Around My Kitchen Table

It's A Major Issue

One of my friends told me she had driven too close to a parked car and hit her wing mirror. No great damage done. The other car was fine and hers just needed the cover replacing on the mirror. She said her husband tut-tutted in that superior way men have on the rare occasions they are better at something than we are and rambled on about women having no spatial awareness.

I told her it was nothing to do with spatial awareness. Some women have difficulty judging lengths and distances purely because men have been telling us since they could form whole sentences that the distance between their thumb and forefinger is 12 inches. No wonder we're confused.

In the interests of honesty, I have to say my spatial awareness is very poor, hence the long and deep scrape along the side of my car, acquired when I got too close to a gatepost when exiting my brother's yard. Sadly this was not the first time I had done that. Did I get sympathy from the man who is supposed to support and love me? No I did not. He sighed deeply while shaking his head and then said, "Your next car had better be brick coloured." The man's a fool.

Size and distances are all a matter of scale, of course.

Elder sister can remember when she was five or six our eldest brother, a whole two years older than her and therefore a man of the world, trying to explain the vast scale of London. We lived on a farm and he said it was at least as wide as the distance from our house to the gate down the road - about a quarter of a mile - and she was really impressed that there was a city in the world as big as that.

Then this morning I was listening to a local radio bulletin which described three things as "major". It's a word that leaps out of the mouths of radio and television reporters. It's a word so misused and abused that it's become meaningless. Every fire is a "major" fire - the fact that it destroyed a factory, caused half a million pounds worth of damage and put 200 people out of work had already alerted me to the fact that it was quite big; but it's also a major fire if a rubbish bin has been set alight.

All exhibitions are "major" exhibitions. I shout at the radio, "Compared to WHAT? Compared to the current exhibition on in the Queen's Gallery at Buckingham Palace? Are you sure an exhibition in the village hall consisting of three watercolours of cows and an oil painting of Elsie Smith's grandson constitute a MAJOR exhibition? It's a major incident if there's a siege involving a gunman holding an entire family hostage but it's also a "major" incident if three kids daub some graffiti on a wall.

Listen to the news and spot the "majors". The only time I want to hear that term used is if it's describing Major Smith in the Army.

In fact, I am majorly pissed off about it. So pissed off that I'm going to throw a major tantrum. I hope I don't make the news.

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Lest We Forget

Private Frank Leach 1896-1916

For once I am writing a serious post because today is the 100th anniversary of the end of the First World War. Here in the UK we have marked the occasion very movingly. In my own village every lamp post bears a big poppy and there are displays in the churchyard and around the war memorial.

Village tribute.

My partner's great uncle Frank Leach was killed in the First World War during the Battle of the Somme. He was 20. In 2016 on the 100th anniversary of Private Leach's death I wrote a piece for my local magazine. I include an excerpt from it below:

Private Frank Leach

Private Frank Leach, of the 8th Battalion of the Devonshire Regiment, was just 20 when he was killed in the Battle of The Somme in 1916.

My partner is his great-nephew, also called Frank Leach. We have Private Leach’s medals, a framed citation from King George V and a plaque inscribed with his name and the words, “He died for freedom and honour."

We also have his embossed brass tin, from the Princess Mary Gift Fund, which originally contained one ounce of pipe tobacco, twenty cigarettes, a pipe, a tinder lighter, Christmas card and a photograph of Princess Mary, the daughter of the king. The boxes were paid for by a public fund backed by Princess Mary.

We have a copy of Frank’s birth certificate, his Bible and a photograph of him. It is the official photograph taken in Aldershot, where he did his training not long after he enlisted. He sits in his army uniform, a handsome, serious young man in the prime of life, staring into the camera lens. I often wonder what he was thinking as he posed for the photographer. Was he excited, scared, already missing his family? Was he thinking of a sweetheart at home, or of his mother, father, brothers and sisters? Who knows?

Frank Leach’s story is the same as that of thousands of young men, from all strata of society, mown down in the prime of life for the war that was supposed to end all wars.

He was born on February 13, 1896, at Morchard Bishop, the son of Walter, described as an agricultural labourer, and his wife Bertha. Frank enlisted in Chulmleigh in 1914 at the age of 17 and at the time was working as a farm labourer at Saxons in Lapford, which is why his name is on two war memorials - at Lapford and Morchard Bishop.

I doubt very much whether he had in his short life travelled much further than Exeter. He was, we assume, a decent young man. He had a job and attended church, as we know from the Bible which was presented to him at Morchard Bishop Blue School at Easter, 1905, when he was nine.

We are not sure when he was deployed to France but after enlisting in 1914 he would have received a few months of training at Aldershot. What we do know is that by 1916 this young man was in France taking part in one of the bloodiest battles ever, the Battle of the Somme. It started on July 1 and on the first day alone the British Army suffered nearly 60,000 casualties.

Nineteen days later Private Leach was dead, killed in the biggest battle of the war during which more than a million men were wounded or killed.

We know what happened on July 20, the day Private Leach died, from a report in the Devonshire Regiment Book. The 8th Battalion was in a place called High Wood. The Battalion had already been involved in a major attack and had retreated. After four days in reserve, they moved up to the front again on the evening of July 19.

In the early hours of the following morning, two Devonshire Regiment companies had started to crawl forwards towards the enemy. Between the two factions stood a field of standing corn. The Devons came under heavy fire from riflemen and machine guns hidden in the corn. The report says: "Anyone who stood up was hit at once, and it was difficult to get targets to fire back at, owing to the splendid concealment given by the standing corn."

Ironically, it seems that this young farm labourer lost his life thanks in part to a field of corn.

Private Leach was one of the 8th Battalion's 550 brave young Devonshire men killed in the Battle of the Somme. His meagre belongings came home to his mother but his body never did. He is buried in the Caterpillar Valley Cemetery in Longueval, just a few miles from where the Battle of the Somme raged.

RIP

Private Frank Leach

February 13, 1896 to July 20, 1916

Each year there is a Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall in London. This year was particularly poignant as it was the anniversary of the end of hostilities. Each year the festival is covered by the BBC and I'm not ashamed to admit that I spent much of the programme with tears in my eyes. You can watch it HERE, if anyone is interested.

The street outside my house.

A picture of the ranks of gravestones in a French cemetery.

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Toffee Talks About Logic

I am offended. There I was asleep in the cardboard box my new cat toy came in and the Mr said to the Mrs: "That cat is just not logical!" and laughed. She laughed too and said: "You can say that again!" He ignored her and didn't say anything again. And they call me illogical.

That's the trouble with you humans, you just don't understand feline logic so I have found a few pictures for you that demonstrate our point of view.

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No Change There

I know I am probably expecting too much from the computer generation and I know there are myriad technological things they can do that I can't. But why do they seem to have gone straight to interacting with MySQL databases (impressed, huh? No, I haven't a clue what it means) and the like without learning any of the basics?

I have been thinking about this after once again being served in a local shop by a spotty oik who doesn't know how to give change. My bill came to £5.20. I didn't have a £5 note so I gave him a £10 note and a 20p coin so he could give me £5 in change.

There followed this conversation:

SO (Spotty Oik): You've given me too much.
Me: Yes, that's so you can give me a £5 note in change.
SO: That's not right.
Me: Yes it is.
SO (looking puzzled): It can't be. (He proceeded to hand me £4.80, which is the amount that had popped up in his till window, in seven coins.)
Me: I need my 20p back as well.
SO: What?
Me: I gave you £10.20 and you've only given me change for £10.
SO: No, it says £4.80. (He nods towards the till window.)
Me: Yes, that's because you rang up £10 but I gave you £10.20.
SO: I'll have to get the manager.
By now there is a queue forming behind me.
Me: Look, you keep it and when at the end of the day your till is 20p over, put it in a charity box.
SO: (Triumphantly) I knew I was right!

I sighed and as I walked out a woman in the queue whispered: "You can't teach a chimp to do calculus." I smiled but didn't admit you probably couldn't teach me to do calculus either.

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Watch Out For Big Mother

I'M not a Luddite. Technology holds no fears for me. I am an expert. In fact, I have one of those reading thingies - you know, find book on interweb, press "buy me" button, book magically appears on oblong thingy where you can read it.

But what's all this CCTV business? I had a quick dash around the shops the other day and felt like a contestant on a city-wide Big Brother programme.

I want to be able to wander around without the terrible feeling that there's a man in a peaked cap somewhere with his feet up on a console pointing at a screen and saying, "Euuuhhh, look at 'er, she's scratching her ass!" to some friend he's charged a pound to come and watch.

Or worse there's a panel of judgmental women sitting in front of a screen saying things like: "What is wrong with that woman? Flowery shopping bag with stripy trousers and a baggy jacket? Is she stuck in the 1980s? And her make-up! She's desperately in need of a Youtube tutorial."

All that is bad enough but now they have talking CCTV cameras. Can you imagine it?

"Would that woman please stop picking her nose?" The whole street stops and we all look at each other. "The one in the stripy trousers." That narrows it down a bit.

"The old bag with frizzy hair and a gormless look on her face." Why are they all looking at ME!

Or they might employ mothers to man the cameras.

"Put that sweater down! I could feed a family of nine for a year on how much that costs. There's a button missing on your coat. Those ear-rings do not go with that necklace. Stilettos? To go shopping? Are you MAD! I don't believe it, you're chewing gum in public! I told you to throw away that scruffy cardigan. Are you growing your hair or have you just not bothered to have it cut? Have you washed behind your ears?"

I'll take Big Brother over Big Mother any day.

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Who's 'woke'?

"Woke" is a word much bandied about at the moment. I'm sure you're all much more "woke" than I am and didn't have to look it up in the urban dictionary to see what it meant! Basically, it's being hyper-aware of social issues.

It's a word much used - and demonstrated - by university students and commenters on Twitter.

I came across this BBC clip from Tracey Ullman Breaks The News and it really made me laugh. Hope you can have a giggle too.

Click HERE to play the clip.

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Rebecca Adlington and Frankie Boyle

I wrote the below in 2013 when Rebecca Adlington was appearing on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Today she was writing in the Sunday Times about how she has come to terms with her looks and the Twitter abuse she received at the time:

WHAT kind of a shallow world are we living in when a super-talented, double Olympics gold medal winner is full of self-doubt because she doesn’t look like a super model?

Rebecca Adlington has been subjected to the kind of abuse on social media that’s normally reserved for corrupt politicians, hypocritical celebrities and Piers Morgan (who positively relishes it!).

And the comments are all about the way she looks. There’s hardly one about her incredible achievements.

Let’s get this straight. She might not, like 99.9 per cent of us, stop traffic when she walks down the street, but she’s a lovely girl with a perfectly normal face and an incredible athlete’s body.

She’s not stick thin, she hasn’t had her boobs inflated to impossible proportions, she hasn’t had a nose job, facelift or liposuction.

It’s easy to say she should toughen up and rise above the comments but if, day after day, you are subjected to personal abuse and told how ugly you are, there can hardly be a woman in the world who wouldn’t be affected.

It all began when comedian Frankie Boyle made a “joke ” (I use the word loosely) about Adlington’s looks on TV programme Mock The Week. He followed this up with another scathing comment about her on Twitter.

I refuse to repeat these comments but they were hurtful and abusive. Not only that, they were inaccurate.

But they opened the floodgates to every mean-minded Twitter idiot who thought they would follow suit. It’s that mob mentality where because someone else has done it, it somehow gives you “permission” to do it too.

Adlington is at the moment appearing in reality TV show, I’m A Celebrity…Get Me Out Of Here. She broke down in tears, admitting she felt “very, very insecure” about her looks because of all the abuse she gets.

And can you imagine what these people who criticise her look like? I very much doubt if a George Clooney lookalike is sitting in front of his laptop tapping out this particular brand of moronic abuse.

I imagine some crotch-scratching idiot with a beer gut, hiding behind his anonymity because he is an inadequate bully.

Or a spotty emotionally-stunted adolescent who would be petrified to be in the company of a high-achieving woman.

Not that all of them are men. Women, too, have joined in the abuse. Again, bully is the word that springs to mind.

I find it depressing that after nearly 50 years of fighting for equality, women like Rebecca Adlington are still judged on their looks and not on their personality or achievements. It’s a sad society that values a surgically enhanced reality TV star or supermodel more than a medal-winning athlete.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being beautiful. Good for you if you have the “pretty gene” but there are other qualities that are equally important.

As for Frankie Boyle, if he were judged on his looks and not his talent, he would never be allowed out in public. And as the father of a young daughter, he should be ashamed of himself.

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The Man Manager App

I've had a cull of all the apps on my tablet. It was becoming clogged up with things that seemed like a good idea at the time but which I used only once or twice and never again.

Like the housework prompt. I know I need to get the feather duster out for the cobwebs, I don't really need reminding. Then there were all those games which as soon as you downloaded them tried to make you pay extra if you got stuck. Stuff that. I'm not paying £1.99 to make three cherries line up so I can get on to the next level.

But it got me thinking, if I could develop my own app, what would it do?

I decided The Man Manager would be a surefire best-seller. I know some of you women are lucky enough to be with paragons of virtue. Unfortunately, I am not, although I wouldn't swap him for anyone, not even George Clooney.

So, this app of my mine, he can download it onto his tablet and, as if by magic, he:

learns that beer is not one of the major food groups;

picks up damp towels in the bathroom instead of leaving them in a wet mess on the floor where they become smellier by the minute;

learns how to stack the dishwasher properly and turn it on;

knows the correct response to, "Do I look fat in this?" is, "No, I thought you'd lost weight. Anyway, you could wear a sack and still look beautiful.";

has the ability to drink fizzy drinks without belching;

develops an aversion to busty young blondes and the ability to pass one without muttering under his breath, "You don't get many of those to a pound.";

develops a passion for dumpy women who are getting on a bit;

recognises that the remote control for the TV is a separate entity and does not become welded to his hand the minute he sits down on the sofa to watch a sports match;

has the ability to forget every football statistic that currently crams what passes for a brain and instead remembers just ONE - his partner's birthday.

Oh, the list is endless. I'm sure my female readers have plenty of others they could add. I suppose my male readers could have a stab at developing a Woman Manager, but I fear it wouldn't have enough to do.

Disclaimer: No men were harmed in the writing of this post

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Smart Alec Appliances

IN a story I cannot pretend to understand, I read this week that a fridge has been sending out spam messages. If it had been sending messages about Spam, that pink luncheon meat much beloved in the war, it would have made more sense to me.

But, no, it seems all kinds of equipment can be programmed to send out email messages, as long as they are “smart” gadgets i.e. can connect to the internet.

This malware that sends out malicious emails can be installed by a hacker on kitchen appliances, routers, media systems and televisions. Don’t worry, it’s all done remotely – no spotty geek with minimal social skills and a personal hygiene problem will be dropping by your house with a screwdriver and laptop.

But it’s a growing problem, made easy for the spammers because there are so few safeguards on many “smart” gadgets.

It could come in handy, though. Perhaps your fridge could email you at work to say you are running short of yak ’s milk and ask you to pick up some more on the way home. Or it could warn you your cheese is developing a nice blue, furry sheen and it is time you dumped it. Or it could harangue you when you put in some sugar-laden confectionery with dire warnings about looking like the side of a house.

I mentioned all this to the better half. He looked at me as if I had crawled out from under a stone in the Jurrasic Era and told me this was already happening.

What? A quick trawl of the internet showed me he was right. Some smart refrigerators are able to detect the type of items stored in it and keep track of important details such as expiry and usage.

I was quite taken with this and was hoping other household appliances worked in a similar way.

Wouldn’t it be great if your iron could start up a friendly conversation with your husband? That would have come in very handy in my house. The better half once phoned me at work to ask where we kept the iron. I took great delight in telling him it was in exactly the same place it had been for the last 25 years. If he could have shouted, "Where are you, iron?" and the iron replied, “I’m in the hall cupboard!” it would have been a great help.

Not that I want my kitchen appliances developing too much of a mind of their own. I don’t want my Dyson dissing my vacuuming skills and reminding me to move the sofa to clean underneath or my cooker laughing at my lack of baking expertise, or my microwave admonishing me, "What? Another ready meal?"

I think I'll stick with my "unsmart" appliances after all.

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

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The CHAOS Theory

EVERY so often the rubber gloves and the feather duster come out here at Chez Disarray. Yes, I am talking about house-cleaning, not some weird sexual practice for which certain men pay good money.

The picture, by the way, is not of me, although she does bear a remarkably close resemblance to me - apart from her age, height, weight, hair, legs and figure.

I am, unfortunately occasionally caught by the CHAOS theory, that's the Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome because your house is too messy. Paradoxically I hate disorder and untidiness, so when the CHAOS theory really starts to take over, I begin my assault on the mess.

It always starts the same way - an excess of energetic zeal that sees me empty every single cupboard in the kitchen onto the floor. Then I go through every item, one by one. I find a good half dozen bottles with half an inch of congealed sauce in the bottom, then there's the cereal packets with their handful of damp flakes, the jam with its blue furry coating, herbs and spices that have given up the ghost and turned grey, and ingredients for exotic (exotic being a euphemism for gut-wrenching) dishes I have only ever cooked once.

Do I really need four chipped mugs when I have three perfect sets of six, not to mention the teaset with its dozen cups and saucers? Who do I think is coming to tea - the Band of the Grenadier Guards? I wish.

Other rooms yield receipts for household appliances I can't ever remember buying. Whatever happened to the gizmo for vacuum packing left over food? Not that there was ever much call for it, most "left over food " going in the waste disposal that is my gob. The toy box (for visiting nephews and nieces) is a grim amputee ward of dolls with one arm, teddies with one eye, a couple of headless chickens and, hiding at the bottom, a knitted spider with five legs. There are books without endings, lorries without wheels and complicated games without instructions.

But all this pales into insignificance compared the chaos that is my attic. The dearly beloved mother's once gave me a pile of his old toys, including a Spirograph (remember them?). I tried to dump them, but he rescued them with an accusing look in his eyes. Of course, it's just a load of old tat in my eyes, priceless childhood memorabilia in his.

Hiding behind one box was, I swear, a Japanese soldier who didn't know the war was over. Kato and I have now become firm friends - he has taught me origami and ikebana and I have taught him the ancient British arts of ordering takeaway pizzas and swearing at the television.

So I've made a pledge to get myself organised, with a proper household routine. Then every day will be a Can Have Anyone Over Day. They will be especially welcome if they bring a can of spray polish and a duster.

Before you leave:

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Dismembered Armpits

My friend’s son and his friends have formed a band. They’re called Dismembered Armpits – don't quote me on the name, I just know it was something like that!

They are all teenagers desperate to be and look cool, hence the boys have made a vain attempt to grow beards; now you have the acne peeping through a few wisps of straggly hair.

Dismembered Armpits has so far had two gigs. One was in the back room of a pub which was attended by the four band members, a couple of girlfriends, three classmates and two women who had mistaken the room for the ladies’ lavatory and the audience for the queue. The women hung about for a while before realising their mistake

The other gig was at a village fete. They caused much bemusement to elderly ladies nibbling on their hotdogs to the strains of Bad Boyz Gonna Rip Off Ya Head, a jolly little tune written by their drummer.

But I suppose even The Rolling Stones had to start somewhere.

The band is heavy metal with a nod towards death metal. Does this mean anything to you? It is, as far as I can make out from the monosyllabic grunts that pass for conversation in my friend’s house, a nihilistic look at life, with violence, death and darkness featuring heavily. Usual teenage fare.

My friend was worried that her son was going to grow up to be, if not a serial killer, then one of those weird loners who parents warn you will come and get you if you don’t behave. I told her I was sure it was just a phase. Weren’t our parents petrified that 70s music would turn us all into Janis Joplin or Alice Cooper? But most of us ended up more Olivia Newton John and Bryan Adams.

Dismembered Armpits are on the internet somewhere, on a site that hosts the wannabe rich and famous. I was given a link and made the mistake of logging on before adjusting the volume.

I’ll let you know what the band is like as soon as my perforated eardrums have healed.

Before you leave:

You can follow me on: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest. As you can see, I have far too much to say for myself.

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.
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Shopping in Waitrose - You Get a Better Class of People

My friends who are not from the UK may never heard of our supermarket Waitrose. It’s a great store with high quality goods but it does have the reputation of being, shall we say, the supermarket of choice for the middle and upper classes who don’t mind paying more for products if it means not having to rub shoulders with us hoi polloi. It’s the antithesis of Walmarts.

So when Waitrose asked its customers to tweet about why they shopped there, they got more than they bargained for. Tweets had to begin with the phrase, “I shop at Waitrose because…” It was the ideal opportunity for the country to have a laugh at the store’s expense with made up comments interspersed among the genuine - and I'm not sure which is which!

Like this one: I shop at Waitrose because I once heard a woman tell her child, "Don’t rummage in the reduced bin, darling, someone from the golf club might see you."

Another wag wrote: I shop in Waitrose because I heard a 6-year-old boy say, “Daddy, does Lego have a ‘t’ at the end, like Merlot?”

Then there was: I shop at Waitrose because I was once in the Holloway Road branch and heard a dad say, "Put the papaya down, Hermione!" Similarly: I shop at Waitrose because Jocasta simply

WON ’T eat any other supermarket’s sun-ripened guava. And another: Mum to her two kids, aged around seven: “What type of bread would you like to dip into your mussels?”

Some were more surreal: I shop at Waitrose because Tabitha and Tarquin only eat phoenix eggs that have been collected by wizards who share their values.

Then there was a Twitter account called Overheard in Waitrose, with posts like these: “Jemima, you’ll have to take the rosemary off the focaccia before we feed the ducks. Darling, they can’t digest it!” and “Husband: ‘Non-organic apples, darling?’ Wife: ‘Stop making a fuss. They’re for the horses.’”

Waitrose customers demand high quality if this is to be believed: “Well, I don’t understand how you can’t have organic courgettes. What is this? Beirut?”

Even the children of Waitrose customers are demanding: “Mummy, you must get me more quinoa, otherwise I’ll be a laughing stock during lunch at school,” and “Max, what do you want in your packed lunches, salami Milano or prosciutto in your ciabattas?”

And finally, someone must have been listening to me before writing this (I wish!): “I would cook scampi for dinner, but I just don’t feel I could do it justice after the way our butler cooked it on holiday."

Before you leave:

Please feel free to leave a comment. I love to hear from you and will reply and visit your blog, if you have one, if I can.
Look in left column under Grounds For Divorce, Or Proof That I'm Living With A Madman for some short posts about the man I share my life with. (If you're reading on a phone it may be somewhere else - possibly at the top).
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Let's Get Flirting

There I was lackadaisically (lackadaisical is my default setting these days) surfing the net when I came across one of those lists that proliferate. You know, the 100 Ways To Lance A Boil type of thing.

This one was 10 Flirting Tips. I don’t know why I started reading it. I'm over 60 and have been in a happy relationship for 35 years. If I flutter my eyelashes, men don't rush towards me with lustful intent but with handkerchiefs thinking I've picked up some dust in my eye while bending down to tie the laces of my sensible shoes.

This one began, "If you've ever been the subject of an accomplished flirt, you'll know how flattering it can be." I racked my brains and could just about remember a man telling me I was beautiful in 1984. I told the better half and he threatened to confiscate the man's white stick and send his dog to kennels. Oh, har-de-har.

This list promised to have me "flirting like a professional in no time". Are there professional flirters? It was never mentioned as an option by my careers adviser when I was at school. No, all the girls were advised to be nurses, teachers or secretaries. Hopefully, women's horizons have broadened somewhat since those unenlightened days back in the year dot.

Anyway, top of the list was "start a conversation". Hmm, I've got that one down. I can witter on about nothing with the best of them. So what words of wisdom do I need to impart?

"The best opening line is to say hello."

Wow! Who'd a thought... But thank God for that. I thought I was going to have to read up on Einstein's theory of relativity or compare and contrast the Scottish law system of the 18th and 21st centuries.

Then there was, "Be enthusiastic." I've tried that but it's difficult to look fascinated when a man is telling you in great detail about his collection of 1930s back scratchers or droning on about his journey around the M25. My eyes tend to glaze over and a smile like a death mask fixes itself to my face.

"Be playful," was number three. I don’t really know what that means. But I'm going to invite the next man I have my eye on to a game of darts or Monopoly. That should do it.

There was "go it alone". Sensible advice. I've known many a man run for the hills as my girlfriends and I, a little tipsy after drinking too much red wine, have approached like a pack of hyenas after a wildebeest. Others included things like "make eye contact but don't stare" although they didn't specify at what point a flirtatious look turns into a "help, is this woman a serial killer?" stare.

I must also "compliment him". That's difficult with men who are my age. What do you say? "I notice those false teeth of yours fit very snugly" or, "The light is glinting quite fetchingly off the top of your bald head."

"Use props". What, like this?

But the one that got me flummoxed was "use props". I'm not sure what that entails. I suppose I could go to a party carrying the head of Bottom the ass from A Midsummer Night's Dream, but is that flirting or more "steer clear of this lunatic"? I suspect the latter. Reading on, I discovered it meant wearing a distinctive piece of jewellery or carrying a foreign newspaper to get the conversation rolling.

That's kind of a relief, although I have a feeling that if I walk into a party wearing my best party frock carrying a newspaper under my arm I might as well be wearing a placard that says, "Do not approach!"

Then it occurred to me that I already do a lot of those tips so I can't understand why I don't have men falling at my feet. Well, I could have men falling at my feet, but only when they trip over my Bottom's head.

Before you leave:

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Look in left column under Grounds For Divorce, Or Proof That I'm Living With A Madman for some short posts about the man I share my life with. (If you're reading on a phone it may be somewhere else - possibly at the top).
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