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NiftyFiftyShades

~ Failed Domestic Goddess

NiftyFiftyShades

Category Archives: Travel

Old Bag To Let

12 Tuesday Jul 2016

Posted by niftyfiftyshades in Fashion, Humour, lifestyle, Shopping, Travel, Uncategorized

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Tags

cruise, funny, Handbag, women

 

 

image  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…..

img_1770I 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.

Handbag Rental:- Yes, there are crazy people out there willing to part with cash for a loan of your handbag.  Initially I find this an amusing idea.  Reminiscing about days of old when I lived at home with my five sisters.  Handbags were exchanged without permission or knowledge.  You could arrive home to find your polo mints and lip gloss strewn across the bed, handbag nowhere to be seen.  Many an argument started with ‘Where the f**k is my bag”.  Ahh! Happy days.  If I had a penny for every time my handbag was commandeered….

image.jpegBut 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.

 

 

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAnd there is that fact that my handbag is a health hazard.

 

img_1769However, 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.

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If the handbag rental goes well, I could rent out all sorts of things. Shoes..I have a pair of runners that need breaking in. I wouldn’t even charge extra for the muck.  Maybe not my good shoes, don’t relish the thought of some slimey old pervert sniffing around my stilettos… Scarves, sunglasses, jewellery, husband. The sky’s the limit.

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I consider other ideas..

Personal Assistant to Millionaire:- Dashing about, organising appointments, booking flights.   Maybe I could be a kind of skivvy to the stars.  I have visions of me collecting George Clooney’s dry cleaning.  I’ll make myself indispensable to him.  George will be incapable of sneezing without my guidance.  In order to get the gig, I’d have to look the part.  Mmm…Maybe I’ll rent a little Gucci clutch bag.

 

 

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Football Crazy

13 Monday Jun 2016

Posted by niftyfiftyshades in Humour, lifestyle, Sport, Travel, Uncategorized

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Tags

family, Sport, Travel

 

image.jpegGood 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.

image.jpegThank 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.

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Check lists made, maps drawn up, a new phone purchased to ensure Google maps working, Airbnb booked months in advance and of course the much sought after golden ticket tucked safely away in his wallet (match tickets reportedly changing hands for 10 times their face value). I’d say he’s ready.

imageLast 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.

Ahh, looking at his happy little face as he gets on his beloved Ducati, his anticipation of a momentous journey, a trip of a lifetime, his pride in being able to join the Green Army, ’twud bring a tear to the eye.

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Poolside Etiquette

09 Thursday Jun 2016

Posted by niftyfiftyshades in Etiquette, Humour, Travel, Uncategorized

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Tags

Etiquette, funny, Travel

imageYou 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?

imageI 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.

Before toddling off to bed that night, I passed the pool area only to see towels set out on four of the best located sun loungers.  Feeling brave (alcohol may have been involved) I took the towels and tossed them on the loungers by the bins.  Is that evil? Not really, I restrained myself from dumping them in the pool.

imageI 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.

Any challenge that requires this level of cunning and precision planning is right up my street.  I can easily out maneuver this one.

I made my way to the pool, took two more sun loungers and proceeded to squash them in the middle of the five, placed my towel and my lucky flip flops on them and headed off to breakfast.

imageReturning 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.

Unfortunately, what began a tickle in my throat suddenly developed in to a severe fit of coughing. As it reached a loud hacking rasping crescendo I reached for my better half, taking his hand I gasped “I don’t think that I’m completely over that particularly virulent bout of Spanish flu”.  As my coughing persisted and it appeared that I might expire at any moment, I noticed how much space I seemed to have either side of me.  In fact, this was much better.  I had the best spot all to myself.

A Goddess has standard.  Now, where’s that Pimms?

Am I evil?.

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A Tale of Two Cocktails..Italian Style

21 Saturday May 2016

Posted by niftyfiftyshades in Drink, food, lifestyle, Travel, Uncategorized

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Tags

cocktails, family, Italy, wedding

Fotografo-Titignano_018Is there anything quite as divine as Italian everything..Italian food, Italian scenery, Italian weather.. Italian fashion..Italian wine.

titignano1I’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?)

Prior to this trip my idea of an Italian meal was typical, pizza, pasta and if being pretentious, tiramisu for dessert.  A virgin to the authentic experience of eating twenty courses in one sitting,  I wouldn’t have believed I was capable, but then I’d never tasted the real deal..

image.jpegSeated 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..

A cocktail bar brought in from Rome was up and running.  At our table Molly, who we later christened our ‘waitress at a cocktail bar’ announced that our table was ‘Cocktail Central’.   Raspberry Bellini’s were the order of the day, so not wanting to feel left out we joined in the Bellini frenzy.  I’d already had prosecco so not mixing the grape.. All good.    Next up was a selection of cured meats..yum, followed by cheese quiche.  It was then that the penny dropped, no need to ponder what to choose, we were eating EVERYTHING on the menu…

Creamy risotto with asparagus and porcini mushrooms followed by pappardelle in wild boar sauce.  Maybe it was time to try sticking to The Morsel Diet.  You can eat whatever you want but only a morsel.. Mariah Carey no less is a great proponent of the Morsel Diet… Only problem, the food was too scrumptious to leave any..

oldfashionedMolly 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.

darkandstormyAnd 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..

How could I resist the heavenly desserts (note I used the plural).  These works of art weren’t even on the menu.. OMG I’m going to be rolled home.

Now that the meal was over, back to Cocktail Central.   Molly with a finger on the pulse of the latest cocktail trends, announced that the Old Fashioned was old hat. Whisperings of a new cocktail that was sweeping the streets of Titignano reached us..a ‘Dark and Stormy’.. rum, ginger ale, black pepper??  Himself was first to offer his services again as chief sampler.

What to do when you overindulge?  Time to work off all that food..

 

I chose.. Chaka Kahn.. I’m every woman…

It’s amazing how that fifth cocktail turns you into the best dancer

EVER…

 

Baggage Carousel Phobia

10 Sunday Apr 2016

Posted by niftyfiftyshades in lifestyle, Travel, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Travel, women

imageI’m travelling to Berlin next week. I’m taking carry-on luggage only.

Waiting at the baggage carousel for my case to appear is a major stress factor for me. Like a deranged whacko  I break out in a cold sweat as soon as I hear the motors cranking up, shaking inside I cling to my better half to prevent hyperventilation. My neurosis is well founded. On a trip to Egypt some years ago, I  waited and waited at the carousel in Luxor airport but no case appeared. I still remember the horror of it, the trauma still fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.

As a present for a significant birthday, my husband booked a trip to Egypt, a luxury river cruise along the Nile from Luxor to Aswan. Visiting many wonderful sights along the way, Philae Temple, Valley of the Kings, Luxor, Karnak Temples, it promised to be a memorable trip. It was of course memorable but for all the wrong reasons.

imageAnticipating opulent old colonial chic I purchased a large new suitcase to accommodate my Nile wardrobe.  New swimwear, expensive sun creams, day dresses, deck shoes, ‘going out’ dresses, my diamonte earrings for sipping Pimms at 6pm (conventional wisdom dictates that one should never wear diamonds before the cocktail hour). You name it, it went in the case. A girl has standards and I had to look the part on my grand tour. We were booked onto a boat called ‘The Romance’ , described as having a sophisticated relaxed ambiance. What could be more perfect. We’re talking classy, none of your tacky cruise cabaret here.  A packed itinerary would ensure I got to show off even my floral tea dresses (afternoon tea would be served on deck at 4pm daily). I had the correct attire for any occasion even if like Agetha Christy I was called upon to solve the odd murder.

The case, way too heavy was placed to one side by the check-in lady with a big ‘HEAVY’ sticker plastered on top, beside the turquoise ribbon tied to the handle for easy identification. Off I skipped to the duty free, happy to unencumbered by a huge case.

I was beside myself at the other end, when no case was forthcoming. I anxiously searched as each person picked out their luggage, growing more agitated by the second, until finally the conveyer belt creaked to a halt. No turquoise ribbon in sight. The coach to bring us to the boat was waiting outside, while all tried locating my treasure chest. Eventually, after much form filling, I boarded the bus to glowering stares by the other passengers who were kept waiting.

imageWe arrived to the boat late at night ready to set sail at 10am the following morning. The next morning I put back on my crumpled clothes I’d worn travelling the day before. My shoes were not suitable for any grand tour. I looked around the boat, bereft at the sight of a pool on deck and me with not a bikini or swimming togs to my name. Baba, one of the porters working on deck felt sorry for me and insisted on taking be shopping before the boat sailed. I was about to hit the high street in Luxor. Suddenly feeling more optimistic, “I’ll pick up a bikini and flip flops as well as a couple of dresses”.

Well, not exactly, the city centre was crammed with tuk tuks flying about the busy streets. All women wore full black burka’s. Baba took me to his cousin’s shop called ‘Santa Clause’, the only shop selling Western clothes. On the one rail of available non burka clothes, I chose a couple of pairs of linen trousers, and 4 tee shirts. The trousers didn’t fit and the tee-shirts made from industrial strength thick cotton. The thickness of the cotton designed to protect my modesty.  Still, beggars can’t be choosers. No bikini’s, no kaftans, no sun hats, not a flip flop in sight. ‘Santa Clause’ wasn’t exactly baring gifts. No sun glasses, no makeup… I could go on.

Next stop, a shoe shop and Baba’s other cousin. Not really a shoe shop more of a plastic sandal shop. Cheap plastic bejewelled sandals that cost two pounds.

‘She needs knickers’, my esteemed companion whispered to Baba. This is not a simple matter. Nether garments must be kept under wraps, modesty prevents shops displaying such shameful items. I was taken down an alleyway to the side entrance of a dark shop. More cloak and dagger whispering, then many many boxes produced. The first box, peach frilly nylon was all that was on offer but that clearly wouldn’t do. As each box was opened, the same peach frills appeared. Despite the appearance of choice, there was none. So peach nylon it was. ‘7 pairs please’.

I returned to the boat with my purchases (which set me back a total of 28 quid).

For the next 7 days I traipsed around every Egyptian monument and temple in my plastic footwear, I belly danced in my cotton tee-shirts and in spite of everything, had an absolutely wonderful holiday. Actually, it was kind of liberating not to have to care about dressing up.

I would not want to repeat the underwear experience. The nylon was stiff and scratchy, and had tiny leg holes. I clearly remember suffering pins and needles when the blood supply to my legs was cut off, telephoning home and my sisters laughing themselves sick at my predicament. On the last day, I committed a crime. I’m ashamed to say I littered the Nile, throwing my horrible peach knickers overboard to float away forever.

Slumming it Again

09 Tuesday Feb 2016

Posted by niftyfiftyshades in Humour, Midlife, Travel, Uncategorized

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Tags

funny, midlife, Travel, women

imageLast weekend, I took myself off for a trip to the West of Ireland with my two amigos. Where else would a Domestic Goddess go  but Dromoland Castle to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. Actually, we pretended to stay there. Due to my impoverished status, we stayed at the Inn at Dromoland, not the castle itself (which incidently was voted the world’s number one hotel). A Goddess has standards, and clearly the world number two hotel wouldn’t do.

Our home for the night was in the grounds of the grand estate but more suited to the average pocket. That didn’t stop us lording it in the cocktail bar of the castle. What’s a girl to do but sip Irish Coffee by the fireside on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Pretentions of a higher station are called for in such situations.

imageFrom the Inn, it was a ten minute walk in biblical weather to the castle. The howling wind did nothing for our hair as we struggled through the grounds. Such was the tangled mess on my head that I feared birds would attempt to nest. Get inside pronto.

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As we approached the imposing black doors to the castle a thought occurred. Our bedraggled state might be grounds for refusing us entry. The ‘dragged through a bush backwards’ look is never flattering.

A light push and the doors opened welcoming us into a fairytale vision of vintage plush, soft carpets, opulent warmth and more swags and tails than Madame Bovary’s bordello. I half expected to see Lady Edith swish by with the Dowager Countess in tow.image

Pretentions of a higher station required in such situations.

We spent a little time wandering around seeking out liquid sustenance, pretending to be unimpressed. Even passing the ladies you couldn’t help dipping in for a peek (incidently the most fabulous ladies cloakroom I’ve encountered). Eventually, propped up at the bar for some liquid refreshments we chilled. Ah!!, to the manor born.

Adopting a ‘we do this all the time’ stance, all thoughts of suburbia or my little cherubs back home were truly banished (my little cherub is a 6 ft teen).  

Over the years many a famous guest has darkened its doors including Bill Clinton, George W, Muhamad Ali, Nelson Mandella, Johnny Cash..a long list.  However no matter how hard we looked not a rock star nor an American president in sight.

imageTwo hours later we set out for a tipsy walk back to the Inn this time with a blissful disregard for what the weather would do to our hair. A nice gentleman gatekeeper appeared in the courtesy car and dropped us back.

If you think like a Goddess, you will be treated like a Goddess.

Shenanigans in a Sheebeen

19 Tuesday Jan 2016

Posted by niftyfiftyshades in Drink, Humour, Midlife, Travel, Uncategorized

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Tags

family, funny, Ireland, teenagers, Travel

Ever been Holed up in a Sheebeen in the West of Ireland?

imageMyself and Himself headed off for a one night stay in Westport (or as Bridget Jones would say a ‘full blown mini-break weekend’). It’s a three hour drive from Dublin so I thought I could cajole him into making it two nights, but he couldn’t be persuaded. In retrospect this was a good plan as the parting comment from my teenage son as we left “I’ll only have a few of my mates over, just one or two”(yeah right..)

It was my Christmas present, the night away. He asked what I wanted and I replied ‘whisk me away for a romantic night of moonlight and music’. So we ended up in Westport, where the rain is biblical and the moonlight nowhere to be seen behind the thunderous black clouds.

When it’s not raining, Westport is a beautiful little town full of quaint traditional pubs, cosy fires, seafood restaurants, live music, weird and wonderful quirky little shops and a lively atmosphere everywhere you go. But lets be honest, what can you do in the face of a deluge of biblical proportions. The only thing for it was to head to the nearest Shebeen for liquid sustenance and some seafood chowder by a blazing turf fire. Life doesn’t get much better.

imageOn Saturday night we found a nice corner in an old pub and nestled in for the night for what we thought would be a few quiet drinking. By 9.30 the place was full. At 10pm the live music arrived, a couple of guys with guitars. For the week that was in it, they started playing David Bowie numbers to our absolute delight. A sing song of sorts erupted. A handful of girls there on a hens weekend appeared and livened up the proceedings. A makeshift dance floor no bigger than a postage stamp allowed the hens to strut their stuff. They were lets say ‘spirited’ but not messy, just givin’ it socks. The place heaving with people at this stage, encouraged by the sing song, the guitar guys decided to crank it up a notch. The usual crowd pleasers belted out ‘Sweet Caroline’ , ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, ‘Uptown Funk’ weirdly interspersed with a few traditional Irish ballads.  I looked around, everyone seemed to be joining in a woozy rendition of ‘Jean Genie’ .

The hens were up to mischief, getting the local guys to join in the shenanigans. The place was hoppin!. A strange mix of everybody and anybody. A few young women tottered into the bar in their skyscraper heals. Strangely not out of place sipping prosecco while standing next to sprightly old codgers who were downing the black stuff like there was no tomorrow. Now normally I’d be in the middle of it, giving it socks, however as I’m still doing my Dry January challenge, I take on the role of UN observer. People watching is almost as much fun (do I sound convinced). At about 2pm, way over the allotted time, an almighty crash sounded as one of the hens in a semi drunken stupor, shimmied into the music speaker, instantly killing the sound. Slightly dazed, she wobbled out the door. Suddenly everyone sobered up. The musicians called it a day and the place emptied. Himself missed all the action as he was in the loo. One minute the place is heaving, he comes back and within two minutes the place emptied. “What happened? Where’s everybody gone?” He looked around bemused.
All in all, a typical night in Westport, where the craic is mighty and you always go home with a warm fuzzy feeling .

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