One Direction to Wembley (and back again)

Life’s not easy when you’re Mrs Harry Styles’s mother

You know when you’re pregnant with your first child?  Once the joy of finding out there’s a new life growing inside you, the horrible realisation dawns that you need to go through childbirth in order to meet him or her?  Well, last weekend I went to Wembley and back in a day and it felt kind of like that. The happiness at getting there followed by the horror of realising you have to get back afterwards.

So what was I doing going on a 440 mile round trip to Wembley?  Well, I went to Wembley and discovered the nightmare of the North Circular Road, the end-of-the-world style traffic heading for Brent Cross shopping centre, and to learn that a trip to IKEA can be akin to a trip to hell when said store has its own 5,000 place multi-storey car park, before giving in and going to sit in the car park of a local retail park for 5 hours. Continue reading

Phew whiff!

The world of men’s fragrance

I lived in Wales for a while and I will forever associate the place with the smell of Lynx Africa.  In my whole life, I have only ever smelled one thing worse than Lynx Africa and that was when I accidentally poured a jug of urine (long story) into an iron and hit the ‘steam’ button with a vengeance.

But back to Lynx Africa.  If I was the President of the Lynx Corporation, or whatever they’re really called, I would make the person who did my advertising a massive crown, cover it in precious jewels and place it on their head and sit them on a golden throne for so cannily selling such huge quantities of canned awfulness. Continue reading

Zumba, ma chère Cher!

How Zumba ended my 20-year love affair with Cher

I hate exercise.  I really do. I am a member of a gym that I hate going to. It’s filled with gym fascists, like the gang of twenty-something blokes who hog the weight machines or who congregate around the pull-up equipment with their bulging muscles trying to outdo each other with their pull-themselves-up-ability and the tininess of their vests.

The girls are no better. They usually appear in twos or threes in their Juicy Couture tracksuit bottoms, g-strings, tiny vests and of course the obligatory tattoo which I believe in some quarters is referred to as a tramp stamp.  They carry 50cl bottles of Volvic and do very little in the way of an actual workout – it would ruin the carefully applied layers of make-up – but they do a lot of giggling when the boys in their vests do their pull-up exercises. Continue reading

I need to get a man in

My back door is hanging off.  And no, that’s not a euphemism.  The back

Manky old doorManky old door

door to my house has rotted and is about to fall into a million splinters.  The post that used to go across the top crashed down weeks ago and almost killed me while I was putting the purple bin out.  So now I have to get a new back door.

This is a huge problem for me.  This is because it means treading into ‘bloke’ territory.  And for me, this is usually never a good thing. Continue reading