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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Do you feel angry more often than you should?
Ensure chocolate levels are kept up. I recommend 500g of chocolate or two Walnut Whips daily.
Practice wearing a crown. A tiara will do if you can’t get hold of the crown jewels. I recommend you begin with walking around the house, carry out your normal housecraft wearing your crown before attempting to venture outdoors. This will ensure excellent posture, a prerequisite to inner poise.
Take a yoga class. A guaranteed shortcut to inner poise, while meeting interesting people.
Never utter the words ‘Um’ Yea’, ‘Hi’ or ‘Yo’. Acquaint yourself with the terms ‘Hello’ and ‘Yes’.
Channel your inner Bridget Jones. Bridget’s unique brand of grace and poise is an inspiration to all.
Reply promptly to dinner party invitations, RSVPs or declines. If you can’t attend have a good excuse to hand. I always say “I’m having my pearls restrung”, but “I’m having my toenails curled” or “I’d rather stick pins in my eyes” work equally well.
I’m travelling to Berlin next week. I’m taking carry-on luggage only.
Anticipating 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.
We 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”.
Fellow domestic Goddesses will be well versed in the intricacies of maneuvering through aisle traffic, but I’ll share my tips with those less informed. Let’s be clear about this, many a woman’s reputation has been ruined on the slip of a wheel or the destruction of an apple pyramid among the aisles of Fallon and Byrne. From extensive observation of supermarket behaviour, I have deduced that men are the root of all evil in the supermarket. All this dithering hither and yon, seeking out preferred items, not knowing their pilchards from their sardines, causing untold mayhem in the aisles, preventing women from sailing through the deli section unimpeded.
No wonder men suffer more accidents when constantly subjected to trolley attack by women. Statistics show that tall, dark, handsome men are particularly accident prone, leading me to suspect the intentions of some.
Some younger women are equally misbehaved. On a recent excursion to the supermarket I encountered two young ladies in the pickle aisle taking selfies with the mini cucumbers, trolleys askew (preventing access to the mini gherkins). Such reprehensible behavour, I immediately jumped in, photobombing with a full size cucumber.
Drive on the left. May cause confusion for visitors outside Ireland and the UK. I’ve written to the minister for Transport on the matter, requesting the installation of traffic lanes and possibly even traffic lights in all Supermarket aisles.
If you reach for your favourite aromatic duck only to find another hand has grabbed it simultaneously, position your trolley to give a sharp prod to the ankles of your opponent. Again, this requires focus. Skilfully quide your trolley back down the adjacent aisle while your opponent is hopping on one foot. This manoeuvre works well for anyone who gets your goat up, young ladies wearing pyjamas, pretentious shoppers who loudly ask for Lobster Gazpacho at the deli counter.
If you are in a hurry it’s perfectly acceptable to skip the queue. Simply distract the person at the top of the queue by pointing outside shouting “Is that George Clooney”. At this point you swoop in with your trolley towards the cash desk, unloading your items on the conveyer belt before anyone can object. If anyone does complain, slap them across the face with your fresh haddock. It will usually stun for long enough to allow you to proceed unhampered.
NiftyFiftyShades 