The Social Whirl

It’s been a mad week.

Well, in fairness, that’s probably not true, if I was in my twenties, and a city slicker still, it would probably have been a very ordinary week. 
But for those of us who have had our fortieth, and live in the country, and become alarmed when the phone rings after 9pm and jumpy when the doorbell rings unexpectedly, it’s been quite an adventure, since last weekend.

On Monday I went to see my friend and her children.  Because I’m such a country mouse these days, my visit necessitated an overnight stay.  I arrived armed with wine, and toys to bribe her children into liking me, and had a lovely time with them all. 

But wine on a Monday night is a bit of a treat, and I have to say, part of me was glad when she said at eleven o’clock that she had to go to bed, since her new little son would have her awake for most of the night. 
I’d already had three glasses, which is about six times more than I should have on a week night.

We had a lovely time on Tuesday morning.  I’ve finally reached an age when I don’t get panicky when a baby roars.  Obviously, if he’d needed winding or feeding or changing or something I would have done my best, but he had a pain, the poor little pet, and I couldn’t help him. 

Just a couple of years ago I would simply have thrown him at his mother and found a way to make it look like I was doing something productive, and so couldn’t mind the baby. Surely it’s a sign that I’ve grown up, that I insisted that his mother bring her little girl off to crèche, that he’d be fine with me?

And in fairness he only cried for a couple of minutes, he was very good.

I had a half day off that morning, and had a great time with my friend, who I don't see enough of recently.

On Wednesday night I was meeting my lovely niece, and an also lovely friend of hers.  I always have a good time with my niece, she’s fun and funny, and the best of company. 

We met in a wine bar.  I’d say it’s probably a very cool wine bar, but frankly I wasn’t impressed.  It works like this.  You go in, and give the man some money, and he gives you a plastic card, much like a hotel room key card.  You put this card in a slot in the wall, it tells you how much credit you have, and you choose a wine from the display behind a glass door.

Then you press a button to determine whether you want a taste, a half glass, or a full glass.  The wine is dispensed in a not dissimilar way to how the fizzy drinks are served in McDonalds.

This caper is referred to as their “specialist Enomatic serving system” and their website boasts “We afford wine enthusiasts a rare opportunity in Dublin to explore their passion, not only in an efficient, but also in a thoroughly enjoyable fashion.”

A right load of cockology if you ask me.

I realise I’m getting old and grumpy, but I don’t like this carry on one bit.  I thought it very much had an “Emperors New Clothes” feel about it.  They have a nice four word name for it, but it amounts to their not having to pay a student to work in their bar at night, and the customers having to pour their own drinks.  And I may as well say it,  the wine wasn't any cheaper for having to do it yourself.

The illusion of “exploring your passion in an efficient and enjoyable fashion” was completely ruined when one of the bottles of wine ran out.  The one I was drinking from, incidentally, but that was just a coincidence, I’m sure.

The single staff member in the place came along and opened the glass door, pulled a tube out of the empty bottle, a rosé, put it into a bottle of white, without even the pretence of any sort of rinsing or wiping, and wandered off again.

Now, my lack of approval of their system didn’t for a minute detract from how much I drank.  But the less said about that the better.  Suffice it to say that it was well after midnight when we got our midnight chips, and I was working again on Thursday.

Then on Friday night we had a work night.  That was great fun.  I had unhealthy food and started drinking pints rather earlier in the day than I usually would.

And last night I was at a play, being all cultured and grown up.

The social whirl, my darlings.  I was exhausted, I swear.  It’s just as well that I won’t be going anywhere for ages again.  That was probably my socialising for the whole winter, all done and dusted in a week.

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Ads

 

I don’t mind pre-Christmas ads in general, and actually I love the one in the picture above.   I know we need toy ads from about September to help the little people decide what they want from Santy.

And I suppose I don’t really mind the supermarket and department store ads shouting at us from October about ordering turkeys, sure what else would they be doing?

Although I’m not impressed by the Marks and Spencer ad this year, it’s like a short film based on Alice in Wonderland.  It’s very annoying.  Particularly when that amazing looking model Rosie something or other finds herself in her bra and knickers twice during the ad. That’s extremely annoying.  Or at least it is for me.  His Nibs might quite like it, I'm afraid to ask.

Generally speaking, it’s the ads that have nothing to do with the festive season, but where they just throw in the word “Christmas” to create a panic, that annoy me most.

There’s one for a strange product that seems to be a sort of brush that you put on the shower floor.  Then when you’re having your shower you just put your feet in and brush them.  Apparently there’s a pumice stone on it too, so you can remove the dead skin on your feet as you go.

This is not a Christmas product.  Yet the ad finishes with a shouted “Get perfect feet for Christmas”.
I suppose for the ladies who will be celebrating the festive season in black sequinned dresses and four inch strappy shoes, getting perfect feet for Christmas is a priority.
But I think those women might have lovely feet anyway.

For those of us whose only essential outfit for Christmas is new flannelette pyjamas with Santy or Rudolph on them, getting perfect feet for the season is so far down the list of priorities as to be a pointless dream.
Isn’t it enough that we all spend flip flop season getting pedicures and using lotions and potions to have the feet of a child, without having to re-start that whole caper in November?
If we have to have nice feet as well as everything else, I’m not doing Christmas this year.

There’s another ad that yelps at us all to order a new sofa or bed now, and take delivery of it in time for Christmas.

Christmas is one day.  A day when, in my experience, the morning is spent with every surface covered in scraps of wrapping paper.  In the afternoon everyone is asleep, and in the evening most people are drunk. 

I’m not getting new fecking furniture.  It’s hard enough to buy the presents and the food and the drink and everything else without having to buy new furniture as well.  
And we all know that if we need new furniture, it’ll all be reduced to half price in January anyway. They can feck off.

Although there’s one furniture store currently running a very irritating ad, promising to give the January sale price on any sofa bought now.  What’s the point in having a January sale if everything is reduced in December?

Now we’ve not only bypassed the usual six weeks, and bounced directly from Halloween to Christmas, this crowd have galloped past the whole season, and launched us straight to the January sales.

I think it's Aldi who are suggesting lobster for dinner.  How do you even serve lobster?  Do you give it to your family with its shell still on, effectively turning Christmas dinner into a talent show, where etiquette and agility are awarded points at the table? 

I wouldn’t have a clue how to tackle a fully shelled lobster.

Apparently you buy it cooked.  So do you serve it cold?  I can’t imagine a cold dinner at Christmas.  It’s all too much to think about, really.  Again, they can feck off.  Poultry will be fine.

Sainsbury’s asked their customers to record their special Christmas moments last year, so that they could use them in their ads this year. 

The one with the kids recording a Christmas message for their Dad in Afghanistan when he arrives in the door to surprise them is a complete tear jerker.  Maybe it’s only my tears it jerks, but I very much doubt it.  I’m not that hormonal.

But the one with the family tramping through the forest dragging their Christmas tree behind them just makes me feel inferior.  We do well in our house to drag the artificial one out of the attic in time for the Big Day. 

Can you imagine His Nibs and I going to a forest to chop down a tree, dragging it back to the car park, getting it into or onto the car, bringing it home and decorating it?

We have rows in the supermarket, just buying our groceries.  There’d be war. We’d have split up by Christmas.
That’s not a  normal Christmas family moment.  At least, I don’t think it is.  Surely it’s more average for the man of the house to be sent out to get the tree, since the lady of the house has to do everything else?  He arrives back with a tree that’s either too big, too small, too narrow or too bushy, and she gives out about that for what seems like hours.  Then the rest of the day is wasted with him trying to stand the tree up in its bucket, cursing and swearing and insisting the whole Christmas business is a waste of time anyway?

There’s no videoing each other happily dragging a large tree through a forest, laughing and teasing.  In reality they’d all be eating the faces off each other.

It also annoys me that ads for completely random things now end with “makes an ideal gift for Christmas”. 
This evening I saw one for a flexi torch.  It’s a torch that the ad suggests you might like to carry in your pocket, car or handbag.  It’s a normal torch, but has a flexible handle almost two feet long.  The handle, the ad proudly states, is bendy, and has a strong magnet in the light up bit.  Very much like a torch that Inspector Gadget might carry.

The example they give of where this torch could be very handy is when you drop your keys down a grate.  You just whip out this torch, stretch it out, light it up and can see clearly into the grate. The keys will stick to the magnet, and are easily retrieved.
I’m not the most imaginative of souls, but I can’t think of another single time when a stretchy magnetic torch would come in useful.

And the ad ends with the suggestion that it would make an ideal Christmas present.  Not for me, I may as well tell you.  If someone handed me this piece of tat and tried to pass it off as a Christmas present, I would spend the day wearing my very, very sulky face.

I must warn His Nibs.

 

 

Does Life Begin at 40?

 

 

Right.  I'm three weeks into my forties.  I've coped well so far, I think. 

In fairness, this could be because I've been accepting flowers and cakes and presents and affection of all types.  I've had a whale of a time.

But now, sad to say, the cakes (yes, plural.  There was three.  They know me so well)  are eaten, the cards have been taken down, and the vouchers have been spent.  The glory bit is over, and I have to get on with being a woman in her forties.

The big day was a Saturday.  I had great fun for the weekend, but when Monday morning rolled around  and I had to get up and go to work, I decided that maybe I would start embracing this new stage in life, and become a grumpy old woman. 
Feck it, I thought, why not?  I'm forty, I may as well go a bit mad.

I was moany on Monday, testy on Tuesday, whiney on Wednesday and all-out psychotic on Thursday.

On Friday my sister and brother-in-law were bringing my two small nephews home to our fair land, and I abandoned the grumpiness and started getting all excited and giddy at the thought of seeing them.

But it hasn't all been fun and games and bad behaviour.

Unfortunately, I've been rather busy lately.  I haven't had a day off at home for yonks.  The upshot is that I have the whitest hair I've ever had in my life.  And I can't get it done next weekend either.

By the time I get my hair sorted out the white part, which doesn't usually get much further than a stripe at the top of my head, will be stretching down to my ears. 
This is not making me look less than forty.

I got some vouchers for my birthday, and had decided to buy myself some lovely makeup brushes. 

Actually, that isn't really true.  I didn't decide to spend the voucher on the makeup brushes.  My beloved brother, who was much braver than me when he was turning forty himself, asked what I would like.  My reply was swift and certain.

"The contouring and blending eyeshadow brushes from Esteé Lauder please."

"Jesus Christ" he said.  "Are you speaking gibberish? What do you want? Answer me properly."

So I asked for a voucher to spend on makeup brushes. 

Going to the beauty counter to get the brushes led, needless to say, to my buying unplanned makeup, which I was delighted with. 
I've tested it, played with it, admired it, and arranged it as attractively as possible in the bathroom. 
The only problem is with wearing it.  Nothing can detract from my snow white tresses and so there seems little point in even slapping it on.

I have recently suffered from a dull ache in my right knee.  I've never worried too much about it, I've a bad habit of sitting on my legs.  And my considerable weight is enough to put any joint under pressure even when I'm just moving around, sitting on it as well is too much for it to cope with, I suppose.
Anyway, in the three weeks since I turned forty the dull ache has developed into a sharp pain. 
There is no explanation for this deterioration other than my advancing age.

Twice last week I forgot social engagements.  I completely forgot plans to go out for lunch one day, and for after work drinks another day.  It's not that I wanted to miss these outings, I most certainly didn't.  But I genuinely and completely forgot them.

Three times in three weeks I've found myself starting sentences with "I don't approve of", which can't be a good sign, surely?

And more and more often, I find myself reaching for the teabags rather than the coffee jar. 
Tea, the choice of my mother, and her mother before her. 
Rather than coffee, the choice of young city slickers who walk around with Starbucks cups and complicated orders for semi fat latte mochachinos rolling off their tongues as if they were reared to it. 
I wonder if this means anything?
I’m guessing that it doesn’t mean I’m getting cooler, the older I get.

On the other hand, as part of my "using up my birthday vouchers on impractical things" project, I bought not one but two liquid eyeliners. 
Fair enough, I’ll have to die wondering whether I could ever have mastered the “flick” out the corner of the eye that the young and the gorgeous use every day.  If I tried a flick the eyeliner would just run into one of my crow’s feet and highlight it, for all to see.
Still.  Two liquid eyeliners.  It’s a comfort.  It would appear that despite my advancing years I'm not willing to give up the ghost just yet.

I've made the necessary hair appointment and will have conker brown tresses again before the week is out.

I went on a walking tour, yesterday, with a great group of people I know. 

I was fairly nervous, to be honest.  I wouldn't usually be one to trouble anything that can be defined in terms of "walking".  I was fairly sure that I'd either have a heart attack trying to keep up with everyone else going up a hill, or that I'd fall head over arse getting through a ditch, or over a stile. 
It was the kind of walking tour that involves climbing through ditches.

But although I had to make sure I didn't try to talk for a few minutes at the top of the hill, lest everyone know that I was far more out of breath than the 68 year old who was coming behind me, I didn't collapse, or fall over, or make a show of myself at all, really.

To celebrate this affirmation of my ongoing youthfulness, maybe I should go another way. 

Rather than just become a grumpy old woman, I could lose the run of myself completely.  The older I get, the worse I might behave.

I might start drinking on a much more regular basis. Maybe even on work nights. 
But only a small glass of wine, there's no need to go mad altogether.  It takes me two days to get over any more than a glass these days.

I think I'll start wearing makeup in an inappropriate way, i.e. wearing far too much, and in the wrong colours, the way old ladies who don't give a feck anymore tend to.
Except that would be such a waste of my new Esteé Lauder brushes.

I could start eating the face off everyone who annoys me.  I don't want to risk an ulcer or even a stress induced stroke from swallowing my temper all the time. 
Unless my rudeness is likely to make the person not like me, or even cry.  That's what I usually do when someone eats the face off me. 

I might stop doing anything I don't want to do. I might refuse to do what I'm asked, no matter what it is, and no matter how selfish it is not to do it. 
Unless it's a work thing, I suppose, I can't afford to lose my job. 

Maybe I should just carry on as I'm going?

I went to college in my twenties, so that when all my school friends were moving up the career ladder, and getting married, and being grown up, I was drinking in the afternoons and going to class for about three hours a day.

I’ve had adventures around the world I could only have dreamt about, when I was in my teens.

I’ve got the kind of friends that you usually only read about in books, funny, supportive, willing to put up with me.
And of course His Nibs and I remain a pair, and although we have our moments, he's an excellent friend.
I must say, it’s really not a bad life.

Maybe I don't need a new life philosophy, just because of my age. 
Maybe I'll just carry on doing more or less whatever I want, as I have been.
I know I usually enjoy a good moan but, dare I say it, is it possible that I'm doing absolutely fine, regardless of birthdays?