Hip, hip, hooray!
THIS week I am celebrating my birthday.
Actually, quite a lot of us will be celebrating as statistically August and September are the most common birth months.
The reasons for this are fairly obvious if you think about what happens nine months before, with the mulled wine and champagne flowing at Christmas and New Year parties!
But this is a family paper so I’ll brush over that!
Birthdays are celebrated in many different ways around the world.
For instance, in China, noodles are traditionally served at birthday lunch.
In Denmark, a flag is sometimes flown from the window of the person celebrating. Apparently in Argentina well-wishers pull once on the earlobe for each year the person has been alive.
I am glad I don’t have any Argentinian friends or I would be suffering with some VERY sore ears right now!
In England, we have our own tradition. Yes that’s right; get legless!
Whether it’s to celebrate our youth with our mates or commiserate our advancing years on our own, a glass of wine/beer/cider is generally the order of the day (unless you are teetotal of course).
I plan to follow to my cultural roots this weekend and indulge in a few cheeky cocktails.
Of course, the time of year you are born dictates what star sign you are.
Now I’m not sure I believe that where the Sun was in relation to Saturn at the time my poor mother was enduring the agony of childbirth has any bearing on my personality or destiny.
Maybe my lack of enthusiasm for astrology is simply down to the fact that I fall ‘on the cusp’ between Virgo and Libra, meaning that whenever I pick up a paper to see what joys are in store for me that day according to Mystic Meg or Psychic Sue, I have to chose a sign before I even start.
I generally just read the forecast for both signs and pick the one that sounds the most interesting!
Whatever you’re doing this year to celebrate the anniversary of you, have fun!
I’m off to stuff myself full of birthday cake!
Katy x
Music for all the masses
BEING a woman of a certain age, I am currently surrounded by friends who are giggly, over-excited, exuberant and giddy.
What is the cause of this epidemic of delirium? TT of course!
Oh sorry, for those who are either under 16 or over 40 I should probably use their full name rather than the initials they have fondly come to be known by.
Take That! Yes, that’s right, Gary, Mark, Jason, Howard... and now Robbie!
The famous four have reunited with their cheeky fifth member and are wreaking havoc with hormones around the country with their arena tour. Somehow I have managed to escape TT mania.
However, my two sisters, the majority of my friends and even my mother more than make up for my mere mild appreciation of the Fab Five with their loyalty, admiration and, dare I say it, obsession!
My friends were incredulous when I passed up the offer of a free Wembley TT ticket because I had other stuff to do.
These women would have walked on hot coals for the chance to see Mark’s cute little smile or Howard and Jason break dancing, just like the old days (although there is probably more risk of a hernia now that ‘the lads’ are in their 40s).
Of course, the big draw this time around is the chance to see the Robster, or Robbie Williams for those less familiar with the boys.
He is set to rejoin the band mates he had previously traded insults with through the media and create the best bromance since ubiquitous TV presenters Ant and Dec.
A bromance, of course is a loving, non sexual blokey friendship.
Along with the aforementioned Geordie duo, the TT lads have made it acceptable for heterosexual men to openly express their respect, friendship and even love for their mates.
Anyway, if the thought of sharing a football ground with a teaming mass of ardent fans doesn’t float your boat, this summer offers a wealth of other music concerts, whatever your favoured musical genre.
Glastonbury this year was its usual mud-fest.
Now not just the domain of the gap year teens, ‘Glasto’ has now become a mecca for the over 40s.
Pulling up in their shiny new 4X4s, an aged bottle of Merlot in hand and donning waxed jacket and green Wellingtons, it’s not quite the ‘turn on, tune in, drop out’ experience it once was.
However, it’s fun if you like a bit of mud with your music.
Our very own Nottingham is hosting its own regular open air concert with the likes of the Scissor Sisters and Blondie headed by the fabulous Debbie Harry who was my idol when I was growing up.
Take a picnic and a blanket and it should make for a fab afternoon.
Whatever your favoured musical genre, there is a concert out there for you.
Happy listening,
Katy X
Sofa sensibilities
AGEING MILF. Smug married. Spinster. Divorcee. Cat lady with cardigan.
Hmmm. Which one of these dubious categories I’m going to end up in is anyone’s guess but if I was a betting woman (which I’m not, unless you count a scratch card on a Saturday) my money would be on old lady with all the cats.
I’m joking about it now but there is a part of me, a small part, that does actually think this is a very likely possibility.
I can see it now, plates of half-eaten cat food strewn all over the kitchen, my polyester dress littered with stains of questionable origin.
One thing will remain intact though and that’s my lippy.
Those who know me well know that me and my trusty lippy are rarely separated, although I predict most of it will be on my teeth rather than my lips!
I have a variety of shades, all rather vibrant in colour, fuchsia, pillar box red and tangerine orange.
These are alternated on a daily, sometimes hourly basis, depending on my mood.
Nothing will send me into a panic quicker than if I cannot quickly locate my trusty compact.
I digress... so there I will be, hair dyed an unnatural shade of auburn, nylon twin set straining over my now fulsome figure and, just to top it off, flecks of lipstick all over my teeth. Nice.
Now some may think this is a frightening possibility but I disagree.
What a relief to no longer have to bother to shave your legs, tweeze your eyebrows and I hate to break it to my younger friends but there are plenty of other places that need attention from the immac once you pass the big 3-OH.
Manicures, haircuts, body scrubbing, exfoliating and moisturising will all be a thing of the past.
So that will leave me plenty of time to invest in one of my favourite pastimes, watching rubbish daytime telly that involves absolutely no thought nor morals.
Anyway, I’m kind of starting to look forward to this spinsterhood business.
Most evenings I can be found slumming it on the sofa, remote in one hand, digestives in the other, crumbs all over the duvet. Bliss.
Never have so many rom-coms been watched in one month.
The only man that moans and groans and demands dinner off me at the moment is Tiger, my cat.
Well actually, he’s not my cat, he’s next door’s but like most of the men in my life, he has worked out I’m a soft touch and purely comes here for dinner, a cuddle, then buggers off in the middle of the night.
Hmmmmmmmm (mental note to self, when I’m an old lady with all the cats, they will have to sign some sort of declaration agreeing to hang around for the bad times, and not just the whiskas).
Katy X
Rules of the road (rage)
APPARENTLY insurance companies are currently considering adjusting their policies to bring ladies’ premiums in line with the gents’.
Well, at the risk of offending the male half of the species, this is in my opinion, quite frankly, ridiculous!
Everyone knows us girls are better drivers and it seems hugely unfair to be penalised purely in the name of equality.
Traditionally women have had slightly cheaper premiums due to the fact that we are of course much more careful drivers.
But in the name of fairness things may be about to change.
I myself am a very careful driver. In fact I rarely take the speedo above 60mph!
I am more of a pootler than a tearing up the tarmac type.
Does our behaviour on the highways have any connection with how we are off the road?
A friend of mine who is normally calm, mild mannered and patient, miraculously metamorphosis’ into an angry, belligerent antagonist when behind the wheel.
A drive with them involves enduring much hand gesturing and profanities.
Maybe the security of being behind a lump of metal gives some of us the confidence to behave in a way that we wouldn’t dream of in everyday life.
However, some of this road rage has now spilled out onto the street. Quite literally in some cases.
A few years ago when I was baby free I would often bemoan the pavement antics of the ‘pushchair posse’.
In other words, the mothers with buggies who I felt dominated the pavement.
Fast forward a few years and I am now a fully signed up member of the aforementioned posse, swerving, careering and sometimes crashing into any unfortunate soul who may have the misfortune to cross my path.
It is totally unintentional you understand. My excuse is that I’m still getting used to the mechanics of my technical travel system.
However, I’ve had it four months now so I really should have more control over it.
Watch out pedestrians, woman let loose with a lethal weapon!
And finally, we have the other group of hapless highway hazards; the souped up mobility scooter.
Now don’t misunderstand me, the vast majority of scooter users are totally responsible drivers but just occasionally you can find yourself meandering along the path on a sleepy Monday morning when out of nowhere a scooter will corner the cul-de-sac at 30mph and nearly knock you flying.
By the time you have regained your balance all that can be seen is the tyre tracks on the pavement
So there we have it, the perils of the highways.
I am going to carry on pootling behind the wheel and wreaking havoc behind the buggy and hope that I don’t cause too much damage to anyone in my wake!
Happy Motoring
Katy X
Salon therapy
WELL, eight weeks have passed since my last visit to the hairdressers and I’m counting the days until my next appointment.
My pesky roots are making themselves known, most of them mousey brown but a good smattering are now grey if I’m honest.
My trusty hairdresser will soon have my barnet looking like I’ve just spent a week on the beach, with sun-kissed highlights, although these are courtesy of a large bottle of bleach rather than sunbathing on the Cote d’Azur.
What is it about a new cut or colour that can lift us from feeling like Waynetta Slob to Jennifer Anniston?
Ok, in my case it only lasts until I have ‘just stepped out of the salon’ and then a big gust of wind gets underneath my new do and leaves me looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards again.
From the Farrah Fawcett flick of the 70s to the obligatory perm in the 80s, through the Rachel shaggy cut of the 90s to straightening iron madness of the noughties, a good haircut has always made most of us women feel just that little bit better about ourselves.
There is something about the atmosphere of the salon that takes you from your mundane daily routine to a glamorous world, where just for a couple of hours you are the centre of attention.
As well as making me feel gorgeous, albeit fleetingly, being in the salon also has the strange affect of making me tell all my innermost thoughts to my hairdresser.
This is better than therapy, which from what I’ve heard can leave you needing to remortgage the house to pay for it.
Here, in the luxury of the salon, I get my crowning glory attended to, my personal problems discussed and sorted AND I get a free coffee! Bargain!
I tell my hairdresser things I may not even discuss with my best friend.
Whether it’s because I think over the blast of the hairdryer she can’t really hear what I’m saying and is just smiling in all the right places, or whether the cocooning warmth of the salon makes me feel like I want to divulge all my secrets, I don’t know.
But I do know that as I open that salon door to leave, hair bobbing and bouncing, not only does my head feel that little bit lighter, but so do my shoulders, unburdened from the stresses of the last eight...
Therapy? Who needs it? I’ve got my hairdresser!
Have a good week.
Katy X
Supermarket sweep
WOE betide those who dare to endure the Supermarket Sweep without undue care and attention.
Dale Winton may make it look easy with his fake tan and perma grin but in real life the supermarket experience is one of high drama, anger, possible conflict and in the worst case scenario, even injury.
The necessary precautions should be taken to prevent the worst happening.
On planning your shopping trip one should consider it akin to preparing for possible battle.
Forget pretty dresses and wedges. No, if you want to come out of this unscathed you need to go for practicality not seductiveness.
Never mind what the dating books say about meeting your potential partner in the frozen food aisle.
Personally I always favour trainers. They make for a good 180 degree turn when finding a cupboard staple has annoyingly been moved for the umpteenth time — and also make for a hasty getaway should a clash of trolleys occur with someone who just won’t accept your ‘sorry’ smile.
It is tempting to dive straight in and begin ‘The Sweep’ but I have devised a routine that cunningly encompasses a pit stop to the cafe before I pick up my trolley.
This has multiple benefits. Firstly, it allows you to collect your thoughts before the ensuing onslaught. Secondly, you can fill your body with a clever mix of carbs and caffeine that will both sustain and fire you at the same time.
And then you’re off! There was a time where you could casually take the same route round the store every week as everything had a place and everything was in its place.
But in these credit crunch times, the stores are savvy and they have thrown every marketing trick in the book at us.
Us mere mortals who are too tired and confused to realise that we are having the wool pulled over our eyes!
I am ashamed to admit that despite vowing to remain strong at the outset when I am ‘limbering up’ (drinking my cappuccino), I lose all focus when faced with the array of ‘special deals’, ‘reduced prices’ and. my worst fear, BOGOFs (otherwise known as Buy One Get One Free).
Now in my overwhelmed mind, a BOGOF’s got to be a good thing, right?
Who said you never get anything free in this life? Well here in Asda (or Tesco, or any other leading supermarket chain) they are giving me something for free!
I rejoice, I congratulate myself on my good fortune and place two of the items in my trolley.
I am so clever, so frugal, I think to myself (it is only when I get to the till and nearly collapse when the cashier tells me the price that I realise I might not be quite so astute after all).
And then here we are, the final hurdle. The tills.
Now this is where previous consumption of caffeine and carbs really comes into play.
Mental alertness is required for the big decision. Which till?
Some may see this as an innocuous decision but believe me, the wrong choice here, and that’s it, you’re not going to make it back in time for Loose Women.
No matter how carefully the decision is made, I always seem to find the queue where there is a pricing query with the person in front and all you can hear is ‘Sheila, can you get me a barcode for this please?’
And so Sheila begins the long trek to the other end of the store.
It feels like it’s taking an eternity.
You’re chastising yourself.
‘Why didn’t I choose the queue next door?’
But finally it’s over; you have survived another outing to the supermarket.
Katy X
Spring chickens
SPRING has sprung! Or has it? You would think that something as simple as defining the seasons would not cause controversy.
According to the Met Office, Spring officially commences on 1st March.
However, historically it starts on the day of the vernal equinox (no less) — which is 20th March.
So we may... or may not, now officially be in the season of new beginnings that is Spring.
I guess it depends whether you favour those bigwigs in meteorology or the historical theory of solstices and equinox.
Picture the scene; newborn lambs frolicking in a field of fresh green grass, bright yellow daffodils swaying in the light breeze, young children eagerly seeking chocolate on an Easter egg treasure hunt.
Sounds idyllic, doesn’t it?
But for me Spring symbolises a more mundane event; the necessity for a Spring clean.
In other words, doing all the household jobs that I’ve spent the last year studiously avoiding, such as using my hoover attachment to actually eliminate those pesky cobwebs in my cornicing.
I worry that I may have just wiped out four generations of spiders in one fell swoop.
Then there’s cleaning out the kitchen cupboards, which seem to have acquired a layer of grease of indeterminable origin, and finally washing all my curtains — a job which drags on so long my kitchen resembles an east end laundry with me as the washerwoman, flustered, sweaty and wondering why I ever thought this was a good idea (a bit of dust never killed anyone did it).
However, in the spirit of embracing new beginnings, this year I’m going to welcome Spring and all that is has to offer.
You see I’m more of a Summer person, me. I love the hot weather and light evenings it brings.
But I’m going to give Spring a chance. I might even get into walks.
None of my footwear is particularly suitable for a ramble (wedges, stilettos and sandals do not a good rambler make) but I am sure I have a pair of trainers at the back of the cupboard that might serve the purpose.
I am going to commune with nature. I plan to decorate chocolate eggs, make an Easter bonnet. Hey I might even take a trip to the garden centre and plant up a hanging basket.
So you see, Spring has a lot to offer.
After all, Summer means having to get my pasty, dimpled legs on display.
Suddenly a pair of combat trousers seems far more appealing than a floaty summer dress.
Right I’m off to ramble! Have a good week.
Katy X
February equals failed fitness
WELL February has finished and, surprise surprise, I have already cancelled the gym’ membership.
I only joined in January, so this is quite an achievement. I started off with the best of intentions.
January 2nd saw me virtually beating on the leisure centre door, bingo wings swaying.
This year I had an extra incentive. I needed to lose the baby bulge.
Never mind muffin top, this was more custard donut with extra cream and a cherry on top.
It was not a pretty sight and I could not put off the pain of exercise any longer.
So there you find me, all kitted out in my leggings and extra baggy T-shirt on my ‘induction’.
This sounds a bit like a medical term but is in fact a one-to-one session with the gym’ instructor who looks young enough to be my son, drilling me on the best ways to improve my pelvic floor.
I don’t embarrass easily but even I baulked at the demonstration of the exercise that involved clenching my buttocks whilst simultaneously lifting my thighs off the floor.
I point blank refused to co-operate.
“I’m not doing that in public,” I said to the teenage terrorist trainer.
“Well, you can do it as homework then,” he winked at me.
My cheeks flushed red. There’s more chance of me running the London Marathon than there is of me managing to hold my gargantuan bottom off the floor for more than five seconds I thought, but I nodded sheepishly.
He proceeded to haul me round every piece of equipment in the place, me huffing and puffing with increased vigour.
And so, for the next week I was religious in my efforts to attend.
I was there every day and even managed do a whole 10 minutes on the treadmill at one point!
But all my hopes of an athletic physique came crashing down around me when I sustained a nasty knee injury on the thigh torturer. It’s not officially called that but that’s what I had fondly christened it.
Now I’m not quite sure what I had strained as I didn’t actually consult a doctor but I know it really, really hurt — and that’s good enough reason to stop the regime as far as I’m concerned.
So I took a couple of Ibuprofen and dug out an old tubigrip which had seen better days from the back of my kitchen drawer and soldiered on.
So you see I was left with no choice but to cancel my membership.
I could have caused a lasting injury if I had carried on pushing my body to the limit in this fashion. And anyway, I am growing to love the muffin top.
I’ve just bought a bigger pair of jeans to tuck it into...
Katy X
As a starter, a bit about myself!
LET me introduce myself. My name’s Katy; that’s Katy with a Y not an IE! I have to be awkward.
As far as my age is concerned, I am going to stick to that old adage that a lady never reveals her age or her dress size!
But I will concede that I was born in the decade that brought us the jumpsuit, flares and spandex.
I am still in denial about approaching middle age, although what exactly is ‘middle age’?
Well, when life expectancy was three score years and 10, I suppose it could have been classified as 35.
But now that improvements in healthcare mean I could potentially live to be 100, then I reckon I’ve got a good few years left until I reach the halfway mark.
Anyway, I digress. My grey matter does have a habit of going off on a tangent so I will do my best to reel it back in!
I like shopping (of course!) and watching inane daytime TV (I am a closet Jeremy Kyle fan).
I never miss an episode of Loose Women; it is my cultural mecca! I am partial to having coffee and a natter with my friends. I can talk for England — and normally do. Oh, and I have a penchant for fushcia lipstick.
In fact one of my friends calls me ‘Aunt Sally’ from the 1980s kids programme Worzel Gummidge due to my love of brightly coloured make up.
I don’t mind that, at least she’s not calling me Worzel.
I drive a luminous pink car, which I admit is a dubious choice of colour for a (possibly) middle aged woman.
I own over 100 dresses and my claim to fame is that I have won The Weakest Link, although anyone who saw that episode will testify that it was more by luck than judgement.
True to form I haven’t done things totally traditionally on the family front. My daughter is nearly 18 and now I have a new baby.
So I am currently in the slightly surreal world of passing my teenage daughter on the stairs at 3am; her coming in from a night’s clubbing, me getting up to do the night feed.
Now I am in the fabulous position of simultaneously dealing with teenage hormones and colic. Joy!
I am really looking forward to writing this column, sharing my rantings and musings with you and hopefully getting to know some of you in the process.
I don’t profess to be the darling of the literary world. I am not a professional writer, as may be evident.
I do have a day job which might be a good thing as it might be a case of ‘don’t give up the day job’! I am not so much Carrie Bradshaw as Carry On Trying, but I am feisty, opinionated and always have a lot to say.
I look forward to sharing my observations of this crazy world and hopefully some of it will resonate with you. Have a good week...
Katy x