Guinea pigs and Caitlin Moran wrecked my weekend

I have had a seriously crap weekend and I’m laying the blame fairly and squarely on guinea pigs and Caitlin Moran.

Years back when we visited a friend of mine in Italy, I got this revolting virus which left me with palindromic rheumatism. This bizarrely crap disease means you get totally random pains in random parts of the body at random times – so maybe nothing for months and then suddenly it hits you in the neck or the knees or wherever.  My ex-doctor and I played detectives on what could have been the cause and we narrowed it down to guinea-pig urine.  Don’t ask – you really don’t want to know but no, I wasn’t drinking it (at least, not intentionally). So now you know why I hate, loathe, despise guinea pigs. And if (heaven forfend) you keep the bastard stinking little shits as pets (why? why?), may I urge you to handle them and their piss with rubber gloves and industrial quantities of disinfectant.

Anyhow. Usually I take SAMe (S-Adenosylmethionine) and haven’t had a ‘session’ for nearly a year.  To be honest, I was feeling smug and figured I’d banished the damn thing from my body through sheer wishful thinking and force of will.  So I came off the SAMe while we were in Turkey (okay, I ran out and it’s relatively expensive so I didn’t bother to re-order).  And yesterday I got sledgehammered with pain: knee, neck, shoulders, both wrists, jaw.  Jaw?  Not on, not remotely on.  All of a sudden, in two seconds flat, I went from feeling pretty good about myself to ancient and crone-like.

And then I made the big mistake of re-reading my old books.  Not all of them but just bits of a few – and really, truly, I don’t think I’ve learned a thing in fifteen, twenty years or whatever.  So mind as well as body slapped me hard with a kipper. 

Never mind, I thought.  Lie on the sofa and cheer yourself up by reading Caitlin Moran.  Now I don’t read newspapers so she hasn’t really been on my radar.  I knew she was a columnist for The Times  and that she had a reputation for being funny and that was it.  Frankly columnists make me twitch (witness my pal, Liz Jones) but a friend recently thrust the book at me saying I had to read it. So last night I started reading and, despite myself, I started laughing…a lot.  She really is funny.  And smart. And self-deprecating.  And I agreed with everything she said. Everything.  Caitlin Moran and I are in total agreement on:

·         Bushes.  As in pubic hair. 

·         Porn. 

·         Feminism.

·         Sexism.

·         High heels.

·         Giving birth.

·         Children v careers.

·         Children + love

·         Strip clubs.

·         Weddings.

·         Shopping.

·         Gay men.

·         The music industry.

·         The newspaper industry.

·         Knickers.

·         Celebrities

·         Katie Price

·         Childlessness

·         Designer handbags

·         Per Una in M&S

In fact, I had to struggle to find something, anything I didn’t agree with. Yellow shoes. That was it. I can’t see a situation in which I would wear yellow shoes.  Though, feck, who knows? She’s probably right about that too.  I had to stop reading when she started talking about going out clubbing with Lady Gaga because by then I was just rolling on the floor in a foetal ball sobbing.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Caitlin Moran is 35.  Thirty-fecking-five.  I’m fifteen years older than her and nowhere near as smart or funny.  Everything I think she thinks better. She writes like a fucking dream. She’s got two kids and a wildly successful career and she sounds nice, really nice: she’s not a screwed up narcissist like Liz fecking Jones. Really I might as well stop writing and just post up chunks of her book instead with ‘I agree with Caitlin Moran’ scrawled at the bottom. 

So, there you have it. I spent the rest of the weekend feeling totally, pathetically, self-indulgently sorry for myself.  Hating guinea pigs.  Loathing myself.  And loathing and loving Caitlin Moran, damn her fecking 35-year old eyes, in equal measures.  

Israel calling...

Yes, yes, I know this isn't Israel...but desert, camels right?

Seems I’m getting a bit better at this manifestation malarkey.  Not exactly spot on target yet but getting closer, a lot closer. Now then, you know I have this *thing* about deserts?  Not quite sure why but there’s something about all that emptiness that just calls to my soul.  Add camels, crusader castles, ancient cities, souks and falafel, and I’m close to heaven.  Ask me which countries I want to visit and – right through my life - the same ones come out on top:  Egypt, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Jordan.  Middle East – yeah, yeah, I know it’s problematic but, but, but… email pings in...

‘Would you like to come to Israel?’ 

Say what?  I read it again.

Tel Aviv beach - so,  no pressure then?!

I was being invited on a blog trip; a week organised by Kinetis, a non-profit organisation whose aim is to dispel the, um, conflict-laden image of Israel and show “opinion-makers” (*cough*) just how creative and vibrant Israel is.  Interesting.  Opinion amongst people I know is fiercely split over Israel.  My mother in law and best friend loathed it.  My brother and another good friend adored it. Maybe I should make up my own mind.  Could I blog on whatever I liked?  I asked.  Absolutely, they said.  Hmm. If you sit on your backside, nothing ever happens. It wasn’t Egypt but it was close.  ‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

So, I'm off at the end of the month. Then I found out on Twitter that RosieScribble was going too and we got to thinking.  Neither of us has a stitch to wear.  I figure we need a wishlist…hey, maybe some smart companies or PRs could even pitch in here... Nothing ventured, eh?... and boy, we give damn good social media!  Here we go:

1. Swimsuit.  We're going to be frolicking in the waves on the beaches at Tel Aviv which, from YouTube, look pretty amazing.  We'll have stiff competition from sickeningly gorgeous teens but, hey, we're goddesses, right?  There's even a swimsuit named after us at Figleaves.

The "Goddess" - ho hum.

2. Handbag.  Mine is a sad, torn and frayed thing.  Yup, I have just the one. Contrary to popular belief on the part of men, not all women have a wardrobe full of handbags. Now, I'm not being greedy or anything; don't mind a bargain.  Have my eye on this little number from the Mulberry outlet store.  What you reckon?  78% off??! Still can't afford it though. :(

3.  Sunglasses.  Rosie stipulated this.  I have "vintage" Raybans bought from Miami airport on an aeon-ago press trip to the Bahamas. But if she thinks we need new, we need new.  Rosie likes Burberry, but I rather fancy these D&G aviators from Sunglass Hut.

4. Tops, cropped jeans, t-shirts.  Boden would work for this.  And, oh my, do I love these clog sandals... Just sayin'...

 

5.  A jaunty hat.  I have thick hair so it needs to be roomy... Have my eye on one in the Joe Browns catalogue - a snip at £12.95

Now then. What are we missing?  Ideas? Thoughts?  Offers?

Oh, and if you want to follow our *journey* (so far our Twitter conversations are getting well out of hand) follow Rosie as well as me...  she's @RosieScribble on Twitter and you can find her blog here  I hasten to add that she is a *pukka* sensible grown-up "parent blogger" - unlike yours truly.  ;)

What's your bag?

Handbags. No, not pitching for a fight, just talking about the common or garden handbag (or pocketbook or purse for my North American readers).

Kate tagged me to divulge what is in my handbag and I agreed because I think it’s more than a random set of ‘things’ – a woman’s bag is a mirror of her personality.

A friend of mine looks askance at my bag. Hers is small – immaculate on the outside, pristine on the inside. In it she keeps a (clean, pressed) hankie, a purse, a small diary and her reading glasses. That’s it. I say ‘friend’ but if I’m honest we’ll never be ‘real’ close tell-it-all over several bottles of wine friends because we are just too different. Her life is neat, compartmentalised, ordered. Mine, on the other hand, lurches from chaos to calamity. She's not the kind of friend who would understand that you're feeling down/overwhelmed/teary/a bit bonkers. She'd look puzzled and suggest you need more sleep or a bout of gardening.

My dear late (and hugely lamented) friend Sarah Dening always said that to dream of a handbag was to dream about your identity, what defines you as a woman. If you dream of a handbag she suggests you ask yourself these questions:
• Has a change of circumstances undermined my sense of identity?
• Am I afraid of losing my worth as a woman?
• Am I trying to model myself on someone else?

Interesting questions, one and all (and, if I'm honest, it's probably a YES to all three).  Let’s see what my handbag and its contents reveals about me and my life (both outer and inner).

My bag is soft brown leather with a vivid pink lining. It was a present from my mother when she was very ill, not long before she died and so it is hugely precious. It came from a little shop just down the road and is a very non-prententious, very non-designer bag. It's always been slouchy but once it was relatively smart. Now the leather is scuffed, the lining is torn...it’s been well-used and has a few years’ use left in it yet. So it feels very much a symbol for how I feel as a middle-aged, madly juggling, generally worn out, slumped in a corner woman.

In it, you will find right now:
• A bright pink Prada purse. Real Prada. Bought for me by my dear friend Jane who knows that the only time I get the real thing is when she buys it for me. ‘Every woman needs a bit of Prada’ she said. I love it but never quite feel it’s ‘me’.
• An iPod. My son’s. Can’t use it, haven’t a clue. Makes me feel stupid every time I look at it.
• My Moleskine notebook. Goes everywhere with me. I find inspiration hits, not when I’m sitting at my desk but everywhere else. My memory is shot so I carry it round with me.
• Several pens. I live in mortal terror of not having a writing implement.
• Diary. Never look at it but hey, it’s there.
• A book, if not two. At the moment it’s a YA novel called Shiver.
• A small torch. We still can’t get into The Bonkers House by the front door (there be monsters) so we have to navigate steep and uneven and winding steps up into the garden. A torch avoids (hopefully) broken legs.
• Glasses case. Never has glasses in it.
• Sunglasses. Ray Bans (Wayfarer Dekko) I bought at Miami airport over twenty years ago. Happy memories of a wonderful press trip to Grand Bahama.
• Memory stick.
• Rescue remedy; arnica; lip salve
• Hand cream (La Compagnie de Provences, lavender)
• Fingerless mittens, in nubbly blue wool, knitted by Pipany
• Several small grey model soldiers. Used to decorate a cake for James back in November and now bivvied in my mobile phone pocket. Note: mobile phone NOT in bag. Never is. Never know where it is.
• Gum shield (spare for James)
• Tampons in metal container and loose
• Jo Malone Lime Basil and Mandarin cologne. Cheers me up.
• A scrunchie. Why? No idea.
• Several shopping lists, receipts, business cards, flyers
• A layer of dust.

That’s it. What does it say about me? I guess that I’m just another working mother: a bit disorganised, a bit haphazard; trying hard to be prepared for all eventualities (so maybe a bit anxious); phobic of phones; desperately wanting to write and be creative; too lazy to have a turnout; not particularly vain (note the lack of makeup and mirror) or is that just plain given up?

So, over to you. What is in your handbag? And (if you fancy) what do you think it says about you?

I reckon if you like this one, just go for it. But, in the spirit of tagging, I would love to know the innards of the bags of:

Frances
Crystal Jigsaw
Milla
Fire Byrd
EnglishMum
DulwichDivorcee