Decolletage Decorum and the Question of Cleavage

jessica rabbit
The greatest enhanced cleavage, she’s not bad she’s just drawn that way


The Christmas party season is well and truly upon us and so the party wardrobes are out along with a lot of naked flesh, which is odd considering for us residents of the Northern hemisphere it’s the coldest time of the year and yet this is when we choose to wear the least.

Last week husband and I were invited to a society black tie dinner and apart from the host we didn’t know anyone at our table.  Gazing across the ballroom I looked out upon  a rainbow of chiffon, organza and sequins gliding across the floor not dissimilar from the set of a 1940’s movie.

Then, from across the room sashayed a dress like no other, it was a black halter neck slashed to the navel just about covering the most perfect pair of breasts I had ever seen, completely transfixed by the sight of them coming towards me static and stupendous, I was staring and I knew it.  I turned to say something to husband only to find him also mesmerised,  mouth slightly ajar and head at a slight angle giving him the disturbing look of a stroke victim.  He mumbled something that sounded like ‘Christ Almighty’ in the reverential tones of a man communing with his maker and he had lost the ability to blink with eyes fixated on breasts that were growing larger as they came ever closer.  Flippantly I turned to our host and said ‘blimey she’ll have someone’s eye out with those’ just as he leapt up to greet her, as luck would have it she was seated at our table!   Her boobs were perfectly matched to her personality; extrovert, perky with plenty of attitude – she was a very welcome addition to the table and great company. If only I could have looked her in the face, I spent the whole evening behaving like a lecherous git.

Cleavage 3

But here’s the question, is it acceptable to compliment someone on their boobs – woman to woman? Especially if they are quite obviously not the ones she was born with?  Let’s be honest when we spend excessively on shoes, handbag or a dress we do so in the hope that it will be admired and therefore validate the exchange of massive cash for said items.  Is it the same with boobs?  If you can see  that a few thousand pounds have been forked out shouldn’t you being able to applaud your fellow sister on the workmanship and effort undertaken to acquire them, or do we play dumb and pretend we didn’t notice?

Would it be OK to say when greeting someone ‘fantastic shoes, and those boobs are to die for’ or ‘great dress and love what you’ve done with your boobs.’

It’s hard to ignore these magnificent mammaries so prominently on display at this time of year already I am starting to think that the pneumatic bosom is the Christmas must have accessory and not the brocade boots I have invested in – what was I thinking, duh.

brocade boots
I totally misjudged this seasons favourite fashion item

Suffering from seasonal bosom envy I’ve purchased some very sturdy balconette bras and whilst I won’t be taking anyone’s eye out I may do your chin some damage!

If anyone can help with silicone etiquette protocol please let me know.




I decided to take on the NaNoWriMo challenge this year, an international initiative to encourage writers and would-be writers to produce a 50,000 word novel in a month.

NaNoWriMo Mission Statement

National Novel Writing Month believes in the transformational power of creativity. We provide the structure, community, and encouragement to help people find their voices, achieve creative goals, and build new worlds—on and off the page.

You can’t help but get bitten by the writing bug because they are so encouraging and enthusiastic and supply prospective writers with all the tools required to create a novel.  They guide every member along their novel writing journey providing tips and ideas of how to birth the baby novel that lies in each of us.  There are workshops, pep talks and coaches on call throughout the month to answer any questions we may have.

In short – outstanding and very helpful.  The only thing they don’t do is actually write the novel for us, and this is where the process gets a bit sticky ….  Like most things in life I had not prepared for this exercise in any way whatsoever,  so why I was surprised when I realised this needed real work and proper grown-up effort.   A flashback of my O’Levels came scurrying through my brain.

Writing 50,000 words in a 30 day period equates to approximately 1,667 words per day.  If it sounds like a lot that’s because it is.  In fact it’s a massive undertaking when you realise that your would be novel has a beginning, a middle and an end but absolutely no sub-plots, twists, turns or additional points of conflict.  I have been so used to entering Flash Fiction competitions or jotting down these whimsical blogs that my word count is usually at 1,000 words tops – not much room for an additional verb let alone a red herring!

However it has made me realise that I really do want to write a book no matter how bad and no matter how long it takes. Considering my word count of today is 2,450 words I’m 17,554 words behind target with an estimated finish date of Sunday 15th July 2018!

I’m always in awe of published authors every time I finish a book and admire their tenacity to complete their story which started out as a tiny twinkle of idea.  They, unlike me are not distracted by the 2nd Series of Greenleaf, the ironing or Indiana Jones movies, they get on and do it – which is what I will continue to do, soon as I’ve made a cup of hot chocolate and eaten a piece of Dorset apple cake.

Would love to hear from anyone who is also taking on the NaNoWriMo challenge.

In Praise of Ordinary


I was at a BBQ on Sunday chatting to a woman who suddenly got her phone out her bag and smiled at me apologetically as she said “sorry ‘bout this just got to upload to Insta”.

Strange I thought, but whatever blows your hair back “a photo of this BBQ?” I asked  “God no” she replied “this is so bloody dull, it’s a photo from my holiday about 3 months ago, but nobody will know that” and so an amazing sunset photo (not unlike the one above) got uploaded and her countless – I’m guessing here –  Instagram followers were none the wiser.

Not only fake news, but now fake lives.

Which made me think; firstly if she was that bored why didn’t make her excuses and go home but also surely her true friends (read that bit carefully) would know she wasn’t away gazing at some heaven sent sunset in a different time zone and that she was firmly planted in the UK for the bank holiday weekend.  And then, that made me think ‘so what is wrong with ordinary?’  Why can’t we have normal hum-drum lives anymore?  Why should we try to convince others and I suspect therefore ourselves that we live a life of non-stop international travel, fine wine and fabulous sunsets.  Why should we be embarrassed to admit we neither aspire to, or can afford that type of lifestyle.

Ordinary is not bad, ordinary allows us to set our pace, our external metronome which helps us plan out our weeks and months.  Routine gives many people a sense of comfort and a feeling of stability and belonging so why try to hide from it or worse still deride it.

We appear to be living in a world where the pervasive aroma is one of entitlement, people believing they deserve to be happy every day and I think it stinks!

After surviving the Second World War do you think our grandparents demanded skiing holidays, dinner disguised as works of art and en-suite bathrooms redecorated every 2 years?  Of course not, they loved the ordinary, welcomed the back to normal and who wouldn’t after having Hitler bomb the crap out of you for 6 years.

When we get to experience the extra-ordinary it is in its very essence why it becomes so special because it’s EXTRA-ORDINARY.  If we had rainbows, beach side cocktails and waterfalls every day would we appreciate them as much, I doubt it.  And it couldn’t be more apparent that even beautiful can wear thin, where in the movie White Mischief Alice de Janze throws open the shutters and laments “Oh God, not another fucking beautiful day.”


Viva the ordinary, viva routine now where did I leave my knitting?



Sunset photo by Azrul Aziz on Unsplash
Rainbow and waterfall photo by Dylan Gialanella on Unsplash
Knitting photo Photo by MabelAmber® on Unsplash


What rhymes with orange?


Several months ago I wrote about the trials of 30+ years of hair colouring and the various catastrophes that have occurred.  I also wrote about being a little concerned that I was morphing into Mrs Slocombe but I can put that all behind me now, as it’s got much much worse.

Mrs Slocombe 3
I can only dream to look like Mrs Slocombe

Coming home from work on another rainy August day I felt like I needed colour to brighten up this miserable summer and quite obviously being dressed in pink Capri pants and a lime green top didn’t seem to be enough, so I had the great idea that I would revert to being a red head.

But not any old red head, the box said Scandalous Scarlet. Never mind scandalous, the result was f***ing outrageous.  There appears to be a lot more grey covering my head than previously thought and  those melanin deficient strands vaulted straight past red altogether and have become right orange!  At first glance it looks as though I’ve taken tips from Donald Trump’s beautician.

Donald Trump
Orange is such a happy colour

And if it was lairy when flat, with the added lift provided by obligatory hair styling product I look like a gonk!

orange gonk
Seriously …

Although I defy anyone to try and sit me on top their computer screen!


Festival Fever

And why I’m so glad I haven’t contracted it

festival 1

It seems you can’t turn sideways these days without bumping into a festival.  They are no longer the preserve of the music industry and appear to celebrate a wide variety of hobbies and interests including yoga, fishing, comedy and knitting!  Every day events are jumping on the festival wagon by using ‘Fest’ as a suffix or prefix to make their event sound more chic and presumably attract  greater attendance figures.

Some of my friends have taken a turn of middle age hysteria by embracing all things festival and extol the virtues of leaving societal norms behind, opening up to new experiences and a different way of thinking.  I can only envisage the experience I would have sharing a field with a lot of pissed people and I don’t think it would make me particularly happy or free thinking, but it does have visions of me shouting for silence.

festival 4

Imagine trying to explain to a refugee that you leave the sanctity and safety of your house with electricity and running water to spend several days either wallowing in mud or baking under the glaring sun, sleeping in a tent, queuing for food and having to share a latrine with hundreds if not thousands of strangers.  And then add that you do this for fun and pay highly for the privilege, they would quite rightly think you had completely lost your mind.

festival 5
It seemed like a good idea at the time

But that’s what millions of Brits do each summer.  Having been struck with festival fever they move from one to another with reckless abandon and then come back and to evangelise to non-believers, which let’s be honest is a little bit patronising.  I can’t understand why they deride me for not wanting to experience this modern day rally, I studied to be a field guide and was more than  happy to sleep under the stars without any canvas but the festival I experienced there was the festival of nature and sounds of the bush which I believe are the most beautiful and melodic of all.

So all the time I have breath in my body I will not be attending any festival, but I’ll race you to the Kruger Park –  last one to kiss a hippo is a sissy!

acacia tortillis


Best Foot Forward

What I look like in my head

There a lot of ladies in my area who run, all times of the day and night I come across them.

As I sedately walk my girls some pass me by at speed, cutting through the air like a barracuda through water, sleek in their lycra attire with a steely look of determination on their face.  Others trot past in small groups gasping for air and attempting conversation, neither very successfully.

Having seen this I decided it was time I too started to run, the benefits are numerous and best of all it is free.   My Dad was a runner, every day pounding the pavement mile after mile,  he even ran marathons #bigrespect, so maybe I had inherited his running gene, I mean it’s possible right?  I was feeling upbeat about this running malarkey.   Husband plotted me out a mile route, yes that’s right one whole mile, I plugged in the ipod and off I went.

I only had to stop 4 times, throughout the maiden run; once to throw up, then to surreptitiously empty the massive build up of saliva that had started frothing in my mouth giving me the appearance of a rabies sufferer,  stoppage time for skidding in dog poop and when my ear-phone cables became entangled with an unruly privet hedge nearly garrotting me.

What I actually look like

Staggering through the door, husband commented that my face had turned purple and asked if I had gone round twice due to the amount of time I was out the house.  At this point I was beyond speech so had to retaliate with a v-sign, very mature.

Do some people have an innate ability to run like I have to drink white wine?  How do these ladies make it look so easy, the amazing and funny AGMA – check her out runs marathons, that’s plenty more than one mile, that’s like loads of miles, that’s 26 miles, that’s forever and in my case it also means 26 vomits, spits, piles of poop and near death experiences – on second thoughts I’ll have a nice sit down I wouldn’t want to risk it …

Photo credit : FitMash

Oh Theresa What Have You Done …

man with head in hands
Husband on Friday morning

Is what husband has been saying since waking up on Friday morning to hear the election results.  His mournful tone is that of a 14-year-old boy who has found out his girlfriend was seen snogging somebody at the local disco.  Theresa is now snogging Arlene Foster which makes the whole thing sound a bit creepy and I’ll stop right there.

Theresa May
Theresa on Friday morning

It appears that it is not just our household who are living through the aftershock of this election.  On Friday night I had a phone call from my Mum

“Hello darling, any plans for the weekend?”

“No none, all very quiet”

“Oooohhh I am glad, delighted in fact”


“Because if your Father mentions this bloody election one more time I am coming down to spend the weekend with you and I’m bringing the dog.”

She must have been cross if she was using the dog as a hostage.  However it’s true that if she left the house he may have noticed that food was a bit thin on the ground, but without the dog he would be truly bereft and she knew it – street fighting tactics.

I did warn her that the atmosphere here was not much better with husband holding head in hands and repeating ‘How could this happen?’ whilst attacking radio and television political reporters with ferocity usually reserved for a losing South African rugby team.

Let’s be honest it has been a total cock-up, who’s to blame I have no idea and don’t really care to fathom an answer, because we need to get on and live with it.  I don’t think Corbyn was liked it is just that May was disliked more, pretty much as per Trump & Clinton.

Theresa must be in pieces, after thinking she was the prettiest, most popular girl at school and she’s been spectacularly upstaged by a CND hippie who neither courts popular opinion or is swayed by the trappings of consumerism – that’s got to hurt.  All that shoe shopping in vain.

Theresa May 2
Theresa leaving Downing Street … forever? Wherever you go, make sure you go in style

And whilst we laughed our heads off at America, we now need to eat a big  slice of humble pie since becoming the laughing-stock of, if not the world then most definitely Europe.  As for Ms Merkel’s chirp that her office is happy to proceed with Brexit talks on Monday – it’s a low blow Angie, in case you hadn’t noticed we’re doing a bit of housekeeping over here.

Ms Merkel will see you now

We too are ready for Brexit talks on Monday but who walks through her door and what the hell they are going to say is a totally different matter.