1. You close your online gaming account and join a bee keeping forum. Bee keeping and napkin folding are your new passions.
2. Workmen who come to your house to fix your boiler call you Mrs. “That’ll be an extra 50 euros for the new washer Mrs Ryan”. None of the familiar terms of endearment, ‘love’ or ‘sunshine’ will be uttered. It’s the least they could do to address you formally and with respect while fleecing you for every last penny. “Standards must be maintained” will be your new mantra.
3. You could eat a whole tub of Haagen Dazs if you wanted to but choose not to. The only person wagging a finger at you as you reach for the fridge is yourself. You can stuff your face with sweets with carefree youthful abandon but you wont. The bathroom scales will be ever present in your thoughts. It’s not as much fun anyway when there’s no one to scold you.
4. You say more appropriate things than inappropriate things. This anomaly may reverse in time. When you’re past middle age you revert to saying more inappropriate things than appropriate, or what I like to call – radical honesty.
5. You develop an awareness of hygiene that was never present in your teenage years. You become acquainted with the vacuum cleaner. It never troubled you before but suddenly the collection of socks under the bed makes you queasy.
6. You’re fond of a old ‘sit down’.
7. You develop a cushion fixation. Your shopping habits change. You still like the odd impulse buy but you’re more likely to find yourself in the haberdashery department of Brown Thomas than looking at Gucci handbags. Who doesn’t love new cushions?
8. Buying a new appliance makes you more giddy than a thirteen year old at a Justin Bieber concert. You actually read the instructions on how to care for your new stand mixer.
9. Beer will no longer cut the mustard. You discover the joys of a glass of wine.
If only I lived as a North Korean peasant in the presence of Kim Jung Un. The special one has discovered a new treatment to prevent aging and cancer – water. Water from the sacred Mt Koryong. And the benevolent leader has bottled it for his 27 million subjects to buy.
According to Nth Korean scientists “There are nano-tracks in human’s cell membrane and only smaller molecule water can pass it. Such water is absorbed rapidly into human body to promote metabolism of cells and works as antioxidant to prevent the accumulation of peroxides, retard aging and prevent cancer.”
Coconut Water :– You are a hypochondriac totally taken in by the hype. You’re never more than 5 ft. from a yoga mat and you firmly believe that drinking coconut water will allow you to remain in a Downward Dog position when you’ve passed the 100 year mark. You don’t really like the taste, but that’s the price of being a smug health freak.
Smart Water:- You’re not that smart but you like to show everyone that you’re tech savvy. You believe the junk science behind electrolytes that replenish lost energy. You want to know what the Ph balance is but don’t understand what it means.
San Pellegrino:- Sweet nectar of the Gods. Lets be clear, this is not merely a bottle of water but an accessory, and we all live by the old adage “Accessories doth mak’eth the woman”. Your Chloe handbag is just the right size for carrying it but you’d rather keep it in your hand.
LidlAldi own brand:- You are the intellectual superior to everyone. You know it makes sense, it’s functional, cheaper and of equal quality to Evian and you can bulk buy when doing your grocery shop. You actually understand the junk science about electrolytes in water. You think Louis Vouton plays for Arsenal and your idea of a perfect holiday is a potholing expedition in Donegal.
My dream of a luxury Caribbean cruise will remain just that, a dream, unless I come up with a cunning plan. Staring out of my rain soaked office window, my mind is elsewhere. I’m lounging on deck, a Pimms in one hand and my Jamaican Patois phrase book in the other. A gentle breeze caresses my bikini body (in my dreams I have a bikini body). A hot sailor arrives with a cold towel to gently dab away a bead of sweat from my sunkissed forehead…..
I trawl the internet looking for ways and means of earning a few shillings and turn my fantasy into reality. The internet offers a plethora of suggestions, but one catches my eye.
But this idea or renting out your handbag intrigues me. A Burberry clutch will get you 35 euros per week. A Longchamp tote maybe even more. My plan may indeed be cunning. The only drawback is a lack of designer bags in my wardrobe. I might get 50 cent for my old satchel, but that wouldn’t cover the postage.
And there is that fact that my handbag is a health hazard.
However, it’s a universal truth that any domestic Goddess worth her salt must own at least one decent bag. How else can she be differentiated from the peasants. I do have a lovely Orla Kiely shopper that I’m quite attached to. I’m not about to let any old tosser (too miserable to buy their own bag) use and abuse it. I’ll rent out my Primark crossover bag for starters and see how I get on. There can’t be that much competition, I can’t imagine anyone who owns an Alexander McQueen skull box clutch would be that hard pressed that they’d have to rent it out.
If you’re thinking of moving to LA anytime soon, you need to get with the program. LA based Amanda Chantal Bacon owns Moon Juice, a juice and nut milk shop. She has a ‘copper cup of silver needle and calendula tea’ every morning. Last year she wrote a food diary for Elle which went viral.
Astrologically farmed eggs – That is, eggs that are laid at a certain time to coincide with cycles of the moon. Apparently they are tastier they have ‘bright sunset yellow’ yokes. This also comes under the heading of Biodynamic Farming, or bonkers farming to you and me, which advocates planting, cultivating and harvesting crops based on moon phases.
Bog Butter – A farmer in County Cavan has found a large knob of butter. Why has this made global headlines. Because it’s not just any old butter but 2000 year old bog butter buried by our forefathers and preserved in a bog. Now lauded as a wonder food, much sought after due to its rarity. According to scientists, bog butter provides additional peat infused nutrients. It has a waxy texture and smells of cheese. Will we read next of Russian oligarchs shelling out millions for it? One woman’s forward planning I found amusing, she intends to turn her breast milk into butter and bury it in the Bog of Allen, so that some archaeologist will dig it up and tuck into it in a couple of hundred years time.
Activated cashews – if you must have ‘bio-available’ nuts.
Good news – I’m no longer a golf widow. But wait, hold the celebration, golf has only been replaced with football. The nation grinds to a halt as Euro 2016 fever grips the country. Himself is off to Bordeaux to worship at the altar of football. In a couple of days he will set off on a ten day solo road trip across France on his beloved Ducati motorbike (I only recently learned what make it was, previously referred to as ‘a red one’ if asked). Lovingly buffed up and ready for the trip.
Thank God it’s finally arrived. I don’t think I could take much more of this insanity. To say the meticulous planning of this trip was executed with military precision would be an understatement. I sometimes wondered if the house would ever return to normal. I look forward to the joys of coming down to my kitchen each morning and not have spare motorbike parts strewn across the counter tops, not have maps spread out across the table, yellow stickers on the fridge or messages from Airbnb every time I open my iPad. Finally, normal family life may resume.
Last night we had the trial run. The rucksack packed, unpacked, repacked. I tried lifting it, but couldn’t. “What have you got in there – a few gold bars?, a spare engine?”. On inspection, I wasn’t far off. 90% of the bag consisted of tools for the bike, spare parts, bulbs, barely room for a pair of shorts and a couple of green t-shirts. If only I could pack so light. Just as well I’m not tagging along as I’d never manage with less than 15 pairs of shoes.
You finally arrive at your hotel after a long and treacherous journey, travel weary, exhausted. All you want to do is flake out in the sunshine. You’ve been promised tropical bliss. You envisage doing nothing more than sipping Pimms, taking selfies of your feet while idly contemplating George Clooney’s choice of footwear. You gather up your poolside paraphernalia, shades, sun cream, sarong, book and head down to the terrace only to find the sun lounger Gestapo have reserved all the best ones. The only one left is beside a bin and some howling infants. What to do?
I found myself in this very predicament on a recent holiday. I decided that there was nothing for it but to rise to the occasion and beat the Germans at their own game.
I awoke to glorious sunshine pouring in through the slit in the curtains early the next morning (6.50 am). I watched with interest from my balcony as a woman arrived with her towels and proceeded to claim five sun loungers. Not content with that, with military precision she managed to drag a heavy parasol (anchored to a cement base) over to her den, along with a selection of small tables and some ashtrays. Clearly I’d have to up my game to be in contention for a prized sun lounger.
Returning later, I relaxed into my sun lounger between Gunthar and Greta, oblivious to the glowering looks from either side as I flicked through Good Housekeeping.
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.
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.
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.
What to look for in a man? Brave, intelligent, suave, sophisticated, thoughtful, kind, handsome, funny? Wrong, solvent, hygenic and not afraid of the odd bit of housework . Find a man who can keep you in the style you would like to become accustomed to who doesn’t have his own personal odour. Forget GSOH or SWM, when placing your personal ad in The Farmers Journal include HLOD(has loads of dosh) and DS (doesn’t smell).
You may need a measuring tape for this one. A man may be judged on the length of his sideburns. Sideburns should never exceed 4 cm in length. I recommend carrying a small ruler or measuring tape on your person on first dates. Immediately discount any potential suitors overstepping the mark. When it comes to the sideburn rule, all severities in (even Bridget has to ask Mark Darcy to reconsider the length of his sideburns).
2. The correct level of forgetfulness. A man should never remember anything you say, but still retain the ability to remember anniversaries and birthdays.
4. A man should never let the side down on the dance floor. The ability to tango or quick step should be held in the highest esteem. This shows an innate talent to interpret and communicate feelings through the physical form. Word of warning though, draw the line at sparkly unitards if your man is over the age of 24. Mr. Fifty loves nothing more than to start the day with an invigorating foxtrot.
6. A man should never indulge in excessive grooming. Anything more than a haircut every 6 weeks is vulgar excess. Remember, the entire household grooming budget is for you.
7. Never date a man who wears socks with sandals, a clear sign of a deeply disturbed mind.
