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 …

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 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”

“Why?”

“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 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.

The Age Inappropriate Pants

Clothes shopping had become such a drag, as I dare say had I.  Wondering from store to store, looking enviously at outfits I will never be able to wear, or rolling my eyes and saying those words that make me look around for my Mum,  ‘oh I remember that the first time around, everything comes back eventually’.  It had all become a bit blah.

But salvation has been found … shopping last week I was seduced by the siren’s song of the sequined pants!  Slim and black and covered from ankle to waistband in flat back sequins which winked at me as I walked past and I could swear tiny little bells tinkled as the sequins glittered with their unearthly  glow.  Absolutely spectacular, for a woman half my age!  I wish I could have said that I saw sense and carried on walking but I couldn’t, the allure was too much for me to refuse.  Into the changing room I charged clutching my precious cargo to my not inconsiderable chest!  Slipped into them, almost hoping they would be too small ensuring my dignity remained in tact.  Dignity schmignity, they fitted like a glove, well almost apart from the little tiny bit of muffin – OK,  Victoria Sponge – top that flopped over the waistband in a somewhat unflattering manner.

Would that stop this middle aged peri-menopausal maniac?  Not a chance.  I was off to that cash till like a racehorse with diarrhea and handed over my £10 with gusto.  Yes that’s right £10, reduced from £45, how could I resist.  I WILL BE IN THESE PANTS BEFORE SUMMER IS OUT!

On the plus side, all I need to go with these pants is a tailored white shirt, the heels I already have.  I WILL be that saucy glamour-puss or a bad Suzie Quatro look-a-like, not quite sure which!

I am now gluten, dairy, carb and fun-free in order to fit into this glittering gorgeousness.  I will find a  suitably classy venue for husband to take me so I can stand around all night looking interesting and vampish, just standing, standing, standing – the sequin layer has enough stretch to allow walking but makes it absolutely impossible to sit!

 

Thanks for the ovary

Almost every morning 3 schoolboys who attend the local primary school walk past my house just as I’m getting in the car for work.  I listen in on their conversations as they chat about what they had for tea last night, favourite lessons,  annoying siblings and reviews of the latest PS4 games.  It’s pretty mundane walk to school chat, nothing out of the ordinary which made yesterday’s conversation so totally shocking I cannot begin to imagine what sparked it.

The tallest of the three boys was talking to his two mates and I heard ‘when a woman gets to 50 her ovaries stop working’, ‘oh yeah’ says the smallest boy ‘why’s that then?’  ‘Coz they’re too old, they don’t need them anymore’ he replied.

The slimmest of the three chirps up ‘My mum’s ovaries still work’.

‘How do you know?’ one of them asks

He turns to face his two mates, nods his head slowly up and down, lets out a long sigh and says in a voice belying his age ‘Oh I just know alright’ and carries on nodding as he walks down the road with the two friends following in silent admiration at his intimate knowledge of the female anatomy.

Light headed with shock I was reeling, had they seen me, were they being cruel or had husband had put them up to this wickedness?  I charged back into the house expecting to find him doubled up behind the front door.  But no, he was diligently beavering away in his home office somewhat bemused as to my strident return and threats of homicide.

The timing of their words couldn’t be worse with the much dreaded 50 year birthday making its appearance in less than 24 hours.  Already plagued with anxiety about the arrival of middle age I now have 11-year-old strangers announcing to the world that my ovaries are redundant and I’m no longer  of any use.

And so I will see in my 50^th Birthday knowing that my once plump ovaries are becoming wizen and shrivelled like two old raisins and for this knowledge I didn’t even have to see a gynae, I got told by the schoolboy down the road.

Menopause & Death

Is not the name of a thrash metal band – although it would be a good one, available to the highest bidder – but more a summation of what I’ve got to look forward to.   I’m not normally the type of person who wallows in pathos but this weather…

Grey omnipresent skies, rain like splinters and strong biting winds are the reason for me unhappiness and gloomy out look.  I’ve been woken every day this week by the rain hitting the bedroom window giving me just a little taster of what’s to come for the rest of the day – more grey, more rain, and more miserable weather.

Even the girls have refused to leave the sanctuary of their beds for a walk round the block, the jangling of the leads being met by a selective deafness.    I sympathise and if I could treat my alarm clock with the same aural disdain I would.

Holly took my bed at the mere mention of walk!

I’m pulling out all the stops to try to lift my mood, the vampish red lipstick has become a make-up must and the bronzing powder has been given a good hammering.  I may need to slow down in this regard as I’m concerned that my slightly bronzed orange appearance may mistakenly indicate I’m related to another tangerine tinted someone!  The wardrobe has been given a shake and I’m dressing in my brightest colours in an attempt to lift my spirits, I charge around looking like Miss Pac man – a dot of colour on a black background.  Worryingly the height to weight ratio may be similar too, another downside of winter the constant need for pies, pastry and mashed potatoes, after husband I think carbs may be my soul mate.

John Clare the outstanding poet and naturalist describes the beauty of both January and February with such detail and love, I’m shamed and embarrassed that I cannot see the gloriousness around me, all I can see is rain.

However for all my whining and self-absorption I realise that if this weather is getting me down, how awful must it be for the homeless.  I cannot imagine trying to keep warm and dry in such grim conditions without the luxury of being able to make a cup of tea  whenever  you  want and I appreciate just how damn lucky I am.

What’s in a name?

Since coming to UK from South Africa in 2010 I have noticed that there is a marked difference between the two countries in how we name our furry friends.  South Africans give their dogs traditional ‘dog’ names, like Bella, Patch, Spot and Lady whereas here in the UK the dogs are given human names and I wonder if this is because quite often the dog is a child substitute.   For instance on my dog walks  I have met Mavis, Duncan, Kevin, Eddie, Edith, Dave and only yesterday a very bouncy Labrador called Mabel – whose antics both infuriated and terrified my two.

My own girlies have been named after female movie icons, Betty the border collie named after Betty Grable because of her lovely long legs, both my puppy and the actress.  Then came Rita whose namesake was the indomitable Miss Hayworth, both being gorgeous red heads.

Rita at 10 weeks old.

 

My greyhound  had to skip the trend slightly, I wanted to called her Audrey in honour of the slim and elfin Miss Hepburn both creatures of beauty possessing swan like necks and enormous brown doe eyes, how could she not be?  Husband however put his foot down and flatly refused saying “if you think I’m running around the park shouting Audrey, Audrey come here, you are seriously mistaken, people will look at me and think I’m not right.”  There was absolutely no budging him, not even with the usual bribes, inducements offered.

In the end we settled on Holly because that was Audrey’s character name in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and as she was a rescue we had no idea how old she was when we got her but the vet reckoned she was born in the previous December.  So Holly it is, our Christmas ‘Film’ Star.

On the way home after a long walk

Whatever your furry friend is called –  we wish you all a very Happy 2017 full of walks, cuddles and that ever-growing mutual love and affection felt between a dog and its owner or as it’s know in our house; between dogs and their human slaves.

Last Christmas … I was already bored of the song

For over 30 years I have been celebrating Christmas with Wham serving as a musical backdrop.  I’ve been listening to it for so long I remember when George Michael was straight, in fact I’m not sure I’ve recovered from his homosexuality; all those wasted teenage fantasies. Looking back the clues were all there but Wham were presented as the perfect Christmas gift and what teenage girl was going to refuse such a decorative package.

But, contrary to popular belief you actually can have too much of a good thing and as the sleigh bell intro starts my nerves start to jangle in harmony.  And it’s not just Wham is it, let us be honest we resurrect the same old Christmas tunes year after year, Slade and Wizard still on the revolving Christmas playlist which seems to feature no more than 20 songs.  Thank goodness for the timely arrival  of Mr Michael Buble who was easy on the eye and able to inject some new blood into this decrepit musical market.

To all you bands out there please start recording some decent Christmas tunes because if I have to listen to last Christmas once more it may very well be my LAST Christmas.

And just in case you’ve forgotten the video, click below for Camp Christmas Capers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8gmARGvPlI