Horray!! Summer has arrived. Time to delve into the dark corners of the garage and haul out the bbq, (which gets little use in Ireland I might add). Time for my man to shine. I may be capable of turning out the odd gourmet delights in my role as head chef in our household but lets face it, how could I possibly know anything about barbequing, being a mere woman. No, the barbeque is the mans domain, we all know that BBQ’s are powered not by coal, but testosterone.
First task, remove cobwebs and lift lid to reveal last years ash and grime. Remove any congealed crumbs or rotten meat the result of having been stashed away last year in an unclean state. Obviously this is the woman’s responsibility. Cleaning the BBQ is not manly work. A good half hour vigorous scrub of the grill and we are ready to rock.
Buying the food, this is obviously the woman’s job. Supermarket shopping is not manly work. The meat may need preparation by the woman first. The woman may be assigned other lowly tasks, like tossing the salad, making dips, setting out cutlery, tables, napkins, glasses etc. The meat should be set out on the tray beside the bbq in preparation for the manly spectacle of placing the meat on the grill.
Drinks in the form of beer should be provided to the man. The woman should ensure that the fridge is stocked with cold beverages as obviously this is thirsty work for the man.
Admiration for the manly work being done. While he dons his black apron, brandishing his tongs, pause for a moment to behold this vision of manly lovliness.
The highly technical precision turning of the burgers, the careful examination of the sausage, all essential requirements to ensure even browning. In the end to ensure no breaches of health and safety, he will make the decision to burn the bejasus out of everything.
Finally, the momentous eating of the by now beyond recognition cremated meat. Loud noises of approval all round. The woman may announce loudly to everyone what a treasure her man is, to nods of approval all round.
I wonder who gets to clean up afterwards?
A picture of a burka clad Anne Robinson in today’s Daily Mail got me thinking. Some days it’s easier to hide behind baggy clothes.
Wearing elasticated trousers. This shows a complete disregard for society in general. While ‘Thanksgiving pants’ as worn by Joey in Friends, may be permitted as a vehicle for comedy but in real life are an absolute no no. Equally, referring to trousers as ‘relaxed fit’ or ‘slacks’, a serious crime against good taste. If you wear tracksuit bottoms when not exercising, don’t bother with therapy, go straight to the asylum. Perhaps it might be an idea to keep an outfit on standby, maybe some sort of bee keeping ensemble, it would be preferable to tracksuits. Anne Robinson’s would do well to heed my advice.
You haven’t seen your bedroom floor in over 3 months due to an assortment of clothes, mugs, books and magazines strewn around. This far exceeds the normal realms of messy. Nothing screams ‘Look at me, I’m celebate ’ more than going to sleep under a pile of magazines and a laptop.
Wellies. Only wear if you are a farmer. Even posh Hunter wellies ceased to be acceptable in 1981 when Prince Charles was snapped wearing them.
Is there anything quite as divine as Italian everything..Italian food, Italian scenery, Italian weather.. Italian fashion..Italian wine.
I’m still high on from spending a few days living la dolce vita where I combined all the above. My fabulous nephew and his beautiful bride tied the knot in the little fairytale village of Titignano in the hills just north of Rome. I’d run out of superlatives if I tried to describe this magical setting, so instead let me tell you a tale of two cocktails (or three, or was it four?)
Seated at our tables for the wedding feast (and it was a feast), we noted the menu seemed to have no less than five courses, each course four or five options, all delicious yummy sounding mouth watering treats for the palate, what to choose?. Before the waiter came to take orders, our first course arrived. Bruschetta, like I’ve never tasted before..
Molly informed us that an Old Fashioned was the last word in cocktails. A concoction of whiskey, sugar and bitters. My better half volunteered to sample one, take one for the team. He never drinks cocktails…his mantra ‘thou shalt drink only manly pints of Guinness’ was out the window.
And the food kept coming. Goose, wild boar..each offering more tempting than the last. Thank God I’d decided against wearing Spanx. Plenty of room for expansion..… bring it on. If someone is kind enough to invite you to join in their special day, isn’t it your duty to let your hair down, overindulge, have an amazing time? Never let it be said I’d shirk my duty..
Off to town to get a job. The Green cinema on St. Stephen’s Green, an old Irish institution had a sign ‘Staff Wanted’. It was a lovely old theatre, the only cinema in town boasting ‘love seats’ – two seater seats for couples. A family run affair, two sisters despite being octogenarians were still holding the fort. Mrs. Daly and Miss Noone, both favoured pleated tweed skirts, twinsets and pearls. When it opened its doors it boasted state of the art technology, some seats equipped with a Fortephone apparatus which enabled patrons suffering from deafness to hear the soundtrack. By the 1980’s it looked a bit tired but that made it all the more appealing.
On a day off school school with my friend Mary, we called one afternoon looking for a job. Yes, they could take us both on that Saturday evening, but a training day on Friday was necessary to acquaint ourselves with the mysteries of usheretting. I was apprehensive but Mary fancied the guy in the projector room.. offer duly accepted.
Miss Daly, one of the sibling propieters, handed out torches. Tooled up, training commenced. As the complexities of torch holding were explained, it became obvious that there was more to this showing people to their seats business than meets the eye. ‘Keep the torch low’ Miss Noone commanded, flicking the torch discretely along the aisle’s edge as she walked. Only after a couple of hours training had we adequately mastered the level of torch holding skills required to be fully fledged usherettes.
Despite having to wear a kimono type overall, the sense of empowerment my torch brought made up for it. ‘This way please’, ‘No smoking in rows 10 to 14’. I was beginning to enjoy bossing adults about (well I was only 15). There was a real problem with people buying standard seats trying to get into the premium love seats. Observation skills and a sharp eye were required to patrol the aisles. The power could go to your head, ejecting punters attempting to commandeer a love seat without the proper ticket.
A horror film called “When a Stranger Calls” was showing. I got to see the first 40 minutes of it each night, but never got to see the happy ending as my shift finished at 10pm. So I’d watch until I reached a level of terror that turned me to a quivering wreck, but miss the bit at the end where calm is restored and your heart rate returns to normal. I invariably left the cinema looking over my shoulder. Once home, too scared to go to sleep with the light off.
We worked there for the Summer and left when school started back in September. Mary went off the projector guy anyway.
Well done Nicola Thorpe. A brave woman to take on her employers after being sent home for not wearing heels. She was assigned by a London temping agency to work as a receptionist for PriceWaterhouseCooper, but was instead sent home without pay. Her flat heels fell short of what was considered acceptable.
Has the world gone completely mad?. I’m glad to see that her idiotic employers have got their comeuppance. Nicola set up an online petition which has now exceeded 120,000 and has forced her employers Portico to back down.
I suggest you dig out your old granny boots and thick woolly tights in solidarity. Maybe a step too far but I am wearing my flats today at least.
The Decision: Will I won’t I? Weighing up the pros and cons. If you find that your cellulite is visible through thick skirts, or your posterior resembles a lumpy loot bag, well I guess the answer is yes. But then again, you are quite fond of breathing, and would like to continue to breath in the future. The thing is, although they look awful, the latest hi-tech engineered fabric prevents all lumps and bumps from showing through even the flimsiest of clothing. The resulting svelte outline a joy to behold. They make a Primark dress look like Dior (I may be exaggerating a little). Regardless of whether you are overweight or not, we can all benefit from a smooth sleek silhouette. Never mind what you look like underneath, never mind that you will sweat, blister, feel like a stuffed sausage and cease to breath. Pay no heed to the fact that your organs are being squashed or that your legs are numb. These crucial side effects will be duly ignored in the debate. Should you embrace your inner Bridget Jones? You will decide that the answer is YES. Don’t imagine you’d get a look in with the likes of Mark Darcy with an arse the size of small country.
The Religious Experience: Spanx are a gift from God. Once a devotee, you may never leave home without them again. Spanx worship is a common phenomena.
Weaning off Elastic: Wearing Spanx eventually leads to a lifelong addiction to elastic. The day may come when you decide to let it all hang out, and you won’t be prepared. An exit strategy should be considered. I understand that there are programs where you can be weaned off elastic, but none with any great success that I’m aware of.
NiftyFiftyShades 