On undyeing

I decided to undye my hair. I didn’t even know you could do that until I had not lunch with my friend Rachel (font of all hairdressing knowledge) and she told me you can get this stuff that just take out all the fake colour from your hair leaving it…virgin. 

So why did I want to do it? Why now?  Well I’m not entirely sure but maybe it’s because I’ve been looking through old photographs again and I just sort of wondered what the hell colour my hair is now – cos, seriously, it’s been thirty years since I looked.  And when I was very young it was…this colour…  

Well, actually, that looks a bit light. Could be the film. But, if not, wasn't it nice of my parents to design a whole room around my hair? Or maybe they just wanted me to blend in. 

This is a bit more accurate (at least according to my memory which is, as we know, not too good).  Yes, that's my foot (bad habits start young). No, those weren't my glasses.  

Anyhow. I bought a box of stuff called Decolour Remover. Nice, no-nonsense name there.  ‘Safely removes all types of artificial colour pigments’ it said. So there are unsafe types?  ‘Ultra kind,’ it said.  Hmm, does that mean it proffers tissues and pats you on the back when your original hair colour proves to be solid grey?  ‘Precision “non-drip” cream’ it said.  Well, fine. Whatever.

So it sat on my bathroom shelf for…weeks.  Cos, really, I kinda got a bit scared.  And then, one day, I just thought, sod it. It’s only hair. I can always cut it off or dye it if it’s ghastly. 

Except. No instructions and no plastic gloves. Now the gloves weren’t a problem (I have a whole box of surgical gloves – don’t ask) but the instructions were kinda vital.  So I told the guys from Decolour and a nice chap sent me another box, no questions asked.  So now I had two boxes. But hey, I also have a helluva lot of hair.

First up. The “non drip” thing – might be great once it’s on the hair but the bloody stuff wouldn’t come out the bottle.  Second up. It stinks. Really stinks. ‘No ammonia, bleach or peroxide’ it says. So they must have used extract of cat piss instead. 

But hey.  It sort of worked.  Okay, I missed a few bits and the ends are still suspiciously dark but…yeah.

And I was quite pleased.  Except…

‘What have you done to your hair?’ said James.

‘I’ve undyed it,’ I said.

‘Huh?’

‘This is the real me.’

‘I’m not sure I like the real you.’

‘What?’  Cue hurt look.

‘Nah. I mean, I do like the real you. Of course I do. It’s just I hadn’t realized what the real you was.’

‘Huh?’

‘You said your natural hair colour was red.’

‘It is.’

‘Nah. It’s ginger.’

What?  After all these years of teaching my boy to know that racism, sexism, homophobia and so on are all totally risible – and I’ve brought up a gingist?  Holy smoke.

‘It’s okay, Mum. I love you. Even though you’re a ginger.’

‘Unconditional love, huh?’

‘You bet.’

PS. Apologies if you thought this was going to be a post on rejuvenation or immortality. It's all in the e.  :-)

Google Chromebook - my Precious!

So James and I were sitting watching TV before Christmas and an ad came on for the Samsung/Google Chromebook‘That looks neat,’ said James.  ‘Cheap too.’

He’s been angling for a new laptop for ages and I’ve said tough shit, because, really there is absolutely nothing wrong with his except for the fact that it isn’t brand spanking new and, umm, the fact he has pretty much buggered it up by downloading all kinds of rubbish from the web. Because, no matter how many times you warn them about clicking on links and opening files, they never ever listen, do they?

‘Yeah, I rather like that,’ I said.  ‘In fact, I really like that.  Better than a tablet cos it’s got a proper keyboard.’

‘Go on, Mum,’ he said.  ‘Admit it – you want one.’ 

‘Okay, yes, I’d like one,’ I said, grudgingly.  ‘Oh, all right, I’d really like one.' And then added, softly and sadly: 'But I’m not getting one, am I?’

Except…  The next day I got an email from a PR.  Would I like to test out the, yup, Chromebook? 

‘Huh?’ I said, resisting the urge to ask if they can now listen in on conversations via television. Or if they teach psychic ability at PR school. She patiently repeated the offer.

‘What? To keep? What’s the catch?’

‘Yes to keep and no catch.  Just tell people what you honestly think about it on the blog.’

‘In that case, umm, yes please,’ I said and sat staring at the screen for several minutes after the email had vanished, somewhat puzzled. 

I mean, this was getting perilously close to cosmic ordering territory. 

If you haven’t seen the ads, the idea behind the Chromebook is that it’s a reasonably priced laptop that absolutely ANYONE – even the most tech-phobic - can use.

It retails at around the £200 mark and is slim and sleek (11.6 inch), with an air of the MacBook about it.  I’m a bit of a design snob, or I would be if my budgets allowed, but this met with complete approval. 

It also fired up pretty damn quick.  You press the ‘on’ button and it gives you a log-in screen after about 10 seconds.  You tap in your wifi details, give it your Google account details and kerching, you’re up and running.  Just like that.  Seriously.  Within five minutes of opening the parcel, I was on my usual sites and networks.  Business as usual. 

I swiftly password protected my account.  James has a horrible habit of downloading games and crap onto my PC if given half the chance which annoys the hell out of me but this is set up for everyone to have their own sign-in.  He wrangled it off me and swiftly downloaded a pile of stuff from the Google Chrome webstore (the free stuff, I hasten to add).  

Now I’m no geek or tech reviewer.  I can only tell you how it ran for me.  I love that it’s fast, really fast – because it’s a relatively straightforward setup, it really is speedy.  You open up the lid and it's there, like a Border collie at your heel, panting and ready to play, within a few seconds.  Seriously, under five seconds each time.  Given my PC acts like it's pondering the answer to world peace when I ask it to wake up and respond, it’s a small miracle.  Internet access is, as I said, a doddle. 

What I didn’t find quite so doddleish was using it for word processing and other officey type functions.  This is a Chrome OS and while there is a Windows-style taskbar across the bottom of the screen, you can’t use conventional programs.  You have to download apps if you want to write documents, do spreadsheets or have integral email.  I really didn’t like that, although other people don’t seem to find it an issue. I also like to be able to rummage inside the innards of my computers and it felt weird not having a control panel or wotnot.  But then, to be fair, this isn’t aimed at people who like to play with the innards of their PCs. 

Even with those caveats, I absolutely love it.  When I went up to London it was brilliant not to have to lug around the whopping great laptop or try to make my errant phone behave in order to get online. It’s also a great bit of kit for anyone who is tech-phobic. Given the hassle we had getting my FIL online, I’d love to be able to give him one of these.  It just cuts out so many potential hazards.  It even has inbuilt anti-virus protection and firewalls.  Battery life is pretty good as it sleeps when not in use and wakes up instantly and with that typical Collie-type obedience as soon as you need it.  If you turn down the screen brightness you can get around eight hours out of it.

It’s also pretty well ideal as a first computer for children.  There’s honestly not much they can muck up here – in fact, nothing at all.  Okay, you still have to keep an eye on where they’re going and what they’re watching but hey, that’s just called sensible parenting right.  But you don’t have to worry about them crashing the whole system or infecting themselves with all kinds of viruses. So, yes, James and I sort of share it.

Now then...if I can summon up a Chromebook...whatever next?  

Durga and the Temple of Jerusalem

Teachers, bloody sodding teachers!  Okay, not ALL of them, alright?  But really. James doesn’t get home until 6.30pm. He has something to eat and watches The Simpsons (vital for his social and emotional development) and then has to settle down to do prep. This should, theoretically, take twenty minutes per subject. Well, French was fine but last night his English was, frankly, ridiculous. At 9.30pm he was still on my PC, red-eyed and irritable.  A mirror image of his mother, come to think of it.
‘This is crazy,’ I said. ‘Surely you’ve done enough?’

But no. He had to finish. Then we hit another problem. The only printer in the house is attached to Adrian’s Mac laptop but said laptop is with Adrian in Wales (or it may be London by now, I’m losing track). So James attached his laptop (with half the keys missing) and tried to get it working. No joy. So I tried. Wouldn’t play ball. Yeah yeah, added new printer, checked all settings...the whole caboodle.

At this point, I was feeling like a Hindu deity with about eight arms thrashing wildly around... running him a bath, doing the washing, refereeing the evening dog skirmish, ignoring the phone, trying to fix the fecking printer. And, yeah, okay, so I was sort of online and listening to stuff about Libya on the radio as well. But really.

This isn’t an isolated incident either. Take the bloody Temple of sodding Jerusalem which hung like a....oh I dunno, hanging garden of Babylon or summat...over the entire half-term. I thought we’d got off lightly, having been right through junior school without having to construct anything larger than a Scottish croft.

‘I’m despondent about it,’ said James, despondently, when we came back from Wales.
‘Rubbish,’ said I, clicking on Google images, heart sinking fast. Except. Okay, so that looked vaguely do-able. Basically lots of cubes of various sizes interconnected by walls. 
‘Let’s do it.’
'You're sure it is the Temple of Jerusalem, Mum?'
'Yeah, well, that's what it says on the tin.  You're not doubting St Google?'
'Just that Timmy Bander built the mosque instead, and got a crap mark.'

Oops.  And, really, what a dozo.  Who'd go for a mosque (necessitating blowing up balloons) when you can do a nice straight-lined temple?

So build it we did. Papier mache and gold paint and all. And it wasn’t bad, if I say so myself. Until I went on Twitter in a sense of smug achievement.

‘You wanna put on PVA glue and then sprinkle sand over it to add texture,’ said Lulu, veteran of many ancient edifices.

‘Ooh yes. And have you used modeling clay for the detailing?’ added Milla (she of the Temple of Diana and a mott and bailey castle). Detailing? What detailing? Feck off, my erstwhile friends. ;)

Actually I’d just sort of left James to it, muttering words of encouragement in an overseer-ish sort of way. Well, children have to learn, don’t they? My main contribution was to mix up a tasteful blend of Craig & Rose for the paint job. No Temple of Jerusalem is leaving this house in shabby old Dulux, no sirree.

Eventually it was done. ‘Damnit, that took forever,’ I said, heaving a sigh of relief and pouring myself another coffee.
‘Yeah,’ said James. ‘Three days, basically.  My divinity teacher said it should take about an hour.’
WTF?

Dear teachers. Could I just beg you, when you’re dishing out prep, have a heart? Not just for the poor sprats that could do with at least half an hour’s downtime before bed, but for their poor demented, arm-thrashing parents.

Let us eat cake

‘Do you ever review things on your blog?’ asked a PR, very politely.
‘Well, not reviews as such,’ I said (though I can oblige with the occasional rant). ‘I tend to write about whatever happens to wander into my life.’
At which point I went into a daydream about the various things that have wandered into my life since I started blogging and, I must say, I haven’t done too badly.

Nobody really seems interested in me as a journalist any more. PRs no longer pitch ideas to me for features or columns. They’d all much rather I wrote about their products in my blogs, or that I tweeted about them or shouted about them on my Facebook page. It seems everyone has shifted over to social media.

‘Do you realise you’re ‘highly influential’ on Twitter?’ hissed my friend Charlie who runs a successful website.
‘I am?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said, trying not to sound bitter and twisted. ‘How did you do it?’
I have absolutely no idea. Maybe I just like talking. It’s huge fun – my virtual water cooler - where I shoot the breeze and have a laugh.

Then, somehow, this blog was runner-up in the Author Blog Awards and I’ve miraculously risen (like a loaf) up the parent blogging charts and the PRs have gone bonkers. Now, as a journalist, one is accustomed to the odd freebie though, in my case, it’s usually limited to herbal throat lozenges and ointment for piles. But as a blogger, it seems the sky’s the limit.

Of course it doesn’t always pan out. For every trip to Florida and every goodie bag of lovely sports gear (thank you Disney, thank you Reebok) I’ve been offered a slew of items which are less than exhilarating: panty liners, nipple guards, DVDs that only play in the US, pelvic floor exercisers, er – marital aids.

But anyhow, coming back from this reverie, I realised the PR was saying a magic word.
‘It’s cake.’
Cake?
The blogging/tweeting world runs on cake. Come 11am everyone promptly stops talking about whether we have a government or how to market your e-book and mutters about muffins, brownies, biscuits and chocolate.
‘Really?  What kind of cake?’
‘Organic cake.'
Oh, well that's okay then. 
'Respect Organics,'she continued.  'They sell them in supermarkets. Shall I send you some samples?’
‘Well, a sample couldn’t hurt, could it?’

The next day the postman struggled up the steps (ASBO attached to his backside like a plug) with a vast box. I’d imagined a few slices – but, ye gods, she’d sent us eleven full-size cakes. ELEVEN.
‘Why eleven?’ asked James, lining them up on the table. ‘You reckon someone got hungry and ate one on the way?’
Frankly that hadn’t crossed my mind but it did seem a strange number.
‘Three into eleven doesn’t really go,’ he continued. ‘Though none of us like ginger so that leaves nine which is three each - bags me the chocolate ones. You like banana and Dad likes carrot so we’re sorted.’

I’ll have you know we conducted a very thorough clinical trial on these cakes. We tested them every which way and gave them marks out of 100 for variations in texture, flavour, density and colour. Oh, the hell we did. We scarfed the lot in a deeply unseemly fashion. Were they nice? Damn nice actually – and not remotely what you imagine when you think ‘organic’. These are the least ‘worthy’ cakes I’ve come across: very light, very moist, wildly sweet and revoltingly moreish. Surprising really, given they are all (bar the chocolate cake) dairy free.
If I’m being very picky I suppose I prefer a slightly more rustic, ‘home-made’ feel, maybe a bit more chew in the banana loaf.  But I was a minority (so very fashionable really).



With my ‘responsible reviewer’ hat on I should add that they’re available from supermarkets such as Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Morrisons and you can find out more by clicking here

NOTE FOR PRs
I might just mention (apropos of nothing in particular) that I am very partial to the following...


Diptique candles (Baies is my total favourite); Jo Malone soap (wild fig, LBM, oh any really); Aromatherapy Associates bath oil; Green & Blacks chocolate; novels of pretty well any description; Moleskine notebooks.

And I would just add that I could really do with a ‘grown-up’ posh handbag (um, Mulberry or Westwood would do the trick), a washing machine, a 32" HD TV, a Landrover, a week on a fat farm and a family holiday somewhere without the Euro.
Just sayin'    ;)