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.
Man flu may be on the increase. This devastating ailment is so much more severe than mere ‘women flu’ that demands are growing for the Government to pour all resources, the entire health budget into research into this debilitating condition.
Does Man Flu / Woman Flu exist?
Men quite rightly take to the bed at the first sneeze and insist to anyone who will listen that they have been struck down by Ebola and are close to death. Man Flu Man will take every pill, medicine, pain killer, cough syrup known to mankind, snuggle up under the blankets, stick a thermometer in his mouth for added effect and generally demand extreme mollycoddling. Surrounded by books to while away the hours, tv remote at the ready, stacks of Top Gear magazines, he’ll want to be spoon fed his favourite lemon drizzle cake to keep his strength up.
He may at some point insist on being taken to hospital in full Breaking Bad boiler suit but before that he may call friends and family to say his goodbyes. Other symptoms experienced by Man Flu Man include groaning in agony, night terrors, temporary psychosis and visions of the Archangel Gabrielle.
The problem isn’t Man Flu but Women who refuse to acknowledge that they have it, flu being the sole preserve of men. Typical ‘woman flu’ symptoms include:
Research by Beechams reveals that female flu lasts 20% longer and has worse symptoms than the male variety.
So, fellow Goddesses, the next time you’re feeling a little under the weather, man up and milk it for all its worth.
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.
We all sign up for all sorts of aids to keep us on the straight and narrow. Apps to help us navigate our way through traffic, to tell us when someone tweeted some hilarious inspirational quote that they stole from Facebook or that someone you don’t know is going to an event near you.
The problem is this, clever app developers know how to instil a sense of urgency to make you open the app to find out more. When I get a notification to tell me that Justin Beiber has changed his hair parting, I feel the need to open up the app to investigate further, regardless of the fact that I couldn’t care less if JB himself appeared in front of me in person in the nip to sing me a lullaby (sorry for putting that image in your head).
And there is the fact that I have been known to panic if I look at my phone only to realise that I’ve no new notifications.
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.
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.
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..