Odds and Sods

June 29, 2014 by Palmersan

Our nosy neighbours Dick and Susan are moving out! Months of curtain twitching, bitter complaining and persistent emailing is coming to an end. And secretly, I’m a little sad.

Apparently, the sight of fellow residents entering the communal bin area and then either a: not closing the bin lids properly and/or b: not closing the gate properly (hello half-job husband!) has tipped Susan over the edge.

Dick has invested in a special pair of heavy-duty gloves to tackle the problem, which I’ve rebranded ‘Dick’s mitts’. Down-in-the-dumps Dickie seems to spend his days rummaging around in the bin compound – mitts donned – while Susan looks on from her perch in the window, barking the occasional instruction.

Sanctimonious Sue sent an email telling me how glad she is to be leaving.

‘Someone had a party Sat night, with noise in the hall and distant party noises; I think it must have been 17,’ she wrote.

‘I complained in a very moderate way to one of the friends arriving about parking all over the front of the building and got sharp words in return.’

She added: ‘You may not be surprised to hear that all these comings and goings have reminded us – not that we really needed it – how glad we will be to leave here.’

Down the road at Caffe Nero, my interaction with retiree-at-large Malcolm has reached new heights.

Malcolm seems to be under the misguided belief that I am some sort of literary don. He keeps coming over and throwing names of Dylan Thomas’s poems at me like some kind of bizarre quiz. It’s making me very nervous and I generally have to keep smiling and nodding along each time he mumbles, ‘What do you think of Under Milk Wood?’

Malcolm kept mentioning that he wanted to get rid of his beloved collection of classic novels and did I know anyone who would like them? It took my a while to cotton on but eventually, the husband said, ‘I think Malcolm wants you to have his books.’

The next time I saw him, I told Malcolm that I would love to take ownership of them.

For the next two weeks, Malcolm drove around with the books weighing heavy in the boot of his car, waiting to see me.

The books now have a new home on our bookshelf; they’re actually really nice little leather-bound tomes. I like them.

But it hasn’t ended there. I mentioned to Malcolm that I was thinking about visiting Majorca and the next day, he appeared with another box – this time stuffed with literature about his favourite Spanish island.

I’m fearful that Malcolm is gradually emptying his house of his worldly possessions and foisting them onto me – the ultimate clutter-phobe.

He also keeps harping on about his favourite hotel in Deia. He’s mentioned it so many times that I actually think we might now have to stay there when we visit Majorca this summer – just to keep him happy.

Over in the corner of Caffe Nero, Porridge-Loving Pensioner has taken to reading a selection of bonkbusters!

Lately, he’s been completely engrossed in Jackie Collins’ Vendetta, which rather ambitiously bills itself as a nonstop, action-packed tale of sex, betrayal, drugs, intrigue, and murder.

Porridge-Loving Pensioner has a new routine: he arrives by taxi at 7.30am, clutching his Co-Op carrier bag crammed with supplies. By 7.40am, he’s already on his first pot of porridge. At midday, he shuffles off to the pub next door before returning for one last pot of porridge and departing by taxi, circa 4pm.

One sunny day the other week, Porridge-Loving Pensioner went a bit crazy. He hobbled over to me and whispered that a strawberry milkshake was coming my way. I just nodded and smiled back at him, thinking, ‘he’s finally gone doolally.’

Then, 10 minutes later, a woman appeared in the doorway with a tray full of strawberry milkshakes and Porridge-Loving Pensioner started handing them out to all the Caffe Nero customers – me included!

He was the Milky Bar Kid gone rogue.

To this day, I have no idea where the milkshakes or the woman even came from. And I’m a little unsure on the policy of slurping non-Nero shakes on their premises.

It’s been a couple of weeks now Porridge-Loving Pensioner’s Milkshake Moment of Madness. He’s now retreated back into his corner to tuck into Jackie Collins’ latest bestseller.

The other day, I ordered my coffee and sat down with my laptop across from him.

There was a sudden scuffle from behind and an avalanche of Cadbury’s Eclairs landed in the table in front of me.

I turned to see Porridge-Loving Pensioner’s wizened face leaning in.

‘Friends for life,’ he said.

A Royal Affair

June 23, 2014 by Palmersan

After all my silly forebodings and hat-based hoo-ha, Royal Ascot turned out to be bloomin’ brilliant.

Not least because the following day in Windsor, I found myself standing less than a metre away from the Queen, who gave me a wave, and then I nearly got run over by Prince Philip and his horses!

But first, Royal Ascot. The sun shone brightly, the champagne flowed freely, and fears of the Daily Mail’s ‘Chavscot‘ label appeared to be unfounded. It was feathers and finery as far as the eye could see from our Silks Lawn enclosure (and I even managed a last-minute hat upgrade).

Of course, the day wouldn’t have been complete without at least one character in residence. Sarky Mark had been put in charge to ensure the day ran smoothly and boy, did he take his role seriously. From barking orders, ushering us into taxis and rationing the champagne, he was Head of Field Ops gone crazy.

As drinks were handed out, Sarky Mark came round to explain the toileting procedure. The company had purchased eight special toilet passes (at £100 each!). If you wanted to use the toilet, you had to take a token from the pot on the bar but one must ensure the token went BACK IN THE POT.

Every now and then, he would do a circle of the enclosure, rattling the plastic pot and demanding any toilets tokens to be handed in. One poor guy even got accused of going to the toilet too many times!

At 1.30pm, I began to feel very hungry. I trotted over to Sarky Mark and tentatively asked as to whether any food was coming out. It was. But Sarky Mark was guarding his sandwiches and cakes like a Rottweiler.

He consulted his time sheet. ‘You’ll have to wait until 2pm,’ he said, officiously.

‘We’re doing sandwiches then and the cakes can be eaten at 3pm.’

‘I’ve got very low blood sugar,’ I said, quite truthfully. ‘I can’t wait any longer.’

‘Blood sugar?!” sneered Sarky Mark, scornfully.

He reluctantly handed me a pack of his rationed sandwiches, which I meekly took.

Sarky Mark also doubled up as security. As he was surveying his domain from the sandwich table, he spotted a couple of rogue race-goers entering his private enclosure. Like a guard dog, he was ON IT, instantly escorting the trespassers off the premises.

The problem was that when Sarky Mark left his sandwich post, all hell broke loose. Within two minutes, all his sandwiches had gone and people started on the cake too!

I pottered over to see how Mark was dealing with this cake ambush. He seemed very flustered.

‘You’re back,’ he snarled. ‘You’re like a grazing goat! What could you possibly want now?’

A GRAZING GOAT?! This was corporate hospitality at its finest.

I didn’t dare tell him that I’d lost one of his toilet passes.

The next day, the husband and I rose early. We were going to see Her Majesty The Queen! The owner of the company who had invited us to Ascot had told us that at 10.50am every Sunday morning, the Queen drives herself from Windsor Castle to church in her old green Jaguar.

Apparently, despite the streets of Windsor being chocabloc with tourists, hardly anyone knows this fact, apart from the locals.

When we pitched up at the gate at the top of the Long Walk, there was only a smattering of people milling around. Surely it wasn’t possible that the Queen herself would nonchalantly come driving down here?

Then at 10.47, a single policeman, appeared. He opened the gate. It was happening!

Suddenly a solitary green Jaguar appeared and started down the hill, two pairs of eyes and a little yellow hat peering over the steering wheel. She was coming at speed towards us…

The husband and I waved furiously; she grinned, took her hand of the wheel for a moment and waved back. We were literally so close, the car almost brushed past us.

Trying to wave at the monarch and take pictures in tandem is tricky. But here’s the shots we managed:

And here’s her regal wave (just for us!)…

As we pottered back down the back streets, we were so busy chortling about our cool encounter, that the husband and I didn’t notice the horse and cart coming up behind us. We jumped out of the way to avoid being mowed down by four sets of hooves.

I glanced at the man driving it. He was very old. ‘He’s old to be doing tourist trips,’ I mused.

I was busy admiring the matching horses, when the husband hissed, ‘Wait a minute… it’s Prince Philip.’

It WAS Prince Philip! I hastily snapped a couple of pics. It was a dual royal spot.

An hour later, we ambled back to the Long Walk to watch for the Queen returning from church.

At 12 noon, we saw the green jag in the distance. There she was weaving in and out of pedestrians on The Long Walk, who were completely oblivious that Her Majesty was at the wheel.

As she drove back up, I waved furiously. I may have even done a little curtsey. She waved back at me again!

I’m no Royalist but it was one of the best mornings ever.

Mad Hatter

June 22, 2014 by Palmersan

Maybe I’ve seen too many Daily Mail pictures of fleshy women in skin-tight dresses, staggering around bawdily, bowls of fruit perched precariously atop their bleached bonces. Or perhaps, it’s the thought of hoards of hoo-ra Henrys quaffing champagne and braying brashly.

I don’t know what it is about the races but I’ve never had an interest in going whatsoever.

So when the husband arrived home from work and announced: ‘We’ve been invited to Royal Ascot!’, instead of saying ‘Wow. That’s great! How lucky am I?’ – like any normal, grateful being – my response went along the line of: ‘Oh no! Now, I’m going to have to get dressed up and drive to the other end of the country to make small talk to drunken people I don’t know, while some horses canter past in the distance.’

I’d much rather spend my Saturday quietly reading The Guardian, sipping an extra-hot-one-shot latte, and mulling over the merits of Mallorca with me old mucker Malcolm (more on him next week!)

In the maelstrom of the end-of-term madness, I pushed the impending Ascot trip to the back of my mind.

But approximately two days before, I woke in a cold sweat with only one thought on my mind: I needed a hat. It was the ultimate first world problem.

I needed a hat but worse still, I didn’t have time to get a hat. I was up to my eyeballs in writing reports and controlling over-enthusiastic children.

Still, from my limited knowledge of Ascot, I knew that attending sans hat was simply not an option.

I hastily jumped on the Royal Ascot website. ‘Skirts must be of modest length, preferably to the knee. Hats must have a base of at least 4cm,’ it said.

Like a true mad hatter, I hared out of work that night and headed straight to town. I had about one hour to procure a hat, otherwise we had a major problem on our hands.

I don’t know if you’ve ever attempted to panic buy a hat but let me tell you now, it’s a hideous experience. First of all, hardly ANYWHERE actually sells the blasted things. You can’t just nip into your local Marks and Sparks and grab one-off the shelf. All the usual haunts in town led to dead ends. The only thing I could find was this garish fuchsia thing in Topshop, which was the size of Jupiter.

I tried it on. It was HUGE. You could barely see my eyes.

‘Great,’ I thought. ‘No one will try to talk to me because they would just be addressing a giant expanse of pink. I could even tape a copy of the Guardian magazine to the inside of the brim and just sit and read that all day, thus reducing the need to converse with anyone. Perfect!’

I texted my friend Anna the picture. ‘Does this look like a ludicrous sun hat or an acceptably outlandish hat for the races?’

‘Ludicrous sun hat,’ she texted back. ‘Have you not read that Daily Mail’s coverage? It’s too floppy!’

Floppy?!

Floppiness aside, in my panic hat buy, I’d forgotten one critical problem: the size of my head. It’s preposterously small. Some mean people even call me ‘pea head’. This was a new problem for me; quite the opposite of the having feet the size of a man.

For one insane moment, I actually toyed with the idea of MAKING a hat. Surely it was just a case of scrunching some papier mache together and gluing a few feathers on the sides? Perhaps I could even top it off with a bunch of plastic grapes?

But before I could begin my millinery mash-up, I suddenly remembered trusty old Debenhams.

I’d been fighting the need to enter Debenhams because I imagined it quite simply sells the dullest, mumsy-est hats imaginable. Up until that point, I’d still been hoping to stumble across a Philip Treacy-inspired piece, preferably at Primark prices.

Now it was a case of beggars can’t be choosers.

Entering Debenhams, I tried on a taupe number. It made me look like some sort of weird air cadet.

I donned a pink flowery cloche, which made me look like a deranged Hyacinth Bucket.

An announcement came over the tannoy. ‘The store will be closing in five minutes.’

I began to feel very, very panicky.

As I exited to street level, another text came through from Anna.

It was a picture of a Saturn-shaped black hat with two peculiar stripy sticks protruding from it.

I texted back. ‘I’ll take it.’

Banned Designs Revisited

June 15, 2014 by Palmersan

This time last month, I was contemplating a Sharon Stone-style seduction attempt on our local planning officer Peter Grant.

Peter Grant was the only thing standing in the way of our plans to create an extra bedroom and kitchen diner on our recently-purchased house.

I’d already met Peter Grant down at the planning offices and we seemed to hit it off. It was a glorious sunny Friday; jokes were flying, big words were being banded… basically, it was smiles all round.

Peter’s predecessor Laura Hogg – a peevish planning autocrat, hell bent on enforcing her silly green belt law that we couldn’t extend the property by more than 30 per cent – had already given our plans the heave-ho – and nothing in the way of a solution.

But Peter Grant had yet to cotton on to this; in fact, he thought our rear extension to replace the garish blue conservatory would be an enhancement. Could it be possible that he would pass the plans without getting wind of the green belt rules?

Of course not.

The following week I received an email that started, ‘I’ve just had a very interesting conversation with Laura Hogg….’

We were back to square one. And it was left to muggins here to find a solution.

Much Googling later revealed that we could build a 4-metre deep single storey extension across the whole rear of the property under something called Permitted Development – a government initiative that gives home owners the right to extend without seeking planning permission.

I had a light bulb moment. Why not split the project into two parts? We could put all of the volume from the existing conservatory into a smaller two-storey extension, and then create the remaining single-storey kitchen diner under permitted development rights.

I excitedly rang the architects. They agreed this was a good idea and dutifully drew up the new scaled-down plans to send them off to Mr Grant.

So buoyed by my own ingenuity, I told the husband that I was seriously considering a career change to Planning Troubleshooter.

But things went from bad to worse.

Peter Grant said that even though the conservatory was technically existing volume, we couldn’t use it in the replacement extension because it had already gone over the 30 per cent rule when it was built in 1995 (when no such rule existed!). No way! Now he was trying to take volume back off us. I began to imagine Peter Grant like a giant rodent taking bites out of our house.

I tried to call him. But like a jilted lover, he refused to take my calls. He then sent an email saying that he would accept the reduced plans but would be instantly refusing them. Grant by name but not by nature!

I decided to leave the plans for Peter Grant to refuse rather than withdraw them. A refusal meant that we would be able to appeal.

In my new role as Planning Troubleshooter, I was actually quite looking forward to going to war with the council. It might even involve an appearance in the Supreme Court. Naturally, I would be representing myself. In my mind, I imagined travelling down to London on the train, leather briefcase in hand, glasses donned whilst studying a sheaf of papers earnestly.

But then just as was preparing for battle, there was some astonishing news – in the form of an email.

‘Peter Grant has decided to grant planning permission to the reduced extension,’ it stated.

It was the ultimate U-turn – at the eleventh hour!

Basically, in 9 months of planning hell, we have managed to secure a reduced 4 metre by 4 metre extension, which will give us (drum roll)… an extra bathroom. Oh, and a porch (which I drew myself).

I’ll never know why Peter Grant changed his mind on the decision day itself.

What I do know is that we definitely won’t be fulfilling our original dreams of a double side extension, a double garage, a basement ‘media’ room or a master bedroom over-looking the garden.

Still, it’s a small victory. And right now, it tastes quite sweet.

The Cockerel Has Crowed

June 8, 2014 by Palmersan

It was always going to happen. No human can consume 70 Nando’s meals a year and come out unscathed.

Last Friday night, was the day I finally ‘turned’ on Nando’s.

Our weekly visit to Nando’s had started off well. Upon entry, usual protocol was followed: husband went to order meals (butterfly chicken medium for me/ half chicken medium for him, spicy rice, peri-peri chips and a side of halloumi, natch), while I collected cutlery, napkins and sauces (backroom Brenda).

The husband is also in-charge of the Nando’s loyalty card. We’ve earned about 10 red chillies now – the kind of top-level points that only come with a serious peri-peri habit.

For some reason though, the husband refuses to cash any of these loyalty points against a free meal. He likes to see the look of shock on the cashier’s face when he hands over the card. He wants the cashier to think ‘this guy is a serious player’.

The husband, on the other hand, claims his refusal to cash in his chillies is because he sees the Nando’s loyalty card as in insurance policy should we feel on hard times. If we go bankrupt, we can still treat ourselves for a meal out once a month for the lion’s share of a year. Also, he’s of the foolish opinion that accruing an abundance of chillies makes him one step closer to the coveted Nando’s Black Card. Dream on!

But when my butterfly chicken breast arrived, there was something horribly wrong with it. It was all pale, blubbery and seemed to be oozing copious amounts of water.

The waitress said she would get me another one. There was a long wait and when the new piece of chicken arrived it was even worse than the original one: this time, along with the blubbery wateryness, it was peppered with pink veins.

I was dealing with a bad batch of breasts! It was the fast food equivalent of the PIP scandal.

I went to get the manager and explain the problem. I wanted him to take me seriously so I took my Nando’s card with me.

‘I eat at least one butterfly chicken breast every week of the year,’ I said, proffering the loyalty card. ‘I know a bad breast when I see one. You only have to check our loyalty card to see how often we come here.’

The manager looked slightly out of his depth. Five minutes later, he returned with a chicken wrap.

‘I’m really sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what was going on there. I’ve temped a few and I’ve binned a few, just to be sure.’

I was so busy hungrily tucking into my chicken wrap, I didn’t really catch what he said.

‘I think he said, ‘I’ve temped a few and binned a few?!” repeated the husband.

‘Which is a really weird thing to say. Why would he pop in the back and select a few breasts to randomly bin?!’

‘Surely if he’s going to bin them, he should bin the whole lot,’ I mused. ‘And what on earth is temping?’

I finished my wrap. Images of the blubbery chicken were still playing in my mind. I mouthed at the husband, ‘I think I’ve turned’.

It was only after that I wished I had taken photographic evidence of the blubbery, veiny breasts. Instead, you’ll have to make do with me clutching a bottle of peri-peri sauce and looking suitably doleful.

‘I want to get out of here with the minimum fuss,’ I whispered. ‘Where’s the manager? I want to slip out without any more rigmarole.’

‘He’s nowhere to be seen,’ said the husband, glancing around. ‘He’s probably in the back, booting bad breasts’.

I’d half expected to see the manager pinning a sign up at the window saying ‘Sorry, no butterfly chicken here tonight’.

‘I doubt I’ll be darkening the doors of Nando’s EVER AGAIN,’ I said, dramatically.

The husband eyed me sceptically.

‘That’s a shame,’ he said. ‘Because we’ve now collected enough loyalty points for about 20 free meals.’

The Half-Job Husband

June 1, 2014 by Palmersan

The husband arrived home from work the other night. He walked through the front door and left it half open; he kicked off his shoes and left them in the middle of the hallway; he flung his damp gym towel over the nearest door to dry it but left it still folded up.

Welcome to the world of Half-Job Harry.

Half-Job Harry is the moniker I gave to the husband for never doing a full job on anything. I’m not sure whether other people have this problem with their partners but it drives me bananas.

Half-Job Harry does do jobs but he doesn’t do them thoroughly. He might, for instance, reluctantly change a lightbulb (a weekly occurrence in our apartment – what is it with these spotlights?!)

But once done, he will leave the old lightbulb on the side, the chair he used to climb in the middle of the room, and the plastic packaging from the new bulb strewn somewhere on the floor – while happily reclining back on the sofa, satisfied that he’s achieved a spot of entry-level DIY and his work is done.

Last month, after more persistent hen-pecking, the husband reluctantly sloped off to put some oil and screen wash in the car. He was gone for some time and he returned empty-handed.

It was only when I opened the car boot this week, that I found a big plastic box swimming with greasy oil and screen wash from where he hadn’t secured the bottles properly.

Half-Job Harry is usurped only by Put-Off Pete. Put-Off Pete likes to leave smelly bin bags by the front door because he will ‘take it in the morning’; he leaves paperwork to pile up on the kitchen worktop – because he will ‘deal with it next week’; and he leaves ironing on the side because he will ‘put it away tomorrow’.

Put-Off Pete came into play the other night when I asked the husband if he could nip down to the basement to quickly read the electricity meter.

‘I’ll do it at some point over the weekend,’ said Put-Off Pete.

‘At some point over the weekend?’ I cried. ‘It’s only Wednesday night. It will only take two minutes!’

‘If it only takes two minutes, you can go,’ said the husband.

‘You know I don’t like to go down there for fear of What Lies Beneath,’ I said.

What Lies Beneath is the name we gave to the eerie void underneath our apartments, which also houses the electricity meters – and probably several hundred super-rats.

For three years, we were oblivious to What Lies Beneath until we went on a mini adventure to sabotage SuDick’s carpet tiles (SuDick are our bothersome neighbours (details here) who insisted on laying carpet throughout the communal corridors. As part of our anti-carpet campaign, the husband and I decided to start stealing the stash of carpet tiles from the basement at the rate of one by one. We then frisby them off our balcony and into the valley below. This little game has become a lot of fun).

I think it’s fair to say that the husband does not like doing DIY. We were having a picnic in the garden of The House We Might Never Actually Live In the other weekend (we occasionally eat a Sainsbury’s £3 meal deal there – it’s the only picnic we can afford, given that the garden is costing a third of my monthly salary to upkeep), when the husband spotted a tree that had blown down in the wind.

If you look closely, you can see it perpendicular to the green conifer. I’m not quite sure what one does in the event of a felled tree – dial a tree surgeon?

The husband went for a closer inspection of said tree and started rambling about climbing up the wobbly-looking conifer next to it and CHAIN-SAWING it down.

For someone renowned for his inability to use a radiator bleeding key and who once had a particularly close shave with a circular drill that nearly took his eyebrows off, the idea of the husband willingly going anywhere near a chainsaw is a very frightening prospect indeed.

Luckily, Put-Off Pete soon jerked back into action.

The fallen tree’s been there for a couple of months now and thankfully the husband hasn’t mentioned it since.

His damp towel is still festering in his gym bag; there’s a pile of unread letters on the kitchen side; and the car’s been demanding more screen wash for at least a month now.

Basically, it’s business as usual.

Damned Designs

May 25, 2014 by Palmersan

The husband and I have bought a house. It’s very pretty. I wish I could get a bit more excited about this new step towards Becoming A Proper Adult but there’s one big sticking point to it all.

When we bought the house, we rather rashly assumed it wouldn’t be a problem to renovate and extend it quite a bit.

Our new domicile had already been extended by the previous owners without any problems; there was no neighbours to speak off, except a few octogenarian bowlers; it wasn’t overlooked at all. We were planning on replacing the strange blue conservatory. Basically, our Kevin McCloud extension wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Unfortunately the council don’t share this view.

It all boils down to an over-zealous planning officer called Laura Hogg who has left no stone unturned in her quest to quash our plans and basically ruin our lives.

After rummaging through the planning archives in a dark council basement somewhere, she triumphantly claimed that our house is in a previously undistinguishable ‘green belt’ area of suburbia, and, as it has already been extended by the national law of 30 per cent volume since 1948, we are not to extend it by a single brick more.

This means: no two-storey side extension, no double garage, no all-glass kitchen diner at the back, no master bedroom overlooking the garden, and certainly no indulgent (but entirely necessary in the husband’s eyes) basement ‘media room’.

This news came as a very heavy hit.

Our future abode currently stands empty and dejected, a bit like its owners. Once a fortnight, I drive past it – simply to check it’s still there.

Occasionally, we wander wistfully around the garden and sometimes have a picnic. We have a new hedgehog friend too. He only has three legs.

Sometimes, I wonder if the husband and I will end up like my parents’ friends Pete and Enid, who bought a new house up the road from them and despite happily decorating it and pottering in the garden every weekend, have NEVER MOVED IN. This might not be quite so alarming, if they hadn’t bought the house 25 years ago.

My mother cycled past and spotted Enid in the garden the other week. ‘Will you be moving in soon?’ she cautiously enquired.

‘Moving in?!’ shrieked Enid, wild-eyed and terrified. ‘It’s nowhere near ready!’

The news from the council has left us with three options:

1. Find out where our nemesis Laura Hogg lives and knock on the door with a brown envelope stuffed full of grubby bank notes. If she refuses to accept this bribe, let down her car tyres in the dead of night.

2. Carry on living happily in our apartment, aka The Holiday Home, and do a ‘Pete and Enid’.

3. As Laura Hogg has now moved department, pretend the whole saga never happened and resubmit a scaled down version of the plans – with the insane notion that a different sympathetic councillor may give them the rubber stamp.

We decided to go for the resubmit plans/ bury-head-in-sand approach. According to our architect, crazier things have happened.

Last week, were given a new case officer: Peter Grant. I spoke to him on the phone. He has a very dry sense of humour and seemed quite positive.

‘Peter Grant has a humorous, ‘can-do’ attitude,’ I thought. ‘I’m all about ‘can-do’ attitudes. Maybe Peter Grant will be our saviour?’

I arranged to meet him at his office. I woke early that morning with all the anticipation of a first date. I needed to woo Peter Grant.

‘Whatever you do, don’t go for the brassy barmaid look,’ said the husband.

‘Have you ever know me dress like a brassy barmaid?’ I said.

‘Good point,’ said the husband.

Still, I couldn’t decide what to wear. I wanted to channel a mixture of innocent school teacher/ naive housewife/ simpering girl-next-door. It wasn’t an easy look to pull off.

In the end, I plumped for black leggings and a bright orange jacket, (avoiding the colour green at all costs).

Peter Grant finally appeared in the lobby.

He was younger than I’d imagined, casually dressed, with intense dark eyes and a brisk manner.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, gesturing to the seat opposite him. ‘I’ve been embroiled in a series of office-based escapades.

Embroiled? Escapades?! I loved this man.

I wanted to yell, ‘I’m a WORDSMITH too!’

But instead I concentrated on the task in hand: hypnotising Peter into granting us full planning permission.

‘So what was the problem with the original plans?’ asked Peter, spreading the drawings on the table in front of him.

‘I think it was just the sheer size of it,’ I said, adopting an innocent tone and taking care not to mention the words ‘green belt’, ’30 per cent’, or ‘Laura-bloody-Hogg’.

‘Well, I can’t see any problem with this rear extension,’ said Peter.

‘We’re all about enhancement here and l like to impart good news on a sunny Friday morning,’ he added.

I did an inward whoop.

‘Great,’ I squeaked, thinking, ‘just kept smiling, maintain eye contact, and whatever you do SAY NO MORE’.

‘I’ll get the architect to re-submit the revised plans next week.’ I added.

One of two things is now going to happen: Peter Grant grants us full planning permission and gives our case no further thought. Peter Grant bumps into Laura Hogg at the water cooler, happens to mention the name of our house, and gets the full lowdown from Miss Planning Enforcer herself.

In which case, my only option would then be to start an affair with Peter Grant.

I updated the husband over dinner that evening.

‘It’s gone well up to now but just how far do you want me to take this? I said.

‘I might even have to SLEEP WITH PETER GRANT!’

‘You will have to do what’s necessary,’ said the husband.

‘But let’s face it, you’re no Demi Moore.’

The Rise And Fall Of A Fashionista

May 22, 2014 by Palmersan

I went clothes shopping last week – hoping to find a way out of the 60 denier black tights trap I’ve been stuck in for the last five years.

But I couldn’t identify with anything. All around me there were girls in Cressida scrunchies, fluffy knits and hi-top boots. I felt all at sea.

I headed straight to Topshop – the undisputed honcho of the high street. Toppers has been a trusty companion over the years: a true stalwart of my wardrobe. These days it’s gone a bit teenagery but it can still pull it out of the bag when it needs to. Need some work trousers? Head to Topshop. Going out dress? Head to Topshop. Want a crop top emblazoned with sparkly pineapples and luminous tassels? Head to Topshop.

I think it’s fair to say that as far as relationships go, Topshop and I aren’t quite what we once were. But every now and then, a little gem jumps out at me – this burgundy number for instance – and faith is fully restored. I love Topshop.

Have you ever been to Cos? You’ll find stores dotted around London although its roots are firmly based in strange Scandinavian design. It’s completely wacky and I want to love everything in there.

But literally every item makes me look like I’m wearing a giant sheet of cardboard. Go and try it out. I promise you that any dress in there will instantly transform you into a huge cereal box. It’s the strangest shop in the world. Same goes for American Apparel. If you’re in the market for a velvet crop top and some high-waisted shiny leggings, Apparel’s your place. Apart from that, I just don’t get it… and probably never will.

Good old H&M. Back in the day, it went by the more convivial name of Hennes – the elusive pearl of Oxford Street that regularly cropped up in fashion magazines but seemed completely out of our reach before it crept up North. These days, they seem to have adopted a ‘stack ’em high and pile ’em in’ policy. The prices are still cheap but so is the clothing.

My cool friend SLJ once took me to the store in Camden, circa 2009, and I was momentarily on board with it all. But the Leeds store is a different beast altogether: a dark basement of tat. I went in last week and it was a sordid affair: rails stuffed with too many garments and a mind-boggling mush of knitwear that would leave Mary Portas in a cold sweat. I set my sights one jumper I quite liked and briefly toyed with the idea of wrestling it off a mannequin. But then an overwhelming urge to get out of there overtook me – and I fled, gulping in air as I got back to street level. I doubt I’ll be back.

Dear old Mango. I loved Mango. It was my go-to place for super-long trousers back in the mid-noughties. I have fond memories of snapping up a brown leather biker jacket from there too, which I wore to death and still lurks in the recesses of my wardrobe somewhere. But like all Spanish lovers, Mango was a short-lived romance. The clothes became tacky; the material cheap and clingy. Mango recently made its debut in Leeds much-vaunted Trinity shopping centre but I haven’t been in for years. Are its trousers still super long? Who knows. Maybe it’s time to take my long shanks back in there.

There was a time when I could walk into Zara and want nearly everything in there. I used to head down to Zara in the out-of-town White Rose Centre after work sometimes. It was desolate and I’d have the whole store to myself. I snapped up all sorts of long-term investments: a much-loved black Audrey-style dress, a Prada-esque skirt that’s still going strong… Those were the days. But in the last couple of years, Zara’s become a slightly tired scene, with mismatched garb sardined onto rails. I think it might have lost its way – or maybe I’m out just of the loop.

Who didn’t want to wrap themselves in a twisty bin bag dress held together by safety pins and head to Back To Basics when they were 21 years old? Enter All Saints. Remember that phase around 2001 where you started distressing your jeans with a cheese grater and spraying them with silver paint? Maybe it was just me. But All Saints have been doing it for years and then charging you £80 for the pleasure.

The problem with All Saints is it’s stuck in a noughties time warp. The grungy, distressed look went out of fashion about 10 years ago but All Saints is gamely sticking with it. Those Singer sewing machines have been adorning its window for about five years now (excuse the lamppost) – but we’ve long since parted company.

I never really got on board with River Island and I’m not quite sure why. It had quite a presence on Preston high street back in the 90s. We’d congregate at the back in the shoe section and mull over the different pairs of Kickers. But strangely, I can’t recall ever buying one garment from there. Now Rhianna’s on board, I thought I’d pay a visit. I was greeted by an array of gold sparkle, tartan and black fluff. It was a bit overwhelming. I couldn’t wait to get out. Sorry River Island, I’m afraid the island ferry has sailed.

Morgan, Morgan, Morgan… The very name fills me with nostalgia. Who could forget Morgan’s signature logo – that little red heart that oozed Parisian catwalk and class? Didn’t it even go by the name of Morgan de Toi at one point? Classy. It’s hard to believe it now but in 1998 Morgan could do no wrong. It was the essence of sophistication, with its matching floral two pieces. My friends and I would finish work on a Saturday and head straight to Morgan to spend our wage on a new dress for a night out at Preston’s infamous Tokyo Jo’s.

I can still picture the layout of Morgan: the colour-coordinated pieces hanging nearly on those wooden hangers; the tailored leather jackets; the mix of pillar-box red, oatmeal brown and marl greys. I think I might even be able to smell it. Am I getting carried away? Probably. Morgan was a true love affair of the late nineties – which made its subsequent downfall in the noughties (along with Kookai – yep, remember old Kookers?) all the more staggering.

Jane Norman. Who is she? She’s the girl at school who you kind of knew but never actually spoke to. I think our paths might have crossed once. I went into the Jane Norman store in Sheffield in 1998 and bought at bargain beige coat in the sale. It made me look like Arthur Daley. I kept it in my wardrobe for years and would wheel it out occasionally, to check if it still made me look like a secondhand car dealer. It did. What became of Jane Norman? I think she might have been crunched out in the recession. I wish I cared. But I didn’t even notice she’d gone.

Whistles/ Reiss/ Ted Baker/ Karen Millen – all stores with delusions of grandeur. Sure, they can pull out the stops when they want to (hello much-coveted Whistles navy jumper dress with a leather top) but they always seem to be punching above their weight: designer prices for a high street tag. Have you ever bought anything full price from Whistles or Reiss? Not me. You’d have to either marry an investment banker or sell a kidney. I usually wait til the inevitable 50 per cent off sale and then swoop and grab.

Actually, I lie. I waltzed into Selfridges the other month and – quite out of character – frivolously bought a dress from Ted Baker, and one from Karen Millen. I must have been in a daze when I went to pay because when I got my credit card bill the following month, I genuinely thought I’d been robbed. I was half-way to picking up the phone to Natwest to report retail fraud until I went to look at the price tags on said dresses – and realised that the only crime that had been committed was me setting foot in there in the first place.

Running On Empty

May 18, 2014 by Palmersan

At 6.45am this morning the alarm goes off and the husband springs out of bed. No-one should have to rise at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday. But today the husband is running the Manchester 10k.

All weekend, the husband has barely even mentioned this race. But this morning, things are different. There’s a palpable tension in the air. He is stomping around, hunting for safety pins, Googling ‘what to eat before a big race’ – and even muttering about protein shakes.

‘I want you ready by 7.45am,’ he bellows in his best Drill Sergeant voice.

I’m a little taken aback by this sudden change of heart.

The reason the race has not been such a big deal up to now is that the husband went for a run about two weeks ago and managed to pull his calf muscle so badly he could barely walk.

This might be something to do with the fact that he sprang out of bed that morning, laced up his trainers and simply set off running – without so much as a sniff of a warm-up. Naturally, he refuses to concede that this is the reason for his calf injury. Real men don’t bother with pre-run stretches or warm-ups, says he.

Because of this injury, the husband had pretty much resigned himself to hobbling around the Manchester 10k today. There was talk of him pulling out altogether but he bravely said he would soldier on – limping around the course if necessary.

After much conflab at home, we finally set off for Manchester. The husband’s hands seem to be gripping the steering wheel tighter than normal. He appears pensive – and tense.

‘You seem to be taking this very seriously,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget you’re only jogging round, due to your injury. There really is nothing to be getting worked up about.’

‘I need to stock up on supplies,’ says the husband, suddenly swooping into the petrol station. ‘Energy drinks, ibruprofen, Pro-Plus…’

This doesn’t sound like someone who is merely partaking in a glorified fun run, I think.

Halfway into the car journey, the penny suddenly drops.

‘You’re not just planning on jogging round, are you?’ I say.

‘The workmates are taking it really seriously,’ wails the husband. ‘They’ve have been training for weeks. I just REALLY want to beat them!’

‘You’re injured and you haven’t done any training,’ I said. ‘You can’t possible compete with these people.’

‘If my calf can hold out, I think I’m in with a chance,’ grimaced the husband.

‘Last time, I did it in 42 minutes.’

‘That was five years ago,’ I said, ever the Voice of Doom. ‘And you were in the peak of physical fitness. You’ve barely run 10k this year and you’re limping like Keyser Soze.

‘I know what’s going on here,’ I continued, finding my stride. ‘You’re picturing a scenario where you rise like the phoenix from the flames – and sail past the workmates in a superman fashion, taking them all by surprise.’

The husband nods, looking sheepish.

‘It’s never going to happen,’ I say.

The husband meets up with the work mates at the starting line. They all seem very keen, talking of personal bests and training schedules.

I leave him limbering up and stretching out his weakened calves.

40 minutes and two coffees later, I decide to amble down to the finishing line to check out what’s going on. It was 42 minutes into the race and the elite athletes were beginning to filter through.

I was in no rush. In fact, I was busy picturing a scenario whereby I was one of the few spectators left, clapping in solitude, as the injured husband woefully limps at the rear – surrounded by people in wheelchairs and a man dressed as Big Bird.

But just as I look up, the husband flies past! He looks in pain but is gritting his teeth in determination.

He beat rival workmate by 10 seconds; the rest by significantly more.

He came in the top 10 per cent of the runners.

He might have done irreparable damage to his left calf.

But the husband has never looked happier. And secretly, I’m a very proud wife.

Can’t Cook, Won’t Cook

May 11, 2014 by Palmersan

The husband was half-way through his dinner on Wednesday when he suddenly put down his knife and fork and uttered the words I’d been dreading…

‘I’ve turned.’

Approximately once a month, the husband ‘turns’ on one of the meals in my depleting repertoire of culinary creations.

Chicken stir-fry, for example, was once an absolute weekly staple and the husband was quite happily crunching his way through chinese leaves and noodles for about a year, before he suddenly announced mid-chew, ‘I’ve turned. Please don’t cook this ever again.’

When the husband ‘turns’ on a meal, it means he will NEVER eat it again. This could happen with any meal at any time at any place. The mere sight of it, he claims, would instantly make him sick.

What do people actually eat? As an 80s child, raised on Alphabites and frozen chicken kievs, I’m genuinely intrigued by how people manage to come up with four or five unique – and relatively healthy – meals a week.

When friends come over for dinner, I usually dish up a fail-safe concoction of pizza, pasta and potatoes. It’s become affectionately known as ‘the carb-overload’.

This is how my mid-week menu currently looks: Monday – pasta with pesto and tuna, Tuesday – fish cakes with cous cous. Wednesday – chicken with cous cous. Thursday – pasta with pesto and tuna – or cous cous. It’s little wonder that most of our sustenance comes from Nando’s at the weekend.

As you can see, cous cous is the star of the show in our household. This isn’t just any old cous cous, mind. It’s got the beaming face of Ainsley Harriott on the packet. Cous cous is really easy. You put it in a jug, add 200ml of hot water, give it a bit of a stir… and Ainsley’s your uncle.

But I fear it’s only a matter of time before the husband turns on cous cous too. He’s already turned on the tomato and roasted vegetable flavours, which only leaves me with about two other options. Thankfully, trusty Ains – never one to rest on his laurels – has just released an intriguing new red onion and balsamic flavour, which has been given a tentative thumbs up from the husband this week.

Come to think of it, Ainsley’s gone a bit mad, in fact, and has branched out into a whole range of dried foods, including mushroom bulger wheat, lential dahl and vegetable spelt.

Spelt and dahl? I think Ainsley might be having some sort of breakdown. I haven’t tried them yet; I took one look at the cooking instructions and they seemed too complicated – something about simmering for 15 minutes. Still, I’m fearful that old Ainsley’s bitten off more than he can chew. Over-expansion could spell his downfall.

Along with the aforementioned chicken stir-fry, other redundant dishes now include: salmon pasta parcels (turned), lamb tagine (turned after a ‘funny’ piece of lamb), and shepherd’s pie (turned – found a lump in the mash topping).

And did I mention that the husband doesn’t eat most fish, any vegetables, or any form of potato, unless it’s roasted or cooked as a chip?

Strangely though, he does have a passion for Muller Crunch Corners. Actually, it’s more of an addiction. He’s on at least one Muller Corner a day – Vanilla Choc balls being a particular fave – and if there’s none in the fridge, he gets irritable and twitchy. I’ve taken to buying the bad boys in bulk (Sainos is your place).

Over Christmas, I over-stocked and there was a race against time to consume as many Muller Corners as we could before the impending sell-by date. My whole family were forced to consume at least two Corners a day before they went off. We even had to have a Muller Corner each on Christmas Day.

On Thursday, I went to Marks and Spark’s and randomly bought some lamb kebabs (they were on offer). I was a bit stumped on how to serve them so I dished them up with my old favourite… yep, you guessed it: cous cous!

This is what the husband was presented with after an arduous day at work.

Let’s just say, I don’t think I’ll be appearing on Master Chef anytime soon.

About two years ago, a new shop called Cook Shop opened up the road. It basically offers up frozen ‘home-made’ meals for lazy, cook-shy fools like me, at inflated prices. For a while, I thought Cook Shop was the answer to everything. We chomped our way through the whole menu and then got a bit bored with it all.

I might have persevered if the ridiculously effeminate man who runs it wasn’t SO annoying. He greets me at the door like a long-lost friend, then follows me around the shop offering to help with my basket and asking if I want to sample one of his new desserts, in the most irritating voice imaginable. I want to hit him over the head with one of his frozen lasagnes.

Thank god for cous cous king Ainsley.

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My Family and Other Oddities

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