start. 
Cosmopolitan's Top 10 Tips For An Amazing Sex Life.

1. Randy Rub-a-Dub-Dub
Before you make love, take a bath together. Prepare the bathroom 
beautifully beforehand with fluffy towels and candles. Then put two 
drops of patchouli oil, three drops of sandalwood oil, and three drops 
of lavender oil into your bathwater. 

You see the trouble with this one is that, we've got a bit of a water problem 
upstairs.  So to get a nice hot bath, you need to boil kettles and pans.  
So by the time I've done all that, the candles would have gone out and the 
oil will be floating to the top and will look like some sort of failed soup.  And 
he'll have fallen asleep in the chair by then.  Next .....

2. Pocketful of Pleasure
When he's least expecting it, tell your man you need some change. 
Then stick your hand in his pocket and start rubbing his penis through 
the fabric, pretending that you're really digging around for that coinage 
you need.

Unfortunately, I actually do need some change.  For the Tesco's trolley.  
And anyway, as he's got little legs, the pocket tends to be nearer his knees.  
Since when was knee-prodding erotic? Guess that's not going to work either.

3. Heavenly Heartbeat
To feel more connected in bed, tune into each other's heart rate. 
Lay your hand on his chest, and have him do the same. You might 
be surprised how easily you can become synchronized.  

Potentially dangerous.  You see he has mild hypertension and a slightly 
higher heart rate so I could end up out of breath without doing anything. 
I might as well do the hoovering!!!

4. Putting on the Ritz
Try re-creating that away-from-home atmosphere in your own bedroom. 
First, purge your room of any family photos or office equipment. Then 
buy sheets with the highest threads-per-inch count you can find 
which feel super silky to the touch without the cheesiness of satin. 
Invest in some thick, fluffy robes to lounge around in. And for the 
ultimate hotel-style indulgence, set up a tray of champagne and finger 
foods to savor after you make love. 

Well I recently bought a decent fitted sheet in Matalan.  And some really
 nice tea towels. Buggered if I'm buying new fluffy robes.  The egg-stained 
West Ham I bought him two Christmases ago washes up a treat.  Mind 
you, I'm not a big fan of champagne.  Last time I had one too many, I was 
so ill, I ended up in A&E.  It wasn't entirely my fault.  I think the canapes 
were off.  And all this aside, I've roaming children who have a habit of 
wandering in our room to steal towels, face wipes and money at any time
 - day or night.  I'd hate for them to stumble upon a middle aged couple,
 wrestling in a threadbare robe, covered in mini sausage rolls.  Let's move on.


5. Toy with Him
Stock up on some sex toys. Velvet-lined handcuffs can be exciting, 
and they don't hurt like the metal ones do. Silk blindfolds build a 
sense of suspense — which can be really titillating. And you can 
never go wrong with a vibrator. 

Now this sounds all well and good, but he'll need his glasses to tie any 
thing, or unlock anything.  He's got 7 pairs. Can't find any of them.  By the 
time he finds them, the blood will have probably been cut off and I'd be in 
serious danger of losing both hands.  Anyway, I'm no fan of toys.  I had a
vibrator once.  Due to lack of use, the battery leaked so I threw it away. 
The following morning it was on the pavement as some kindly fox had 
decided to drag my bin bag across the drive and scatter the contents for 
all to see.  I'm not sure what was more embarrassing.  The leaky vibrator 
or the empty family KFC bucket.

6. Bare Boogie
You don't have to have a model-perfect body to have maximum fun 
in the bedroom. Look at yourself naked in a full-length mirror for 
five minutes a day and focus on what you love about your body. 
If this feels awkward, turn on some music and dance naked with 
your mirror image. By getting used to your unique shape, you'll 
gain confidence that will naturally spill over into your sex life 
and make you twice as enticing to your guy. 

OK so I tried this.  And  you know what?  There is NOTHING I love about 
my body.  I'm grateful that's it's all there and it is in good working order, 
but there's far too much of it.  Most of it shouldn't even be there.  
Dancing naked with my mirror image would be like a night out at a disco 
with Dawn French.  And there's every chance aforementioned children 
will barge in.  Seeing their mother boogie-ing butt-naked to Saturday 
Night Fever might well see them opting for voluntary adoption!

7. Sultry Slo-Mo
To surprise him and build anticipation, try doing the same things 
you always do in the bedroom, but slow down to one-fourth of 
your normal speed. You and your guy will have time to really bond.

This will just result in one of us nodding off.  Plus I'll start noticing the 
dust on the skirting board, or the light fitting.  Mind you, I suppose I 
could finish that book .....

 

8. Finger-Food Foreplay
Have a romantic dinner without utensils so you can feed each 
other. There's something sensual about placing food in your 
partner's mouth. It's such fun — especially when you serve 
stuff that's not supposed to be eaten with your hands, like s
alads or pasta. After a meal like this, serve yourself for dessert. 

What's erotic about this?  OK, strawberries and cream but salads 
and pasta?  Shovelling handfuls of spag bol and lettuce into his 
gob does not sound like fun to me.  It's going to be messy and guess 
who'll have to clear it all up and try and get the tomato stains off the 
cream tablecloth!  Yes me!  Give it a few years, I'll probably have to 
spoon feed him anyway.  So I'll be putting that off for as long as possible!  

9. The next time you go out with your man, wear your sexiest outfit. 
Go ahead — flirt with strangers and turn some heads. Tease. 
Once you return home from your diva-date, you won't be able t
o keep your hands off each other. 

I had a bad experience flirting with a stranger.  It was at a friend's wedding 
reception. Turns out he was the groom.  Next?

10. Grab and Go
If you're turned on at an inopportune time, act on your feelings. 
Although it feels a little bit naughty, a quickie will help you stay 
faithful.  Quickies allow you to experience all of the having-an-affair 
thrill with none of the cheating. 

Not a good idea. After any physical exertion, I need to sleep.  And 
there's too much preparation to be done before bed.  He's got a selection 
of tablets and piles and I have an epic skin care regime. It's not unheard 
of that, by the time I've applied the final layers of anti ageing retinol plus 
snake serum lifting gel and the overnight hand moisturiser mitts, the alarm's 
gone off!  Plus, due to various snoring and breathing malfunctions, he 
wears a gum shield and I wear a nose strip.  It's like Joe Bugner 
trying to shag a sychronised swimmer.  

Hey ho.  I guess those bins won't put themselves out.

 

No Sex Please I'm Over 40

I'm wondering at what point did I stop waking up in the morning thinking 'Mmmm, sex!!' and start thinking 'Mmmm, bins?'  At what point did I stop wanting to rip all his clothes off and start telling him to put on a vest!!  Or an extra jumper.  Or a balaclava!  OK this is just my humble grumblings but I pretty sure, somewhere been giving birth and 40, somebody stole

my sex drive!  And suddenly it's all  become such a hassle. Spontaneity is just a long word.  Lust is lost.  And passion is just a type of exotic fruit. And the seeds get stuck in your teeth!

So, rather than succumbing to this Miss Jean Brodie situation, I thought I'd try and rekindle the spontaneity, lust and passion that has gradually waned over the years and try and unearth that sex kitten I one was.  Surely it's not gone forever.  Surely there's a way to put the xxxx  back into sex?  And in such situations, there really is only one place to start. 
Cosmopolitan's Top 10 Tips For An Amazing Sex Life.

1. Randy Rub-a-Dub-Dub
Before you make love, take a bath together. Prepare the bathroom 
beautifully beforehand with fluffy towels and candles. Then put two 
drops of patchouli oil, three drops of sandalwood oil, and three drops 
of lavender oil into your bathwater. 

You see the trouble with this one is that, we've got a bit of a water problem 
upstairs.  So to get a nice hot bath, you need to boil kettles and pans.  
So by the time I've done all that, the candles would have gone out and the 
oil will be floating to the top and will look like some sort of failed soup.  And 
he'll have fallen asleep in the chair by then.  Next .....

2. Pocketful of Pleasure
When he's least expecting it, tell your man you need some change. 
Then stick your hand in his pocket and start rubbing his penis through 
the fabric, pretending that you're really digging around for that coinage 
you need.

Unfortunately, I actually do need some change.  For the Tesco's trolley.  
And anyway, as he's got little legs, the pocket tends to be nearer his knees.  
Since when was knee-prodding erotic? Guess that's not going to work either.

3. Heavenly Heartbeat
To feel more connected in bed, tune into each other's heart rate. 
Lay your hand on his chest, and have him do the same. You might 
be surprised how easily you can become synchronized.  

Potentially dangerous.  You see he has mild hypertension and a slightly 
higher heart rate so I could end up out of breath without doing anything. 
I might as well do the hoovering!!!

4. Putting on the Ritz
Try re-creating that away-from-home atmosphere in your own bedroom. 
First, purge your room of any family photos or office equipment. Then 
buy sheets with the highest threads-per-inch count you can find 
which feel super silky to the touch without the cheesiness of satin. 
Invest in some thick, fluffy robes to lounge around in. And for the 
ultimate hotel-style indulgence, set up a tray of champagne and finger 
foods to savor after you make love. 

Well I recently bought a decent fitted sheet in Matalan.  And some really
 nice tea towels. Buggered if I'm buying new fluffy robes.  The egg-stained 
West Ham I bought him two Christmases ago washes up a treat.  Mind 
you, I'm not a big fan of champagne.  Last time I had one too many, I was 
so ill, I ended up in A&E.  It wasn't entirely my fault.  I think the canapes 
were off.  And all this aside, I've roaming children who have a habit of 
wandering in our room to steal towels, face wipes and money at any time
 - day or night.  I'd hate for them to stumble upon a middle aged couple,
 wrestling in a threadbare robe, covered in mini sausage rolls.  Let's move on.


5. Toy with Him
Stock up on some sex toys. Velvet-lined handcuffs can be exciting, 
and they don't hurt like the metal ones do. Silk blindfolds build a 
sense of suspense — which can be really titillating. And you can 
never go wrong with a vibrator. 

Now this sounds all well and good, but he'll need his glasses to tie any 
thing, or unlock anything.  He's got 7 pairs. Can't find any of them.  By the 
time he finds them, the blood will have probably been cut off and I'd be in 
serious danger of losing both hands.  Anyway, I'm no fan of toys.  I had a
vibrator once.  Due to lack of use, the battery leaked so I threw it away. 
The following morning it was on the pavement as some kindly fox had 
decided to drag my bin bag across the drive and scatter the contents for 
all to see.  I'm not sure what was more embarrassing.  The leaky vibrator 
or the empty family KFC bucket.

6. Bare Boogie
You don't have to have a model-perfect body to have maximum fun 
in the bedroom. Look at yourself naked in a full-length mirror for 
five minutes a day and focus on what you love about your body. 
If this feels awkward, turn on some music and dance naked with 
your mirror image. By getting used to your unique shape, you'll 
gain confidence that will naturally spill over into your sex life 
and make you twice as enticing to your guy. 

OK so I tried this.  And  you know what?  There is NOTHING I love about 
my body.  I'm grateful that's it's all there and it is in good working order, 
but there's far too much of it.  Most of it shouldn't even be there.  
Dancing naked with my mirror image would be like a night out at a disco 
with Dawn French.  And there's every chance aforementioned children 
will barge in.  Seeing their mother boogie-ing butt-naked to Saturday 
Night Fever might well see them opting for voluntary adoption!

7. Sultry Slo-Mo
To surprise him and build anticipation, try doing the same things 
you always do in the bedroom, but slow down to one-fourth of 
your normal speed. You and your guy will have time to really bond.

This will just result in one of us nodding off.  Plus I'll start noticing the 
dust on the skirting board, or the light fitting.  Mind you, I suppose I 
could finish that book .....

 

8. Finger-Food Foreplay
Have a romantic dinner without utensils so you can feed each 
other. There's something sensual about placing food in your 
partner's mouth. It's such fun — especially when you serve 
stuff that's not supposed to be eaten with your hands, like s
alads or pasta. After a meal like this, serve yourself for dessert. 

What's erotic about this?  OK, strawberries and cream but salads 
and pasta?  Shovelling handfuls of spag bol and lettuce into his 
gob does not sound like fun to me.  It's going to be messy and guess 
who'll have to clear it all up and try and get the tomato stains off the 
cream tablecloth!  Yes me!  Give it a few years, I'll probably have to 
spoon feed him anyway.  So I'll be putting that off for as long as possible!  

9. The next time you go out with your man, wear your sexiest outfit. 
Go ahead — flirt with strangers and turn some heads. Tease. 
Once you return home from your diva-date, you won't be able t
o keep your hands off each other. 

I had a bad experience flirting with a stranger.  It was at a friend's wedding 
reception. Turns out he was the groom.  Next?

10. Grab and Go
If you're turned on at an inopportune time, act on your feelings. 
Although it feels a little bit naughty, a quickie will help you stay 
faithful.  Quickies allow you to experience all of the having-an-affair 
thrill with none of the cheating. 

Not a good idea. After any physical exertion, I need to sleep.  And 
there's too much preparation to be done before bed.  He's got a selection 
of tablets and piles and I have an epic skin care regime. It's not unheard 
of that, by the time I've applied the final layers of anti ageing retinol plus 
snake serum lifting gel and the overnight hand moisturiser mitts, the alarm's 
gone off!  Plus, due to various snoring and breathing malfunctions, he 
wears a gum shield and I wear a nose strip.  It's like Joe Bugner 
trying to shag a sychronised swimmer.  

Hey ho.  I guess those bins won't put themselves out.

 

Flying Time, Dodgy Hairstyles, Football Shirts and Queenie

Fuck me!  It's 5 past June!  How did that happen?  4 months since I last wrote about all those things in life that just make my wrinkles a little deeper and my hair a little greyer.  For someone who lists 'writing about all those things in life that just make my wrinkles a little deeper and my hair a little greyer' as their number one hobby (aside from cougar dating websites and bothering famous people on Twitter), it's a pretty poor show.  So stand by for a moan up of epic proportions - which should take us all nicely though to October.


Bad Heir Day

Talking of hair, why is mine so crap?  I don't think, in the 40-something years I've been on this planet, have I ever looked in the mirror and thought - WOW, you're hair looks fab!  I've spent fortunes having it highlighted, tinted, permed, back combed, front combed, and chopped by allsorts of mincing crimpers.  I've paid through the nose and out my backside.  And still it's fine, flat and mousey brown.  Oh and get a bit of heat or wind on it and bingo!  I look like I'm wearing a shit brown helmet.  I could have bought a small principality with the cash I've spent trying to look like a Pantene ad. 

I suppose I should be grateful that I've got some.  Even though I do resemble a rubbish Lego woman!

Lovely hair

Me

You Will Definitely Walk Alone!

I have just mentioned to Mr H that if he takes his West Ham football shirt on holiday, I shall divorce him.  Or kill him.  Whichever is less messy.  I'm not averse to chaps supporting their teams, but nothing screams I'M FUCKING BRITISH, BURNT AND PROBABLY DRUNK abroad more than a football shirt.  It's enough that us brits fail miserably to 'blend in' abroad by wearing unflattering clothing over our scorched bodies but the sight of a fat bloke in a Man United shirt just seems to spell trouble.  It's highly likely he'll have an equally lardy lady in tow in ill-fitting faux-linen trousers and couple of unruly kids called Britney and Jordan.

I've never seen an hunky Italian on holiday in an Inter Milan shirt.  Or a sexy Senor sipping his San Miguel whilst wearing a Real Madrid top.  Nope, it's just us lot.  In our British uniform.  Eating bacon and eggs for breakfast and complaining about the weather.  So if Mr H thinks he's going to inadvertently portray me as a flabby Primark-wearing Northern doris, then quite frankly, he'll be forever blowing bubbles out of his arse!!

Not Mr H

Definitely not me.  I'm blonder.

Jubliee Schmoobilee

I'm wondering.  Did the Queen really enjoy the Jubilee?  Did she really care that Gary Barlow had been round the world just to write her a song?  Did she honestly want to spend 4 hours on a boat in the freezing cold, waving at the prolls, whilst her poor hubby was clearly busting for a pee so much that he ended up eating hospital food?  Did she really want to listen to Jessie J and Ed Sheeran?  Can't imagine they're high on one's list of latest downloads.  I bet all she really wanted to do was spend a few days on the sofa, with a couple of swan sandwiches, G&T in hand, watching The Queen on a loop.

But despite her critics, and trust me I'm no bunting-hanging, flag-waving loon, 60 years for a woman in the same job surely deserves to be celebrated. OK she's not exactly performing brain surgery, or defusing atomic weapons, but someone's got to fly round the world, collecting bouquets from eager children clearly forced into it or dining with militant heads of state prior to them nuking Greenland.  And for that she should be honoured.

What bugs me though it that suddenly, everything and everyone becomes British.  Tesco brings out a limited edition 'British' sandwich.  You can't fart for tripping over some sort of red, white and blue paraphenalia and now look at us - we're all patriotic and blubbing at Kate's lovely hat. 

But you have to admire the British spirit.  We stood in the rain, eating rain drenched sausages and watching the jazz band electrocute themselves as the water seeped into their generator.  But they played on, through scorched fingers.  No other country would.  We're unique like that.  And I'm sure, under that permanently pissed off face, she was actually rather chuffed we'd all bothered!

A typically British Sandwich



No you can't have a knighthood Mr Barlow!!